This year, I spotted the first wild violet in my yard a week before Middle Tennessee’s apocalyptic ice storm in late January. I would peek out at the bright purple weed through the window every frigid winter morning while I sipped my matcha tea, appreciating her elegant bravery while tamping down my dread. You see, I knew the ice storm was coming and doubted she would survive. And I was right . . . well, half-right.

The ice storm did come and its ferocity blindsided us. Thick, heavy limbs branching from long-established trunks buckled as the freeze-thaw cycle kicked in, toppling thousands of towering trees onto roofs, cars, powerlines, and roads. The entire region limped along for weeks, with work and school canceled, businesses closed indefinitely, and residents forced into shelters and hotels due to widespread power outages and collapsed roofs.

As we all began digging out, rebuilding, and returning to normalcy, I found my way back to the window one slushy February morning. I expected to pay my deepest respects to the wild violet, but, to my surprise, she was there. Her vivacious petals were slightly folded in, but her head was raised, her stem strong. I could hardly believe it, friends! Groves of sycamore and elm, oak and pine, fell under the burden of quick-freezing ice two weeks prior, but this soft, silken flower — buried for ten days under alternating layers of ice and snow — remained. In fact, she looked even brighter than before!

I became enamoured by the violet. Every day, as I took my tea at the window, I noticed how the morning sun inched ever closer to her tiny north-facing plot. Earth was tilting toward the vernal equinox as Spring hinted at her arrival. On one unusual 80-degree day in early March, I stepped out to greet the violet, bending low to examine her velvet petals and impossibly thin stem. Everything around her was brown and gray, but there she was — delicate, rooted, radiant.

Without a thought, I began gathering the river stones stashed in the far corner of our patio and built a small rock garden around the violet. As I did, a vision of black mulch, more river stones, and more plants to accompany this purple miracle emerged. And though I didn’t know it was happening, with each spade of soil I lifted, with each viola I potted, with each seed I planted, I was becoming an accidental gardener.

I’m still not very good at it, friends. If you have tips, please send them my way! I’ve bought a bunch of Burpee strawberry plants, but just when I’m ready to pick a ruby-ripe berry to enjoy with my breakfast, a greedy robin eats it off the vine. And I keep finding little holes in the peppermint leaves . . . what’s up with that? And the poor little thyme plant that I mistakenly nestled into a container with sun-loving plants — it’s absolutely dying to be in the shade. Did I mention that I have no idea what I’m doing?

But truth be told, I kind of love this unfolding, this beginner’s posture. It has given me an outlet for movement and self-focused care as I’ve been nursing a particularly nasty back injury, studying 6-8 hours a day, and keeping up with all the regular life things. And though I don’t necessarily need the science to back up all the good vibes I’ve been getting in my garden, it’s nice to know there’s plenty of research on what psychologists call “horticulture therapy.”

Common sense tells us what hundreds of studies have identified: time in nature is a natural mood booster, partly due to the break it gives us from “attention fatigue,” and partly due to the physical exercise it provides. Pulling weeds, spreading mulch, repotting plants, and composting are labor-intensive, but are also tasks that we can modify, allowing each gardener of any age or ability to move to their comfort level. Time spent outdoors moving our bodies also supports healthy circadian rhythms, balances dopamine and serotonin, and generally increases life satisfaction. (Bonus points if it’s a community garden where we’re moving out in nature alongside friends and neighbors.)

I also know from my own experience that, when I’m digging, planting, and moving dirt around, I feel like I’m playing. And play as a form of therapy supports something called vagal fluidity, which helps our nervous system move with more flexibility from fight and flight (the sympathetic nervous system) to calm, nourished, and recharged (the parasympathetic nervous system). Vagal fluidity is so significant to our overall health because we actually need both the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems — getting chronically stuck in one or the other is when our well-being declines. But play gives us that opportunity to flow freely — activated and safe. Psychotherapist Lauren Baird sums it up this way: “To play is to say: I am safe enough to be here. I am allowed to feel good. I am more than my productivity. I am alive. And that is where regulation begins.”

