Walk with Me


Grief is a deep pit. My whole family fell into it this year. Most recently last month.

None of my friends can pull me up out of that dark place.

And yet, a brave soul can climb down into the sadness with me and stand there, holding my hand and even supporting my frame so that I don’t fall over. If you are someone who isn’t sure how to comfort someone in deep sadness, read this loving post about when life is too painful for words. I’d call it pretty much perfect.

It’s easy to feel helpless when we see someone caught up in sorrow. That’s why I really value the people who jump in to help me by assisting with the stuff they know they can make easier.

echinacea flowerCooking meals. It’s uses up a constant stream of energy. I’m not consumed with debilitating weakness that confines me to the couch, but when my life is pock-marked with moments of heart-ache and grief, planning food for the table is harder.

A bunch of friends pooled together money and sent me a Munchery gift card to deliver nice meals that just needed a little heating before being served. I got the email notification as I was shopping for groceries with my son. I had to pull over in the dog food aisle because I was crying. My son does not know what happy tears are. He desperately wanted me to stop.

roses_rzSharing gifts and words of encouragement. The afternoon of the day I received the gift card, someone knocks at my door and delivers an exquisite basket of professionally-arranged white flowers. There’s a note with it that reads:

Dear Elise,

We’re thinking of you. We love you and stand with you. We’re praying for you and want to be here for you.

Please let us know how we can continue to help and support you guys.

It’s signed by my writer’s group.

bouquet_rzThat same week a friend asks if he can bring us a meal and delivers a bounty of organic, fresh food from a local deli, along with cookies, sparkling water, and a bouquet of flowers, cookies. I had to put down a red and white checkered tablecloth to honor the meal. It was absolutely beautiful.

Helping with childcare. I mentioned to a friend that my husband and I could use time to ourselves, to process and grieve and just be together without the responsibility of caring for our son. She immediately organized a team of people to volunteer to babysit the kiddo.

I got to sit in the sunshine and read and write in my journal. My brain began a slow climb out of the fog. My husband and I ate dinner in the outdoor garden of an Italian restaurant. The healing season began.

I have cried oh-so-many times, but I have not felt as though I was alone and drowning.

Because of my friends. Because of my family. This is really going to be okay.

Please swallow your pride

If I have things you need to borrow

For no one can fill those of your needs.

That you won’t let show.

(Lean on Me)

Book Review: The Art of Asking


Let’s start with the personal stuff.

When someone asks me, Elise, for help, when they point to something I’m good at and ask if I’d be willing to donate my expertise toward launching their dreams, my answer is almost always YES.


I’m not talking here about strangers offering to rip off my services in exchange for “experience.” On the other hand, I honestly think it’s dangerously arrogant to put a price tag on every ounce of effort that I’m willing to give. Yes, I should value my time and effort, but I should also value and love and celebrate my friends who are wrestling to bring their art and work into the open.

It takes a village to raise a child and it takes a village to birth a novel, a gallery exhibition, a dissertation, a music album, and a theatrical production. And I never forget the people who help me. I want to help them in return.

Now to the book at hand.

Amanda Palmer’s book The Art of Asking is more than a how-to-ask-friends-for-help guide. It’s a personal journey of the wonderful payoffs and embarrassing mishaps of a process she’s perfected through trial and error and piles of harrowing vulnerability.

She has learned that trusting her friends and fans implicitly–with her safety, her belongings, her food, and even her places to sleep—comes always with a risk, but even more, comes with an overwhelming outrush of love as her community rises to the occasion.

There will always be someone ready to hurt, steal, or cheat us. But Amanda uses overwhelming evidence that the majority of people genuinely want to help out, honor, and protect her/us/artists.

It’s not an unbreakable rule, and it’s not a method for the faint of heart. Trusting others and letting them catch you (like literal crowd-surfing. But the rewards, I dare say, are deep and wide.

