what i’m into :: may 2015.

I seem to be getting into an every-other-month “What I’m Into” update, which is fine by me, given LIFE and LOVE and all that glorious stuff.  We’ve settled, for the most part, into life on the other side of the bay, and we’re getting to know our neighbors and the neighborhood.  We seek to lean into each other as we continue to swim in a sea of change, but in all actuality, it’s pretty dreamy fit of a place for our little family.  xo.  

First in pictures, here’s some of what we’ve found ourselves doing the past couple of months:

Going to the zoo with our friends (while the littles pose for what is sure to be their future cover album):

IMG_4759

Getting hugs, inside and out, from family for Easter:

IMG_4779

Living the actual, day-of Easter dream in our own living room:

IMG_4787

Doing a bit of speaking, here and there:

IMG_4812

Cheering on soccer studs (who’d rather mass-tackle the net):

IMG_4908

And wearing Superman and Strawberry Shortcake capes for a date night gala supporting this organization:

IMG_4827

Otherwise, including April’s picks, I read a few books…

To Kill a Mockingbird (Lee, 5/5) – This is quite possibly one of the best books of all time.  If you haven’t read it since 9th grade English, do yourself a favor and dust it off the shelf (and read yesterday’s post about four essential books on race here).

The Girl on the Train (Hawkins, 3/5) – This obviously got a lot of hype (including a brilliant publicity campaign, to boot).  And I liked it, but it didn’t quite enthrall me like Gone Girl.  

God’s Forever Family (Eskridge, 4/5) – Given my family’s connection to the Jesus People movement (and my own history in the Evangelical church), this book was a terribly fascinating must-read.

Dinner: The Playbook (Rosenstrach, 4/5) – I mean, it made me do this, so that’s something!

IMG_4960Embracing the Body (Owens, 5/5) – Be sure to check in next week for the intro discussion at the Red Couch Book Club about this book (which I’m leading).  I’m also giving away a copy!

Some Girls (Lauren, 3/5) – Jillian Lauren is a talented memoirist, and her story of life in a harem is crazy-unbelievable-wow.

Between You & Me (Norris, 3/5) – I typically like nerdy English grammar and punctuation books, but this one was just a bit off.  

We Were Liars (Lockhart, 4/5) – You know me, I’m a fan of YA, and this book, although the subject matter is heavy at best, was fabulous.

Lila (Robinson, 5/5) – Marilynne Robinson is a master weaver of All Things Story.  Can I be just like her when I grow up?

Brideshead Revisited (Waugh, 5/5) – Another five-star read, wit + historical fiction + intriguingly edible characters make this one a sure winner.

I’ll Give You the Sun (Nelson, 5/5) – Seriously, I can’t get enough of Jandy Nelson’s use of figurative language in this YA read.  You can read more about four five-star reads here.

The Paying Guests (Waters, 3/5) – Les lit meets murder mystery.  Who knew?

Searching for Sunday (Evans, 5/5) – Rachel Held Evans does it again in her best book yet.  If you’ve ever found yourself searching for Sunday, this is a must-read.

And the following books are currently on my nightstand…

Go Tell It on the Mountain; Babyproofing Your Marriage; 11/22/63

I’m staring at this on the boob-tube…

Thanks to a rec from Micha, we consumed The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt last night; otherwise, I’m slowly making my way through 30 Rock.  Because, it’s national All Things Tina Fey in my house and in my world.

And I’m writing…

Posts.  Articles (some of which you’ll see in the next month or two).  A new book proposal, set for full attention come July.  So, if you want to read more, click here for eight ways blogging made me a better writer.  Or, if you want to laugh, read about how Frodo has FOMO.  Cry: check out my post on rewriting a picture of motherhood.  Think differently: yesterday’s discussion on whether or not kids see color.

Finally, we’ve been leaning into life on the home front, with each other and with our neighbors: 

In the front yard:

IMG_4833

In the back yard:

IMG_4849

And on our block:

IMG_4984

As usual, I’m linking up with the lovely Leigh Kramer, who’s moving to my neck of the woods in less than a month …Yippee!  Hooray!  Huzzah!  Bam!  Pow!  Yes!

What about you?  What have you read in the last month or two?  Where have you gone, and what have you done?  And mmm …what have you eaten?  Do share!

FYI: This post contains Amazon Affiliate links, so if you click on a link and buy the book, you go to support my nasty reading habits!

do kids see color? (& other musings…)

I’m not passionate about racial equality because I married a black man.