When so much in life demands that we go fast, hustle hard, know all the things, and keep all the plates spinning because the stakes are so high, it’s good to know that there is a little plot of land or containers on an apartment balcony calling us to play. Whether it is accidental or planned, these soft and simple things invite us to be barefoot and beloved on the earth. Leaning in and learning the language of living things — what they mean when their heads bow, what they need when the soil is dry, that it’s not always about more water — is giving me a space where I feel good, feel active, and feel calmed. These beauties, all gathered around the O.G. wild violet, are teaching me that playful, feel-good doing can start with something so small, so tender, like a glorious north-facing weed that survives a once-in-a-generation ice storm. Yes, sometimes it only takes a whisper to help us find those spaces just waiting for us to unearth a nourishing harvest.

WHAT I’M READING

Speaking of playful, feel-good doing, this week, I took a break from all the textbooks and continuing education platforms to remembered myself to my favorite short story in No One Belongs Here More Than You by Miranda July. The brief and awkward story brims with cringy humor and deep humanity that always moves me. But no part moves me more than the last lines:

Do you have doubts about life? Are you unsure if it is worth the trouble? Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person’s face as you pass on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. They are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing. Stand up and face the east. Now praise the sky and praise the light within each person under the sky. It’s okay to be unsure. But praise, praise, praise.

— Miranda July, from “The Shared Patio,” No One Belongs Here More Than You

WHAT I’M LISTENING TO

I’ve got an earworm, friends, and it’s Justin Bieber’s Coachella performance of Everything Hallelujah from his April 2026 performance. Can’t stop, won’t stop!

Wishing you color and hope and every good, gentle thing, friends. Wherever you are, I hope you’re safe and well.

Onward . . .

Forward . . .

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REFERENCES

Baird, L. (2025, July 9). Why play helps regulate your nervous system. This Works.
https://us.thisworks.com/blogs/wellness-hub/why-play-helps-regulate-your-
nervous-system-with-expert-lauren-baird

Soga, M., Gaston, K. J., & Yamaura, Y. (2017). Gardening is beneficial for health: A
meta-analysis. Preventive Medicine Reports, 5, 92–99.
https://doi.org/10.1016/j.pmedr.2016.11.007

Friends, many of you know that I’ve been studying at Pepperdine University’s Graduate School of Psychology, earning my master’s degree in clinical psychology. What seemed like an irrationality and impossibility when I first set out is a reality within my grasp: I am nearing the finish line for my coursework and preparing for my practicum year. Yeet!!! I can’t believe it! I have been working toward this degree, off and on, since 2021, and am actually seeing life on the other side of grad school.

As such, it is time for me to say goodbye to the more confessional ways I have shared on Instagram and Substack for all these Mending Space years.

I have never been shy about sharing my life, my struggles, my victories, and my heart in these online spaces. Sharing always made me feel connected to you and also gave me a way to say, “You’re not alone, friends. We can do all this hard stuff together.” So I shared. In first person. In the moment. With all my heart. You shared, too. And our glorious patchwork tapestry grew wider over the years.

Now, as I begin considering my new profession as a psychotherapist, along with the work I’ll be doing with colleagues, supervisors, and clients, ethical guidelines require me to consider the ways I share in a new light. In other words, as a soon-to-be practicing therapist, I have to be mindful about public self-disclosure.

To that end, on April 30, The Mending Space on Instagram will become a private “legacy” account so that I can keep the thousands of photos and captions I have posted over the past 14 years. If you follow The Mending Space on Instagram, you will still be a “follower” (I’ve never liked that term!) and will have access to the archive of 2,900 posts, but I will not post on Instagram after April 30, and the account will not be discoverable or accessible to new followers.

