Hi friends,

I’ll keep this short and sweet today; I just wanted to give you the dates for our upcoming book club for The Wild Edge of Sorrow.

But first, I’m re-reading Mark Nepo’s book Surviving Storms and just wanted to share this quote from it:

…our old maps, no matter how dear, are no longer accurate, no longer of use. WE have to make new maps of how to…

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“Ambition ultimately withers all secrets in its glare before those secrets have had time to come to life from within, and then thwarts the generosity and maturity that ripens the discourse of a lifetime’s dedication to a work.”

—David Whyte, Consolations

I’ve been there many times in this work.

I started writing young; my first book, Glory Happening, came out when I was only 27 years old.

And my career was launched in a social media-driven era; so many of my community, my followers, were on Twitter, are now on Instagram, are here, in this space. I've often had a lot of things to say, and also, many times I haven’t known what to say.

I’ve shared things online that I shouldn’t have. I’ve spoken too soon, had opinions that were ridiculous, and corrupted what could have become deep wisdom because I felt I should respond right away, or with some sort of righteous anger that wasn’t really helpful to anything or anyone.

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The above quote by David Whyte has had me thinking a lot about this idea of ambition as authors, and also about the pressure we put on ourselves to constantly create output.

There’s a dangerous line between creating because we know we must create and creating because we know there’s an audience who is hungry.

Much of our exhaustion as authors in the world today is due to the many hats we have to wear. We handle our emails and admin, we create social media posts, run organizations, create and host online events, sometimes in-person events, while many manage other jobs besides. That’s all besides writing books or collaborating with other authors, or simply writing just to write.

We are overwhelmed, and I see it even in the way we post, in the stories we tell between the lines: we are full of words, and many of them, we don’t need.

This is my biggest and first critique of the Substack app, which I dreaded as soon as it was announced. Yes, I am so grateful for the connections I’ve made, and those of you who have found The Liminality Journal because of the notes app!

But I was immediately overwhelmed with the stream of thought that has overtaken the app; what was once saved for posts like this now shows up in a short note, but hundreds, thousands of them. I can barely open it. I can barely share there.

But here’s what I did share yesterday, and it has resonated:

We could always have something to say. But that doesn’t mean we should always have something to say.

We are still living in a society that wants instant gratification and instant healing, too.

We want instant answers to really big questions.

We want instant solutions to really complex problems.

We want instant commentary on human conditions.

And as writers, we have to protect our art, our words, so that when they are shared, they are shared as the potent medicine they’re meant to be.

So here are 3 questions to ask yourself next time you want to write because you’re feeling pressured to do so, not because you have something to say:

1. Could you meditate, pray, connect with the earth, or hold a sacred ritual before you write, to let what you’re thinking about stir inside you?

2. Could you get out a journal and write it just for yourself, and decide later (I mean weeks, months later) what to do, if anything, with those words?

3. Can you pause and consider what kind of medicine your words bring and what the people who read those words might need? This could inform your sense of urgency.

Think of this stepping back, this patience, this honoring of a sacred emptiness as a way to be subversive in a colonial, word-riddled society.

Now, how will you hold space for the words forming in your soul, away from these spaces?

What words stir in your depths and invite you deeper into the world that waits for your medicine?

Really honored to be doing an online event with Kripalu as part of an online week of Amplifying Indigenous Voices. Together we will be working through the embodiments of Sacred Grief & Sacred Imagination.

My session is on May 12th & registration is FREE:

Register here!

I am really excited to share with you that I am a guest for an upcoming event at the CAC with Richard Rohr, Carmen Acevedo Butcher, and James Finley, called Have We Been Here Before? Ancient Wisdom for Days of Disruption.

I have a history with the CAC, and I look forward to sharing my wisdom in this space with their faculty. Richard and I met in 2017, after he endorsed my very first book, Glory Happening. Fast forward a few years, we led a retreat together with my dear friend Mirabai Starr in the New Mexico desert.

Richard has been an advocate of my work and writing all these years, and I am grateful for his presence in the spiritual world. Even before we met, he was a portal from the southern baptist upbringing I grew up with to an expansive view of both The Sacred and the deep history of Christianity’s connection to the earth through the desert mothers and fathers.

A few years ago I visited the CAC and led the staff in a retreat, and as we continue our collaborations, I think it’s important to keep moving toward the unknown future landscape together, to ask what future generations need from the wisdom of teachers who embrace all sorts of diverse backgrounds and experiences.

I hope you’ll join us for this event, the link to register is in my bio, and it’s a sliding scale for tickets.

In a time in which we don’t fully know what’s coming, let’s ground ourselves in how we got here and who we can be as we sustain hope for the future.

Tickets are available on a sliding scale; please choose what works for you.

Register here!

May poetry month is coming…

Can you guess what the theme might be? Leave your ideas in the comments, it will be announced in a few weeks!

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I’ve witnessed this again and again in the world, from my friends in Northern Ireland talking about the power of peace to Indigenous elders on Turtle Island reminds us of who we are over a fire to interfaith organizations hosting conversations that bring us closer to one another so that we can create and sustain a world of love and solidarity.

So survive this, we must be tuned into Anima Mundi, the soul of the world, both through individual experience and collective care and action.

Our ancestors navigated this. My own Potawatomi ancestors who walked the Trail of Death, a forced march from Indiana to Kansas in 1838, knew what spiritual grounding was required of them to get through the individual and collective trauma they faced, and we do the same here today, with and for one another.

In the face of war, oppression, genocide, the horrible treatment of Mother Earth, discrimination and human rights abuses, we have to find spiritual grounding for this moment.

I write this to you from the doorway of the living room. I’ve left the door wide open, the dogs bathe in the sunlight, and we hear the birds. Grandfather Sun shines fully on us, and I can’t take all his light, not all at once.

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So I’ve pulled a chair up into the doorway, the threshold of my home, the portal that takes me from in here to out there.

We’re all existing at a threshold, a portal, in a doorway right now. And what is being asked of us is how we will step through— not if or when— but how.

I attended a wonderful session with Interfaith Alignment yesterday in which poet Juliet Patterson guided us through using imagery, specifically through the Tarot, to align some of our core values with the world we are experiencing right now. She helped us see our own spiritual well and draw from it to find what might be waiting for us there.

I wrote down some of my own values during that time:

• care

• community

• kinship

• healing

• presence

These are things I strive for, and they are what my own spirality is grounded in on the best of days. They are the tenets of my belonging, and what I hope I give to you on any given day when we meet here.

In a recent podcast episode, Trevor Noah shared about why the progressive left needs to embrace spirituality/religion more deeply as a source of hope, and I find all of this navigation really interesting and really, really important (read more about the episode in this great piece below from ):

Religion, Reimagined

What If Trevor Noah Is Right About the Left and Religion?

A month ago, I heard something that I’m still thinking about…

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2 months ago · 8831 likes · 1093 comments · Liz Bucar

I am not asking you to join a religion, convert, or change who you are.

I am certainly not asking you to appropriate another religion or culture, that’s not what we’re here for either.

I am asking that you find inspiration and hope in the world around you, in the presence of others’ deep wells of wisdom, and let them feed your own deep well.

Really, that’s what The Liminality Journal has always been about, us finding our way together to a more spiritually grounded center. But I want to put it plainly here, because we are living through such a viscerally painful moment in time.

There are stories, visions, dreams, metaphors, words, medicine, wisdom inside of you that we need out in the world to survive this. It’s why I host writing sessions that aren’t just about writing but about our deep spiritual connection to our words.

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It’s why I wrote books and poetry, why I talk about liminality and alchemy so much.

It is what I truly have come to believe as an Indigenous woman who grew up in conservative Christianity, left it, and as I find my way now in all of the liminality of who I am: the way we care for ourselves, one another, and Mother Earth matters for the future we hope to create.

Let art transform you.

Let poetry heal you.

Hold space for others to receive healing.

Our Anishinaabe New Year is coming as Spring arrives, and there is no more perfect time to celebrate the coming of the new year as the world begins to crawl slowly from its sacred cave, from the sacred soil, from the depths back to the light.

Even though Saint Brigid’s Day (Imbolc) has already passed, I think of Cailleach (The Veiled One) slowly over these last few weeks passing her torch to Brigid to mark the turning, the exhange, the sacred way that the world works.

Brigid invites us to dwell at the threshold of our being, to meditate there, to plant seeds in our own soil there.

So I am asking you to stand in the doorway a little longer. Ask what is being asked of you. Connect with your child self, because they likely know part, if not all, of the answer.

Let your soul speak, and as you listen, walk through, into the world that waits and waits for us to practice healing—

for ourselves, for one another, for Mother Earth.

Iw, amen, and onward together.

A few organizations to check out as you’re searching:

Shoulder to Shoulder Campaign

Interfaith Alignment

Bahai’s of the United States

The Aki Institute

The Revolutionary Love Project

And in the comments, tell us where you find spiritual grounding right now:

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I am traveling in March, but I’ve got TWO online workshops happening in April before our month of poetry writing in May!

Details here:

Attend The Writer’s Pilgrimage workshop

Details here!

Attend the Tender Resister workshop

Details here!

Kaitlin Curtice is an award-winning author, poet-storyteller, and public speaker. As an enrolled citizen of the Potawatomi nation, Kaitlin writes on the intersections of spirituality and identity and how that shifts throughout our lives. She also speaks on these topics to diverse audiences who are interested in truth-telling and healing.

Curtice is the co-founder and director of the Aki Institute, which is dedicated to creating positive change in the world through rest, responsibility, and resistance. The work of the Aki Institute is driven by a commitment to social justice, equality, and human rights.

As an inter-spiritual advocate, Kaitlin participates in conversations on topics such as colonialism in faith communities, and she has spoken at many conferences on the importance of inter-faith relationships. Kaitlin leads workshops and retreats, as well as lectures and keynote presentations, ranging from panels at the Aspen Climate Conference to speaking at the Chautauqua Institution and Iona Abbey in Sotland, and at universities, private retreat centers, and churches across the country.

Hi friends,

We come to the end of this series, and I am full of so much gratitude for all of you. Thank you for being part of this community.

It may seem scary to do so, but the last thing I want us to say yes to right now is the unknown future.

When you live in a particularly visceral time, it can bring up a few different responses:

1. we avoid the future, because we don’t know how to process what’s ahead

2. we fantasize to the point that we lose ourselves in what hasn’t been created yet

3. we hold immense fear that keeps us from dreaming so we feel trapped

4. we face the future, knowing it’s unclear, ready for whatever comes

I want us to choose #4.

