how’s your grip today?

Well my friend, my computer bit the dust two days ago. I’ve been on borrowed time for a while and, I’m sorry to say, the machine is no more.

sniffle. I loved that thing. We wrote many many pages together.

And apparently I’m one discerning – er, picky – girl when it comes to my computer. I know this because I’ve declined two that have landed on my doorstep and am awaiting the arrival of the holy grail of my new machine.

Or so I hope.

In the meantime, I’m writing this on the blessed Mailchimp app that I had to download onto my little phone.

Because who wants to write a blog / newsletter on a phone keyboard?

I’m sure someone does but it isn’t me. Unless there is no other option. Then I’ll do it.

Which I am.

So this is me making it work over here.

And I know you’re making it work in your own ways over there.

Because that’s what we do.

We make it work.
In as compassionate, courageous and loving a way as we can, we make it work.

This moment, this day, this year, this life.

We shape that which we are given.

I think for now, all I want to share is this.
A reminder of sorts.
A momentary anchor if you choose.
A bit of ground if you desire.

Shape that which you are given.

This clay is just for you.

Much love from this little screen and keyboard of mine,

p.s. Godspeed new computer… may we find each other soon.

PRY Reopening Announcement

It’s humid as a rainforest here on my oak canopied block in North Carolina. I just returned from a walk with a dear neighbor friend and it was heavenly to come home into air conditioning, a technology that I sometimes fight against.
But right now, I’m super duper grateful for it. phew.

And so, I’d like to welcome you to another air conditioned space!
Check out this video to walk through my new office!!!

And since an office isn’t much good without some clients, here is my new and improved scheduling tool!
My business over the past 7 years has been a living, breathing organism.
It’s inhaled and exhaled.
It’s expanded and contracted.

Just like you have in your own way.

My work in yoga therapy is to help other’s navigate the sticky parts of their lives. Whether it’s something tricky for the mind, the heart, or the body, we’ve got a deep toolkit we can dive into together to help you worry less, sleep better and find more space in the hard stuff.

This approach is how I take care of me.
It’s how I have the space and perspective to write in the way that I do.
And to see my life in the way that I do.

Before I leave you, I want to share 5 reasons why I know we’d have fun together helping you too…

#1 Because we both adore our families and friends and want to give the best parts of us to themAlways.

#2 Because we both know we should move our bodies – and that we feel better after doing it – but it can feel SO hard to motivate to do it in the first place. (SOOOOOOOO hard.)

#3 Because we both yearn for an undercurrent of calm in this hustle bustle of “return to normal-ish” 2021.

#4  Because we both know we can’t change some (er… many) of the hard parts of life, but we can always build more inner strength, stability, and flexibility both in our minds and in our bodies. 

#5 Because we’re both insatiable learners. And we’ll never stop growing or wanting to do more than we do right now.

If that’s you, then let’s talk about how a session could be the just-right-for-you support that you need right now. You can book a 20 minute complimentary consultation so we can have exactly that chat.

Or if it’s been over a year since we last met but you already know you want to come in for a full session, you can book a 60 minute “new client” session. (Even if it’s not your very first session, if it’s been a while since you were with live with me, I’d like you to register with this link.)

I’ve got a little half smile on my face right now. Which is partly because Mira – my cat – is beside me on the bench and she’s super soft. And it’s also because I’m excited nervous to get back in the office and to help you get further down the road that you want to be on.

I hope “excited nervous” touches you in the mix today too. Whether it’s about signing up for a session together or about something else, may you find a way to push into your own new and courageous next step.

Just a tad. Just a taste. We step forward together.

With gratitude,

p.s. Here’s that scheduling link again. Stay cool and well today.

ready for your power play

There is doing. And there is stillness.

It all exists at once, in the same moment.

Look down and you see one thing, look up and you see another.

Look around and you see one thing, look in and you see another.

You have the

to pause.

You have the

to stop.

You have the

to Be.


Just wow.

This life pulses and quakes beneath your skin as in the air around you.

It’s worth it to be Here, I promise.

In the Real. In the Now.
It’s worth a look around and up.

Be well friend,

p.s. Forward this along to someone who could use a reminder of their own strength and power.

an interview!? on moi!!!

So, we went to the beach a couple of weeks ago. And camped our little booties off in the pop-up tent trailer. (Evidence above.)

It was sweaty, salty and super sunny.

Sounds spectacular, right?

Weirdly, it was. And is. Because the contrast of discomfort to comfort was so stark – as it always is camping at Frisco campground on Cape Hatteras National Seashore – that the fleeting moments of balance were heavenly. And I’d do it all over again. (Which I have many times since I was born and intend to do many more times before I die.)

