The First Dandelion, March 12th, 1888

Simple and fresh and fair from winter’s close
As if no artifice of fashion, business, politics,
had ever been,
Forth from its sunny nook of shelter’d grass—
innocent, golden, calm as the dawn,
The spring’s first dandelion shows its trustful

Walt Whitman


My daughter loves dandelions. She has a hawk’s eye for them and is compelled to pick them and send their seeds flying through the air with one breath. Her love for them has rubbed off on me. I see them everywhere now.  They remind me to let go and enjoy the ride.  Or rather…wouldn’t it be fun to grab onto a pappus and see where it takes you?

Life is the dancer and you are the dance. -E.T.

Who am I?

I am woman. This is my roar. I know… so cheesy. I just dropped my kids off at school, unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, plopped myself on my couch to eat leftover macaroni salad with warm Earl Grey tea, while semi-watching Good Morning America. All of a sudden while I am eating, watching, and thinking about the chores I really must do today (fold and put away laundry, edit and share Halloween photos, and get some long overdue pictures into frames and up on my wall, vacuum, mop… ugh mop… I never get to that, toilets, and the list continues), I get the urge to start a blog. “Just do it, already! It’s way more fun than everything else on your list,” my soul tells me. You’re right, soul. I need to write. I’ve always wanted to write, but I think myself a terrible writer. So, here’s to getting better.