I’m also not passionate about racial equality because we live in a city that prides itself on diversity, or because I’ve been waywardly influenced by a leftist Bay Area agenda, or because I stake claim to a God of extreme justice and mercy toward all humanity.

But no.

I’m passionate about racial equality because I’m passionate about human beings.

You may remember the discussion the HBH and I have been having with our young boy, when we’re driving and when we’re hiking, when we’re at the park and when we’re walking down Lakeshore toward our favorite frozen yogurt shop.

“Who’s that?” almost three-year-old Cancan asks aloud.

“That’s a person.”

“Who’s that?”

“That’s a person, too.”

“Why?”

“Well, because persons are humans.”

“Why?”

Well, because humans matter, buddy.  You and me, we matter.  And every single person on this earth, they’re humans, and they matter just because they’re humans.”

So in that way, when we gather with the people around us, we want and we desire for our children to see the beauty – the Beauty – of diversity that exists in our neighborhood. We want them to see the Chinese family to our right, and the childless white couple to our left.  We want them to know the lesbians and the older Japanese couple and the Latino family and the young black and Puerto Rican family who live 1-2-3-4, like ducks in a row across the street.

But then this question pops up:

“You say you want the boys to grow up in a place in which there’s people who look like Mommy and Daddy,” one friend said to me, “but do they really see color?  Do they actually know the difference?”

And I don’t know the answer to that question.

I do know that a year or so ago, during our nightly dancing ritual, Cancan looked at a static picture of Bruno Mars on the screen and shouted, “Dada!”  When Kelly Clarkson appeared, Mama.  And when the gorgeous face of Alicia Keys floated by, (the even more gorgeous) Nana.

So was my son merely making associations, or did neurological connections actually represent something deeper?

I’m choosing to believe that he what he sees before him, who he sees before him, is making a difference and an impact in his life.

And that seeing it matters.

I want him to live and breathe and find his being surrounded by red and yellow, black and white.  And, lest you think that this Sunday School song is over too soon, I want him to come to intrinsically know and believe that all are precious in His sight.

I want him to fight when he encounters injustice, to speak for those who can’t speak for themselves.  I want him to listen more than he speaks and I want him to not only see that kid standing by himself in the corner, but offer kindness to that kid standing in the corner.  I want him to learn to love those that don’t look like him and act like him, believe like him or play like him.  But more than anything, I want him to believe so deeply not the races but in The Race, as in the whole human race, with all its intricate, delicate, beautiful mess.  

Maybe, at the end of the day, the question of seeing and appreciating race is not just a yes, but it’s a transcendence and an awareness over the yes.  For our family, we continue to live in the both/and: we live intentionally and we “church” intentionally in places that we’re not alone in our diversity.  But we also don’t discriminate or show bias about who enters our lives – we don’t base our relationships on a model of affirmative action.

But we do live in the beauty and the tension.

We do live in the in-between and the holy not-yet.

As I hope you do as well.

So, want to know more?  Educate yourself.

Purposefully make friends with someone who doesn’t look like you.

Get to know a culture you’re not familiar with.

Join a cause, join the cause.  Don’t glaze over Black Lives Matter headlines, but get involved.  Be the movement.

Read.  Be educated.  Here are four of my favorite books that engage issues of race, three of which are fiction (because fiction, as we all know, is so full of truth):

Image

To Kill a MockingbirdA classic.  And a must re-read if you haven’t read it since your 9th grade English class.  We discussed this the other night at book club, and marveled over what it must have meant to America when it won the Pulitzer in ’61, at the start of the Civil Rights Movement.  I can’t even imagine.  (And a must re-read, as Lee’s Go Set a Watchman comes out in July).

Go Tell It on the MountainI’m actually reading this book right now, but am entrenched in the harsh beauty and reality of the Christian church in the lives of African Americans in Baldwin’s semi-autobiographical novel.

AmericanahA brilliant modern-day read that I’ve talked about before.  Click here to read more.

Just MercyAbsolutely, hands-down the best non-fiction book I’ve read this year (and one I’m trying to get every human I come in book-contact with to read).  You can read more of my thoughts here, but otherwise, run, run, run to the library or to Amazon or to your local bookstore and pick it up.

Let’s continue to enter the beauty and the tension together.

xo, c.

