Category Archives: writing

Communication, Community, Connecting, Connection, Life Experiences, Vision, writing

I Don’t Want a Platform—I Want a Campfire

Sometimes I get caught in spinning.

I want to do something—
move toward something purposeful, meaningful, alive.

But I don’t have a job like that.
I don’t work from an office or keep set hours.
I try to stay in service to our work, and sometimes that starts to feel like marketing or overselling, when really I just want to connect.
To share.
To see what might be offered—or received—in relationship.

Instead, I’m in my house in Montana.

I could go downtown and sit in a café and write.
Have a coffee. Maybe chat with people doing their thing.

I could go to the mountain—
ride the chairlift, talk about life and politics, take a few runs, eat curly fries.

I could walk the dogs and exchange small, human moments with people I pass in the woods.

I’d love to share more online.
But honestly, there’s so much noise there.
Ads. Rants. Performance.
So where do heartfelt words belong?
Who is really listening?

I’ve explored platforms—Substack, Mighty Networks, and the ever-growing list of “the next best thing.”
I’m not looking for big.
And I’m not looking for viral.

What I want is simpler—and maybe harder.

Camp Connection wants to become a small, human-scale space.
A place for stories, questions, and unfinished thoughts.
Not a funnel.
Not a brand.

More like a campfire—
where people wander in, sit down for a while, listen, speak when something feels true, and leave a little more connected than when they arrived.

As an Enneagram 5, I know I can get stuck in thinking and refining.
Coming close, then pulling back.
Wanting to share, then needing more quiet first.

Sometimes it’s hard being me.
And—this is me.

If you’d sit down at this campfire, let me know in the comments.
That’s enough to start.

Connection, Family, Vulnerability, writing

The Undertow of Lov-ing and Letting Go

Maybe I thought I had done the work, so I’d be okay as my mom transitions.

I’m not sad in the sense of losing her—I believe that with her dementia, some of that connection to memory and story has been gone for a while now. I don’t feel there’s a lot left unspoken or unshared between us.

And yet, I find myself caught in this underlying undertow—a swirl that leaves me feeling heavy, struggling to stay present.

I’m a marriage and family therapist with a systems background, so I’m well aware of the powerful pull of family of origin. I had imagined that, with all the work I’ve done to gather pieces of my past into a kind of fractal—a pattern that allows me to live and love more fully—I would have unhooked myself from that pull.

But no.

Over the past few years, I’ve been on a journey with my sisters in caring for our mom. 

I live in Montana. Melissa, the middle sister, lives in Indiana. Penny, the oldest, is on the ground in Seattle—closest to Mom, and most often in charge of appointments, care, and transport.

COVID shifted everything for Mom. During that window of being locked down in her apartment, her memory began to decline. We did what we could. But let’s face it—there was so much that left our elderly isolated and alone. Maybe it impacted all of us in that way.

We moved her into a care home where she’s been for the past few years. She has a great care team, and our family stays connected in various ways.

As sisters, we try to meet weekly for a call—to check in, share, and support each other on this journey. Sometimes it’s been about Mom. Sometimes it’s been about all the other dynamics unfolding in our own lives. Sometimes we’ve agreed. Sometimes we haven’t. Sometimes it’s been hard. And sometimes we’ve laughed.

We each hold different beliefs about life, death, faith, and spirit. We also have different perspectives on health care and managing expectations. What I’ve loved is that none of these differences have undermined our shared purpose: caring for our mom.

We’ve cultivated an intimacy—in-to-me-see—with each other, using the energy of emotion to be creative, supportive, and, I believe, lov-ing with each other.

And still, this undertow.

There’s a fabric of family that lives in the body—in emotion, in images, and in story. That fabric is losing one of its essential threads. Though I know, energetically, my mom isn’t gone, the tangible contact with her texture, her vibration, is slipping away.

Will the fabric of our family continue without that thread?

Maybe that’s the fear.

There are aspects of my life that I know will never be “known” once my mom is gone. 

I’ve always said I was okay with that. 

And I am.

Our stories have become my wisdom. 

Energy.  Moving and reshaping.

I hope that’s true for her as well.

