There's a hummingbird who flew past my studio window last week. I have’t even put out a feeder yet this year, but there he was, hovering in that impossible way they do, wings a blur.

I think about the hovering, sometimes. And I hope to make it make sense to you by the end of this post. My brain is a kaleidoscope of associations, which can often make me sound…well, “eccentric”.

Because that hummingbird made me wonder if you are already living the thing. The actual thing. The sort of life you’ve been dreaming of and saving to Pinterest boards and praying for.

Did you know that all the poets and real people have mostly left social media?

They have.

And they’ve (mostly) gone to Substack.

It’s the most non-performative space where a real exchange of ideas can still occur. And…it’s impossible to ghost people there.

It’s a place for the writer’s writer.

And so, I’ve also created a Substack for all who want to escape the cold paper-fires of Instagram. It’s called “Middle Kindling”.

Here’s your link , and here is an excerpt from my latest post there:

There is a peony on my studio table right now that has no business being this beautiful.

It is the last one of the whole year. The peonies are finished, every other bloom has come and gone, done its work, dropped its petals. But this one held on. And this week, I cut it and put it in an old amber bottle, the kind meant for something else entirely, something utilitarian and unremarkable, and set it in the middle of my art table, among the paint-stained surfaces and scattered supplies and the paper with its half-finished botanical sketch.

And I keep stopping to look at it. Not because it's the most perfect peony I've ever grown. It's actually a little ragged at the edges now, as last things often are. But there is something about the last bloom of the season, the one that arrives after you've stopped expecting anymore, that stops me in a way the first ones never quite do.

I am sure somebody said it again last week, and it practically got a standing ovation. It always does.

“No pastor should ever ask you to be more dedicated to the church than to your family.”

The room exhaled. People nodded. A few mamas teared up a little. And listen to me, I’m not here to argue the point.

It’s true.

It’s also roughly as courageous as preaching against the flu.

I have a shelf in my studio that holds the most beautiful things I own.

Not the most expensive. Not the most impressive. The most beautiful, which, in my world, is a different category entirely.

On that shelf, inside a few glass boxes, sit books I made by hand. Leather spines. Painted covers of deep blue with copper florals, forest green with gold. Frayed silk ribbon for a bookmark. Every one of them contains, page by page, in my own handwriting, lines that were doing the slow work of making me into someone.

There is a particular kind of moment, you’ve had them, I’ve had them, where you look around at your life and think: huh. Something is shedding.

Not falling apart. Not dying. Not a state of “transition” (what an over-used concept!)

Shedding.

Like the whole thing has quietly outgrown its container while you weren’t paying attention,and now the seams are showing, and the only honest response is to let it go and grow into whatever comes next.

That’s been my spring.