And I want to talk about this with you through the lens of huskies, because why not?

This video is by Blair Braverman, an author, adventurer, and musher. She is sharing about her Husky, Refried, and the power of our voices echoing into the future.

This is what I want us to focus on today.

In order to say yes to the unknown future, we say yes to the present moment. This is what makes the future possible.

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So in this story, Refried’s song lives on in the lives of her kin, her community. I don’t know about you (well actually, I do, I do know about you), but I want my song to live on in my community.

This is the only way we can truly prepare for an unknown future: to sing right now.

As an author, I feel this keenly. When I pass on one day my words whether in book form or on YouTube or in audio books will hopefully be accessible for those who come after me.

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If we are ancestors in the making, that means we pay attention to the world we are creating right here, right now.

In my new book, Everything Is a Story, I write about this. I guide us through visualizations, helping us ask what kinds of seeds we are planting in the ground. That’s because I believe that whatever we are planting right now will become the future that is unknown to us right now.

Time doesn’t work the way we think it does.

Time loops and spirals and spins, ebbing and flowing in waves.

That’s the kind of time I believe in, the kind I hope is actually reality. Because that means we have so many moments, so many chances to get it right.

Refried the husky was so invested in her song, in the well-being of her community, that her spirit lived on in all of them collectively. They carried her on into their everyday lives long after she passed to the Otherworld.

So, what’s left for us to do?

Ask questions. Take a look at the seeds we are planting.

Reflections:

1. If you could name three seeds you’re planting right now, what would they be called?

2. What kind of essence do you want to leave for future generations?

3. In order to recognize that we are ancestors in the making, we have to come to terms with who we are, and where we come from. How can you intentionally lean into this?

4. Picture future generations. Give them names and faces. Imagine their lives, what they might need from you. How can you curate a life that gives them your presence even now?

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Below is a short film by one of my favorite artists, Leif Vollebekk, featuring Aurora. I think it’s a film that actually speaks to this, to the unknown future that we can’t quite understand, even the inner world, the world of dreams and visions we seek to know.

Spend 15 minutes watching it sometime soon, and enjoy!

March is a pretty busy month for me, so I won’t be posting as often, but keep an eye out for future online workshops, writing groups, and some of my in-person events!

As always, thanks for being part of this community.

Sneak peek of a workshop happening April 10th called Tender Resister Workshop!

Only 15 spots available!

grab a ticket!

Hi friends,

For today’s solidarity spotlight I want to share with you some folks who light my way, and some great opportunities to show up with kinship and care in the world.

First, a few words from one of my favorite teachers, John O’Donohue; if they speak to you, write them down, hang them up on the wall, attach them to your heart and mind:

“Prayer is often the space where the poor and the oppressed retrieve and express their nobility and graciousness.”

“Real prayer opens the heart of desire, at a level below your image, words and actions. Real prayer is the liberation of that inner voice of the eternal.”

“…the providence which weaves your days sees the greater horizon and knows what your life needs in order for you to come fully to birth as the person you are called to be.”

Yes, I’ve been thinking about prayer a lot lately, about the expansiveness of it, about how we access the sacred depths of ourselves and stretch beyond ourselves to ask how we exist and move in this universe with grace and love.

First, a poem by Rob Hardy, from Minnesota, called “Communion” which calls us to bear witness to what’s happening with ICE in their communities:

There’s no bread.
The bakers have gone into hiding.
The seats at the table are empty.
The Twelve are marching with the thousands.
The streets are filled with a new song.
Only Judas sits at Target Plaza, counting his silver,
while Pontius Pilate issues a carefully-worded statement.
Meanwhile the centurions have quotas to fill.
But out on the streets there’s a Communion.
Jesus takes the city in his hands and says,
“This is my body, broken for you.”

Rob Hardy
2nd February, 2026

Next, I want to point you to two astrologers, healers, light-keepers who constantly gift me their wisdom in our time.

First is Jonathan Louis Dent, who I found on Instagram. Jonathan is an astrologer and numerologist, a teacher and writer, and an initiated priest of Ifá and Ọ̀ṣun. Jonathan’s work lives at the intersection of tradition, lived experience, and careful listening.

Follow Substack below, and check out his instagram page.

Jonathan Louis Dent

Father, Writer, Professor, Astrologer

What I love about Jonathan’s spirit is that he speaks into the time we are living in, helping us hold the liminality of it all. We can look at our own inner lives, but also pay attention to how our lives are reflected in the world around us. That’s important, prophetic work.

check out his website!

The next person I want to point you to is Christian Totty, who I’ve had the privilege of following for a few years now.

Christian’s substack is called Wholly Earth, and I encourage you to subscribe!

Christian is a contemplative practitioner, consulting astrologer, licensed acupuncturist, mother, and gardener in northwest Ohio. Her work is holistic, tender, truthful, and so important for us to ask how we can stay grounded.

Wholly Earth

Contemplative writings, visual essays, workshops, and community toward an embodied and relational cosmology.

By Christian Totty

follow her on Instagram

And while we are thinking about prayer, there are two books that I believe approach prayer and our inner world in really beautiful ways, and I was honored to write the foreword for both!

Margaret Somerville is an educator, interfaith minister, and founder of Interfaith Alignment, and a dear friend. Her book, published through Iona Abbey in Scotland, is an intimate, liminal, powerful look at what prayer is and what is may not be.

And her organization, Interfaith Alignment, is a beautiful organization bringing people together from across the globe.

order it here

get involved with Interfaith Alignment

Bethany Wilkinson is a beautiful soul, and has a book coming out that I am so, so excited about. A More Beautiful Way to Live is “an invitation to those longing for a slower, deeper, and more meaningful way to live.”

Preorder it here!

Bethaney and I will be around Substack for the next few weeks having some live conversations, so watch for those! In the meantime, follow her on Substack:

The Inner Terrain with Bethaney Wilkinson

Occasional essays on the arts of slowing down, paying attention, and actively cultivating a flourishing inner life.

And two more things

1. this beautiful song:

2. So grateful to for writing about my new book, Everything Is a Story, on his Substack today.

   order my book

   Read it here:

   Toward Solidarity

   Everything is a Story

   When Kaitlin Curtice reached out to see if I would be interested in sharing an excerpt from her latest book, I was thrilled. Kaitlin is someone I have admired for several years now. She is one of our most gracious, winsome, poetic, and visionary guides to enfleshing ways of life-together that spark abundance for the whole community of creation. Every time I encounter …

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   2 months ago · 1 like · Nathan Davis Hunt

He says some really kind words about my writing:

Kaitlin is someone I have admired for several years now. She is one of our most gracious, winsome, poetic, and visionary guides to enfleshing ways of life-together that spark abundance for the whole community of creation. Every time I encounter her work, I learn something new and am offered practicable guidance for entering a spiritual life that pulsates through real relations with all our neighbors: soils, traditions, plants, animals, landscapes, family and all others who are different than ourselves. Rooted in the practices, stories, and life-ways of her Potawatomi heritage, she has been weaving together one of the most constructive imaginations I’m familiar with — and she does so through books, poetry, essays, speeches and workshops that are approachable for anyone.

Please give his substack a follow; it’s all about solidarity, something we need to practice in the world today.

That’s it for today, friends. Dive in deep. Learn from one another. Celebrate each other. Onward.

(leaving you with this picture of me years ago, playing guitar and singing to my son on an Arkansas hillside. Joy.)

Friends,

I am celebrating poetry today, how it speaks to us, heals us, helps us move through difficult times, and I want to share just a few with you—and shout out a beautiful upcoming poetry book!

First, one I read just this morning that paused my heart and brought tears to my eyes, “The World I Live In” by Mary Oliver:

I have refused to live
locked in the orderly house of
     reasons and proofs.
The world I live in and believe in
is wider than that. And anyway,
     what’s wrong with Maybe?

You wouldn’t believe what once or
twice I have seen. I’ll just
     tell you this:
only if there are angels in your head will you
     ever, possibly, see one.

And celebrating the power of resistance poetry throughout history from this Colbert clip (go to 20:00 if you don’t want to watch the whole thing)

Finally, announcing this gorgeous poetry book that I want you to order RIGHT AWAY!

I Could Walk Forever and Know So Little by Krissy Kludt is out MARCH 5th!

Preorder NOW!

Krissy Kludt is not just a dear friend, but one of the most tender, committed, community-oriented writers I know. Her poetry comes from a deep well, and she stays in daily relationship with the landscapes around her, which you’ll feel in this book.

I want to share my endorsement for the book with you:

If I could somehow read this book with my eyes closed, hand over my heart, I would. Kludt’s words bring you to complete stillness, poetry wrapped up as a gift in images and embodiments that carry us far from wherever we are and deeper into ourselves at the same time. Read this book, and let her words walk you home to your own sacred belonging.

Available now for preorder from Bookshop.org.

Get it here

About the book:

Set among the oak-dotted hills and granite heights of northern California, I Could Walk Forever and Know So Little distills moments of communion with the natural world into spare, lilting language. The poems traverse ordinary days and periods of loss; they are elegy and wish. They examine motherhood and daughterhood and turn to the living land as source of solace and nurturing. Each poem reaches for reverent wakefulness, “to attend / to know how shadows move as sun shifts / to notice every fiddlehead who rises, startling.”

About Krissy Kludt:

Poet Krissy Kludt is the founder and executive director of Writing the Wild. Her debut poetry collection, I Could Walk Forever and Know So Little, is forthcoming from Green Writers Press on March 5, 2026. Her work appears in anthologies The Nature of Our Times (Paloma Press 2025), Taking Liberties (Cutthroat 2025), and Stories from the Trail(Wayfarer Books 2024), and in other publications, including Terrain.org, The Wildness We Tend, and Humana Obscura. She lives in the Driftless region of southwestern Wisconsin.

And here is the best part—an early look at one of her poems!

AGAINST THE PRODUCTIVE DRIVE

It’s Tuesday, and
the boys are off to school.

She walks home:
chalk skies,
elm leaves’ skitter-swirl,
last night’s spider-sheen at the gate,

Darjeeling, and
the foot-scuff on the gray porch chair with stuffing clouding out
where she curls her legs.

Beryl light butters the maple leaves; towhee scritches in the duff.

Blessed be the nothing. 