Connecting, Connection, Embracing Unknown, Life Experiences, writing

From Fracture to Fractal

Us at The Haven

For me, Haven is where I learned how to be relational—and real. I was fractured.

It brought me back to love. To loving. To creating, exploring, playing, and growing.

Before Haven, I was conforming, restricting, editing myself. Judging, separating. 

I often felt like I didn’t fit in. 

At times, I thought I was better than others—at other times, worse. 

I believed I had to be right, professional, smart, thin, flashy—wise or brilliant. Either profound or spiritual. 

But I didn’t know love back then.

Haven gave me a path to show up as I truly am.

Through breathing, and sharing what was happening inside me—how I was putting my world together, mostly based on past experiences and survival. 

Old stories that scared me or made me angry. 

And slowly, I began to realize: those stories weren’t true. Maybe they were once—but who could say?

Truth became important, but I also discovered something else: 

If I didn’t have to be right or wrong, I could share my story like an artist shares a painting—expressing how I felt in relationship to the world around me. 

And in doing so, I’d often discover that others had similar stories, or their art could support mine.

That made the moment freer. 

It wasn’t about facts—it was about creating.

Through my inner world, I could choose what helped me grow—or what kept me defended—and share that too.

I learned that when I spoke from a defended place, I blocked out new information. 

Or if something did sneak through, I’d just file it into an old, familiar box. 

But when I was in a growth state, new ideas would shift my perspective. 

My inner world would weave and evolve—like mixing paints. 

And that was fun. It was play. It sparked new activity and possibility.

I also realized I needed to face my old stories, scars, and stuck emotions. 

Without attention, they festered—like emotional cancers—messy, painful, and toxic to relationships. 

So I kept going. The process is ongoing.

I’ve learned the best way to live is by developing my capacity to relate— 

To my inner world, 

To the present moment, 

To the people and the energy around me.

It starts with understanding how I construct my reality— 

How to loosen the rigid beliefs I cling to— 

How to stay open to new possibilities, beyond what my senses perceive.

It’s about making space for difference—for people who are different—for a world that is complex and ever-changing.

And the foundation of Haven is opening to that possibility.

As my Haven journey has unfolded, I’ve come to see that everyone takes their own path. 

At times, that’s been hard. 

I wanted to intern “right,” assist “right,” lead “right.” 

But, like life, it’s not that simple.

There is some structure. 

There are core values. 

But ultimately, it comes down to three things:

Being present. Being relational. Being self-responding.

Never fractured just living as fractals.

Communication, Connecting, Uncategorized, Voice, writing

What Makes A Life

The Hands That Touch Our Hearts

There are so many ways to gather input about a life.
Pictures, stories, social media, music, movement, art—these days, you could probably even feed it all into a prompt and ask AI.

And maybe that becomes the sum of a life.

But is it?

There’s so much about living that stretches beyond our sensory space and time.
Yes, I can gather loads of data and information about a business—and in many ways, that’s enough to create a strategy, a game plan that can determine success or failure, worth or value.

Maybe you can evaluate a company, or even a country’s government, that way.

But not a relationship.
Not a family.
Not a community.

Because of hearts. Emotions. Conflicts. Hidden agendas.
Constructed personalities that only slightly conceal our raw vulnerability.

All that messy middle—that’s definitely missing from a Facebook post or a LinkedIn update. Missing from business strategies and financial results.

A life—
A real relationship—
Is dynamic. Moment to moment. Always changing.

And we are so uncomfortable with that.
We want to control the narrative.
To limit the unlimited.

But that’s only possible when we finally surrender—
To the unknown.
To our ego.

And we don’t do that well.

Because surrender requires trust. Faith. And that is…

LOVE.

We want love to be different.
To be neat. Predictable. Manageable.

But what love is—
Is simply pure consciousness.
Which just is.
Everything.

That’s way beyond our sensory, dimensional selves to grasp.
And our intelligence?
It keeps us from letting go and trusting—energy, God, purity.

We keep thinking we can know it. Capture it. Control it.

But we can’t.

The closest we come is when we surrender.
When we drop to our knees and cry because we don’t know what else to do.
When we sit beside another and simply be—
As they shake, or rage, or cry. Or just be.

When, in a flash, we let go of our righteousness and allow the light—or new information—
In.