What about you?  Do you agree or disagree with my words?  Do kids see color?  Does this discussion matter?

rituals: a kind of grace (rachel marie stone).

As per the day would suggest, Tuesday has again arrived and so has its guest post counterpart. Today’s writer, Rachel Marie Stone, weaves words together in such a way that before you know it you’ve let loose a big sigh and you’ve breathed a deep breath of grace and joy. And this morning’s post will no less do the same for you. Enjoy – enjoy, enjoy! – Miss Rachel’s words today.  

pbandj

I used to think that a life governed by ritual would be a difficult life.

When, as a pre-teen, I read Gone With the Wind, I thought it must have been burdensome for Scarlett O’Hara to follow the rules of dress and food and manners: which kind of clothes to wear at what times, when and whether to eat or not eat, how and to whom to speak.

“Don’t you think it would have been hard to live then, with all those rules?” I asked my grown-up cousin.

“Maybe,” my cousin said, “but maybe there’s another way to look at it — there wouldn’t be a lot of questions. You would know what’s expected of you. No surprises, you know.”

At times in my life I have taken rituals as a rebuke to my own tendency to improvise; to chart my own course. Now in my third decade, I sense how ritual alleviates a burden, and therefore functions as a kind of grace.

As a worshiping Episcopalian, my religious life is largely shaped by ritual. Like C.S. Lewis — Anglican that he was — I experience liturgy as freedom; the language holds my faith for me when my anxious heart and distracted mind can’t.

Most days, I wake first. I go downstairs, I turn off the outside lights as the sun is rising. I grind the coffee, heat the water, press it down. I pour cream, pour coffee, sit on the couch, and drink. I read or do not read my book; stare or do not stare at the birds in the tree outside my window.

When the cup is two-thirds empty, I go into the kitchen, arrange the boys’ lunch containers on the counter, and begin preparing their lunches and snacks.

There are rules: each boy must have a clean cloth for both lunch and snack; four cloths. Nuts are permitted at lunchtime, but not at snacktime. Graeme will eat Nutella, but never jam; ‘everything’ bagels, but never plain.

Aidan eats peanut butter or cream cheese, never Nutella. There will always be fresh fruit or vegetables, or both, cut neatly for Graeme; kept whole for Aidan.

I arrange each element with care. When I make the sandwiches, I realign the cut halves of the crisp rolls. I fold the clean cloths and tuck them inside their bags. I zip them closed.

Then, as I finish my coffee, I lay out two small plates, and begin to prepare their breakfasts.

I used to think that a life governed by ritual would be a difficult life. These days I taste and smell and sense in ritual a comforting alleviation; a lifting of a burden. A kind of grace.

screenshot-2014-05-07-20-22-27Rachel Marie Stone is a regular columnist for The Englewood Review of Books and has contributed to Christianity Today, InTouch, OnFaith, Books and Culture, The Christian Century, and Sojourners, among other publications. Her first book, Eat With Joy: Redeeming God’s Gift of Food, won the CT Book Award for Christian Living. She is also the author of The Unexpected Way, a book about the Gospels for children. Rachel lives near Philadelphia with her husband and two sons. You can find her blogging on food, family, faith, and justice at Patheos and follow her on Twitter at @Rachel_M_Stone.  Cara again: Don’t Rachel’s words bring about a sigh of relief, a letting go of the internal pressure valve?  Leave her a comment with your encouragement today.

my big fat memorial weekend.

This weekend, in no particular order, I noncommittally plan to do all or none of the following:

1.  Read this book:

to-kill-a-mockingbird-one-sheet

Because the Sassy Ladies Book Club is discussing it next week.  And I haven’t read it since I taught it ten years ago.  AND, of course, Harper Lee’s much-anticipated Go Set a Watchman comes out in July.

2. Most likely watch Frodo move from scooting to officially crawling.  (This, otherwise known as Life, As We Know It, Is Officially Over).  

3.  Find a mountain.  Hike said mountain.

4.  Host a neighborhood front-yard BBQ on Memorial Day.

5.  Go swimming with this dude:

IMG_49586.  Walk two blocks up Wesley and three blocks down MacArthur to the Farmer’s Market.  Buy lettuce and Heirloom tomatoes, strawberries and cherries, asparagus (because it makes you a Super Duper Hopper, according to Cancan), broccoli and kale.