This book is a collection of anecdotes, beginning with Amanda’s first “gig” as a living statue in Boston. She posed as an eight-foot tall bride statue and gave away flowers to the audience. She connected, made eye contact, and silently loved the people who ventured forward to give her a dollar, a note, a token. She learned to view this as an exchange, not as a street artist busking/begging for money.

This has made all the difference in her art and its future.

Later, as Amanda formed her punk cabaret duo, The Dresden Dolls, this same willingness to ask and give and receive between herself and her fans carried her far into the hearts of those who loved her and loved her music.

It wasn’t just a cold exchange of ticket sales and a performer who stood far off on a stage, out of reach in every way. When signing after a show, she often stood up and hugged her fans, comforting, celebrating, and joining them in wherever they were in their life.

Amanda details her journey of falling in love with writer Neil Gaiman, their dating, their marriage, and along with this the fights and dynamics and struggles of learning how to drop her pride and ask even her husband for help when she needs funds to cover a tight spot.

On a personal aside—this relationship was a delightful process to witness, since I’ve been an avid admirer of Neil Gaiman and his work since I first discovered Anansi Boys in college.

Palmer also portrays her close friendship with her mentor, Anthony, and how his love and wisdom guided and grounded her all the way up to this man’s own encounter with a debilitating illness that finally rendered it Amanda’s turn to be the strong one to lean on.

We get to see it all in this book: The world tours, the shows, the ninja-gigs that Amanda creates, plans and enacts overnight, using her Twitter fan-base. It’s a breathtaking wonder to behold.

And yet, there’s nothing braggy or “I’ve-figured-it-all-out” in this book. Amanda has set world records with her success in crowd-funding (via Kickstarter) her own music album at a never-before-seen level and she’s done it through making connections with her fans and loving them in a courageous, brazen way.

I love her vulnerability.

I love her willingness to trust people over and over again. I love her willingness to use herself as a conduit to build a wide-spanning net that unites humanity together in compassion, understanding, and a willingness to pitch in however they can to make something bigger than themselves.

Question: Who should read this book? Answer: Anyone who has trouble asking for help. Anyone who loves to read a victorious, honest, and sometimes hilariously rendered account of an artist’s journey (I laughed out loud and wept during my reading). Anyone aching to be inspired. Anyone who would like a jolt of hope injected into their faith in humanity. Anyone who is a fan of Amanda Palmer’s music. Anyone who feels frightened of reaching out of his/her comfort zone and would enjoy a gentle push.

Hopefully that covers most of you. This is a fantastic book. I recommend it highly.

P.S. For those of you who regularly visit my blog, the quote from the Velveteen Rabbit that I used on my previous Becoming Real post was also used in this book. It’s child-like view of pain was salve to my grieving heart and I owe Amanda my thanks for it.

Becoming Real



The rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He long to become Real, to know what it felt like: and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.

-The Velveteen Rabbit


My Dad inflates a green latex glove, tapes a smiley face and eyes onto it, then stands it upright on my bedside table with a plastic clip. The smiley glove-doll wobbles beneath the vase of colored roses that my mom has brought for me. I have just left the recovery ward following my emergency surgery. My family is with me. They are standing by me in the midst of this wild grief storm.

Before the surgery itself, a woman came by with a clipboard and asked if I had a living will or a power of attorney document. No. I didn’t. But I knew why she was asking: in case I died or got stuck in an unresponsive state. A little later, the surgeon commented that my heart rate was pretty fast–you could hear it bleeping frantically on the monitor. Of course it was fast. I’d just realized there was a chance I could die. I ask the medical staff to leave and then I cling on to James’ hand and weep as I apologize for how I don’t appreciate him enough. He’s a tender, attentive husband and I take him for granted. We say we love each other. Then I go into the surgery.

