It was summer, I remember that much. No coat over the back of the chair, my legs bare to the breeze. And though I was in my twenties, I was still young enough to think of “home” as wherever my parents lived.

At the time, writer’s block wasn’t something I thought about. I just—rather passive-aggressively—simply wasn’t writing (unless you count bitching to my journal a couple times a week).

I sat with my father at Arpeggio’s, our local brick-oven pizza pub. Dad and I don’t get much deep time but we make good use of what we have.

“Why aren’t you writing?” my father asked.

I threw up my hands in twenty-something irritation (which I am still admittedly prone to).

“You want me to write and you want me to have a job with good health insurance. Jobs with good health insurance are boring. Having your brain ooze out of your ears is literally a recipe for writer’s block. It’s an either/or proposition: a “good job” or writing,” I declared.

At twenty-something, I wasn’t entirely right… nor was I entirely wrong.

Which brings us to forty-something, going on fifty, fast. Not because the years are racing faster for me than for anyone else, but because my mind has slumped into Serious. I hear it in the cadence of my voice sometimes, the lack of humor—even the sarcasm is starched out.

And I see it in my writing—I wouldn’t call it writer’s block, but there’s some serious lack of wordplay, of silly, of joy.

That twenty-something self was a poet and a wordsmith. She marched into the elementary schools of Harlem twice a week to read iambic pentameter to children who might have woken up in a shelter or started the morning without a bite to eat. She thought it mattered.



This morning, twenty years later, I woke up and realized it did matter then (memories of a timid boy, overweight and awkward, bringing me the poem he wrote after I had read Aunt Leaf by Mary Oliver to his class) and still matters now.

The life of the mind, the play of words on a page, they matter. Click To Tweet


So I started with S:

Serious and Stupid with menopause brain.

There had to be more:


And then:


women have always known:
it takes a village.
Not just to raise a child,
but to find ourselves.

We all need sisterhood,
girl time,
and sage speak.


our every inhale:
the green world’s exhale.
We live, stretched and shining,
between Earth and Sky.

Don’t worry if you’ve lost it,
if you are sick and tired
(or sick and tired of being sick and tired);
it is still there to be found.

I did, I have, and I will…
Over and over.
We just need
to remember to return.

You are sacred, sister.


High art poetry? No.

The beginnings of an escape from the cages of self-perception, from the mother of all writer’s block and a morass of stuck creativity? Yes.

I started with S.

Where will you start?

Need a some ideas? Download my Witchy Woman’s Guide to Freeing Your Creativity so you can find your flow again.