__

An excerpt from I Could Walk Forever and Know So Little, coming March 5, 2026 from Green Writers Press. (Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

Onward, friends, to support one another in every good thing.

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Over the last decade I’ve used so many tools and tricks to figure out my daily life as a writer, and I’d love to share some of them with you! We will workshop ideas for how to build our day and explore different ways to understand the writing life through an Indigenous lens.

This is an evening event! I am hoping that makes it more accessible for folks who work during the day.

Please come join us on February 20th!

save your spot here!

Reminder for paid subscribers, we have three writing sessions this month!

February 10th, 19th & 26th.

Become a paid subscriber if you’d like to join us! Subscribe below:

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Hi friends,

I’m writing today to share some community resources for this week and next, plus some words that I hope land right in your space, your heart, with your community.

I’m sharing a bit more than I do lately, because, well, you’re my community. And I hope, in some way, this space helps you funnel your energy somewhere. It’s loud out there. It’s loud on the news and on social media.

And it should be, because we’re on fire.

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But there are things we can do—remember how Rumi puts it:

Stay in the spiritual fire. Let it cook you.

So we stay, and we honor the fight and the fire, and we keep getting cooked together.

If anything, The Liminality Journal is a space where we can sit in the liminality of this moment, name what hurts, and find ways to move forward, too. So that’s what we’re doing here today.

First, events + resources:

This first one is a resource for parents and/or caregivers of children in school. On Friday, January 30th, we are keeping our kids home from school. Now, we have the privilege to be able to do so; I know many parents cannot strike on Friday. If you can’t, I get it.

For those who can, and if you’re in a community that doesn’t have an opportunity for a school walkout, we’ve shared a resource through the Aki Institute, a template for the email you can send to your school.

Please share this resource anywhere you can. And if you share on Instagram, please tag us! @ Akiinstitute (and follow us! begin to spread the word!)

Text for the letter is below, for easy copying:

Hello,

My child (insert name and grade) will not be attending school this Friday, January 30th. We are participating as a family in the national strike against ICE and the Trump administration in solidarity with all who have been killed by ICE or affected by their violence across this nation.

We believe participating in this action on Friday is one thing we can do to practice kinship and solidarity with those around us in a dangerous time for our country. 

Thank you for your understanding.

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Next, I want you to know about the first of a few online FREE events, geared toward those in Minnesota or other areas being affected by police/ICE violence. I’ll announce the other free gatherings once they’re in my calendar.

Sunday, Feb 1st 11am-12pm ET

This is a space for grief and care; we will share, journal, and sit with one another in kinship. It is for our souls, for our rest.

If you need that, please come.

Register for free HERE

Last, I’m hosting an online storytelling and sharing space next Friday, February 6th.

This is a two-hour long creative writing workshop, for folks who want to come and explore storytelling as a community.

Please join us.

tickets here

Now, a word on kinship over colonialism.

In my book Living Resistance I explore what kinship means, how it works:

Kinship can feel like a very abstract thing, but imagine it like this: I have a string attached to my body, to my heart center, and it goes directly from my heart to yours, and to every other living creature on this planet, to Mother Earth herself. Whatever I do with this heart, with this body, affects you; it travels across that thread and finds its way to you. And whatever you do or embody travels to me, to the ants, to Grandmother Moon, to someone across the world we’ve never met.

We do not get to escape each other, no matter how colonized or traumatized we may be. This is kinship.

We are in a moment when we have the opportunity to ask what it means to be kin to one another. The subject of kinship is belonging. It’s the reality that we can’t escape one another.

And if we truly believe that reality, we live differently. We are affected differently. We show up differently.

Last night I had a dream. I was at someone’s house, and the freezer was overflowing with ice (ice—get it?). We were all trying to figure out how to stop the ice. We couldn’t get the ice maker to calm down.

So I went into the kitchen and grabbed some containers to help catch the ice. I filled up two bowls. I couldn’t totally fix the problem, but I came up with a solution for the moment. We did it together in community.

Now, we know what it will take to stop ICE and Trump’s authoritarianism. Something has to change. Senators and other politicians need to show up. We need to reject funding. We need to keep speaking up.

Until that happens, in the meantime? We grab every goddamn bowl we can find to catch the ice, to keep it from overflowing all over the place. We step in to see and name the problem, and we join our efforts together in any way we can.

Solving the problem matters. It’s necessary.

But along the way, helping is necessary, too.

Choosing kinship over colonialism means getting enraged, sad, grief-stricken over not just the current state of our nation but the foundations it’s been built upon.

Then we pause and take a deep breath. We look into our own souls and ask what the work for us to do looks like.

Then we find the right ways to do the work. We help.

Right now you’re here, being part of this community. You’re looking your soul, our souls, in the face and asking who we really want to be in the world.

Let’s keep doing that. Let’s choose community. Let’s show up.

Thank you for being here. Please become a subscriber if you’re not already. This is an incredible community, and we’d love for you to be part of it.

If you have other resources to share for the time we are living in, please share in the comments.

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I’m sitting in a cafe getting ready to (HOPEFULLY!) get home to Philly before the winter storm hits. I’ve been in Michigan this week, surrounded by below zero temps and lots of snow. Grateful for the reminder that I do in fact remember how to navigate ice and snow on roads.

I spoke at three different places this week, and at every one of them,…

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I’m writing to you from snowy Michigan, where I’ve recently spoken at the January Series at Calvin University. Tomorrow I’ll be spending time with The Gun Lake Band of Potawatomi, and on Friday, I’ll be back in Grand Rapids for a book event at Books & Mortar (if you’re in the area, please come by and say hello!).

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Often when I travel, I have small moments of breakthrough and discovery. Even after doing this now for nearly a decade, I still have to find ways to show up authentically on the stage when I’m sharing about my work. When learn who we are when we bump up against stories and experiences out in the world, don’t we?

I’ve spoken in so many different kinds of spaces, and I’ve learned two important things by now:

1. I can’t be someone else when I share from my own work—my voice is mine alone, and it’s not helpful to anyone if I try to become someone else.

2. I can’t change what I need to speak truthfully about, even if I know it will be hard for the audience to hold with me. I have to trust in my own ways of truth-telling.

This week, something important happened: I was reminded, once again, of the decision I made a few years ago, the decision that I made to be myself and only myself in my words and in my work.

Between 2020 and 2022, I had a string of really difficult events/responses to my work, and I was forced to ask not just who I want to be, but if who I am is enough. I was faced with the question of whether my presence in the world, on the stage, in my books, could be sustained.

Could I commit to all the parts of myself, and stay committed?

I had to make a choice to embody the seemingly disparate parts of myself:

I am both tender and fierce.

And I continue to make this choice every day.

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That means I show up with tenderness, my words an invitation to kinship; and yet, I will not shy away from the truth of where we are today and where we should be headed.

I remember when I first started speaking that I hit a bit of an impasse. I couldn’t only read poetry and share about the tender parts; but I also wasn’t going to shame my audiences into understanding my point of view.

(By the way, who started saying that poetry is tender and soft? Poetry is powerful and mighty, and changes the world; but I’m not sure we always see it that way.)

I was too poetic for some audiences, and I knew that. I was too outspoken for other audiences, and I knew that, too.

I needed to invest in the unique makeup of my own soul, embracing the liminality of being exactly who I am.

I’ve discovered recently in various venues that people respond beautifully to this. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had really negative reactions to my work, judgments and misunderstandings, or unchecked colonialism lingering in audiences where I wish things could be different.

I’ve also been incredibly surprised by the people who see all parts of me, people I’ve just met, people who only know me based on the poetry I recite or the lyrical way I share stories. Even in the moderated Q/A portion of my event at Calvin, we got deep quickly, sharing about the lingering experiences of grief in our lives, what it means to be human, and how liminality guides us along the way.

As Potawatomi people, we are water protectors. What do the waters teach us about ourselves? That we are liminal beings who are meant to dance between all parts of who we are. That we are to follow the signals of Grandmother Moon as she guides us. That we move in the world like we breathe: in and out, day after day, and we don’t doubt who we are along the way.

What I know is that I cannot show up as anyone other than who I am. Right before I walk onto a stage, I feel this surge of energy, and I know that in the moments that follow, if I trust myself, Kche Mnedo, The Sacred, my ancestors—if I truly practice trust, my words will carry further than I could ever imagine.

I could share every poem and mean every word. And even when it’s difficult, even when we are all uncomfortable, we push through. We choose to show up and name grief and heal together.

In apocalyptic times, when the veil is lifted and we see oppression, injustice, and greed for what it is and the people who oppress for who they are, we step into a really important space in time.

It is imperative that we step into the fullness of who we are right now, in a world of rising authoritarianism, when billionaires gain power and the poor suffer, when war is prevalent and growing on a global scale. We show up to the stages of our lives knowing who we are so that we can shape a better world.

At the end of the day, that’s the kind of world I want—one where we all decide to show up exactly as who we are.

I’ll start here. I hope you will, too.

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Grand Rapids! I’ll be at Books & Mortar THIS FRIDAY from 6-8pm. Please come say hello! I always love meeting folks from this community.

Yesterday I released a new piece I wrote for Religion News Service called 250 Years In: Indigenous Resistance Is Integral To How We Move Forward As A Nation.

“When it comes to Indigenous history, we know the history and brutality of policing well; our families have lived through forced removals and government-sanctioned violence for generations. Our relatives go missing and are murdered, and no one investigates it, and the constant battle between being ignored and being targeted is at the root of the insidious settler colonialism that plagues this nation.”

Read my newest piece with RNS here.

I am in my living room, reading a book and listening to a Leif Vollebekk album on my new record player for what feels like the hundredth time, and it never grows old.

It is the seventh of January, and I am quiet and slow, despite a quick beginning to the morning with packing lunches and taking kids to school. I dance between panic and calm more than I’d like to admit, whether it’s my Virgo-ness or a part of my own nurture, I’m not sure, but I am constantly learning to pay attention to it.

And to breathe in the liminality of it all.

So I try to breathe deeply the scents and sights of home, the daily messes and moments that make this life mine.

I say good morning to Alexa, something I usually regret. She answers

Good morning. And how are you keeping up with those New Years resolutions?

I tell her to stop talking and keep washing the bowl of the crock pot, dirty from a delicious batch of red beans my partner made for us yesterday.

