More
Stories
On memory, attention, and the things that stay.
Whitney Lane
A story of sweetness, willfulness, and letting things be what they are.
I got her to bless people.
That was the plan:
She’d be a therapy dog.
We trained. I passed. She passed.
All that was left was the final test.
But I knew.
She wasn’t made for it.
Whitney Lane, an English Lab, is gentle, yes—
and she’s also her own woman.
She swims like she owns the pool.
She greets every dog in the neighborhood like a local official.
She’s kind, deeply sweet, and wonderfully opinionated.
And somewhere in my spirit, I heard:
don’t force this.
So, I didn’t.
She never became a therapy dog.
Not in a structured way. Not on command.
Just in the way she shows up.
Still blesses people—our family, our friends, the woman across the street who now keeps dog treats in her pocket.
Some of us were never meant to pass the test.
Not because we couldn’t.
But because we weren’t made for it.
We were made for something else.
And for me,
some love arrives with a plan.
Some love arrives—
and gently rewrites it.
The Way Light Comes
The day gathers itself slowly.
It turns toward light.
Almost imperceptibly.
The streetlight outside my office window
fades against the morning.
Edges soften.
Shadows thin.
I’ve stood at that window in the half-light,
waiting for answers
that didn’t come all at once.
The porch light still on.
The sky already shifting.
The world keeps its appointment with morning—
whether anyone is watching or not.
There’s something faithful about that.
Christmas Trees, Birthday Cakes, and Fourth of July
A mother-daughter tradition in five words or less.
That’s what we say when we mean joy.
Christmas trees, birthday cakes, and Fourth of July.
It’s shorthand between me and my mom.
A way of saying: this matters.
This is the good part.
Not because it’s flashy—
but because it shows up:
glowing, sweet, or a little wild.
It’s how we remind each other
to notice what’s still worth celebrating—
what still lights up the sky,
even if it only lasts a moment.
An heirloom doesn’t always sit on a shelf.
Sometimes, it's a thread that holds memory and meaning.
And when I say it—
even to myself—
I can hear her voice in it.
Full of love for life.
Because joy doesn’t always arrive wrapped in a milestone.
Sometimes, it looks like something small but shining.
A sparkler on the porch.
A bakery cake with your name in frosting and hand-picked candles.
A tree that smells like the childhood version of home.
Christmas trees, birthday cakes, and Fourth of July.
A way of remembering what counts.
And who we count it with.
Turquoise
A story of color, inheritance, and what lasts longer than shine.
In my family,
turquoise is the stone we reach for.
My grandmother wore it
the way some wear diamonds—
my mom wears it
simple, warm, every day.
I wear it
when I want to feel close.
Not for show,
but for love.
For beauty.
For remembering.
She was born in Gallup,
where trains run through red rock
and the sky goes on forever—
a woman who could fill a room
with laughter first, turquoise second.
Three sisters and a brother stayed behind.
Two came west—
and the color never left us,
finding its way
to Los Angeles kitchens
and California wrists.
The women before me
didn’t need anything that sparkled
to know their worth.
They just needed something honest,
something that could hold its own in the sun.
Some jewelry catches the light.
Ours keeps it.
The Balcony
That Faced the Street
A story for Amada.
Evenings drifted long there—
smoke curling above the chatter,
the air still soft from the day.
Amada leaned over her balcony,
waving to the same neighbors,
laughing at something
you couldn’t quite hear.
No hurry.
No agenda.
Just the small rhythm of being seen.
Years later,
you find yourself doing the same—
standing by a window,
hands resting on the frame,
the world carrying on below.
You smile,
because some part of you stayed in Sevilla—
and it hasn’t quite left.
The First Light
On what makes light possible.
You stopped in front of the painting—
Peter and John running
into the first light of morning.
Their faces—
all wonder—
caught something in you.
You know that feeling—
hope arriving before proof,
faith running ahead of sight.
And maybe that’s why you stood there—
to remember
that some mornings
are worth believing
before you understand them.