Today is the 30th day in my 30 day BLOG ALONG, and it’s also my 49th birthday!

For the last 30 days, I have reacquainted myself with the habit of writing out my inner landscape in an attempt to document my life but also to provide something useful, uplifting, or shame busting to my readership.

I have not missed a day. Not one. I’m CHUFFED! My e-list grew by just a shade over 500 people (thank you!), and I have become ever more certain that writing is a thing *I must do* for myself in order to keep my brain gremlins at bay.

And anyone who joined me, even if you only managed to post a few more times than usual, CONGRATULATIONS! You should be chuffed, too!

So, where do we go from here?

I’m going to continue blogging as often as my little heart desires. You can, too. We have a Facebook  Group set up with a ‘share one, comment on three’ rule of thumb that means that we can find new bloggers, and cultivate relationships with one another. It’s lovely, and you’re welcome to join us.

I will be hosting another Blog Along in April of 2018, so stay tuned for that.

Meanwhile, my chosen theme for the month of October will be “REVEL”.

This is what I wrote for my students in Book Of Days for this month’s musings:

“This time of year often makes me think of ‘releasing’, or ‘letting go’ because here in the Northern Hemisphere, we are watching the earth do just that. It is shedding all the finery of summer in a glorious gold and amber dance we call Autumn. As the leaves fall, we might contemplate our own mortality, or the things we are willing to shed in preparation for winter, or what worked throughout the first three quarters of the year, and what didn’t.

October in Canada is especially full of revelry, though. We have Thanksgiving this month, and then Halloween (known better to us witchy folk as Samhain). It is a month of putting the year to bed along with the gardens, fields, and summer clothes, yes, but it is also a month of acknowledging what we’ve accomplish, what seeds grew, what we were able to nourish into fruition, what we are grateful for.

I don’t often talk about revelry. I’m a fairly serious girl with a fairly serious self-inquiry practice that can look a little too much like a lot of work on the outside looking in, but I want you to know that I know how to revel.

I know how to be in a moment and really take it in. I know how to make ordinary moments special with a bit of candlelight and mindfulness. I know how to look back with an equal measure of self-awareness around what I’ve triumphed over, and what has triumphed over me. I know how to count my losses. You guys know this about me by now. But I also know how to count my blessings, my joys, my kudos. I know how to give myself moments of pure, unadulterated chuffed up pride over a thing I did. I know how to dance around a fire, offering my sweat and gratitude to the all that is in the form of movement.

Reveling in ourselves has never really been encouraged. Oh, we’re allowed to say that we rocked a thing, but we must usually add some kind of disclaimer. I rocked it, but I could have done better. Or I rocked it, but I didn’t get this part exactly right. Or I rocked it, but I was *lucky*. Disclaimers are thieves of joy. They minimize the things we have every right to be proud of until they are mere ashes. We burn them down with apologies and if onlys and maybe next times and onward, ho! I want to take a second here to thank Renee Magnusson (again!) for her work around the ‘sin’ of pride in the Seven Sins Tour, because she really helped me see the ways I do this, and *stop*. She has another tour coming up on October 15, and if you have issues at all with being ‘virtuous’ over being authentic, or being pleasant over being fiercely self-loving, do it. You won’t regret it.

This month, I’d like us all to revel without apology.

I’d like to invite and encourage you to take stock of what you have accomplished so far this year and really pat yourself on the back. Take yourself out for dinner. Do something to acknowledge that you rocked a whole bunch of little and big stuff.

I’m sure you have at least one thing you can congratulate yourselves over. I’m positive of it. For some of you it might be that you got out of bed most days. For others it might mean a book deal or a new teaching opportunity or a delicious relationship. Whatever it is, whatever you got done, crossed off your list, made happen, revel in that. Without apology.

Because you’re worth it.

I hope, if you feel discomfort arising around counting your ta da moments, that you sit what that for a bit and ask yourself where the discomfort is coming from. Who told you that you were not allowed to celebrate yourself? Who told you that you were supposed to be *humble all the time*? Who told you not to shine?

And then shine.

I dare you to take some time to be completely full of yourself.

Full. Of. Self.

Because what else are you supposed to be full of?

Please feel free to take this PDF of prompts for the month of October in case you need a little nudge in the direction of meeting yourself on the page. These prompts are offered as a way in to self-inquiry. The way we use them in Book Of Days varies according to each person’s individual needs. Some of us cut and paste them into a written journal and engage them there. Some of us just let the prompt guide our writing in whatever direction it wants to take. Some of us use these prompts as a portal into our art journals.