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I like goals and resolutions a lot; a to-do list and a schedule are my go-to in daily life as a self-employed person who can work from anywhere. But resolutions can be difficult, because they are laced with pressure, and, later on, that essence of shame lingering in the back of the throat when we bring them up in the middle of January.

So, like I do with words all the time, I look up the etymology of “resolution” and I am not really surprised by it. Like so many words, we are familiar with the most popular ways of understanding them, but I like to look deeper, see the word as a multi-faceted thing, nearly as a being with different sides to them that we’ve been ignoring.

Let’s not put our words into boxes. Let’s not force them to be someone they’re not.

Let’s not put ourselves into boxes. Let’s not force ourselves to be someone we’re not.

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I read through the different definitions of “resolution” and am drawn to the definition found in chemistry:

the process of reducing or separating something into its components.

Further down I see the word “resolve” and stumble on

(of something seen at a distance) turn into a different form when seen more clearly.

I’m drawn to both.

In ’s beautiful book The Electricity of Every Living Thing she shares about a moment when she wants to give up walking the South West Coast Path. She’s chatting with her close friend Beccy, and says

“I’m so slow.”

Beccy responds

“You’re not slow; you’re just not estimating your mileage properly.”

I pause while reading this. It is still early January, and we have started, failed, started again, trying to get ourselves over some threshold to a “new” version of ourselves, as if some switch was flipped on New Years Eve while we slept or kissed someone or toasted to the changing of the calendar.

We are frustrated with our own slowness, and it would be so nice for someone to pause and say

There is nothing wrong with your slowness; you just haven’t measured yourself to this new year properly.

In other words, set the pressure aside, be realistic, and embrace the journey differently.

If “resolution” is to separate something into its components, what if that’s what we do here, now? After all, it’s winter. The bears go to their resting places and settle into the darkness. They say to themselves

I won’t deny this part of myself that needs to rest. I see all sides of myself, and I trust myself to know how to show up when Spring comes.

I chuckle to myself. We can’t all go into caves for the next three months. But we can hold all the parts of ourselves with respect. My chaos and my calm are part of me, and I dance with them. My body who knows chronic illness dances too, and I cherish her.

January is a revolving door of sorts. We look back and see ourselves there on the other side, and we embrace ourselves on this side. Both us. Both cherished and known.

Now, this beautiful definition of resolve really draws me in on this seventh day of January, how we approach something from a distance only to see it more clearly for what it is.

How long have I held myself at a distance? My voice, my goals, my ideas, my fears, my child self, my very soul—far away, they are a blur. I don’t trust them. They’re strangers to me, until I get up close, until I pull out the binoculars, until I pause and see them for who they are—for who I am.

A gift for you— a poem I wrote last year called “Janus” based off the Roman god of new beginnings, the one who sees backward and forward with two faces.

May we shake off the pressures and the shame and simply resolve to see all parts of ourselves clearly for who they are.

It has been said that Janus
is the god of duality, holding
the door open from the past
to the future as we turn
the page to a new calendar
year.

But I’d like to know what
goes on between the two
faces, what’s happening
in the ears and mind of a
god who is trying to teach
us to let go and to embrace
at the same time.

What memories float there
between the past and future
for Janus, a memory of a 
mother or a dream for a future
that is marked with power, love,
and care?

What of the present moment,
the Now of time that actually
exists in both past and future,
the Now that constantly moves
with us as we navigate the
tricky waters of being human?

Is it possible that our soul exists
between our ears, nestled somewhere
in a back corner of the brain, waiting
to be acknowledged by our dualistic 
mindsets and to-do lists?

Does our child-self live there too,
the one who reminds us of presence,
of joy and curiosity, of asking questions
because the world is big and beautiful
and we belong to it?

I think that maybe Janus holds
the door open for us to remember
that there is no past or future without
that expansive soul, and maybe all
this time we’ve gotten it wrong, our
dualistic thinking driving us to create
new resolutions and dissolve past 
regrets without the presence of Now
to guide us home.

Then I look closer and see a tear slide
down the cheek of Janus, the one looking
from the past to the future, and I imagine
that this tear will be captured in time
forever, kept in a glass case that we
can visit from time to time to remind
all of us that the present holds us steady
even as we turn the calendar page
and begin again. 

I’ve been going back over my favorite and/or most popular pieces from 2025, and I’ve come up with ten of them. Thank you for spending 2025 with me through my writing; it means the world to me, and this community continues to be one of my favorite corners of the internet.

I know you don’t have time to revisit all ten, so I thought we’d create a little practice out of it.

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Pick a number between 1-10.

Once you have your number, scroll down and read the piece associated with that number. Maybe you’ve already read the piece before—this time, try reading it with new eyes and see if it sparks something in you: a prompt for your own writing or art, or revealing something you just didn’t notice the first time around.

And let us know what speaks to you!

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Migwetch, again, for being on this journey with me.

I’ll be sharing one more post before the end of this year, so stick around!

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The most popular piece of the year, number 1:

Number 2:

Number 3:

Number 4:

Number 5:

Number 6:

Number 7:

Number 8:

Number 9:

Number 10:

Don’t forget, on December 28th we have an end of the year gathering! Join me for guided journaling/poetry writing and sharing.

Zoom link below!

join here

Meeting ID: 828 6997 4554

Passcode: 043153

This is an Indigenous author appreciation post, and also, I couldn’t name all the incredible books, so add more to the comments section!

Friends,

This is a very special solidarity spotlight!

The holidays are coming, and it’s still Native American Heritage Month, the perfect time to buy gifts for your family and friends (and self!) AND to support Indigenous booksellers along the way!

First! Bookmark these FOUR INDIGENOUS BOOKSELLERS/BRANDS:

BIRCHBARK BOOKS

PAPERBACKS&FRYBREAD

BLACK WALNUT BOOKS

NDN GIRLS BOOKCLUB

Onto the book list!

Here’s how this will work. I can’t share links & pictures of all these book covers, so I’ll share a few below.

What you can do: Copy and paste the title you want to buy from one of the above booksellers and get it ordered!

Let us know in the comments which ones you’ve chosen!

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1. For Rom Com lovers: Love is A War Song by Danica Nava (Chickasaw)

2. For Activists: An Afro-Indigenous History of the United States by Kyle T Mayes (Afro-Indigenous Saginaw Chippewa)

3. For Lovers of story & literature: Everything Is a Story by Kaitlin Curtice (Potawatomi), Why Indigenous Literatures Matter by Daniel Heath Justice (Cherokee)

4. For lifestyle book lovers: The Seven Circles by Chelsea Luger & Thosh Collins (Anishinaabe/Lakota, Onk-Akimel O’odham/Wa-zha-zhi/Haudenosaunee), Earth Medicines by Felicia Cocotzin Ruiz (Mexican, Spanish, Tewa)

5. For food lovers: Rooted in Fire by Pyet DeSpain (Potawatomi, Mexican) and Turtle Island by Sean Sherman (Oglala Lakota)

6. For history buffs: As Long As the Grass Grows by Dina Gilio-Whitaker (Colville Confederated Tribes)

7. For science lovers: Medicine Wheel for The Planet by Jennifer Grenz (Nlaka’pamux)

8. For people who want calm & care: Onigamiising: Seasons of an Ojibwe Year by Linda LeGarde Grover (Ojibwe) and The Serviceberry by Robin Wall Kimmerer (Potawatomi)

9. For kids: An Indigenous Celebration of Nature including Winter’s Gifts by Kaitlin Curtice (Potawatomi), Jingle Dancer by Cynthia Leitich Smith (Muscogee/Creek)

10. For middle schoolers: Ancestor Approved edited by Cynthia Leitich Smith (Muscogee/Creek) and In The Footsteps of Crazy Horse by Joseph M. Marshall III (Sicangu)

11. For people who love to be scared: The Whistler by Nick Medina (Tunica-Biloxi), Never Whistle at Night edited by Shane Hawk and Theodore C. Van Alst Jr. (Cheyenne-Arapaho, Hidatsa and Potawatomi, Mackinac Bands of Chippewa and Ottawa)

12. For religion buffs: God is Red by Vine Deloria Jr (Standing Rock Lakota), Native by Kaitlin Curtice (Potawatomi), Spirit Wheel by Steven Charleston (Choctaw)

13. For land-based fiction-lovers: Crow Winter by Karen McBride (Anishinaabe), Sisters in the Wind by Angeline Boulley (Chippewa)

14. For those who study historical heavy topics: Our History is The Future by Nick Estes (Sicangu)

15. For those interested in mental health conversations: All The Little Monsters by David A. Robertson (Norway House Cree), A Mind Spread Out on the Ground by Alicia Elliott (Tuscarora)

16. For Journalists: We Survived the Night by Julian Brave Noisecat (Canim Lake Band Tsq’secen of the Secwepemc Nation) and By The Fire We Carry by Rebecca Nagle (Cherokee)

17. For cultural teachings & Language: The Seven Generations by James Vukelich (Ojibwe)

18. For Mystics: You Are the Medicine plus Sacred Medicine Oracle Deck by Asha Frost (Anishinaabe)

19. For storytellers who love podcasts/literature: Bad Indians Book Club by Patty Krawec (Anishinaabe Ukrainian)

20. For Poets: Girl Warrior by Joy Harjo (Muskogee), Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz (Akimel O’odham)

21. For feminists: I am Woman by Lee Maracle (Stó꞉lō nation), As We Have Always Done by Leanne Betasamosake Simpson (Mississauga Nishnaabeg)

22. For essay lovers: One Story One Song by Richard Wagamese (Ojibwe)

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Please add more books by Indigenous authors you love! I couldn’t get everyone on this list but I am so grateful for all the authors who have shaped me.

Let’s share and celebrate whose work has shaped you.

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Plus a REALLY IMPORTANT way to support one of the booksellers from above!

From Paperbacks & Frybread:

We’re launching North Carolina’s first Indigenous-owned mobile bookstore — and we need your help to hit the road.

Our bookmobile will bring Indigenous stories, diverse books, and inclusive education tools to powwows, schools, and underserved areas across the state. But we’re not doing it alone — we’re hoping to also build a circular economy by partnering with other businesses owned by Black, Brown, Indigenous, disabled, LGBTQ+, and other marginalized creators along the way.

Your support fuels more than a bookstore — it powers a movement.

DONATE HERE!

And one last important shoutout!