Meanwhile, I missed writing you.
But air and space create the necessary contrast with connection.
And silence beautifully contrasts with words.

So that was silence. This is words. And this next thing is some more words.

Recently, a publication called VoyageRaleigh asked to profile me for an interview. Which was great fun because I’ve had quite a few people over the years ask me that familiar question we all know, “How did you end up doing what you do?”

So, here’s your chance to learn more.

Take a pause with me and read it now,

I’m grateful you keep showing up here at my blog. I’m grateful I keep showing up here at my blog.

Because I know this place makes me a better writer, yoga therapist, mother / wife / daughter / sister / friend / neighbor / on and on, and simply a better all-around human being.

Oh, and partly because I missed our last connection and (er – mostly) because I want to share some stuff with you, you’ll get two other short emails from me this week,
one on Thursday and one on Saturday. 

Thanks for being with me.
Now and always as we tred this big ol’ ball we call Earth.

With gratitude,

p.s. If you read the interview and you’re sparked to connect, just drop me a note back (hit “reply” to this email) or leave a comment on the article. I’d be super psyched to hear from you.

all I’ve ever asked for is…

When courage bubbles up, I’ve learned something important for me. About me. I must jump on the moment – this very moment of flames jumping skyward – to take action. Because I know that this specific flavor of action for me is a passing wind. It isn’t a constant breeze.

And I sit and wonder, have I cooked enough?

For this idea or that action?
For this opportunity or that possibility?

Is my knowledge cooked enough?
Is my skill cooked enough?
Has the timer gone off yet?

And why, may I ask, isn’t there a timer on this brain of mine anyway? Can’t it tell me when I’m ready already? Like a label maker (out the back of my head maybe) that spits out the little white strip of block print, “READY.” Or when the stove completes its pre-heat and beeps. Or the little pin pops out so you know “Turkey done!”

That’s all I’m asking for from this body-mind-heart mashup of me.

Is that really too much to ask?

Because sometimes / many times, I’m not sure if I’m the hydrangea on the left or the one on the right.

Am I at my peak and of many shades of lovely and ripeness in my blues and purples?

Or am I barely there, mostly green with a blossom or two that has saturated with color?

I don’t know. I really don’t. And most days it doesn’t matter.

But today, as I stare at these two flowers, I really do wonder. Which of these beautiful blooms mirrors my brain? Which one tells me what I need to know about where I’m at? About where I’m going?

And I suppose I know the answer. The simple truth – as it always is.

Right. Both show me where I’m at,
both show me where I’ve been,
both show me where I’m going. Both.

I am both.

We are both,
you and me.

Huh. Look at us.
Look at us in green. Look at us in bloom.

We’re really quite remarkable, you know.

With love and admiration,

rachel, remember this…

To: Me
From: Me
CC: You

Dear Me,

I have something that I’d like to remind you (me) of.

We tend to look back on our lives and see how things worked out. We marvel at how we made it through. Or lament at how crappy it was at the time. Or pine for how good it was at the time.


The more we embrace where we are, when we’re here, the easier and more enjoyable life is.

Not easy. But possible.

With practice of attention to and kindness for the moment.

Kindness to self, kindness to others, kindness to whatever shows up.

The good stuff and the seeming bullshit.
And the real and true bullshit.

All of it, as Ram Dass would say, grist for the mill.

This is how our experience of life can change.

How it can transmorph in our hands,
alchemize in our minds
and flow into shimmering rivers of gold.

See the current there?
Ah, how it ripples and rolls.

Let it in. Let this life in just an ounce more.
Breathe in, breathe out, look around, you are here.

With love and admiration as you (me) wind your way,

she showed up… we followed orders

I sit and write as my kids play downstairs.

That’s bologney. They’re actually on screens watching some movie. Which is a bit of an anomaly mid-day but Mama needs what Mama needs and right now it’s time to write.

And what happened just before this, well, that’s a bit of an anomaly too.

We planted flowers. Just beside the brick front porch. One for each kiddo. And you looking at the pic above can probably tell me what the flowers are.

But I know that each one took “partial to full shade” and that’s what I go for in our yard of humongous leafed out hardwoods.

Oh, and 8 year old Ruthie was adamant that we get mulch with the little trio of flowers.
So we did.

When we got home, she wanted to put her plant in the backyard instead of the front. “Ru, your flower will do better up here with the others,” I said.

She paused, steeled herself and caught my eye, “But his lily is all alone!”

I suddenly got it.

