March

across the years

My next book¹ moves from January to December, offering a few essays, poems, and prompts for each month of the year—but it doesn’t follow a linear path. It jumps from 2023 to 2022 to 2025 back to 2024 and so on. I wondered for a while if this would be too confusing for the reader, but I’m going to stick with it, at least in this phase of editing. It asks a lot of questions, as all of my books do, and I’m hoping the non-linear walk through a year acts as another illustration of how life isn’t linear either. Progress doesn’t happen in a straight path, more questions uncovered all the time, and the people we were once have a lot to teach the people we are still becoming as long as who we are now offers ample grace along the way.

At any rate, what follows is some writing for March, in non linear form. You’ll have to let me know how it lands.²

March 2, 2026

Yesterday we skated the lake for hours thanks to the warm temperatures of weeks ago melting the surface just enough for the colder temperatures of the last two days to freeze it again into a skate-able surface. My 13 year old was twirling and gliding in no time, you could hear the slap of my husband’s hockey stick ring out across the ice, and time stood still for a little while. My feet were sore after so long in skates, but we went out again after dinner to glide around as dusk fell, the sky lighting up with color, ice turning silver in bright moonlight.

On Making Your Own Happiness

The snow melted
fast and early this year,
but we can still skate
on opalite-like ice
so we do, all day
until the light
turns to jewels
in the western sky.

March 11, 2024

I see robins, great flocks of them picking at the still brown ground. There is life there my eyes can’t yet see. That light emerges when conditions are right, and I have to trust the evolution of things. You can’t rush emerging, and you can’t evade it either. It’s best to allow the season to take you were it will, and stay as present as possible for the ride. Hope awakens in the strengthening sun, in evening light lingering longer, in how a cold glass of water replenishes, quenching more than just thirst when you really pay attention. Hope awakens in returning birdsong and active beavers and the buds of the maple as sap runs down. The approach of spring inspires a sloughing off of winter skin, a shedding of patterns and thoughts that aren’t serving the season: the literal season, or the season of life you’re in. Early spring is muddy and drab here in Minnesota, and so is new life—true growth and healing is not Instagram-able or photogenic, its likeness not something you can capture in an image. The approach of spring, even [especially] when snow remains in the forecast, inspires an allowing in of mess and and embracing of active waiting. Spring finds the cracks in broken windows that let in the best light.

Please note, this is not me trying to capture healing in a photograph, this is just a March sunset—and noticing it may be part of one’s healing process, but this photo is definitely not the healing itself. Just to be clear.

March 13, 2026

Celestial Reminders

Most days it seems like the world
has gone fully awry — war starting anew
all the time, everywhere;
this side and that further apart
than ever, the split between worldviews 
so vast it seems the planet may diverge,
becoming two separate orbs
floating swiftly in opposite directions
as they try to blow each other up
eventually floating so far away
memory of the other becomes folklore, 
something that once was but isn't, not anymore. 
But for now, we remain here, and could it be
there is hope for us yet? In the way we both
notice the moonrise from opposing sides 
of the divide and marvel at something 
that's bigger and more full of mystery
than we are, something calling us 
toward peace, even if, most days, 
we can't yet understand 
what getting there
will take. 

March 20, 2025

Spring comes again, patterns the same—melt, freeze, thaw, melt—everything different, moments turning to days never lived before, never to be lived again. Nothing is as it was. As it was and what could be meet in the present, agreeing it’s best to live each moment as it happens, past and future walking through time to meet you where you are now. Melt, freeze, thaw, melt. Nothing is the same, everything is pattern, and spring comes again as the last shadows of winter dance across the lake, wind at his back. 

Journal Prompt: What does past you have to say to who you are now? How about the you of the future? Write about what it would be like to be in a room with all three versions of yourself. What would you talk about?

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In other news:

I’m the artist in residence at Camp House in northern Minnesota for the week of July 5-10th this summer. If you need some time away in the north woods, consider registering for a few days of ordinary time.

About the program:

Rediscover your vision of community at Camp House this summer. Find connection on the shores of Lake George as you experience the rhythms of faith. Feel God’s presence while you sit quietly with others taking in a sunset or gather to hear a word of scripture. Hear the Spirit’s whispered reminder that you are loved.

Our weekly pastor, musician, and artist in residence will offer opportunities for worship, music, creativity, and learning, while the Camp House staff will help you experience the uniqueness of the site: brick oven pizza, daily saunas, a pontoon cruise around the lake, and evening games and fellowship.

1. Coming in April 2027 from Wayfarer Books.

2. However, the writing in the book is more polished and keeps to a bit more of a structured format.