As always, it’s been a pleasure spending this time with you. Please sign up for my newsletter if you want to stay in touch, or join the Artfully Wild Blog Along if you want to keep blogging.


Today’s Nudge: Celebrate.

There’s a bunch who blogged along in September, and many of us intend to continue (at a less frenzied pace) blogging along. Looking for accountability partners, other blogs to read, or eyes on your work? How about all three? Join us today in the Artfully Wild Blogalong Facebook Group.

P.S. LIFE BOOK 2018 is open for registration, y’all! Early Bird ends December 31st, so get it while you can!





What’s Next!?! A September Recap.

Today is my last day as a 48 year old on planet earth (this time around, at least). Tomorrow, I turn 49 AND I will have completed my 30 day blogging challenge. I’m really happy to report that I am completely unfazed by the whole ‘last year before 50’ thing, though I do jokingly declare that I am now officially OLD AS EFF.

I don’t really believe that, though. I believe I’m a twelve year old boy who sometimes masquerades as a 19 year old girl who is trapped in a 49 year old body. And I don’t mind at all.


This is Sybil. She’s my birthday gift to myself this year.

It’s been a really busy month. Parenting stuff and work stuff. Writing in a way I haven’t written *in years*. Lots of art happening. Kisses that suck my lipstick right off. Pints & parties with friends.

I’ve worn corsets and knee high boots, because, why not? Stirred together beautiful pots of soup, weather permitting. There was a murmuration on the evening of the Autumnal Equinox that felt like a love letter.

I’ve reacquainted myself with old friends. Made new ones. Made plans to head out to Harvestfest and even secured my rides IN ADVANCE.

I gifted myself a beautiful new furbabe for my birthday. Sybil feels like she’s always been here at this point. She is as constant as the North Star, and a source of never ending delight for both me AND my other furbabe, Sookie, who adores her.

Sookie did not quite approve of any of this at first…

Yin and Yang. True love.


My brain gremlins have been pretty quiet in all this busy, leaving me mostly alone most mornings. I’ve been noticing, and I’ve been grateful. My first thoughts each day are “COFFEE! DUCKS TO SLAY! WHAT’S NEXT, MRS. LANDINGHAM?” instead of “what the fuck are you still doing here?”

That’s lovelier than I can even begin to express. I wonder how much the writing has to do with it. Maybe it is a calming hand over the storm that is my anxiety. Maybe I really *do* need it as much as I’ve always suspected I do.


The next thing. And then the next. One foot, one item, one moment, moment after moment.

I think I’ve finally learned how to live.


Over the last few days, I’ve had a song stuck in my head. I have no idea why! It’s just *very there* and at random moments throughout the day, I will catch myself breaking into a warble, and these words come through loud and clear…

“In this heart lies for you
a lark born only for you
who sings only to you
my love, my love, my love…

I’m waiting for you
for only to adore you
my heart is for you
my love, my love, my love…”

I think it’s myself singing to myself, and isn’t that the loveliest thought I’ve ever had? Yes. Yes, it is.



Today’s Nudge: Recap the month.

There’s a bunch of us blogging along in September. Find out more here, or pop your email address in the box below, and I’ll send you a nudge to blog every day along with a link to my daily writings.

Looking for accountability partners, other blogs to read, or eyes on your work? How about all three? Join us today in the Artfully Wild Blogalong Facebook Group.

P.S. LIFE BOOK 2018 is open for registration, y’all! Early Bird ends December 31st, so get it while you can!


Bread Sticks

You know how, when you go to any kind of nice restaurant, they offer you something before the main course? Bread sticks, usually, or some kind of nibble to tide you over?

You’re allowed to eat those.

That might seem like an obvious statement, but it wasn’t always obvious to me. I used to think of those little baskets of warm bread as some kind of weird enticement for the weak. Like, you can’t wait for dinner, eh? You glutton. Here! Have some bread sticks. I used to think if I ate them, I’d somehow ruin the main course, so I’d sit there and starve while I waited, the delicious smell of warm rolls wafting ever temptingly in my direction.

