Bio(me)

Let’s start with the most important stuff: I’m a weirdo. I’m not all that interested in the mainstream. Side creeks and tiny tributaries are so much more compelling. The flow less traveled, if you will.  

I don’t fit easily into one category or into preordained categories in general. I’ve always been too strange for the normal people and too normal for the strange people. As a writer and teacher (I prefer facilitator), I don’t identify as academic or literary, although I have an MFA in creative writing and an MA in theology. Binaries bug me. Frankly, they’re not natural. We are all, each of us, an ecological community, that is, a biome. We’re not isolated individuals. We’re not this or that. We’re all of it, part of a complex web of life.

And there’s simplicity in the complexity.

As a writer, facilitator, mentor, and editor, it’s my role to honor that complexity and interconnection.

Chances are, if you found your way to these words, you too are a weirdo. Please know that my favorite people are always the weirdos, and that you, in your entirety, are most welcome here.

Some things you may want to know, plus some things I want you to know:

I prefer facilitator to teacher to describe what I do. I see my work not as me bestowing knowledge upon you, but rather making way for learning–yours, mine, ours. My favorite co-facilitators are water and wolves, the moon and fire, earth and pomegranates. Once my friend Mary called me a word witch, and I’m all for that. Ritual is a part of everything I offer. To clarify, I mean ritual that doesn’t stand on ceremony or that you need fancy supplies or training to do. Rituals that take their inspiration from sunrise and sunset, inhalation and exhalation.

Decomposition is as important to me as composition. Yes, I’m into us making, building, and concocting things. Of course. And, falling apart is a necessary, alchemical, and inevitable part of the creative cycle.  I’m here for your compositions and decompositions.

Speaking of the creative cycle: writing isn’t limited to when we’re typing or scribbling. Writing includes wintertime dreaming, hibernating, and resting, as well as staring at bare branches and blank pages; spring sprouting and brainstorming and a flood of new ideas; summer fruiting and flowering when drafts of stories grow and fill out quickly: late summer harvesting when we appreciate the abundance of what we’ve made and savor the accomplishment; and autumn revising, releasing, and of course, decomposing (see above). 

This creative cycle permeates spiritual and religious traditions worldwide, throughout history—from the story of Jesus dying and rising to the Wheel of the Year, a constant cycle of death and rebirth.

We are this cycle. We live this story. Sometimes we resist it. I know I do. And that's when I suffer. I didn't want my marriage to end; I held tight and kept trying to resuscitate it. But it was dying. I was terrified to leave behind traditional employment and start my own business, but that new part of my story demanded to be born, pushing other work out of the way until I paid attention. When my mother died and I got sick, I raged at the heavens and the earth, and ultimately had to surrender to grief and release, and eventually, renewal. 

When I allow myself to live the cycle—to not only bud and bloom and soak in the sun, but also to let my leaves fall away and myself compost or rest under cold frozen ground—then I go with the flow of the world, then I thrive, even in those wintery hibernations.

All of which is to say, no place in the creative cycle is better than another place. We are where we are, and every place has gifts for us.

Getting seriously ill in 2019, living through the hell of not knowing what was wrong and a million doctor visits, grieving the body and life I had, dropped me right into the underworld. In 2020, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease. Amongst many other symptoms and consequences, above all, chronic illness has reminded me that I am and have a body. I used to write and work by disappearing into some ethereal mind world, ignoring when I was thirsty or hungry or needed to move or rest or regroup. I choose not to do that anymore. I strive to work with my body, in relationship with other bodies.

I found a path through the underworld and up (and often back down) into Elemental Writing, which is an endless source of joy and juice for me, and the main focus of my work. I’d love for you to be part of that ecosystem, and you can sign up for the most current offering here.

Scorpio sun, Leo moon, Aries rising. Astrophile, astro-nerd over here. The phases of the moon and the language of the planets and stars speak deeply to me.

On my dad’s side, my ancestors come from Calabria, at the bottom of Italy’s boot. On my mom’s side, my ancestors are English/Irish/Scottish and German. Cultivating connection and relationship with my ancestors, and with their folk healing traditions and practices is endlessly fascinating and nourishing for me.