One of my dearest friends, author Kelley Nikondeha has a new book out called Jubilee Economics. My endorsement of the book is below:

“’It never gets old watching people set free,’ Nikondeha writes. That’s exactly what this book does: looks for the hope of jubilee in societies that have forgotten the sacred joy of pursuing freedom.” —Kaitlin B. Curtice, author, Native and Living Resistance

This is a book for anyone asking questions of how we got here when it comes to economic justice and where we may choose to go.

From the book’s website:

Most consider jubilee to be an aspirational, ancient practice, dismissing it as impractical for modern economic practices. Among theologians and economists many doubt it was ever practiced. And they would be wrong. Kelley Nikondeha uncovers recent scholarship that tells a different story, one of Jubilee’s robust capabilities for resetting just economic systems.

Order Jubilee Economics HERE!

Well, it finally happened.

My words are in a film!

Earlier this year I received a message from Michela Carattini who wrote, directed and starred in a new film called Carmen and Bolude.

I couldn’t wait to know more about it, because a film that chooses to quote me is probably pretty interesting and must have something to do with poetry or liminality, right?

Exactly.

The quote shared above from the opening of the film is

“When I go outside to listen to the language that only the land speaks, she sends me back with poetry.”

Carmen & Bolude is “a movie for mixed, international, and third-culture humans” and is now streaming on Netflix in Australia and New Zealand, as well as in the US, UK and Canada on Amazon, AppleTV, Google Play, You Tube Video, Fandango & Hoopla.

Here’s the synopsis, and believe me when I say this film is full of everything—humor, tears, drama, fights, struggles with identity, more laughs and tears, and love—lots of love:

Best friends Carmen and Bolude must travel from NYC to Sydney, Australia, where they have ten days to collect 100 ‘welcomes’ so that Bolude’s traditional Nigerian father will agree to let her marry an Australian. Inspired by real events.

Part of the reason I wrote Native five years ago was to connect with other people who are “mixed”— mixed race, ethnicity, cultures, religions/faiths, etc.

Buy Native

Explore all of my books

I wanted to write a book about complex identity questions, to see if maybe I wasn’t the only one dealing with those questions.

Turns out I wasn’t.

So many people have messaged me over the last few years to share what it means for them to show up as they are, wholly and fully. This is not a simple thing to do in a world where labels and boxes are our first form of interaction with each other.

As soon as you come into contact with another person, you categorize them.

I’m not saying we should stop doing that, but I am saying that, in the spirit of liminality, we should look deeper and ask more.

So please, take some time in the coming weeks to watch this film. And for those of you who are from mixed identities in one way or another, I hope it gives you a sense of home.

I asked Michela what she’d like to share with you about the film, and here’s what she beautifully said:

What the film, and the power of embracing complexities means to me:

The film makes me, the real me, visible. For so much of my life, the world has required parts of me - core aspects of my being, my spirit, my physicality - to be invisible, to be misrepresented, and thereby, to be erased. When my father died, something inside me exploded and refused to participate, even in the smallest ways, in this erasure. This film and embracing the complexity of all of who I am means that I refuse to participate in the erasure of myself, my identity, my ancestors, and my communities. Reminding people that I exist exactly as I am, calls out the very structures and systems of division currently in place, and why they exist. This film is for my father, but it is also for my mother, my sister, my children, for everyone like me, who had to be invisible, and for everyone who really (I mean really) wants to see and find joy and healing in each other.

Watch the film in the US

Thank you for supporting The Liminality Journal! Our community continues to grow, and is one of my favorite little corners of the internet.

Ways to further support my work:

1. Buy me a cup of coffee! I write from a cafe in my city twice a week to get out of the house and remember what it’s like to be a writer among the people. :)

Buy Me A Coffee

2. Become a paid subscriber—perks like notes from my personal journals and monthly writing sessions included!

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3. Order & Review my new book! Thank you to everyone who has read Everything Is a Story. If you can take a few moments to review it, that would be amazing!

Order Everything Is a Story

Friends,

Today is our first Solidarity Spotlight post, and I am so excited to share with you author Kat Armas’s new book, Liturgies for Resisting Empire.

Buy the book here

Kat is not only an incredible author, a mother and partner, and brilliant theologian, she is a dear friend. You can believe me when I tell you that Kat’s books are born of fierce fire, a heart for justice-creating in the world through words, stories, ideas, and community.

This is a book for our time, and a book for all times, because we have always been dealing with the effects of off-kilter power dynamics, of those who take more than they should, of those who oppress and restrain and colonize.

First, the cover of this book is gorgeous:

Second, you get a special treat-an excerpt of the book! Read the excerpt below, then go buy this book. We are in a critical moment in history. We need to educate ourselves on who we’ve been, who we are, and who we hope to become. We can do that by reading books by brilliant authors, like Kat.

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Empires have always created their own ideologies in order to justify domination and control. These beliefs become systems of oppression over people and land alike. And in their wake, we are left with existential questions about identity and belonging that pierce the deepest parts of our being. Questions like “Who is my neighbor?” (Luke 10:29) and “My God, my God, why have you left me?” (Matt. 27:46). The answers to these questions are flesh and blood. They not only shape who we are, rippling through our lives, but also steer the course of history, which unfolds through the telling of stories. Stories are never innocent, never impartial. They carry the weight of perspective, ideology, and cultural values. Our stories are no exception. When we retell them, we do so from the lens of who we are today, with the knowledge and experience we hold in the moment. This means that our understanding of the past is colored by where we currently stand geographically, politically, and socially. We can never truly be objective, neutral observers. Because of this, there is no pure, unfiltered story; there’s only the truth we carry now. As I recall episodes from my childhood, I recognize the way my understanding of them shifts with time, with healing, with the slow revelation of what it means to belong to a family or a people. Each retelling is an act of interpretation, and in that act there is power.

To interpret our own stories is to reclaim something sacred, to perform an act of resistance. The interpreter becomes the storyteller, the one who shapes their own history. But to be colonized is to be stripped of that power; it is to be erased from one’s own story. This is part of empire’s violence: seizing control of interpretation, rewriting the past to impose its own narrative on people’s lives, land, and ancestors.

Biblical scholars have played a part in this erasure, reducing a text born in the heart of political and imperial struggle—a text that addresses economic, religious, and historical realities—to mere dogma. In doing so, they have ignored the imperial context and colonial dynamics that shaped the Bible’s origins, pretending they were never there. But the Bible in its entirety tells the story of empires—from Egypt to Assyria, Babylon, Persia, and Rome.

Exodus recounts the story of a people plucked from the grip of Egypt’s clenched fist. The story of the Israelites is a story of what it means to unlearn the rhythms of empire and learn how to walk as a people whose life and identity are free from oppression. As we move through the Hebrew scriptures, we hear the echoes of empire in so many places: from the prayers whispered in desperation to the defiant prophecies and the words of warning not to become the very thing they fled. The story of God’s people—from Moses to Daniel to Esther—is a story of empire. Every book of the Bible wrestles with what it means to exist within a context of imperial rule.

And yet, some treat the Bible as if it’s somehow untouched by politics, as if it’s concerned with only the spiritual and not these gritty realities. Most interpreters would have us believe that Jesus’s followers, for example, quietly accepted Roman authority and respected Rome’s rulers unless they were forced to choose between Christ and Caesar. But as we will see, this is far from the truth. Instead, many of the Bible’s letters and narratives are those of everyday people contending with, responding to, and critiquing empire in their day-to-day lives.

Content taken from Liturgies from Resisting Empire by Kat Armas, ©2025. Used by permission of Brazos Press.

Also, Kat has an amazing Substack, subscribe below and then go listen to the podcast she’s been releasing celebrating the book (there’s an episode in which I share about my new book, too, link below).

Your turn. In the comments, share:

1. Who is inspiring your right now?

2. What book is on your mind right now?

3. How do you foster imagination and hope under empire?

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I’m taking a little step to the side of our book read-along to share a little bit about the story-medicine that is music, inspired by a new album that was released just this week from Romain Axisa.

I discovered Axisa’s music earlier this year from a really beautiful Youtube cover of Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door (video below). What drew me in, straight away in this video, was the absolute joy that music brings him. Then, I found more of his music, including Unchained Melodies, Vol I.

In an online interview from a few years ago, Axisa writes:

The way I play and write is mainly based on feelings and instincts. Songs are meant to make you feel something, and most of the time – the simpler the better.

I feel this when I listen to his music, whether it’s through Axisa’s band The Big Push (with fellow singer Ren, who I wrote a piece about a few months ago, as well as Gorran Kendall and Glenn Chambers), or his solo albums. It’s not unlike the way I write poetry and prose, when I lean into the liminality of the moment and see where it takes me.

Axisa’s newest album, Unchained Melodies Vol II, is a gorgeous, calming journey of songs that I’ve already listened to countless times.

Get the album on apple music

And what I want to talk about is the way that music tells stories. We all know this, but isn’t it incredible that every time we experience some new song or album that moves or changes us, we learn this lesson all over again?

In Everything Is a Story, I write about the bodhrán, the Irish drum, and how it represents the beauty of music and stories, and how music is woven throughout cultures:

The gut and the heart are two sacred places where stories live and merge—where they alchemize, where they become a driving force for our lives—where we learn what it means to safely reclaim the sacredness of our shared imagination for love and peace in the world, again and again. What better way to remember that than through music, through the beat of the drum, through embodiment?

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I asked Romain if he could tell me a little bit about the album, and he said

“It’s basically a dive into the Mediterranean lifestyle.”

There are a lot of roles that music plays in our lives. Music can propel us toward difficult conversations, can hold us as we grieve, can help us process a whole range of emotions from terror to love.

I wonder what it will feel like for you, but I felt in this album a connection to land, memory, and the essence of the people you love who love you right back. And as someone who struggles with anxiety, Axisa’s music is one of the most calming arrangements I’ve found in an America that is struggling right now.

So I hope you’ll listen to it, let it serenade you through the day, and for other poets and (song)writers out there, I dare you not to try to put lyrics to some of these songs in your head like I already have with “Daydreams.”

Music is powerful when it brings stories out of you and helps you write new ones.

Music is powerful because it expresses something within us we didn’t know was waiting there to be expressed.

Music is powerful because it shapes the stories of the world.

Music is medicine.

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Don’t miss my UK book launch on the Isle of Iona in October!

more info here!

I’m currently booking events centered around Everything Is a Story and the power of storytelling in winter/spring! Stay tuned for fall book tour dates.

Booking Inquiries here!

There’s about one week left of our preorder special if you’d like to get a signed copy of the book, deadline is October 5th!