I’m using those bread sticks as a metaphor for the relationships we have between relationships. You know the kind I’m referring to – the ones that we know are probably not going to go anywhere long term, but that feel just fine ‘for now’. They are, I’ve discovered, an option. They can fill the gap. They can be quite tasty. And because they aren’t *actually* bread sticks, enjoying them won’t ruin the main course, that next ‘just right’ relationship that may come around the bend.

I used to be completely opposed to bread sticks. I was all “Nah, I’d rather wait for the real thing.” But I’ve recently concluded that bread sticks *are* real. They may not be meat and potatoes, but they *are* nourishing. They are delicious, in all their varied ways, and they will absolutely tide you over. And *that* could mean the difference between jumping into something that looks like the main event too soon because you’re really ravenous, or savouring a thing to discover its true flavour.

The main course will come when it comes, or it may never come. Meanwhile, there are bread sticks.


I’m dating someone right now that I am fairly certain will not become any kind of a permanent fixture in my life except, perhaps, as friends. There are reasons I won’t go into because that’s not my story to tell, but suffice it to say that I know what I know, and I know that this person is not ‘life partner’ material. Not now, at least, and perhaps, as far as our levels of compatibility, not ever. There are some fundamental differences in the way we see our lives playing out, and those differences pretty much guarantee that, at some point, our paths will diverge. He’s pretty sure he’s the ‘never getting married again’ kind, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to end up shacked up with someone I consider my best friend.


I really *like* this guy, and he’s one helluva kisser. So, I have a couple of options.

I can cut my losses and stubbornly starve while waiting for the main course, or I can eat the fuck out of the bread sticks.

I’ve opted to eat the bread sticks, with butter, and maybe a little bacon jam. I’ve opted to thoroughly *enjoy* the bread sticks without self recrimination. I’ve surrendered myself to the world of bread sticks without worrying I might ruin the main course.

Because, whatever else happens in my life, this moment is the only one I ever *really* get to have, and at this moment, there are bread sticks, and I really *like* bread sticks.


I think I’ve worn the metaphor right down to crumbs, so I’ll stop now, but I hope you get my meaning. I no longer think it virtuous to starve oneself of affection, sex, companionship, just because a person isn’t ticking off all the boxes on your list. I don’t think it’s necessarily wise, either, because I believe these relationships between relationships have a lot to teach us about who we really are, and what we really want.

They’re also lovely for their lack of pressure. I mean, when you aren’t looking at someone like they might be Mr. or Mrs. Big, you tend to relax. At least, I tend to. I tend to say exactly what I mean without worrying overly much about whether or not I’ll get a third or fourth date.  I tend to ask for exactly what I want, secure in the knowledge that if it isn’t forthcoming, I’m free to seek it elsewhere. I tend to be looser, less tightly wound, and probably more fun as a result. There are risks involved, because no one wants to fall hopelessly in love with someone who is simply not available for what you’re after in the long run, but I’m willing to take that risk. I think, at my age, I’ve learned I can love *a little bit*. I can love in a light way, in a way that leaves plenty of room to let the thing go the way its going to go without any nudging from me. When you’re not auditioning someone for the starring role in the rest of your life, you stop examining them for their rightness or wrongness for you. You just enjoy them. You enjoy what’s on the table without wondering what comes next. You can take them or leave them, and you opt to take them, not because you *need* them, but because you *want* them.

What comes next will come when it comes. Meanwhile, there is this.

And I’ll take it.


Today’s Nudge: Where are you at with romance, love, sex, etc.

There’s a bunch of us blogging along in September. Find out more here, or pop your email address in the box below, and I’ll send you a nudge to blog every day along with a link to my daily writings.

Looking for accountability partners, other blogs to read, or eyes on your work? How about all three? Join us today in the Artfully Wild Blogalong Facebook Group.

P.S. LIFE BOOK 2018 is open for registration, y’all! Early Bird ends December 31st, so get it while you can!





On Being Human In Times Like These

We’re having a heat wave of sorts here in Southwestern Ontario, which means the AC has been going full blast for days, and I’ve been walking around wondering where my Autumn went. Something about the hurricanes pushing warm air up this way, etc. etc. Whatever it is, it isn’t exactly sweater and soup weather. Soupy air, maybe, but soup simmering on the stove is *not* a good idea when it’s 40 with the Humidex.

My inner mean girl just kicked in as I was typing. She has some not-so-nice things to say about me right now. She’s saying “Puerto Rico will probably not have power for months, and here you are, whining about a little heat wave.” I hear her. I’m nodding in her direction. I know that someone, somewhere has it way worse by far than I do, and yet what’s happening elsewhere doesn’t change my reality one iota.