As for Substack, I have already turned off the subscription service. If you are a paid subscriber, you will no longer be charged. If you are a paid subscriber, you will also have archive access to all 101 articles at The Mending Space on Substack until your subscription term ends. If you are a free subscriber, articles will no longer be visible or accessible once I flip the final switch on April 30.

Phew. Ok, that’s the GOODBYE part . . .

Now for the HELLO . . .

I am staying right here at The Mending Space on Substack! Call it a renovation. Call it a revamp. But don’t call it a comeback, I’ve been here for years! In this new imagining of The Mending Space on Substack, articles will be less grounded in my personal stories and more rooted in research-based reflections. I aim to share with warmth, serenity, and clarity, focusing on the mental, emotional, and relational well-being of women. You’ll find brief, digestible articles about the following topics close to my mind and heart:

Neurodivergence
High sensitivity trait
Complex post-traumatic stress
Religious trauma recovery
Perimenopause and menopause
The ways women are influenced by our identities, cultures, and contexts
The ways women influence the world around them
Destigmatizing and depathologizing women
Parts Work (Internal Family Systems)
Mindfulness and Self-Compassion Work
Somatic Experiencing
Creative Arts Therapy
Narrative Therapy
Bibliotherapy
Grief Work
Music Therapy
Feminist Psychology
Sustainable, self-guided support

If some of those terms sound confusing, elusive, or overwhelming, take heart. We’ll learn about it together in a calm and clear way that inspires, informs, and empowers us. Think of this new Mending Space as a relaxed, uplifting outlet for gentle, female-centric insight and connection around the topics of mental, emotional, and relational well-being.

The Mending Space website will remain active as a central landing space pointing to Substack, Mending Space textile art books, and relevant information and offerings.

I’m so glad to be here with you, friends. I’m setting out in this new way gently, sustainably, and with deep gratitude. Gratitude for the long and winding road that has led me here. Gratitude for the resilience and intelligence of the female body, mind, and heart. And gratitude that I still get to share about it here, with you.

While much is changing in my small corner of the world, I see no reason to change my farewell. So friends, I hope that wherever you are, you’re safe and you’re well. Until next time . . .

Onward . . .

Forward . . .

With care . . .

The Mending Space

We mend our fraying edges
and kindness sets our pace.

We catch the threads of others
with common cords of grace.

Our tapestries grow wider,
a universal story.

We rise, repair, and heal,
the stitches are our glory.

We are the ones who mend.

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This might be the third year in a row that I’ve had something to say about wild violets in February. I can’t help it, though, friends. Somehow, they keep surprising me. The way they lie low and splay their bright, broad petals over soft frost-bitten grasses. Mary Oliver says the pines, oaks, and honey locusts save her daily; for me, it is the wild violets in February.

Because it is the end of Winter and I am ready for Spring. I am ready for warmth. I am ready for light. I am ready for soft, untrammeled pink and white flowers blossoming from every branch and lines of daffodils shooting up from the most absurd plots of land. I am ready for a sun that shines behind my eyes and a blue above me that sprawls in every direction, far as my tired eyes can see.

I am ready for birds to fight and flit in my yard and for a stubborn robin who, by next week, will make a rotten, cluttered mess of my balcony with his mud and twine. And he’ll do this in the corner over my favorite chair, up against the window, smearing and smattering his mucky sludge without apology or permission, leaving me with a mess that will surely take over an hour to clean once his babes finally fly free. But I am ready.

And I am ready for sunset after 6:00 pm and windows open and a lawn mower symphony down the block. It is the end of February and I am ready for the bent light of Winter to straighten her back and spill over me, catching me off guard without sunscreen, pulling freckles and a ruddy tinge from my ivory skin that will surely invite a well-meant tsk from my dermatologist when I see her again in June.