I’ve been doing this work–creating sanctuary for writers and their stories, through courses, retreats, mentoring, and editing–formally since 2009, and in various other ways and professional capacities since the mid 1990’s. I’m certified in the Gateless Method. I have an M.F.A. in Creative Writing and an M.A. in Theological Studies. My B.A. is in English, with a minor in Communications, specifically Theatre. I was director of Retreats & Faith Development at the University of Dayton. I’ve been on the faculty of Antioch College, Tai Sophia Institute, and Sinclair Community College. I’ve facilitated hundreds of retreats and workshops throughout the U.S. and Canada and mentored and nurtured hundreds of writers as they find their voices, take creative leaps and plunges, and hone their manuscripts.

I grew up devouring stories. One of my fondest memories is checking out at least a dozen books every two weeks from the Northland Public Library, getting lost in novel after novel. Another was going to see musicals like The King and I (with Yul Brynner!) at Heinz Hall downtown. Stories fed me.

I wrote Putting Makeup on Dead People (Hyperion 2011), a finalist for the Oregon Book Awards and a BCCB Blue Ribbon Book, a story about a young woman coming to terms with the death of her father. While PMODP is fiction, I grew up knowing a little something about grief. When I was fourteen, my dad died, snapping the reality of death into focus as I turned a corner from childhood into young adulthood. My simple story about life—that all kids grew up loved and guided by two living parents, for instance—collapsed. I needed a new one,  a story in which a girl could survive devastating loss and find joys in unexpected ways.

I kept on devouring stories, with a new fervor. When I read a particularly moving novel or poem, saw a movie or a play that cracked my heart open, as well as when I wrote a story or speech or essay that found its way to a soulful center, something else happened. In writing PMODP, I took the dry bones of losing my dad and let a fictive world emerge, breathe life into loss, and find a new dance. What a release. 

I know that you aren’t a machine and your writing isn’t a product.  It’s a piece of your heart and sliver of your soul, infused with the blood and breath and bone of you. I understand the depth of what you’re offering and handle it with care.  If you want to explore working with me 1:1, please reach out.

I’ve been a featured author, panelist, and presenter at The Louisiana Book Festival, Wordstock Literary Festival, the Antioch Writers’ Workshop, and the Saints & Sinners Literary Festival, as well as numerous reading series and events.

I’m here to create sanctuary for stories and the people who tell them. I know what it feels like to hunger for refuge. At the heart of my work is my child self, knowing she was a natural born priest(ess) and being told, by culture and authority and institution, that that wasn’t possible.

At the heart of my work is me saying to others: who you know you are, most deeply and beautifully, and powerfully? It is possible to be that.

At the heart of my work is an honoring of voice, of each of us taking our places on the page or the stage, or fundamentally, in the world. Not everyone needs to write a book, but everyone has and needs stories. I want people to feel liberated to share their stories and voices, in whatever ways feel best to them.

Facilitation is my joy. I love to sit at a table and write with others, whether we’re at the same table or tables in different parts of the world, smiling at or listening to each other through the magic of technology. I love to witness another human open up and find the gems that they hoped were there, to be actually there. To allow for that wow. To remind others of their inherent generativity, that is, capability to create, grow, and play.

I’ve learned from so many teachers and mentors, in person, in reading and studying their work, in relationships of all kinds. Some of my favorite and most beloved teachers: my high school speech coach Beth Young, garlic, my first and beloved writing professor Joe Pici, Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, brilliant writer teacher Amanda Boyden, Gateless goddess Suzanne Kingsbury, the Pacific Ocean, writing workshop facilitator and performance magician Beth Bornstein Dunnington, the Mediterranean Sea, astrologer priestess extraordinaire Emily Trinkaus, humpback whales, adrienne maree brown, Five Element Philosophy, David Abram, lavender, rosemary, hummingbirds.

Curiosity is essential. Mystery is medicine. Language has power, and propaganda is real. Growing up, I learned so many stories posing as history (probably, we all did), and as I disentangle myself from lies and illusion, I’m all the more convinced of the muscle of stories. Now, I’m willing to question all the narratives.

Although I use the words course and workshop and retreat, my favorite word for what I offer is adventure. I love the possibility of it, the way it doesn’t promise a prescribed outcome, and instead focuses on the process. That’s where the magic is. I used to think I should be promoting and promising outcomes. Now, not so much. Don’t get me wrong–I’m all for getting a piece of writing into a form that’s ready to share. What’s more important to me is process–that is, learning to write in a way that is fun and fierce, reverent and irreverent, in whatever way it needs to be. Most of all, adventuring with me will, I hope, get your vitality to come out and play, and support you in embracing the strange and wild wonder that is you.