I think we all have these thoughts (if we’re sensitive at all) and yet, I think it’s important to allow ourselves to have space for both things to be true. (Hear that, inner mean girl?) Someone having it way worse can kick my gratitude for what I have into high gear, my empathy for what they are experiencing into overdrive, but it *doesn’t change my reality one iota*. It’s still sweltering here, and I still miss my sweater and soup weather, and that’s true, and remains true even while I’m also aware that someone else is in a weather-induced nightmare of epic proportions.

Being human in times like these, living in a world where I get to know what’s happening right here, and down the street, and in the next province over, and everywhere else in the entire world is quite a trip. It’s too much most days. It’s information overload. I wish I could filter my awareness so that I only took in data I could *actually do something about*. Wouldn’t that be a blessed relief?

As it stands, I’ve learned to do what I can, then go fling glitter, because what else am I going to do?

I’m 27 days into a challenge I set for myself to blog every day in September.

I haven’t missed a day. I haven’t run out of things to say. I feel a little more exposed than I like, because writing honestly about ones thoughts and feelers can be a pretty vulnerable thing to do. I mean, does anyone really need to hear about my thoughts on romantic love vs. platonic love? My memories of an old lover? How I feel about living alone? No, probably not. The world would not be missing anything much if I kept my thoughts and feelers to myself. Some days I feel like I’m just kind of adding more noise into the cacophony. But, my inner gentle girl reminds me, it’s important to *me* to feel like I *can* add my voice. For better or for worse, I’ve got one, and it matters to me that I get to use it, even if only to tell you that potato and bacon soup is better two days after it’s been freshly made, or that I think I may have given up on romantic love, or that I really like sweater weather.

I mean, why not? If it invokes a nod in my direction or a ‘me, too!’ or even an “I thought it was just me!”, well, that’s good enough. Because, why shouldn’t we feel a little bit more connected to one another across time and space? Why shouldn’t we know about each other’s ordinary moments? I know that knowing about yours makes me feel a little less lonely. I know that sharing mine makes me feel a little less isolated.

I can’t come here every day with something epic to say.

Hell, I’m lucky if I have something even remotely *interesting* to say most days. Some days, all I’ve got to offer is “Hey, you. I see you. I don’t know what to do, but I see you.”

One can know that, and be tempted to stop saying anything at all, but I think the little things matter. I think it matters when I share that I have survivours guilt over what’s happening in Puerto Rico that’s just powerful enough to make me question the value of sharing my ordinary reality. I think it matters when you read it and think to yourself “Yeah, me too. What are we gonna do?” I think our lives are *made* of the little things, the wee grapplings, the moments we pause to check in with ourselves and each other, and I think our lives, no matter how small they may seem in comparison to other epic-seeming lives, are important enough to document, and even share.

So, hey. Good morning.

I slept beautifully last night. I’m very grateful I have AC this morning. I’m longing for sweater and soup weather, and it feels a little like I’m breathing through a wet brick, but I’ll manage, as I always do. There are horrible things happening everywhere, and Puerto Rico is especially on my heart today, so I went looking for ways to help. This looks especially promising (and direct), so I ‘m going to focus my efforts here.

Meanwhile, I hope to get some work done today, and then I’m off for a pint with a friend later. My furbabes are pressed, one on either side of me, against the length of my thighs. One is purring and the other is snorfling gently in that dreamy way that only Shih Tzu’s seem to snorfle. I am a little whiny about a shitty movie I saw last night that offended my delicate sensibilities, and it’s too fucking hot for the end of September.

I am full of gratitude and #firstworldproblems and empathy and self-involvement in near equal measure.

I’m human, having a very human experience.

I’m out here, waving hello.


Today’s Nudge: Share a human moment you’ve had recently.

There’s a bunch of us blogging along in September. Find out more here, or pop your email address in the box below, and I’ll send you a nudge to blog every day along with a link to my daily writings.

Looking for accountability partners, other blogs to read, or eyes on your work? How about all three? Join us today in the Artfully Wild Blogalong Facebook Group.

P.S. LIFE BOOK 2018 is open for registration, y’all! Early Bird ends December 31st, so get it while you can!