7.  See some of My People.

8.  Keep the laptop closed. Ain’t no need for technology this weekend.

9.  Set up my Mother’s Day present:

simple.b-cssdisabled-jpg.hf77d0460a2bbd4e2643ebd2129d322a1.pack

(And, get proof of my bad sleeping habits. Also automatically become an incredibly fast runner and super stretcher, as evidenced by the woman in the above picture).

10.  Visit the chickens in our neighbors’ backyard, including one Cancan has named “Here Chicky Chicky.”  Actually, I think they’re all named “Here, Chicky Chicky,” but neither party seems to be offended by the lack of originality.

11.  And really, really exciting: Find and install closet organizational systems so we can also officially unpack the rest of our moving boxes.

Boom!

What about you?  Are you staying close to home or trekking faraway for 3-day weekend adventures?  Also, feel free to leave your best advice for talking the HBH out of seeking closet organizational systems this weekend. 

*Full disclosure: Above post contains Amazon Affiliate links.

rituals: right foot first (idelette mcvicker).

Oh friends, you are in for a treat (always).  Today’s writer is one of my favorites, even if we still haven’t met face to face.  She’s a wild and sassy, leaning into the Holy woman; she’s a world-changer and a Seven on the Enneagram (so I feel especially linked, soul to soul). So join me in welcoming the lovely Idelette …and enjoy her words today.  

Flickr Creative Commons: Alex Cairncross.
Flickr Creative Commons: Alex Cairncross.

I always enter my sacred writing space in the basement of our home with my right foot first.

It’s the simplest of acts. Call it my Threshold Ritual.

It’s the way I step out of daily life and summon the Holy to come meet me. Please?

This is the place where the door gets closed and I can sit and pray and read and journal and be. It’s a place of deep gratitude.

Love has built this room.

It started with generosity from friends poured out one Christmas, when the women decided I needed a room of my own.

They secretly rallied and gathered and hustled and collected. And on the day of our monthly SheLoves editorial meeting, they gathered in our living room and turned the tables on me.

They surprised me in the most beautiful way. They handed me an envelope with a generous amount and said, Go. Make your room the way you want it.

This outpouring of Love watered my dry places and oiled the future I dreamed of.

So, we converted the playroom with the green walls and bleach stain on the carpet to my personal writing space. We ripped out the old carpet and Scott painted the walls a light blue deep into the night, in the midst of also opening our restaurant.

Now I get to play in here. I can close the door on four children, the telephone and my darling extroverted husband. Here, my soul can be restored. Hallelujah.

I found a tiny tufted blue leather couch on Craigslist. An orange juju hat on Etsy and shipped it in from France. I sanded and painted and waxed a discarded desk from my kids’ school. Slowly, but surely my global eclectic room began to take shape.

Still, something was missing. I wanted to honor it by establishing it as a sacred space in my mind. I needed something—a sacred ritual.

Then, while reading Natalie Goldberg’s book “The True Secret of Writing,” she described the instructions to students on her writing retreats. Note number two reads:

“Please be on time at beginning of morning, afternoon, and evening sessions. Step in and out of the zendo with your right foot.”

A tiny bell went off in my heart. I could do that, I thought.

I could establish my square space in the basement as a sacred writing space by this one simple act. It seemed easy enough.

The next time I walked through the door of my writing space, I remembered to put my right foot first. I walked in and immediately something felt different. I began to be mindful that this place is a gift. The time I get to spend in this room is precious. I imagined God meeting me right here.

I became mindful of the words God spoke to Moses: “… this place where you are standing is holy ground.” (Exodus 3:5)

I began walking out in the same way, simply remembering my new practice, one day at a time. One entry at a time. One exit at a time.

I began to be mindful as I entered and it became a prayer: Thank you, God, for this space. Thank you for these friends who loved me in this way. Thank you for what You want to do in me in this space today. Thank You for wanting to meet me here.

Sometimes I pray in words. Sometimes my body exhales the big thank you as I step across the threshold. In and out.

It’s been nearly a year of always entering and leaving in this way. Right foot first. This small ritual a part of me already. Established.

I come to the door, grateful.

I come to the door, expecting to meet God.

I come to the door, hopeful.

I step right foot first, heart lifted in praise, body poised. Love has built this room. Together, we have sent an invitation to the future. When I enter, I imagine crossing the threshold of my dreams and then I sit to do the work.

In leaving, again I say, Thank you.

Always, Thank You.