I am ready for the perfume of Bradford pear trees, a smell that reminds me of old fish leftovers in the trash and sweaty hockey pads. I am ready for allergies and congestion and itchy eyes and drawing smiley faces in the yellow pollen on my car. I am ready for the last days of Winter to surprise us with warmth and the first days of Spring to snap with biting north winds. I am ready to buy plants that die from late frosts and flowers that wilt in a streak of April heat. I am ready to leave the new patio chairs out in an unexpected shower before weather-proofing them. I am ready to strain my joints from walking too long, too many days in a row, because I just can’t bear to go home yet — it’s too beautiful outside.

I am ready, friends. On this gray February morning, the air thin and cool, every creature, including me, can feel it. I am ready. And I am daring again to hope the hope of Spring. To step out with my matcha. To listen to the wild things in the air. And to bow to these even wilder violets. Winter has been cruel this year, but Nature is also alight with soft, bold, and broad purple petals that survive - dare I say, thrive - in the savagery. Because somewhere deep in their resilient, teeming roots, they know earth will tilt, spin, do its primal dance. And soon it will be time. And we will be ready. Yes, we are ready. We are ready. We are ready for Spring.

I hope that wherever you are, you’re safe and well, friends.

Onward . . .

Forward . . .

Dear Mending Space Friends, as I quietly went about my day today, a sort of blessing flowed through me. Quick as I could, I wrote it down. I wrote it for you. I wrote it for me. I wrote it for us, for I know this year has been an unraveling kind of year for many.

So if you need to mend, I wish you a sure thread and a steady cloth.

If you need to rend, I wish you sharp shears and the strength to tear.

If you need to pause and rest, I wish you softness and a comfortable bed.

If you need to test the limits and ascend the heights, I wish you rocky climbs and daring depths.

If you need to rage, I wish you the voice to scream and a blazing inner fire to see you through.

If you need to weep, I wish you plentiful tears and tissues and a cuppa your best tea at hand.

If you need to be alone, I wish you space and margin, quietude and peace.

If you need community, I wish you connections that make you feel seen and enjoyed, needed and respected.

If you need to grieve the losses — all the losses, even the ones some tell you are not losses — I wish you wise and quiet company who will silently bless your sweet darkness.

If you need to make merry, I wish you joy and dancing and a feast at your table.

Whatever you need, dear friends, in the year to come, I also wish you health, grace, and a song to accompany your days.

My dear,

In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love. In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile. In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm.

I realized, through it all, that…

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger, something better, pushing right back.

Truly yours . . .

— Albert Camus, Return to Tipasa

You know where to find me, always, dear friends.

Onward . . .

Forward . . .

With love . . .

When I look at my life, I don’t see many absolute facts, nor do I see many absolute truths. My life is what I call it, and the more I have called it beautiful, the more beautiful it has become.

— Andrea Gibson

I’ve been working on this tiny poem for several years, friends. You may think it unlikely when you see it, being only five lines and 42 words, but it’s true. You see, there’s a poem I’ve been chasing, off and on, for nearly 30 years. In some ways, I think it’s the poem I wish I had written. It’s called “Late Fragment” by Raymond Carver. On any given day, you could find me hunched over my pad and pen with the brief lines of Carver’s poem rattling in my head and falling from my lips like a refrain. Ever since I set his lines to memory, I’ve been scribbling my responses. I figured if I couldn’t write his poem, then I could write the response to end all responses. But they’ve all been forgeries, counterfeits.

Until Wednesday.

And I wasn’t sitting with my pen and pad like usual. I wasn’t even on a leisurely walk under the leafless canopy of Japanese maples, where poems often find me. I was just blow-drying my hair, three days before my birthday, when the lines came through.

No striving. No forcing. No clever rhymes or metaphors. Just living. Living a very mundane moment, in fact. And the blessing flowed through. A reply to Raymond. It’s not precious or fancy, but it is the reply I’ve been chasing for decades. Maybe my whole life. And it finally caught me.

What a gift. Indeed. What a gift.

No. 47, A Reply to Raymond

I bless the hell that taught me to sing

I bless the heavens that taught me to weep

I bless the love that taught me to die

I bless the life that taught me to sigh

I bless myself on the earth.

