I am a partner, mother, writer, and editor living in Minneapolis, MN. My husband and two daughters and I have made a little nest in the southwest part of the city, where we explore lakes and gardens and bird sanctuaries when life opens up enough to do that. 

 

I was born overseas, in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea, and traveled around the world with my family from the time I was wee baby. I grew up with the sound of my mother's voice, lying curled against her warm flank, drowsy and transfixed, as she read stories and poems by lamplight in the early tropical darkness. Little House on the Prairie, The Chronicles of Narnia, Sherlock Holmes. Walt Whitman, A.E. Housman, the Psalms. Learning to love the many worlds created in stories helped me to learn to love the world I inhabit, to recognize and name the many narratives we're all living out at any given moment. 

I studied English Writing as an undergrad at Concordia College in Moorhead, MN, and in graduate school at the University of Wyoming in Laramie. I've been a freelance writer and editor since 2007. Almost nothing makes me happier, when people ask me what I do, than being able to respond, I'm a writer. 

 

I write a lot about grief these days, in the long wake of my mother's sudden death in 2013, even though I'm just one person with one particular experience. I write about God and record some of the conversations I have with that Great Mystery in times of presence or prayer or meditation, even though I am just one person with one interpretation. I write about human spiritual evolution and other universal but not-fully-knowable endeavors, even though I'm just one person with one particular lens on these things. I write about being a mother, even though I have almost no idea what I'm doing.

Sometimes it all feels a little strange — vulnerable, intimate, a bit brash. Midwestern girls are not raised to claim the authority to say things out loud, but that's exactly what writers do. And thank goodness for it. How many times have I been saved when someone just dared to write down the simple truth and make it available somehow? How much has opened up for me as I have been curled up with my own daughters and ushered them into the swirling universe of words? 

 

As with any creative form, language is an imperfect scaffolding, but it can still reveal and hold much. It can still connect us with real and rooted places in ourselves and in others. It is still a holy practice. 

Like a lot of other storylisteners and storytellers in this bright broken world, I am guided daily by Mary Oliver:

I will try. 

I will step from the house to see what I see

and hear and I will praise it.

I did not come into this world

to be comforted.

I come, like red bird, to sing.

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