Thank you, God, for what You’ve done here. Thank You for what You do in me. May my life and my words be acceptable in Your sight.

10441244_380013148844953_490242883243910659_nHi! I am an Afrikaner woman, born and raised in South Africa during Apartheid. That story has woken me up to the injustice and inequality in my own heart, my own neighbourhood and our larger world. I’ve lived on three continents and wherever I am now, I am home. Sixteen years ago, I married a cheeky Canadian and moved to Vancouver. We have three children (11, 10 and 7) and SheLovesmagazine.com is my fourth baby, now raised and nurtured by our beautiful village. I love Sisterhood and I imagine it as a beautiful, subversive antidote to injustice. This Chinese proverb expresses my heart: When sleeping women wake, mountains move. I bake bread, wear leopard prints and love dramatic shoes. I am happy sipping spicy chai, plain lattes or a bold red. I’d say my practice is charismatic contemplative and if I wanted you to know only thing about me, it’s this: Jesus is my hero. You can find Idelette in a number of places: on Twitter, on Instagram, on Facebook at Idelette, at SheLovesmagazine.com and on her blog at Idelette.com.  Otherwise, how did Idelette’s words touch you today?  Leave her some LOVE in the comment box below!

Frodo has FOMO.

IMG_4844
This is Frodo. He has FOMO.

I have a problem.

I have birthed little FOMO babies.  True to the century they were born in, the miniature humans who live in our house suffer from extreme Fear of Missing Out.  This is not an affliction that solely affects the twenty-somethings in our midst, but it is a clear and present danger in our house.  Especially at 2:30 in the morning.

2.30.

Two hyphen thirty.  Letter A.  Letter M.  

Unless you are working the graveyard shift – which, as one nurse-friend of mine said the other day, is her idyllic shift, “because all the patients are asleep!” – or happen to be named Edward Cullen, no human should be up at this hour.  (Parents of newborns are a rare exception: Congratulations! Welcome to parenthood! This is what bonds us together. Coffee was invented just for you. Early morning hang-outs are also your newfound birth control).  And this list of humans not being up at this hour includes almost nine month old little boy-humans who know better.

Because they know how to sleep through the night.

Now, I’m not naming names – FRODO – but when such a human decides to wake up at 11 and show the world – not naming names, but his MAMA – his laughing, singing, talking, screaming, gurgling, crying, eating, feeding, eye-rubbing skills, there’s got to be a better time for me to see witness such creativity.  I mean, I want to cheer on the little dude, but when the clock strikes midnight, and then 1 o’clock and then 2 o’clock, and my brain is quick-floating down the Mississippi on a log raft, I ain’t got time for this.

I got time for counting sheep and I got time for earplugs and I got time for warm and snuggly feather comforters and I got time for SLEEP.  But I ain’t got time for his little Up All Night shenanigans.  I did not sign up to chaperone the junior high lock-in, but I signed up to sleep.  

Or did I?

For when a so overly-tired little man just thinks you’re the bee’s knee’s and wants to snuggle lap-side, couch-side, chair-side and hip side for three hours, sometimes you just say yes.  And then when you finally realize his little FOMO party is never and will never come to a close if he’s the one calling the shots (and that it’s not actually an ear infection), you start playing Coach.  You drag the pack n play to the middle of the dining room, you sing “You are My Sunshine” for the 800th time that evening/morning/ungodly time of day, and then you close every in-between door in the house, and you have yourself a merry little five hours of sleep.

Because, after all, this is what stories are made of. 

And really, would we really have it any other way?

Night night!

So, what say you?  “Uh, Cara …wake up and smell the coffee beans, sister.”  “Did you think parenthood really warranted sleep-filled nights?  Mwah ah ah ah.”  Go ahead.  Carry on now.

rituals: spiritual practice on a living room floor (mindy haidle).

We aren’t even halfway through the year and I can honestly say that I LOVE Tuesdays. I love Guest Post Tuesdays, and I love the rituals, and I love the writers and I love the stories we’re exposed to here on be, mama. be. Today’s storyteller – and her words – are no exception, and she also happens to be one of my favorite people on this earth.  So, welcome Mindy back to this space, writer of last year’s “Not Dead Yet,” which still rings true in my ears today.  Enjoy to the greatest degree, enjoy. 

Photo cred: tricsr4kidz, Flickr Creative Commons.
Photo cred: tricsr4kidz, Flickr Creative Commons.