— a Mending Space poem

Late Fragment
Raymond Carver

And did you get what you wanted from this life,
even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

I hope that if there’s something you’re chasing, it catches you, too.

Onward . . .

Forward . . .

Always . . .

I have only one burning desire
Let me stand next to your fire.

— Jimi Hendrix

Hi there, friends! I hope you’re doing well in these August days. I wanted to say hello and share an old poem that’s been burning bright in my mind lately. It’s a poem I wrote several years ago that came to me in one sitting, start to finish, which may seem underwhelming since it’s only eight lines and about 35 words!

Even still, I remember hearing the narrator from this poem deep in my imagination. She said these lines with such knowing, such fierce love for her listener, ultimately gifting me a story that felt both whole and part of something so much larger all at once. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I feel less like I wrote this poem and more like it wrote itself into my life.

Artists are lucky when those moments come through. We do a lot of white-knuckling and toiling, fussing and faffing to come up with the right word, the right melody, the right brushstroke, the right stitch. We keep showing up, day and night, close to the magic, joyful in our creativity, and — AND — perhaps a smidge shy of what we mean to make.

And then it happens.

The spark.

The gift.

A narrator speaks and a star is born.

I can count on about four fingers the number of times this has happened to me. This poem was one of those times.

Everybody’s angry, child.
Don’t worry ‘bout bein’ angry.
Angry tells us things ain’t right.

Who told you not to be angry anyway?
Who told you to be nice
when there’s a world
that needs you
to burn?

A FIERY BLESSING

May we burn, burn, burn, friends.

May we burn in the place where our deep gladness meets the world's deep hunger.*

May we burn for our dearest ones and for our one wild, precious life.

May we burn for the oppressed, the starving, the most wounded among us.

And may we dance with fire in our heels and raise a new song.

I’m sending you so much love, friends. I hope wherever you are, you’re safe and doing alright. Please reach out if you like — I’m always here, in The Mending Space. Until next time . . .

Onward . . .

Forward . . .

* Blessing line two is taken from Frederick Buechner’s quote from “Vocation” in Wishful Thinking.

It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

— Abraham Lincoln, Gettysburg Address, November 19, 1863

War and death — these matters are far too complicated to post about in ephemeral spaces such as Substack or Instagram. And yet, to let America’s Memorial Day pass without a word doesn’t sit right in my heart either.

I think what many of us are discovering in these dialectic days is that we can hold two seeming disparate things at once. We can deeply honor, respect, and revere the bravest among us for giving the ultimate sacrifice for the still-unmet potential that is America. We can serve and bow to their loved ones who also gave everything and who live daily with the loss of their daddy, their momma, their spouse, their uncle or aunt, their sister or brother, their son or daughter.

And we can also ask hard questions of war and the cycle of recycled revenge. We can ask for transparency, prudence, and integrity of our defense officials. We can call out the ways our country has been misguided, oppressive, and collectively cruel from its inception. We can work and pray for peace.

I suppose ultimately we just want war and all the loss that comes with it to be a last resort. And yet, we are no rosy-cheeked innocents. We see the world we live in. We tremble and wish it weren’t so, but we know we need soldiers and machinery at the ready to keep us safe and to also shield those who cannot safeguard themselves in the cause of freedom.

So when we do come to that last resort, oh how grateful we are to have women and men who decided with devotion and soberness of mind that they would give their all — their one wild and precious life — to protect and defend a people, a republic, committed to liberty and justice for all.

At best, it is a rollercoaster ride loving a republic like America. At any given moment I am cringing, crying, or cheering. But it is not a complicated thing to honor our courageous brothers and sisters. May we bow deeply to them, not just one weekend in May, but every day. May we bless the ones they’ve left behind with an abundance of care, necessities, and respect. May we thank them all for a place we can still be proud to call home. And may these honored dead ever rest in power and in peace, and may their valiant sacrifice never be in vain.