Those are the moments I think we come closest to knowing ourselves.
And each other.

Those moments, I believe, are what truly make a life.

The rest—
Is dust.

Vulnerability, writing

Day 4: From Miles To Meaning A Memoir

How I felt Taking Healing Through Writing – yes!

A few simple prompts – a memoir? Maybe.

Last day – last class.

Rough but real:

A Moment in My Body

The sweet sugar and icy chill washed through me.

I had never tasted anything so wondrous. As I swallowed the liquid from the tiny paper cup handed to me, I turned to see the source.

Coke.

No way. And yet — despite my disbelief — I surrendered to the ecstasy of that syrupy liquid. It quenched my thirst, revived me, energized every cell in my body. I let myself savor it slowly, taking smaller and smaller sips to make it last.

Time stood still.

With my eyes closed, I crushed the empty cup in my hand and let it drop into the garbage container.

As I walked away, the tingling flavor still dancing on my tongue, I felt a gentle hum of satisfaction grounding me.

Then I noticed — the aches in my body, the quiet joy of completion.

An Insight That Changed Everything

I’ve come to understand that forgiveness isn’t really for the other person — it’s for me.
But it is relational. It opens a doorway between us.
It’s about adjusting my own mind, softening my stance, so I can truly see, hear, and know another.

That realization shifted something deep inside me.

When I fully grasped that forgiveness raises consciousness — that it opens my heart — something clicked.
It stopped being a nice idea and became a lived experience.
A tectonic shift in how I saw, how I felt.

Of course, I still slip.
I fall back into judging others — or worse, myself —
getting stuck in that old loop of blame, of right and wrong.

But when I let go of the judgment and lean into curiosity instead, something changes.
There’s expansion.
I notice more.
Not mentally — not with the mind — but energetically.

I sense it:
energy, frequency, sound, vibration — possibility.

What was stuck begins to move.
And then I realize — it’s not just the situation that’s been freed.

It’s me.
I was the one who was stuck.

And now, I am free.

From Miles To Meaning or Running to Real: A Memoir

Running was my joy.
Morning runs before work.
Evening runs after.
Weekends too.

I ran until I couldn’t run anymore.

The doctor called it a disorder.
The therapist called it trauma.
So I fought the demons — and the demons fought back.

My body was desperate to quit.
But my dog reminded me to keep going.

Eventually, I found a haven.
A space where I didn’t have to explain or prove why I was the way I was.
I just had to show up — be real, be honest, in the moment.

There, I learned to bridge the gap between the old chaos —
the drama, the trauma —
and something new.

I didn’t have to be right.
I didn’t have to stay wrong.
I could be relational. I could be real.

Relating, though — that was harder than running.
Running was easy.
Relating asked me to feel.
To face waves of sorrow, despair, heartache.

It wasn’t easy to share any of it.
But when I did —
when I let myself be seen,
or when I listened deeply as someone else shared their raw truth —
I felt something shift.

Held. Warm. Moved.

Those moments were sacred.
Lasting.
Connected.

Far more rewarding than finishing a marathon
or closing any deal.

Sure, pleasure can come in quick highs.
But becoming real —
becoming connected —
that gives something deeper.

Something that actually stays.

Communication, Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Voice, writing

Helpless and Held: Parasails, Politics & Paws: Day Three

A swirl of moments—captured through free writes and Feldenkrais. This piece began with a reflection on the year: three events and some sensory explorations. I followed, unsure where it would lead.

Forty minutes later, I found a path—one that offered comfort and clarity in a time of deep chaos and pain.

The events: parasailing, Couples Alive II, and a crisis at home—threaded together by a political landscape spanning three countries. Two I call home. One I visit often.

It begins here:

I didn’t know if I’d be alone or with others. Just two Spanish-speaking men on a boat, a parasail, and me. No conversation—just gestures. A few motions to get me buckled and set. Sunscreen. Sunglasses. A nod. And then—release.

The rope pulled taut. The wind lifted me slowly, then all at once. Up. Up. Away. The boat shrank. The shore disappeared. The air held me like nothing else ever had.

I could sing up there. I could scream.
I did sing. I did scream.
Arms wide open. The wind caught me—tossed me, popped me forward and back.