A Love Like That

I watched a documentary yesterday while I was enjoying a break from all things work & social media. It was called “Dying To Know” and was an in depth look at the relationship between Timothy Leary (of ‘Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out’ fame) & Ram Dass (of ‘Be Here Now’ fame). I found it really moving, because here were these two very, very different men, with very, very different philosophies, sexual orientations, lifestyles, desired outcomes, and yet the love between them was absolutely palpable. I mean, you could cut it with a knife, grab a slice, and eat it. I could practically feel it oozing down my chin as I feasted on it via my eyes on the screen.

Love like that, man. It’s everything.

Romantic love has never really been very good to me. I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved in ‘that way’, and I’ve got some pretty heavy duty scars on my heart as a result. That’s a pretty common refrain, though. I think we all have similar stories of the rise of hope in love and then the boom crash that seems inevitable. I have mostly given up on it as a sustainable reality. If it comes, it’ll come, but counting on it seems foolish. Some people don’t ever get to have it. They get glimpses, maybe, but the glitter fades, and they find themselves alone once more.This has been a theme in my life, and I’ve come to accept it.

The kind of love I’m after now is the kind I saw in that documentary. That ‘no matter how far’ kind of love. That unconditional, certain kind of love that isn’t at all dependent on chemistry or the shape of your body or what you’ve got in your pants.

I have that with a few people. Love I can count on to show up. Love I believe in regardless of physical proximity or expression. That’s the stuff, right there. It isn’t about coming and going. It just is, and I can hang my heart on it because its solid.

Lucienne Bloch Frida and Diego Kissing, 1933 Bentley Gallery

Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera had this kind of love, too, i think, but it was complicated by gender, by romance, chemistry & lust. They couldn’t stay away from one another, but they couldn’t live with one another, either. It was tumultuous. Volatile. Full of the ebb and flow of coupling and uncoupling.

It used to be everything I wanted, that kind of love. The highs, the lows, the living poetry. It all seemed so *romantic* on the surface, but when I examine it these days, really turn it over and over again in my hands like a Chinese finger puzzle, it seems so fraught, so dramatic. So. fucking. tiresome.

They were devoted to one another, but not committed. They were loyal to one another but lacking fidelity. And yet, he was there at her end.

He was there at her end.

Maybe that was enough. Maybe that’s all anyone can ask for. Maybe that’s all that matters.

I don’t know.

It seems to me like middle-age is an unraveling of everything I think I know so I can examine what it’s made of. There are some things I’m keeping as ‘known’. Love matters more than anything else to me. It is my reason for getting out of bed in the morning. But *the kind* of love I most desire has definitely shifted. I don’t want the inconstant, unpredictable stuff most poetry is made of. I don’t want the coupling and uncoupling kind. I want steadfast. I want fidelity of heart. I don’t particularly care who does what with what’s in their pants as long as everyone is honest about it. Maybe I’ve grown jaded, finally, or maybe this is what growing up looks like.

I don’t know.

“You will never be alone again” was the last promise I let someone make me, and of course, the intentions were pure, and the desire to keep the promise was there, but I ended up alone again, sick with grief, and bitter. A girl gets tired of wondering what went wrong. She gets tired of the way words and actions refuse to line up, refuse to align. She gets tired. She gets to the point where she can only throw up her hands and say to all comers:

Fuck promises. Fuck them. I don’t want them anymore. Certainty is better. “I will love you until I don’t.” That’s certain. “I am, myself, the only one I will never leave or lose.” That’s certain. “I can’t promise you anything.” That’s certain.

I can live with that. I do.

So give me Timothy Leary & Ram Dass any day, that juicy kind of certain love that survives everything – distance, time, and even death. Give me that kind of love. A love like that.

And I’ll count myself lucky.


Today’s nudge: Compare what you used to want with what you presently want.

There’s a bunch of us blogging along in September. Find out more here, or pop your email address in the box below, and I’ll send you a nudge to blog every day along with a link to my daily writings.

Looking for accountability partners, other blogs to read, or eyes on your work? How about all three? Join us today in the Artfully Wild Blogalong Facebook Group.

P.S. LIFE BOOK 2018 is open for registration, y’all! Early Bird ends December 31st, so get it while you can!



Who is this woman?

Too much social has me feeling depleted today as I come to you by way of wires and light. I *love* people, especially the people I get to call *my* people, but I need more solitude than I’ve been giving myself.