Order here!

Friends,

In case you missed it, my new book, Everything Is a Story, comes out in less than 50 days! You may be thinking that’s still a ways away, Kaitlin, but let me give you a little picture of what publishing is like:

• about six weeks before a book is set to come out, the author and publisher begin implementing the pre-order push

• this means my daily author-energy related to this book goes from about 45% to 150% and the adrenaline is real

• during this time, I’m sharing about the book and asking people to preorder it, because preorders are really, really important and signal that the book is worth reading once it comes out

• we send dozens of emails, reach out to colleagues for support, begin social media campaigns, send more emails, set up events at bookstores, managing several different to-do lists constantly

• yes, this is the season in which I wake up at 3am many mornings and email myself a series of things I don’t want to forget

So, all that to say, this is it, the big push, the marathon sprint to get to launch day (and beyond it because we still promote it even after that).

And this is where I need you!

Here’s the deal. Throughout September, I’ll be leading us through sections of Everything Is a Story, with thoughts on certain topics and some behind-the-scenes moments from writing the book. This is free for all subscribers—as a thank you for always showing up to this space with care and compassion.

So please stay tuned! Show up and comment, ask questions, I can’t wait to explore this with you!

And at the end of our time together, we will celebrate the book launch on October 6th with a zoom event!

Here’s how it works:

First, preorder the book. You can get it anywhere, but I recommend ordering from Main Point Books, my local bookstore, and I can sign it for you—you’ll get it in the mail in October.

Order the book

Get a signed copy!

Then, fill out this preorder form after you’ve preordered the book.

Once you fill out the form, you’ll immediately receive a download link to get the book early from NetGalley so that you can read it along with me in September, plus a poetry print in the coming weeks.

Nothing extra is expected of you in this space but to show up as you are, with all your stories alongside you. We are our stories, and stories are alive. We owe stories, ourselves and each other the work of being present and showing up to this moment. I am so glad we get to do that together.

Do you have friends who might like to join us? Please invite them to become subscribers to The Liminality Journal!

Share The Liminality Journal

I can’t tell you how excited I am about this, and how much it means to me that you, my Liminality Community, would show up in this moment with me, and for me, for all of us to dive into the power of stories.

See you soon!

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When I was young, I had this plastic Pocahontas doll that I loved. I loved her hair, her turquoise necklace, her arm tattoo and dress, her tanned skin. I loved that somehow I saw myself in her story, in the way she danced and sang in the movie, her strength, her dependence on Grandmother Willow.

I loved her, but she didn’t love me back.

I could get so emotional just thinking about this doll, about the way she made me feel, the way she made me see myself.

There is this deep grief that happens for Indigenous people as we get older, when we hit that reality that we’ve been duped—that the stories told to us about our own people don’t add up.

Then, we get embarrassed. How could I have possibly loved that Pocahontas movie or that scene from Peter Pan? Why did I identify with them?

Well, identity is an incredibly tricky thing, and I often remind people to be gentle with themselves in things like this, because we don’t know until we know.

We don’t understand until we understand.

And the truth about stories is that they are complex. The stories that mean something special to us can also be the stories that endanger us. We can be inspired and harmed at the same time.

Subscribe now

In my new book Everything Is a Story, I write in the second section about our adolescent season of life, when our stories are really taking shape and taking root.

From the book:

These stories begin around the kitchen table, with our families and friends, with the people who “get us.” At a retreat, once, we were talking about family dinners. We shared that some of us never really ate at the tables in our homes; we took the food back to our rooms or sat in silence in front of the television. For others, the table was a triggering and traumatic space, where kids endured verbal abuse by parents who were not willing to listen to them. Some felt like the table was a safe place, and others felt like the table was a prison, yet both of those beginning stories shaped our own stories down the road.

Our stories first get labels in family: what kind of parent we are, what kind of kid we are, what our personality is perceived to be. I was a pastor’s kid in the second half of my adolescence, and I played hard into the role of extroverted leader when, in fact, I naturally lean more introverted. Growing up, I was labeled a social butterfly, someone who’d always be there to talk with others and lead the space, yet group gatherings exhausted me and left me wanting to get back to my bedroom, shut the door, and be alone for a while to recover.

How funny that I didn’t really connect all these dots until, as an adult, I had to stop performing and really ask,“Who am I?” and“What is my story?” Sometimes the stories in our lives carry far more power than we realize, and we begin to understand their power only later, when we challenge them.

This comes from an example of my social conditioning, but we do it in all sorts of ways as we sort out our stories, especially when it comes to identity.

For many of us who grew up with movies like Pocahontas, we began to form stories about ourselves, and about Native women and history in general. I loved this doll more than I can say, but now, as an adult, I realize that there’s no way she could have loved me back, because she represented a colonized and sexualized version of what it means to be kwe, woman.

To speak more to this, the art director of the film met a few Indigenous girls before creating the film and was inspired by his meeting with them (read more of that story in the piece shared below). However, we can be inspired by something and still twist a story to fit our own desires. He later said about the movie:

“We're doing a mature love story here, and we've got to draw her as such. She has to be sexy.” Keane likened Pocahontas to a tribal Eve. “This is a Disney version. This is not a documentary.”

Read this entire piece

Read more about the Disney movie

So, like I share about in my new book, there comes a time as adults where we are looking back at who we’ve been and asking questions of the stories we’ve been told and the stories we’ve chosen to tell.

It has led us to movements like raising awareness for Missing & Murdered Indigenous Women & Relatives. We are choosing to reclaim our stories as women, and not being afraid to call out the things in our culture that are a danger to us—including Hollywood.

I am grateful the fictional Pocahontas narrative has been criticized and questioned in recent years, especially around Halloween when you can be guaranteed to see a sexy Indian princess costume somewhere nearby.

Read Pocahontas's Story

We are all asking questions of who we’ve once been, what we’ve once believed. What would I feel if I could hold that Pocahontas doll today? A mix of care and grief—care for my younger self who desperately wanted to see herself in the world and grief for all the ways that was distorted by a colonized society and entertainment industry.

One thing I know for sure—I’ll keep telling my story.

Kwe means woman,
means someone
tender yet fierce,
someone gentle
who also shakes
the earth with
her holy anger.

Kwe means that
on my difficult
days I still
show up and
still hope, still
find my way
where things
seem lost.

Kwe means compass,
the light that shines
when I’m being tested
by the bitterness of
war, hate, and greed,
the way the wild earth
holds and guides
us back again to ourselves.

Kwe means a new
beginning, a fire
that refuses to go
out, burning in the
most difficult moments,
grounding us when we
have forgotten that
every new morning
invites us into an eternity
of that sacred flame.

Special announcement! You can order a *signed* copy of Everything Is a Story and it will be mailed to you once it’s out! So grateful to Main Point Books, our local bookstore, for all their support.

Order your signed copy here

And in case you missed it—Exclusively through The Liminality Journal we are doing a guided reading of my new book, Everything Is a story!

This won’t be available anywhere else, and at the end of our deep dive, I’ll be hosting a zoom celebration for the book on October 6th!

Here’s how it works:

First, preorder the book.

Order the book

Get a signed copy!

Then, fill out this preorder form.

Once you fill out the form, you’ll get a chance to download the book early from NetGalley so that you can read it along with me in September! See you then!

My dear friend Asha is holding an event at the Omega Institute August 22-24th and you should try to make it if you’re in the area!

Here’s more info:

Under the guidance of curanderismo practitioner Robyn Moreno and guest teachers Asha Frost, Daniela Miranda, and Sarah Anne Wilkinson, we explore the Mexica (Aztec) paths to rootedness and other ancient but timeless ways and practices for finding our way home again.

During this highly experiential and heart-opening weekend, we root in support of our sisterhood through movement, meditation, sharing circles, inspired journaling, connecting to nature, and sacred ritual.

This workshop is designed for those who identify as women and are being called to heal, lead, and grow.

Register Here!

Hello friends,

For those of you who are new here, we are in a series called Five Ways to Alchemize the Soul.

If you’d like to read the first intro post to the series, click below:

And as a reminder, here are the different ways we alchemize the spaces of the soul:

1. Through the grief/rage process

2. Through sacred practices & imagination

3. Through cyclical living

4. Through creative resistance

5. Through dreams and vision-casting

Today we are exploring alchemy through sacred practices and imagination.

Melissa Febos once said, “There is no pain in my life that has not been given value by the alchemy of creative attention.” I read this quote in ’s new book Permission, which is just gorgeous and gives so much room to ask the deep, difficult questions so many of us ask as writers.

But the reality is this: we have to find ways to alchemize pain, to alchemize our soul’s home. And Melissa (and Elissa) reminds us that we do that through creative attention.

And I think creative attention is about sacred practices and imagination, both being a consistent part of our life.

As an Indigenous woman, I share about ceremony a lot—it’s part of our cultures, our stories, our ways of being connected to one another.

As a mystic, I share a lot about ritual—the ways we hold intentional space for the sacred in our daily lives.

It’s important to create space for what’s important to us—I have a red chair in my office that is often my reading and journaling space. I know how I feel when I sit there, and how it opens me up. I encourage you to find space that allows you to show up fully for yourself, for your own soul—alchemic spaces.

I want to share two rituals and two journaling prompts focused on the power of imagination. Alchemy is slow, steady work, often born through repetition and care. Practice it this way.

2 rituals:

1. watch something grow—take time daily to pay attention to the growth of something: the seeds in your garden, your own sense of awe, a child in your life. Find a way to share these observations with your family or community.

2. connect across timelines with ancestors and future generations, either through writing notes to them, connecting in prayer, or envisioning yourself as fully connected to those who came before you and those who come after (for those interested, I am hosting a workshop called Living Resistance with our Ancestors on July 29th if you’d like to explore some of this more).

2 imagination journal prompts:

1. Imagine ten years from now, you wake up in the morning and step outside your door. You’ve been grieving something, but this morning, you wake up feeling a little differently, like the grief has been working its way through you and will soon be turned into something else. What is that? What will you create from the season you’ve been in?

2. Reflect on this quote by George Bernard Shaw: “Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at last you create what you will.” What have you been imagining? Ask yourself honestly what you hope to alchemize in your life, and begin making a plan to create healing medicine, however that shows up.

As we explore sacred imagination, ritual, and alchemy, I can’t think of a better way to connect you to David Gate’s work. David is a poet, homesteader, and beautiful human being—and you’ll find that out as you read his new book, A Rebellion of Care.