In a plane, that would’ve terrified me.
But here, dangling from a sail—I felt free.

More than free. I felt possible.

There was a moment—I touched the clip. Thought about unhooking. Not out of fear, but out of desire.
A strange call to fly solo.
And also… a pull to stay.

Not for safety. But for the two men below.
I didn’t want to cause them trouble. That mattered.

That same push and pull—between rising and staying—echoes now.
Just weeks ago. Days before the election.
Up north with Couples.

The Haven. Safe. Then the call—ZuZu was hurt.
Far from home. But wrapped in something solid.
A circle of friends.
Steady eyes. Open arms.

My heart raced. My jaw clenched.
I tasted metal—but I wasn’t alone.
I felt helpless. But also held.

I watched CrisMarie pace the floor, phone to her ear.
The possibility of ZuZu gone.
Or our dogs separated.
The surgeon’s certainty: if she survives, they can’t be together.

Others spoke. Stories of dogs. Of grief. Of connection.
Pain, yes. But it was shared.
Held.

Helpless. And held.

While back home, ZuZu recovered.
Friends gathered. Held the fort.
Until we could return.

Now, I’m back in the U.S.
ZuZu curls in my lap. Rosie snug at my feet.
Everything back to normal.
Close. Safe. Cozy.

And yet—helplessness stirs again.

Not about the dogs this time.
It’s my country.
The headlines. The rage. The noise.

That same bitter taste in my mouth.
That same rising panic.

But no circle of friends here.
The Haven still exists—but distant now.
What surrounds me is the cluttered, chaotic hum of a nation at war with itself.

Still—I remember the parasail.
Mexico. The beach.

I remember the moment of lift.
Rising above the mess. Not to escape—but to see.

There is a way to be with terror without becoming it.
A way to hold chaos and not unclip.

I can scream. I can sing.
I can let go without falling.
I can remember the air. The sky.
The clarity that comes when I stop gripping so tight.

I don’t have to drown in the headlines.
Or disappear into helplessness.

There’s a space between it all.
A pause between breaths.
A widening above the noise.

I can carry that space with me.
Back down.

Because this is still home.
The weight of ZuZu. Rosie curled at my feet.

The dogs are here. My heart is here.
And maybe—if I remember the wind—
I don’t have to leave to feel free.

Connecting, Connection, Voice, Vulnerability, writing

Felt, Not Held: Day Two

I fear I won’t get my piece out for today and yet I have particpated more fully, taking a couples classes – one live and two of recorded through that all access. pass

One piece seems too personal to share as a blog post so I am holding on to it. Instead I’ll share this other piece – written and then crafted into a poem. The class was Writing Self-Intimacy – very intriguing to me. Here’s the poem:

Such an interesting question—
how does intimacy ripple?
Something in me doesn’t quite grasp it—
and yet, as I write,
a hush moves through my chest,
a soft bloom of sensation—
could this be the ripple itself?

Inside, it’s all motion:
breath as messenger,
bringing in the new,
carrying out the dissonance—
a surrender to the stirrings
that chaos brings.

When I imagine this inward pulse
moving outward—
it feels like waves,
sometimes gentle, like a whisper across skin,
sometimes wild, like wind tearing through still water.

My relationships feel this—
my dogs know the rhythm.
My wife feels the shifts too,
though fear sometimes stirs in her—
then, I feel the quiet plea
for control, or help,
as if my wave might wash too far.

Community…
That’s more elusive.
Sometimes I skip the people close by,
and instead, let the wave
spill into music, into words, activity
into distant spaces in Zoom windows
where I may be felt,
but not held too tightly.

And maybe that’s why
intimacy in community
can feel like a shore I can see
but haven’t quite reached.

Life Experiences, Vulnerability, writing

From Survival to Story: Day One

I signed up for an online program called Healing Through Writing—a four-day firehose of classes that blend somatic practices with creative expression.

From the start, I could see the challenge. Live sessions, bonus workshops, all on Zoom—it was intense enough to convince me to go for the all-access pass without hesitation.

But now that it’s begun, I’ve found myself drifting toward excuses. It’s surprisingly easy to avoid sitting down, tuning in, and doing the actual writing.