We’d arrived at the hospital at 4am earlier that day. I’d been bleeding for almost ten hours, hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to anything further, but then I get light-headed and I know my blood-loss has surpassed safe levels. Right before the nurses get me into bed, I am screaming that I’m on the verge of passing out. Deja vu. I’ve been here before. The ER doctor tells me that my miscarriage has caused me to bleed too much and they need to perform an emergency D&C to stop the blood loss.

In the depths of my sorrow, I’m tempted to mark this year, 2015, as the year that two of my babies died. A year of pain and waiting and broken hopes. But I don’t want to remember it that way. This grief will not become my master-label.

2015 was the year I turned my birthday party into a Broadway musical sing-a-long. It was the year my baby boy became a toddler. It was the year I watched with pride as my sister graduated from university. It was the year I pushed myself to write something larger and more difficult than I’d ever written, while still taking care of my son full-time. It was the year that I identified mama-hood and writing as two huge priorities in my life. It will be the year that I release my third novel. 2015 is not a year worth burying in a deep hole. But, nevertheless it is a year cut through with deep shafts of sadness.

I wrote the following meditation, based on a pslam, before the bleeding began. I wrote it in the lobby as I waited for the ultrasound that would confirm that my baby no longer had a heartbeat.


Jesus is taking me on the road laid out for me

He won’t withhold anything that I need

He presses my head to a cool pillow for rest from my sobbing

He holds my hand and shows me the gentle babble of the water, tinged by sunrise gold

He touches my heart and fills the wound-gaps

He takes me to these healing places because he is good

As the darkness swallows my hope, Jesus lays out new blessings for me

Even though I walk with broken spirit through the gravestones of my babies,

It’s not a sign that I’m unloved

Jesus is with me, weeping, and supporting me from a collapse

He will continue being faithful, good, and merciful to me for as long as I live

And I’ll be his beloved daughter and part of his family. Always.


I don’t pretend to understand how this new death fits into a greater plan for good. I know God promises to use all things that happen to his children for a good purpose, and some part of me believes that. My biggest struggle is to not choke on the lies and fears that swirl through my head, doubting I’ll ever have another living baby. They’re lies.

I believe we’ll conceive again and have a healthy birth. My son is a testament that it is completely possible.

For now, I am trying to heal physically and emotionally, attempting existence one day at a time. As always, the love of my friends, family, and community have been my lifeline. I’m always astonished when love reaches a new level. My pastor rewrote his sermon for this last Sunday in order to deliver a message of hope and life to my family. I wept nearly non-stop through the entire church service.

I am loved.

My heart is broken but it will slowly come back together. My husband isn’t going anywhere. My son is smarter and more fun to play with each and every day. My friends are bringing me meals and offering to watch my Guppy so that James and I can have time to ourselves to process this.

The web of love tightens around me, making sure I don’t fall. At first I was numb and filled with dark thoughts. Then a ray of light slipped through and I trembled because I am weak and frightened but I’m not alone. Now I feel the army of friends who are standing around me, being strong on my behalf, looking ahead of me and promising that my future is not steeped in black.

To everyone who’s already heard this news, thank you for your prayers, thoughts, messages, and kind words. To anyone learning of this for the first time, I appreciate all prayers and thoughts you want to send my way.


The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.

Psalm 34:18

Villains and Such: Guest Post from Terry Persun

I’m pleased to share my blog with author Terry Persun today. Terry is is in releasing GARGOYLE his fourth book in his Doublesight fantasy series, and today he shares with us a bit about his love for his villains.

For those of you who may remember my post Pearl from last year, Terry was my friend who hugged and encouraged me.

You can also enter the drawing for a bunch of fantasy ebooks at the end of this post!

Enjoy this guest post!