This book is: A moving manifesto in poems and essays, inviting readers to embrace their humanity and live fully alive in our age of social change, hyper-capitalism, and pervasive loneliness.

Our society makes us hard, distant, and rageful. I find it again and again, and as someone who struggles with alchemizing rage (I shared about that last week), I need space for poetry and essays that remind me of the softness of this resistance work, too.

Subscribe to David's Substack

Look at the cover of David’s book:

A description: about 25 black ants are gathering together around a large vase full of wildflowers of all kinds that is tipping over—they are working together as a community to hold up the beauty, to declare that care is about rebellion and hope. I could cry just staring at the cover, because it evokes so much for me.

Care is radical as hell.

Order David's Book Here

And here is what we know about alchemy—we do it in our own bodies, in our own souls, where the work begins, but alchemy//care//resistance//kinship must also be communal, must lead us out toward one another, toward Mother Earth, to make peace and dream up a better future and fight for that future with ferocious love.

I want to share with you a few moments from the book. Hold them close to you. Order David’s new book, which comes out this week.

Make space for care, for ritual, and let it bleed into the ways you resist in a hurting and chaotic and war-hungry world.

I start with this one, called “Sensitive Content”, which made me smile and feel so seen:

This poem may contain sensitive content.
It's me.
I'm the sensitive content.

David writes about poetry, about church, about masculinity, about grief and fear, about solidarity and kinship; I appreciate his honest tenor, the way we moves through topics and conversations with grace, kindness, and a ferocious sense of love.

And this line, I needed it, especially in the world we are currently inhabiting:

Most empires fall when they are devoured by another, when a greater force overcomes them. But what is unique about capitalism is that it teaches us to devour each other. It feeds on us until there is nothing left to consume.

This, friends, is why we need poetry. This is why we need words, why we need to gather in spaces and write, why we need to create prophetically, and yes, why we are alchemizing the spaces around our souls every damn day.

One more poem I’ll share with you as we head into our days, into our week, into the world waiting for us to alchemize something shitty into something beautiful, a poem called “Old Layers”

Be at peace with the dust
you are creating
even as it shrouds
the mantelpieces & photo frames
& pictures of your younger years
when you were no more beautiful
than you are right now

Order A Rebellion of Care

Onward, friends, into alchemy.

I am so excited to share with you some wisdom from my dear friend Britney Lee, author of multiple children’s books that explore complexity, care, love and liminality.

Today Britney will share with us from her knowledge on children’s publishing—for those looking to write children’s books, this is for you! Even if you’re not thinking about children’s publishing, I still encourage you to read her words—because you’ll understand how incredible her work is, and you’ll find inspiration to write whatever it is you feel you need to write in the world.

But before we get there, I want to take a moment to hold space for the time we are living in.

My mind is a mess. I sit down in the mornings to read and journal, and I can barely figure out what words to put on the page. Perhaps it’s because I feel like it’s the same words over and over again—the repetition of we want peace and oh god, this is terrifying and the world is full of so much hate and i’m a poet, so i’m supposed to be prophetic but I am so tired of this shit.

I guess what I want to hold space for is the gaps in our words, the exhaustion in our brains. Hold space for the fact that you’re tired of repeating the same prayers, but repeat them anyway. We repeat because we dream and have hope, and that’s all we can do.

And in doing so, in dreaming and hoping, we create. I write children’s books to help us process themes from the world, and that’s why children’s books are so powerful.

Let’s hear from Britney on the topic.

ALMOST EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT CHILDREN'S BOOK PUBLISHING

There are few things more humbling than thinking back through the folks who have opened themselves up to my writing by leveraging their own experiences and networks. But among those few things definitely fall the moments when others with writing projects and aches reach out for similar advice. I continue to love the Ram Dass quote, “We’re all just walking each other home.” It often takes a whole village to birth the words that hurt when they stay inside of us. That said, in wanting to figure out some ways to stay open-handed with my children’s book journey, it felt right to gather up some of my experiences into one post to be able to share with those who are curious about the process.

But first, a disclaimer. I did not set out to be a children’s book author, specifically. Though I have always written poetry/song-lyrics/rhymes, I was working on a theological narrative memoir when I (along with hundreds of other writers and readers) found myself snowed into the Grand Rapids airport during the 2018 Festival of Faith and Writing. It was there that a pop-up poetry reading was initiated by bored and weary travelers, and there that I shared a poem I had written for my big-hearted son. There, an acquisitions editor approached me after the fact with interest in making it into a book.

That was four kids' books (and two contracts for forthcoming projects) ago. This has been the most unexpected ride of my life, and I am so, so, so, so grateful. But I am also aware that this is not always how it happens. What I’m sharing below is not formulaic or foolproof. Rather, it’s a collection of some things I’ve witnessed along the way that may be somewhat helpful to someone who is wondering where to start.

I want to write a children’s book, but I don’t know where to begin.

Here’s what I’ve shared with writer’s-blocked friends: Write out any words or phrases that come to mind regarding significant moments in your own childhood. Write out any words or phrases that come to mind when you think about what you wish someone would have told you when you were a child. Consider if there are any mentors in your life whose relationships with you have something to teach a wider audience. Consider the themes or messages from your life or your children’s lives that people have latched onto. Consider the gifts/pieces of your personality you can offer the world. Ask yourself if there are any ways that these would be significant for children. Start there.

I have an idea for a children’s book. What now?

Write it! Decide what age group it will be geared toward, whether you want it to rhyme, who the audience will be, what you hope a reader will leave with, etc. Then write! Practice your manuscript on children of that age group and on friends who will give you honest feedback. You can Google the number of words in books for various age groups to inform your manuscript length. Become familiar with categories like “board book,” “picture book,” “YA books” to gauge this well.

Do I need to be or have an illustrator?

You can, but you don’t always have to. If you are self-publishing (through companies like IngramSpark), it will be important to either be or have illustrations to accompany your manuscript (along with a designer to do the layout). If you are hoping to publish through a publishing house, many times they have their own contracted illustrators who work with the authors they sign. Some publishers, however, will only accept work that is both authored/illustrated. My publishers accepted stand-alone manuscripts that were then partnered with illustrators once contracted. It is also important to study the requirements of publishers before submitting (or self-contracting an illustrator) as some houses may only want your words unaccompanied by illustrations. For my first experience with children’s book publishing, I was given the portfolios of several artists and asked to pick my top three. They then pitched the project to my #1 (who said yes!), and we went from there.

Do I have to have an agent?

You don’t! Not always, at least. My first three books were unagented contacts. However, there are some publishing houses that will not accept unagented proposals, nor will they communicate with authors directly. However, it is usually easy to find this out on different publishers’ websites. Search “submissions” or “proposals” on their pages for requirements. If you wish to become agented, my best advice is to use Google or AI tools to find the authors of your favorite books and the agents who represent them. That will give you a starting point for reaching out to see if those agents are considering expanding their current representation and if they’re willing to look at your portfolio. If they are not, you can use it as an opportunity to ask what other agents they might be able to point you toward who would possibly be a good fit for you. I have met writers who have never published who are agented and writers who are agented who have published a dozen books. It depends on what type of experience you’re looking for.

How do I find a publisher?

There are three avenues that I’ve experienced and can personally root for regarding this question. 1. Similarly to the advice above, figure out who publishes your favorite books, and learn about their submission process (do they take unagented work, what kind of proposal do they require, do they only open their submission portal a couple times a year?). 2. Join a writers group, Facebook page, or guild; then network, network, network. Ask pointed questions about who knows whom in the field. Get emails, reach out. 3. Attend a writing workshop, festival, or conference. Many times, these types of things are also attended by acquisitions editors or those running publishing booths who can—at the very least—point you in the next direction.

How do I know if a contract is good without an agent?

For my first book, I sought the guidance of a lawyer friend who could help me look over the contract and flag any concerns. Other published authors may also be willing to tell you if anything seems off, and publishers are often extremely willing to walk you through explaining and clarifying. Some agents will work on a contract/one-time basis for such opportunities.

How do I create a proposal?

If publishers accept unagented proposals, they often outline exactly what needs to be included on their submission pages (such as who your primary audiences will be, word length, names of possible endorsers, book hook, etc.). If publishers only accept agented proposals, agents will typically provide templates.

What is a realistic timeline for publishing?

Many publishers are working 2-3 years out. From contract to launch date, a year in-between is fast. During that time, various rounds of edits take place, illustrations are solidified and laid out, marketing plans are established, endorsements are gathered, copyright processes are handled, and launch teams are prepared. If you are self-publishing, this process can be expedited and take only a few months depending on your desire/illustrator/understanding of the self-publishing platforms. I am less familiar with this arena, but I do know that it is typically greater cost up front while making room for more direct income in the long-haul—however, one thing to consider through self-publishing is that sales and fulfillments are often dependent on the writer’s ability to market and mail, whereas publishing houses typically have full teams and connections dedicated to these very things.

What expenses are involved?

Again, it depends. If you are self-publishing, you may be paying for an illustrator, a designer, a lawyer, an editor, early copies, shipping, and marketing (this could cost a few hundred to a few thousand dollars). If you are pitching to publishers, it may cost you relatively nothing up front, though profit is of course a percentage.

What royalties and advances can be expected?

I probably could have simply put “it depends” as the sole content of this article, and it would have been true. I have signed contracts with zero advances and mere pennies on the copies, I have signed contracts with small advances that have yet to be paid off, and I have signed contracts with larger advances that have paid themselves off multiple times over. Publishers take many factors into account when deciding on advances and royalties, including working with their marketing team to attempt to predict what they imagine the market will demand and what sales will be in those first few years. Elizabeth Gilbert wrote in Big Magic, “I held on to those other sources of income for so long because I never wanted to burden my writing with the responsibility of paying for my life. I knew better than to ask this of my writing, because over the years, I have watched so many other people murder their creativity by demanding that their art pay the bills.” I have lived by this—even now, as a “self-employed writer,” I continue to work 20hours a week as a Grants Outreach Coordinator.

When do I write if I am working other jobs and have other responsibilities?