I had missed why she wanted her flower back there.
I had missed why she wanted mulch.

But now I got it.

For the back garden around Thomas’ lily.

Which we planted three years ago, about a week after his service.

A dear – dearest – heart friend came over that morning.
When she popped the back of her SUV, my jaw dropped.
Shovels, pitchforks, bags of soil and mulch piled upward toward the ceiling.

“I didn’t know what you had,” she said with her signature single shoulder shrug and near-imperceptible tilt of the head.

She proceeded to instruct us as any good captain does,
Dig here, soil there, stomp here, mulch there.

And she came with more than her knowledge, more than her gardening tools.

She came with her heart, open to the hard.

The hard of loss and un-takebackable death.

And the healing of togetherness.

Of sacred acts.

Of doing something that marked the here and Now of his death,
linked to then and There of his life.

To laugh and share grief with someone who knew grief was elixir.
That dearest of friends knows her own grief.

Not our’s.
But her’s.
Which after all might as well be our’s.

Not her grief.
Not my grief.
Not your grief.

Our grief.
The grief.

And, true to The Grief, there’s no straight line from before to next.

Because, you see, we planted 3 lilies that day. But today, 3 years later, only 1 lily remains. And I doubt from its position it’s even 1 of the original 3.

Voles apparently love lily bulbs. Squirrels and rabbits supposedly love their flowers.

The survival of those initial plants in their act of healing was challenged from day one.


There’s that other lily now. An off shoot of what we’d planned and initially planted.
That new lily is waiting for care.

And we’re caring for it.

This year we got some squirrel and whatever else repellent that apparently smells like carnivorous animals. (I don’t wish for gardening advice here but if you must then feel free to send along.)

So I guess that’s a thing to remember.

The initial healing was oh so right for the moment.
And now it’s spread into something new.
As healing tends to do.
And this coming weekend when Ruthie and I get a few more plants to befriend the lily, The Healing will evolve into something else.

The Healing is in the moment. It’s always in the moment.

May you feel that your grief and your healing for the world – and for you – is not alone.
Is never alone.
That it’s spreading,
that it’s evolving.
That it’s challenged but not defeated,
ever finding a way.

With love and faith,

p.s. If you know someone who needs to know they’re not alone in The Grief and The Healing, forward this along. Don’t hesitate, please. We need each other.

the spotlight, the floodlight and the lighthouse

You hold a most precious resource.

It’s not your intelligence.
It’s not your time.
It’s not your money.

It is
your attention.

Your attention’s a light,
a spotlight focused and still,
a floodlight wide and deep,
a lighthouse swoop and sweep.

The spotlight shines on the ever morphing Now.
The floodlight shines on the inner and outer buffet of the senses.
The lighthouse shines on the infinite expanse of time and space.

It is your choice,
it is your way.

It is your silver, your gold and your platinum.
It is your diamond of facets aplenty.

Where do you choose to shine the light of your attention?
What do you choose to look toward?
How do you choose to see?

With great love and admiration,

where love meets loss

The sun doesn’t set.
It disappears as we spin onward and in place, all at once.

It rests there, just beyond the horizon, hidden from searching eyes.

It melts and spills over creep crawling earth.

Coating bay waters, rushing sands, splicing scrub pines.

We feel its residual light.
We see the shadows left behind.
The fuzzy soft edges to what was clear and sharp.

Where we can no longer see, we now listen and feel.

There is a softening. There is a spreading.

The light washed forth as a bucket of water tossed upon a floor of stone,
up and over and between and through.

We take what we are given.
A sunset, a moonrise.
We take what we are given

and rest in.

Sending love and rest your way,

a concert for grandpa

Five year old Nora is sitting at the piano.

Her Grandpa – my husband’s father – slowly makes his way down the stairs.

One careful step at a time, mindful foot after mindful foot,
he arrives in the sprawling basement.

Nora sits at the piano and presses,
Plink.                                   Plink.                                   Plunk.

A classically trained pianist many moons ago, Grandpa stands beside her, one gnarled hand steadies him on the wall.

His walker waits at the top of the stairs.

“She’s got a soft touch, doesn’t she?” Grandma says from her perch across the room.

And more to himself than in reply, Grandpa muses with his eyes upon this little girl,
“She can hear what she’s playing.”

A silent echo bolds the air.
That echo hangs in the moment.
This freeze frame swallows the entire universe in it’s Truth.

She hears what she is playing.

His words. Those words.
They are the magic of a life.

When we can hear what we are saying.
When we can feel what we are playing.
When we can see what we are doing.

This music is sublime.

Shhh… quiet now.