So, I’ve set a gentle but firm intention: to post a blog each day, sharing something I’ve learned or something that stirred me—even if it’s small.

Because for me, this isn’t just about writing. It’s part of something bigger. A path I’m carving toward a more abundant life—one that feels whole, connected, creative, and deeply alive. The ink heart is my symbol for that journey ( remember I’m a writer not an artist).

Symbol for My Abundant Life – A little journey I am on and this course is a part

Day one, and already I’ve landed somewhere meaningful. My biggest takeaway? Just sitting with the question: What does healing mean to me?

Turns out, that’s a powerful place to begin. And maybe the first step toward the life I’ve been quietly reaching for all along.

Here’s my quick take:

Healing, to me, is the shift from survival mode into a space of creation. It’s when I begin to reconnect with life, with others, with myself—not just intellectually, but viscerally. It’s when I feel that connection is present, even if my senses or internal narratives try to convince me otherwise.

There’s a deeper knowing beneath all of it—that I am still connected, always.

When that sense becomes rooted in my everyday life, when I can live from that knowing and move with love and intention—that, to me, is healing. It’s living. It’s loving.

Connecting, Connection, Vision, writing

Inspired By Tracy & I am Not Alone

I am inspired by Tracey Chapman and this isn’t the first time.

Best moment of the Grammy’s was when Tracy Chapman joined Luke Combs to sing Fast Car.

That was a magical moment on so many levels.  White guy, county singer and black woman, musical legend. 

I watched the clip of Luke Combs talking about his reasons for redoing the song.  He loved the song, grew up listening to it and it was one of the first songs he played.  That’s something.

I’m not a music star, country or otherwise.  However, Tracey Chapman sure did influence my life and her song, Promise, was one of the first songs I sought to learn on the guitar. 

Tracy Chapman I believe has inspired many. Her songs speak to the soul and connect, across devides.

Now that this moment has happened, I am sort hoping Tracey may make more musical appearances. 

Sounds like she is a special woman who lives a life out of the public scrutiny.  Maybe not now.  With people just learning she lives in ________ (don’t want to add on so just ___) .  Her solitude might be shaken.  I hope not.

I have a story that she is still writing songs and music.  Maybe even playing for non-advertised audiences.

Her song writing and music remind me of my own writing – yes there are books and articles for press, public and broad consumption, but that’s not why I write and I am guessing never why she wrote, sang and shared.

I write because it’s sooths an ache or fills a deep need/desire to connect and not be so alone.

I don’t know for sure but that’s what I saw on that stage the other night.  Two amazing singers, worlds a part in many ways – bridging through a song.  All of us getting to share in that special moment.

I wish could invite her to the stage here in Whitefish, MT.  Wouldn’t that be cool.

Maybe that’s a LONG shot but in the meantime, I have gotten back out my guitar and I’m practicing my favorite Tracy tune: Promise. 

No worries I won’t share my version with you but here’s a Tracy version:

writing

My Safe Haven (s)

Most of you reading know I love The Haven!

Those of you who have been following me over the years also know writing is a very important part of my life integration process.

Imagine my joy when I discovered that there was also a Haven right here in Whitefish, MT and this Haven is for writers!

Chester and Andrew

When I discovered The Haven here it did not just show up because of writing!  I learned that Laura Munson, the NY Times best seller writer that runs Haven Writing Retreats was also the owner of one of my favorite horses at Stillwater Horse Whisper Ranch, Chester.

I knew we had to meet and I was working on my book, Crazy, Cracked, Warm and Deep.  So I took the Haven Writing Retreat.  It was awesome!

Still haven’t finished CCW&D but I have no doubt that retreat supported the completion of our book, The Beauty of Conflict, Harnessing Your Teams Competitive Advantage.

Both Havens rest fondly in my heart – so when the invitation came from Laura Munson to write a submission – What is Your Safe Haven – well I had to give it a go!!

This week my piece is being published!!!!

Yes – a formal publication of my more personal work!!!  How cool is that!  My Safe Haven

Of course I wanted to share through the many avenues I know.  To get out the word about The Haven – The Haven on Gabriola and for writers The Haven here in Montana!

Please read, please share and let me know about where your Safe Haven is?