I enjoy writing about villains as much as I enjoy writing about heroes. In Gargoyle the fun tripled because I could make things up that were part of one animal and part of another. I could play with their personalities, create some humor, conflict, frustration. I don’t want to give away any of the main villains—there are several—but do want to offer a short excerpt that has stuck in my head for a long time. I can still see the Riks horsing around the campfire of my mind. Here you go:


Six brothers and one sister, with human torsos and buffalo hindquarters, sat around the dying embers of a fire in a clearing in the Stilth Alshore woods. Patches of sunlight dropped from the treetops into the area. The Riks drank and ate, and sometimes wrestled about on the ground in front of the fire pit. Even the youngest of them, Grik, the only girl, drank and wrestled like her brothers.


Bayok paced in wide circles on the opposite side of the fire pit, kicking at sticks and stones that lay in front of him. His hand scratched at his short, rough beard. Occasionally, he’d glance at the Riks, expecting them to know how agitated he felt, but they ignored him completely.


The gargoyles talked amongst themselves, and the conversations climbed in volume until Bayok yelled for them to shut up. “I’m trying to come up with a plan,” he said.


“A plan, a plan,” one demon mocked. Then others chimed in, “Plan. Plan. Oooo, a plan.” They started laughing at their own antics. Crik threw wine on Frik, who then tackled his brother, nearly getting Crik’s hair into the embers.


Sorry I can’t offer you more than this snippet, but I can tell you that writing this novel was a lot of fun.



Starting on September 1st Doublesight will be one of Amazon’s Kindle Worlds (https://kindleworlds.amazon.com). Join me, by writing a short story (5,000 to 10,000 words), novella (10,000 to 50,000 words), or novel (over 50,000 words) and get it published. I need to have a handful of stories ready by the September 1st, 2015 launch date, so if you’re interested, please contact me for more information. Any characters you create are yours to keep. Let’s have fun together. TerryPersun@gmail.com


My Best in Fantasy Review:





Terry Persun has been writing and publishing short stories and novels since the early 1970s. He has been the recipient of seven novel and poetry awards over the years, including the Star of Washington Award, a Silver IPPY for historical fiction, two Book of the Year finalist awards in the science fiction category, two finalist awards from the USABookNews International Book Awards (one in science fiction and one in historical fiction), two poetry chapbook awards, and a Jeanne Voge Poetry Award. Terry writes in a variety of genres including science fiction, thriller, mystery, and mainstream fiction. He is a respected keynoter and speaker at libraries, writers’ groups, writers’ conferences, and universities across the country. Terry has an MA in creative writing from SUNY Stony Brook.


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Happy Birthday, Little Man!


My dear little one,

Every month you inch farther away from “little” and closer to “big.”

Now you are two years old.

Big brown eyes, mouth that laughs readily, fingers that point and poke and touch, hands that clap and nestle inside of mine while we walk together.

I’ve watched you learn your first words. I’ve seen you glow with pride as you identity the “moo” (moon) in the sky and heard you tell the crows “Caw! Caw!” I’ve watched you sniff fervently in the air when you see a flower, because you’ve been taught they’re good for smelling. I’ve introduced you to your beloved foods of pears, raspberries, doughnuts, and fruit juice.

This year:

P1030012You learned how to play at the beach.

You fell in love with the shape of stars and made little “twinkle” motions with your hands every time you saw one.

You learned to walk, to dance, to run.

P1020666You chortle with glee when a playground draws into view.

You declared the names of the people you love. Dada! Mama! Teita! (Grandma) Jiddo! (Grandpa) Koka! (Auntie Erika).

imageYou had your first visit to the ER and got your first stitches. (Poor Daddy was watching you when you cut your head on a wall corner).

You learned to play with friendly animals and give them hugs.

You have tried out singing and humming with your little vocal cords.

P1030718You like music so much, you’ll point at our music player and bob your head from side to side.

You learned to give kisses without sticking your tongue out. You also learned to blow kisses.

You discovered that climbing is best for all surfaces, including the kitchen table, the bathroom countertop, the backs of the couches.