Whenever you can. There are many folks I know who have participated in things like The Artist’s Waymorning pages or are disciplined to crank out 500 words a day. For a few months, I would wake up to join the #5AMWritersClub on social media, which gave me a little boost of connection in the early hours when my family was still asleep. For five years, I spent the majority of my vacation days writing or at writing conferences. There was a time when we lived in a small, one-bathroom bungalow whose toilet shared a wall with my toddler’s room and whose floors would creek so loudly on my walks to the coffee pot. On more than one occasion, I left his potty-training-potty in the laundry room on the other side of the house the night before so that I could . . . use it . . . the following morning and not wake him, thereby losing those precious minutes of writing. And, honestly, there’s no other way to share that story that makes it sound better than it was. But here’s what I have maintained: writing serves my life, and my life doesn’t serve my writing. I write because it helps me live, and process, and connect, and express, and understand the world around me. Therefore, it deserves priority because it helps keep me healthy and not alone and allows my pain to move constructively. But it still must fit into my actual life, even if that is at weird times and inconsistently. Also? Books get written in notes on phones and napkins at restaurants, in conversations with friends and staring at leaves. That part matters, too. Maybe most.

What else?

Follow hashtags like #kidlit #kidlitart #picturebooks #DVpit #childrensbook #writingcommunity #booktwitter , follow publishing houses, follow their acquisitions editors on Twitter. Look for when they open submissions, and pay attention to the kind of content they are open to at the moment.

Follow the bread-crumbs of curiosity. As referenced above, one of the best books I’ve ever read for writing (aside from Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird) is Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic. In it, she writes:

“Passion can seem intimidatingly out of reach at times - a distant tower of flame, accessible only to geniuses and to those who are specially touched by God. But curiosity is a milder, quieter, more welcoming, and more democratic entity. The stakes of curiosity are also far lower than the stakes of passion. [...] Curiosity only ever asks one simple question: ‘Is there anything you're interested in?’ Anything? Even a tiny bit? No matter how mundane or small? The answer need not set your life on fire, or make you quit your job [...]; it just has to capture your attention for a moment. But in that moment, if you can pause and identify even one tiny speck of interest in something, then curiosity will ask you to turn your head a quarter of an inch and look at the thing a wee bit closer. Do it. It's a clue. It might seem like nothing, but it's a clue. Follow that clue. Trust it. See where curiosity will lead you next.”

I’ve been very lucky in many ways with my writing journey—right place, right time sort of thing. I’ve been very privileged in my opportunities (as a white, straight, cisgendered, socio-economically stable, family-supported, and able-bodied person). There are many stories and words of less privileged people who deserve the kind of open doors that I have been offered, and I hope the discomfort of that never leaves me and continues to challenge me to find ways to leverage. But one thing I am proud of is that I have seen the possibility in each connection and experience and asked where it may lead next; and that is the best advice I could give a new writer.

Start somewhere, anywhere, then pay attention. Every rejection letter can be followed up with if you have a moment, can you share what areas I might strengthen? Every relationship can be a door to 12 more. Every hashtag followed will surface another to follow that might lead to the open submissions you’re looking for. Every collaboration can add to your own identity journey and the relationships that make this writing thing that much more worth it. From what I have both witnessed and experienced, those who wish to arrive at *insert a kind of life, opportunity, contract, etc* often become frustrated unto quitting. But those who turn over each stone they encounter, write the sentences they need to breathe better, join the circles and ask for names of friends of friends . . . they are typically in different places a year from now than they would have been otherwise. Arrived places? What even are those? Different places are the gift.

Lastly.

The publishers I’ve worked with (all while unagented) are Beaming Books, Wipf & Stock, and Upper Room. While agented, I also worked with Tommy Nelson. Currently unagented again, I am working on three contracts with Beaming Book sand Broadleaf. I have benefited from attending the Festival of Faith and Writing as well as from applying for grants at the Louisville Institute and Collegeville Institute. The Redbud Writers Guild was an incredibly helpful group of women to learn from during the years I was a part of it. My Grammarly subscription helps me self-edit, Squarespace is who hosts my user-friendly website, Canva is where I pretend to be a graphic designer to promote my work on social media platforms. All of these can be found with a quick Google.

I believe in you.

You want to be a writer? Then write. That is how to be a writer. The gatekeepers exist only in your mind, the impossibility of where to start is but a self-given-permission away. Craft one sentence, Google one submission guideline, turn over one rock, be curious about one idea. Tell that ache that it is welcomed in your presence, but it must pick one task to accomplish before the week is over to earn its keep.

The world needs your words. <3

Pre-order Britney’s upcoming book, The Boy with Big, Big Energy, out next March!

Skywoman was tired.

She was so, so tired.

Her back ached from carrying the weight in her belly, the soft roundness protruding from her for the last several months, stretching her hips and pelvic bones, stretching her soul into someone new.

And her feet, they hurt continually, holding up her precious body, preparing her for the journey ahead.

She was so tired, and she was scared.

What waited for her there, in this new home that she’d never seen, with creatures she desperately hoped would be kin to her? What danger lurked, what joys awaited, and would she be utterly alone or immersed in community and care?

Journeys can be as difficult as they are beautiful. She knows this.

Skywoman was falling.

She was falling through the air, and it was like slow motion.

The best relief was in that aching lower back. If it weren’t for the dread of knowing she was free falling through the sky, she’d simply surrender, let everything go quiet and limp, let her body feel what her soul was speaking, trusting that Creator wouldn’t let her go for nothing.

So she tried, just for a few seconds, to let her hands and shoulders relax, except for the seeds she was holding, the ones she’d grabbed along the way as she ascended—those she kept tightly clenched, a far off dream of life and renewal, of sowing stories of hope.

Who was the first to notice her, this pregnant woman falling through the sky?

Maybe it was mshike, turtle, or zheshko, muskrat, or maybe the trees noticed her and began to breathe heavier, maybe the wind began to blow stronger, letting everyone know that something was changing in their atmosphere—someone new had arrived, and kinship was the only response necessary.

The beskesiyuk, geese saw her, though. They noticed as they were making their own journey across the sky for the season. If anyone understands migration and the power of community, it’s the geese, flying in formation, trading roles and places to care for the elderly and the young, showing up as best they can.

The geese saw her and knew what they had to do.

This is it, she thought, those few moments of surrender now surrendered themselves to utter despair.

She was flying through the air, and she couldn’t stop it.

What kind of journey was this? Why did Creator send her here, and why in such a tumultuous way? Why couldn’t she ride down on a cloud or be slowly lowered by some giant, unseen hand? Why this, why now?

She closed her eyes, hoping the pain wouldn’t last long. She began to cry, apologizing to her own womb, that the life inside wouldn’t see the world she’d been so expectant to understand and journey on together.

The beskesiyuk huddled closer, closer, letting the air hold them. Maybe they whispered to the winds, “we need your help, steady yourself against our wings, just for a while” or maybe they asked the clouds to give them some space.

They layered their wings over one another, and even stacked their regal bodies a few layers thick, knowing the woman who was falling was pregnant with life, and would need extra support. They smoothed their feathers and took a deep breath, and when they caught her, they sighed with relief.

Slowly, slowly, they lowered her, gliding left and right, left and right, a rhythm to put a baby or an exhausted mother to sleep, just for a moment or two.

She opened her eyes suddenly.

A pilgrimage, she knew, can be a difficult journey, one often taken alone.

But to her surprise, she wasn’t alone. She was being held, and not just being held, but tenderly and slowly being lowered down to the waiting ground. How did they see her, notice her, and why did they care?

Why would geese care for a woman with a handful of seeds?

Why would they care about an outsider looking for home?

Mshike waited patiently, their shell shined clean from the algae, the stones, the water and mud that had rubbed against it year after year after year.

Turtle was old. They knew it was time to give something new to the next generation, but what? Then they heard what the geese were up to. They worked with others to gather the dirt, to begin forming the land.

They just needed some seeds. Where might those come from?

In the steady lowering, Skywoman slept. It was the deepest sleep for being the shortest nap; she woke up with relief, but she felt shy and embarrassed. She’d just been in such distress, a stranger in a new land, and these creatures caught her, held her, waited as she slept.

They fed her body and her soul.

Yes, these geese accepted her, but would everyone else? Once they reached the ground, once their lives bumped up against the lives of those already established, what then?

Then she saw the turtle, and she knew.

Turtle felt the weight of her as she descended upon their back. They let their legs sink down into the mud a little, knowing this was it, this time, this sacred moment to welcome and hold someone who would change everything.

That’s what happens, isn’t it? Turtle thought.

We are changed by those who show up at our doors looking for home.

In an instant, Turtle felt themself changing. Their arms were becoming roots, their shell becoming land, the mud and water around them soaking up all the generous energy from below, from the depths, to draw life upward. And this woman would receive it all with care and love.

Mshike smiled as they became the earth.

Skywoman lay with her back against the new earth. Deep below the surface, she could feel the pulsing heartbeat of Mshike, this new friend who gave up their entire being to become the foundation of everything. She would always remember.

Once she was recovered enough, she got up and walked around, dropping the seeds into the fresh dirt with gentleness. She sang a song for each one, a song for their future, for the future world and creatures and peoples waiting to be born.

She was a visitor here, and yet, this was her home. She was its future, too.

I’ve been sitting with the story of Skywoman for about a week now, as we watch Donald Trump target immigrants across the nation, as he spews hate and wartalk, as he singles out the most vulnerable and rewards violence, greed, racism, and hate.

Skywoman is an immigrant, who came from another land. The animals met her with kinship and solidarity; they cared for her as she began her new journey.

May we be like the geese, like Turtle. May we show up to those who are showing up at our doorsteps, falling through our skies, longing to be part of the future, longing to plant the seeds they’ve been gathering in their pockets, seeds that will become a part of this sacred earth we all share.

A quick hello to folks who are new to our community—welcome! I’m Kaitlin, an Indigenous poet-storyteller, public speaker, and award-winning author.

Most especially, I’m a complex human who wants to be part of healing in the world, and I think that’s probably why you’r here, too. I love this community; I love the care we’ve created here, and I hope you feel that as you arrive.

I love sharing stories with you all subscribers here, but if you’d like a closer look at some of my life and want to have access to monthly writing sessions, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to support my work:

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Mostly, I just want to thank you for being here. Please let me know in the comments what brought you here, what you hope to learn, or a little of your story. It means the world to me to get to know the community and see it grow in kinship and care.

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And one last thing!

June 25th I have a zoom workshop on how we build our resistance through community. I hope you’ll consider joining us; just bring yourself, a journal, a soft place to land, and an open heart, and I’ll take care of the rest.

Can’t wait to see you there!

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