Today will be a ‘turn off the phone, ignore the emails, and veg out’ kind of day. Desired. Necessary.

If you had told me five years ago that I would become this person – this woman that needs equal parts solitude to counteract the social – I’d have laughed. I hated being alone. Being alone was twisty. It was too full of my own brain, and my brain has always been a bit of a dangerous place to be. These days, though? I love being alone. I love my apartment. I love silence. I love being able to pick and choose where to expend my energy, on whom, and when.

Maybe it’s a middle-age thing. Maybe it’s just that I grew out of needing someone present every moment of the day, or maybe I *never* needed that. I just always *had* that and I didn’t know any other way. Still, it makes me pause now and then to ask “Who is this woman who *loves to be alone* and where did she come from?”


I have this dream for my life of eventually being shacked up with my best friend. I want that person to wake up with and plan with and dream with and go to bed with. At least, I think that’s what I want.

It might be shifting. I don’t know. I know I don’t *long* for that like my life depends on it anymore. I know that I can’t imagine sharing my space with anyone any time soon. I know that my life is already fully decorated, and I’m not sure I want to hang someone else’s pictures on my walls, someone else’s clothes in my closets.

I know that I can wait. For a long, long time. And it feels good after these years and years of longing, to *not* feel that longing. Even if a miracle happened and the love of my life showed up wrapped in a red ribbon with an embossed gift tag that said “For you, Effy. Forever.”, I’d probably be like “But, wait…can we have separate bedrooms? Separate apartments, even? Can I have a yurt in the back yard? Because I really like living alone…”

I. Really like. Living. Alone.


Company is nice, though. I love having someone come over. I love lighting the candles and incense, deciding on the thing we’re doing that evening. I love that all of my people are down with the braless me, the me that sticks her top knot up in a clip and can’t be bothered to put on lip gloss. I love that I can burp really loudly in front of my people. That I can *fart* even, and that we will dissolve into paroxysms of giggles when that happens. Or offer our congratulations if it is an especially loud or pungent methane hug. <—-What I call farts. Methane hugs. Yes, I’m a 12 year old boy. Didn’t you know? :D

I love the ease that I’ve built into my life by *refusing* to be any kind of laminated. There is no veneer here. What you see is what you get, and if you don’t like it, here’s your hat. Door’s that way. See ya! The people that are most comfortable with me are the people that are most comfortable with their own selves, in their own skin. They may like to powder and pluck, but they don’t *have to*. They aren’t coming over to see how well I keep house. They’re coming over to share a bottle of wine and a lot of laughter, or tears, or both in the same night, sometimes at the same time.

And then they go home.

And I sit in silence for a few gorgeous moments before snuffing the candles and gathering up the furbabes so we can all go to bed.

And I like it that way.


Making space in my life gets harder the more I age. Is anyone else experiencing this? I joke with my bestie that he’s contagious. He’s a curmudgeon, a bit of a misanthrope. He professes to be self-centered. He prefers solitude to an extreme that I can’t quite match – yet – but I joke that I’m getting there. We both prefer company that doesn’t *feel* like company, and that’s why we are perfect companions. Granted, I do have a smidgen of Viking hospitality in my blood, and so I do a little more to make my company comfortable than he might. The wine is chilled, the glasses are polished. The cheese board is laid out, or dinner is prepared. The show or game or playlist is picked out, the bathroom clean-ish – at least, clean enough. I make some effort, but mostly, I treat him, and everyone else that comes here, like family. Because, seriously. Give me a choice between ‘entertaining guests’ and having family over, and you know I’ll pick family every time.


There’s no real point to today’s post. I opened the lap top and started where I am, with these musings on solitude vs. social. I don’t have a pretty segue or even a full stop. I’m just noticing how I’ve changed in the aftermath of loss and heartache, and liking that, and liking that I like that. I’m noticing how adversity has polished me shiny instead of grinding me down.

And that’s enough for now. It’s enough for always, really.


Today’s nudge: Write about a way in which you have changed over the years.

There’s a bunch of us blogging along in September. Find out more here, or pop your email address in the box below, and I’ll send you a nudge to blog every day along with a link to my daily writings.

Looking for accountability partners, other blogs to read, or eyes on your work? How about all three? Join us today in the Artfully Wild Blogalong Facebook Group.

P.S. LIFE BOOK 2018 is open for registration, y’all! Early Bird ends December 31st, so get it while you can!