20150519_122457You fell into a passionate relationship with books. You can’t get enough of them. Your favorite place to sit while a story is ready to you: in my lap where I can kiss your head of curls.

farmer GeorgeYou are your own person, my son. You are full of life, expressive, affectionate, and strong-willed. You are my sunshine and the reason for that happy, warm, exhausted spot in my chest.

Happy birthday, little man. So glad you’re here!

Love always,



Without Peace

balls-freedom-1241474-639x1484Productivity is “my thing.”

I wake up with my to-do list spinning in a loop through my mind. I often try to knock off a few things while my son eats his breakfast, so that I’m set up in the lead for the rest of my day.

I’m often a few minutes late to an appointment because I’ve tried to squeeze in *one more thing* before I dash out the door.

A good day is one in which I function at 90% capacity or higher (and I, laughably, think that this kind of productivity is somehow sustainable).

Depression is close at hand on the days when my plans fall apart, or my body is ill, or an unexpected circumstance demands my attention and emotions. I don’t let go of my task list graciously.

My peace of mind? I have no idea where that is. If you find where it’s gone hiding, let me know.

I’ve come to face the reality that my productivity and inner drive to check things off of an ambitious plan for my life has come at the price of something dear. To accomplish things at my preferred speed is to cut out the space in my life that allows me to breathe, smile, and feel peace. In my personal experience, peace and productivity are very often mutually exclusive.

If I want to be a happier woman, a more contented mama, a more joyful wife, a writer who is not wracked with guilt about the heights I still have yet to reach, I can’t sacrifice every ounce of emotional and mental energy on reaching the peak number of completed items on my list.

This isn’t rocket science. Perhaps a lot of you came to this realization way back in junior high. Good for you. I’m slow on the uptake with this one.

Now the hard part is taking the step of courage that consciously chooses to let go of the highly productive pace that I’ve cultivated in my life and work habits. To let things take longer to be done. To accept less challenges. To know I’m not “lame” because I’m choosing this route. To know it takes a different kind of strength to walk this way.

A life lived without peace in the heart and mind doesn’t sound very worthwhile to me.

I also don’t know how to slow down, so it’s going to be a bumpy deceleration.

I’m *ahem* just starting out, but I will diligently try to report how it goes.

Calling Early Readers!


Hello friends!

My third and newest book, Guardian of the Gold Breathers (a Middle Grade fantasy) is entering the early stages of pre-release. I have need, as always, for a loyal group of friends who are willing to read the book and post a review (on sites such as Amazon. Goodreads, and Barnes and Noble).

Think you might want to help with this?

I will gladly send you a PDF copy of the novel if you will read it and be ready to post a review when the time comes, several weeks from now. I’ll be sure to give you instructions for posting a review when the time comes, in case you need them.

Please let me know if you’d like to be part of this team. You can send me a message through the contact form on the “Contact” section of this website. (And if it’s not something you can do at the moment, no worries!)



Here’s the book blurb, to whet your appetite:


Twelve-year-old Liam Finley doesn’t expect anything good when he is forced to move from Dublin to his stepfather’s large country house on the edge of the wild woods. But after the first night there, Liam abandons his fears of dreary boredom when he discovers that fairy tales haunt his new home. Has he truly discovered a dragon egg?

The house’s old blind gardener Michael Moran claims to know Liam’s secret destiny, which lies in an enchanted Otherworld. He says Liam is the next Guardian of the Gold Breathers, a champion of dragons.

Time is not on Liam’s side. Can he complete his three tasks to prove himself as Guardian before the paths close between his world and the Guardian’s land? Liam wants to believe the mysterious tales of Michael, but should he instead seek shelter in the practical kindness of Hannah, the housekeeper who calls Michael’s stories “rubbish”? Liam’s heart tells him to trust the things of magic, but it’s the humans he can’t be sure about.

Themes in this story include losing a parent, family relationships, dealing with guilt, overcoming challenges, facing your fears, and standing up for what is right, even when it costs you something.  