I used to think that truth, ritual and practice were learned from a teacher.  Imparted to you via the institutions of academia or faith, found within the walls of university or church.  Or a yoga studio.  Certainly not via something online.  And absolutely not through the soles of my own feet.  Here’s my story.

I’d been practicing yoga for over a decade when I discovered the appeal of being able to move my body on the mat while never leaving the front door.  I work full time and am a mother and the yoga schedules just never seem to work for me—and they’re damn expensive.

A friend, a fellow yogi, had told me about an online yoga program years ago—as many as five. And it just sounded strange, like how online dating sounds strange to people who got married before the Internet.

You see, I love attending yoga classes. I love any type of class, really. I crave sitting in rapt attention to an expert speak on a topic, listening, asking questions and soaking up every last detail. To glean endless truth and knowledge and understanding—who doesn’t want that?

Yoga classes were an extension of my obsession with school, which was really about receiving teacher feedback, which was really based in my desire for the approval and validation of third party authorities. Whew! There I said it. I wanted the expert to pat me on the head and say, “You are brilliant, Mindy. You are amazing. You are worthy.”

Naturally, when my friend mentioned these online classes, I didn’t get the draw. No feedback from the teacher? No way. Granted, it was a fraction of the cost—rounding in at $18 for an entire month of unlimited yoga contrasted with the $15 per class I would pay at the local studio. Cost benefit aside, my ego couldn’t do it. The external approval was too motivating.

Another two years passed before I’d consider it again.

How I started doing online yoga is less interesting than what happened when I actually did. Suffice to say, my hankering for more consistent yoga in my life coincided with a decrease in our family’s income.

I could no longer avoid online yoga.

Plus there was a two-week, no-strings-attached free trial period! Gotta love the Internet.

That was nearly three years ago and I’ve missed fewer than ten days on the mat since then. Sometimes habits and rituals take years to build. There are others that take hold overnight, start fire immediately and alter the course of your life.

Online yoga was the latter for me.

It was like water in the desert. Like peanut butter on jelly. Like Eric Liddell from the film “Chariots of Fire” saying, “When I run, I feel God’s pleasure.”

Something changed for me when I took my craving for approval out of the classroom, out of someone else’s hands and made it my own. Granted, I still am taking a class from a teacher; they still set the agenda for the class.

But it’s a streaming video, for heaven’s sake! They can’t give me any feedback more than Frank Underwood can tell you he likes your hair. I have to give myself the feedback—that I am enough. That I am strong. That I am showing up in my life. That I am lovable.

So the ritual itself: after my five-year-old son goes to bed around 8 or 9pm, I go put on my yoga clothes or pajamas. It doesn’t honestly matter.

I take out my yoga mat from the closet, put it on the living room carpet and open up my laptop. I go to the site, find a class that matches my time, intensity and mood for the night and start at once. For an hour or twenty or fifteen minutes, I am transported away from my job, piles of laundry and demanding family responsibilities.

No, actually, that’s not what happens.

In those tiny moments—however much I have—I am invited to step deeper into my life, to notice my body and soul. To listen to the sacred temple that is my flesh and blood—spirit embodied in me.

Amidst what feels like an insane life sometimes, I show up in full witness to all of it: I stand or sit or fold and feel it.

I listen to my breath.

The poses help me move the breath around. They remind me that my body and mind and spirit are capable of more than I know. The attention to breath enables me—on a good day—to acknowledge and calm my raging thoughts. Or at least not judge them as harshly.

My daily ritual of yoga is for me. No one else. There are no gold stars. No promises of money. No “A” on the report card.

This I do for my own joy, my own satisfaction. For my own well-being.

My therapist calls this self-care.

I call it heaven.

I do it every day because I don’t know how to be Mindy anymore without it. It’s not a chore. That doesn’t mean it’s always easy or fun.

But it’s single-handedly the best part of my day: over, and over, and over.

And it’s mine.

With my feet on the ground, I learn to feel my own worth, the weight of my soul, my incarnation. 

avatarMindy spends her days interviewing people about their dreams, hopes and disappointments on behalf of large American brands. Sometimes she’s a secret shopper, sometimes she’s sleuthing on the interwebs, but always asking questions, always seeking to know more. Mindy loves to cuddle while listening to classic rock. I know, I know – do you not love this woman, or what?  How did Mindy’s words strike a chord with you?