No Regrets


birdsinnestI learned today that the author under whom I studied last summer did not offer the same high-intensity workshop this year. A squeeze tightened in my chest as the thought ran through me: Did I attend the last session he will offer? I don’t know the answer to this question, but it started me down a path of gratitude.

I’ve sometimes wondered in the time since attending the writing boot camp if it might have been easier if I’d waited for the workshop to be offered closer to my hometown, or if I’d given my son some more time to grow up, instead of dragging an eight-month-old along with my dear friend who came with me to care for him.

That workshop was seriously one of the hardest things I’d ever done. Now, as I ponder the possibility that it has become a final chance to study under a man I greatly admire, I feel sadness, and also a personal relief. It was effort well-spent, a worthwhile exhaustion, especially if it was indeed my last chance.

I know, in a solid, confirmed, way that I don’t need to regret the struggle I endured to make that journey possible.

I now stand on another threshold as I face-off with the very real choice between continuing my writing in the routine I’ve created, or dialing it back and having more time and attention to give to my family. My stubborn pride cries, “I will not surrender my talent and my calling in order to just stay at home with my kids!”

And yet, I’m seeing how very hard it is to write and edit and submit and publish and make appearances while my little guy is so small, and in so much need of my attention, affection, and nurturing.

I realize this balance need not be all-or-nothing, but I also know my current arrangement is also is due for an update. I don’t believe I’ll never stop writing, but I might very well take a break from writing massive novels. I don’t believe I’ll ever cease in my aspirations and literary goals, but I will need to rest from the break-neck speed that I use to pursue them.

I want to live with no regrets about the time I’m able to spend with my son and any younglings who might come after him.

This isn’t a goodbye (far from it!). This blog continues, as does my writing. I should have a new *published* book ready to show you early this fall. :) However, the only thing that’s constant in life is change, and I see another one around the bend.

A writer and mother friend of mine recently wrote this to me:

Nothing will matter more to you than being a mom during these first few years. The writing will be there. Enjoy your little monkey.

I intend to live my life with as few regrets as possible, and that means taking good care of all my responsibilities and relationships, not just making sure to nurture my writing career at all costs.

No regrets.

It’s a tall order, but I’m trying!

Lessons in Middle Eastern Hospitality

breakfastMy Lebanese grandparents taught me to play Likha, a card game similar to Hearts, but with more ways to accidentally earn unwanted points, and no means to shoot the moon. They taught me to love Greek-style yogurt and spices with olive oil on pita bread for my breakfast. They taught me what lavish generosity looked like.

They also taught my mother Middle Eastern hospitality, and she helped them pass the model along to me.

I’m never aware that my thoughts are molded by another culture until something startles or offends or baffles me, but it doesn’t seem to trouble those around me.

When I reach that point, I must stop and wonder what lens is shifting my vision. I’ll give a couple examples to show you what I mean:

Potluck Scenario:

  • Response 1: Bring the chips and salsa and Sprite (because it’s cheap and easy and takes no prep time).
  • Response 2: Bring a macaroni casserole.
  • Response 3: Bring an ornate salad with hand-carved carrots, homemade dressing, and fresh-roasted nuts to sprinkle on top.

Somewhere along the way, I was taught that bringing food to an event was a time for showing off my best stuff, for bringing an exciting gift to the community. Having a dish that people complimented was always nice, too.

Somewhere, somehow, I grew to believe in the importance of planning ahead and making the group meal a jubilant festivity of delicious, fresh, food.

(If it’s not obvious, the Middle Eastern option in the scenario above would, in my experience, be Response 3).

Overnight Guest Scenario

  • Response 1: Welcome guest, show them linen closet and hand them a towel.
  • Response 2: Welcome guest, make up guest bed/couch with folded towels at foot of bed.
  • Response 3: Welcome guest, make up guest bed, write welcome note, arrange vase of flowers on bedside table, include basket with granola bars, fruit, and bottle of travel shampoo.

That’s right folks! It’s Response 3, once again, that was the norm in my house!

The spirit behind this level of hospitality is something that makes the recipient feel as if they are royalty come to visit. It requires thoughtfulness. It takes more time. It’s an act of service. (And for the record, I forget all the time to offer people something as simple as even a glass of water when they come to visit my house. I’m not perfect at this!)

But if we are working to practice this Middle Eastern level of hospitality, the difference in the potluck scenario is that your kitchen becomes a fountain that blesses the heart and the stomach of those it touches. If you’re having people over to eat, your dining table becomes a gift basket that people want to encircle. When you have people come to stay with you, your home becomes a haven of beauty and rest.

Everyone has their own things they do or don’t do with regards to hospitality. This isn’t about giving us all one more thing to do, it’s re-thinking how we view the social convention.

You will find the level of hospitality that fits your lifestyle, talents, and artistic taste. I’m sharing what my grandparents’ culture passed along to me. I love the idea of making my guests and friends feel showered with fine things and leaning into a lifestyle of abundance instead of the scooting by on the bare minimum. It’s a way of spreading beauty and joy. It’s an expression of love.

Do you have any lessons in hospitality that you’d like to post here?

She Grows Up (and I Write Her a Letter)

erikagradMy sister was born in the beginning of summer and named after the feminine form of the god of war. She lived up to her fiery namesake and was a fierce little wildcat in her younger years.

Later, she poured her passionate dreams into her artwork. I’ve watched her blow glass fearlessly, sculpt clay into dramatic forms, sketch a story in paint across a canvas and, more than all of these, I’ve watched her stick to her work with a determination and dedication that matches her old toddler ferocity. (You really should have heard the growl she used in imitation of a mountain lion’s roar. She liked showing it to strangers).

She has the most wonderful, organic handwriting. It looks like tropical vines from a rain forest.

Love has always been her strong suit. Love for her friends, her family, her little nephew (my son). She loves people to the point of tears. She loves in the way that she lives.

Yesterday my little fish entered the big sea. I stood high above and blew her kisses from the sun-baked bleacher seats of Husky Stadium as she graduated with the Class of 2015.

She caught the kisses from me and from my parents and pressed them to her heart.

I remember when I walked through this same stadium, wearing my own cap and gown. I had hopes for a brilliant career in writing. I had a summer internship with a UW professor. I thought that getting a job would not be much of a challenge for someone with my skill set.

The ceremony of Commencement is filled with high hopes and soaring expectations. It’s also shadowed with the fear of the unknown.

My dear sister,

If I could tell you anything about graduating, it’s to keep your community close to you. They will become your precious lifeboat and first aid supply as you learn the new set of rules that we like to chuckle and call “the real world.” 

Ask for help with anything that confuses you. Find ways to continue learning, whether that is books or classes or people who agree to mentor you. 

Take those cries for fear and the desperate dreams of your heart and share them with God. He hears you and he desires wonderful things for you. He gave you your talents and he has already made many plans for how they’ll be used.

You’ll be tempted, somewhere along this post-college road, to bottle up your dreams of art and to just find that “real job” that makes you money so that you can “be an adult” and do responsible things like renting your own place and paying the electric bill. Those things are good to do, but don’t let any tell you those are the most important.

My future course was changed when I was a college senior, just like you, and a writing professor told me to work as little as possible so that I had time to do what I loved, When you find a job, you’ll have to forge creative ways to work in time for your art. If this art is a deep part of you, you have to keep doing it, even if that means picking up your tools only once a week at time. You must keep nourishing your creative soul. Start that habit now, when you still have the freedom to form your schedule and commitments.

I love you, Sister. I am so proud to see that you’ve found a place where you excel. You have already brought such beauty to the world. I await with joy to see what you will make in the years to come.




For those of you interested in looking closer at her incredible art, she can be found at www.ersaba.com.