Tiny Miracles and Holy Shit




It is True Fall over here.
A blanket of yellow and red quivers on a bed of peridot grass. The air – slightly colder than my body would like it to be – drops frosty kisses on my plants and windows.
Here in California, rarely do we get to experience a season in true form. Usually it’s this hybrid creature – a mixture of all the seasons, in no particular order, splattered like paint on the months leading up to the close of the year.

I can no longer leave the house without coming back with an arm full of color-confused leaves. On especially lucky days, I also come home with a pinecone or two in my clutches. I scatter them throughout the house, mystifying a husband who does not see art and architecture in their unique form, but a sappy mess.

Oddly enough, as those of us in the state celebrate Thanksgiving, I am no more grateful today and I am on every other day. Relentless gratitude behooves a life of chronic illness. Being ill means I’m prone to anger, bitterness, and discontent. Gratitude keeps me soft, pliable. It keeps me aware of all the tiny miracles and holy shit whirring about my life like a beautiful tornado. Without gratitude, I would break and tear and wither like the trees outside my window.

Today, my goal is to further investigate the GIVING part of Thanksgiving.
We are called not only to be thankful, but to react to that thankfulness with generosity and kindness and Love. To be a fragrant offering.

So, today, may all who come near you be met with the decadence of gardenias.

Happy Thanksgiving, sisters and brothers.

The Human Movement



I’m not sure what it is.
If it’s in the air.
If it’s in the water.
Lately, I’ve noticed more and more sisters bravely stepping out of the shadows of their lives and bringing their truth into the light.
As a creative, at times I struggle to walk what seems to me to be a very thin and distinct line. Either you have a pretty feed or you have an honest and ugly one.
I think that’s wrong. I think that’s a steamy pile of beaver bullets.
We don’t have to choose one or the other. We can choose BOTH. Because WE are both. Flawless and scarred.
Yes, I want my living room to be a place that provides comfort and ambiance, but not at the expense of who I am. Yes, I am a maker. But I’m ALSO a human.
A messy human.
A broken human.
An an extremely sensitive human.
Every couple of days, a depressed human.
This is me. This is us. Stained and sanctified. Ruined and wanted. We are violently immaculate.
So please don’t stop.
Please continue breaking the barriers and ripping down the pristine walls hiding your most succulent treasure. Do these hard things; be vulnerable and brave and gentle and awake. Be ripe. Be succulent.
Please PLEASE keep sharing your truth. I love your art, I really do, but I NEED your truth. Your truth makes me brave. It helps me to remember that I am not alone. It reminds me I am a sacred and important and holy piece in God’s toolbox, just as you are. And because when you are you and I am me, we change all the stupid rules keeping us apart.
Sisters, this is SO MUCH BIGGER than the maker movement.
We are growing and falling and breaking and soaring, and we never have to worry about the landing part, because grace will be there to catch us. Every time. Grace is never absent or late. Grace is always right there, just below you, waiting to help you back up.
Love you.
Be succulent.

I’m too tired to think up a title.

Bella walks me almost every single day. She’s fairly diligent about it, though sometimes she forgets and I have to whine at her–jostle the leash in her face or coax her out of bed with something sweet, like my all-encompassing love. Yeah, and when that doesn’t work, I move on to more effective methods, specifically this fail-proof tactic, which is to position myself as close as possible without actually touching her, at which point I proceed to breathe, and stare, blinking as little as possible, and pushing the train of my thought into her brain until I have succeeding in wrecking all semblance of peace and focus. Works like a charm.

Once we’re out, once we’re moving, we’re happy about it; the sun on our faces, the breeze in our hairs, the raucous yet harmonic symphonies as we stroll beneath the trees. It’s good for us. We are such homebodies, she and I, with dispositions that tend toward reclusive behavior. No, no. I wouldn’t call us hermits. Hermit-ish? Perhaps. A bit. But don’t worry, we go out all the time: when there’s no more milk, when the house needs fumigating, during earthquakes. See, we’ve totally got this handled.

So Bella was walking me the other day, and while she stopped to perfume my neighbor’s lawn, I was noticing a bush, on which a single rose was in its final stages life. For those of you who don’t reside in the states, over here we’re knee-deep in winter. Everywhere things are dead or dying. It’s hard to watch. I’m walking around with a palm pressed to my face, peering through fingers two and three, wincing at every turn. They’ve come up with a fancy name for this–seasonal depression, I think it is. But I’m pretty certain I don’t have that. For one, they say it starts and ends at the same time every year, whereas my depression is spotty, inconsistently regular, really more of an annual thing. I mean . . . I’m a writer.

So I’m standing there, gazing at this moribund little bloom, trying not to well up. By now Bella’s looking at me like, “Mom, pull yourself together. It’s o-kay. It’s isn’t in pain or anything.” And I’m all, “I know, I know, it’s just so . . . sad.” And so she looks at it, cocks her absurdly adorable head, replies, “No, Mom. Not really. This is just what happens. Things have to die so they can be born again fresh and new.” And that’s when I was like *poof*.

Because–with Bella’s guidance and sage observation–I realized I am that dehydrated rose at the end of its cycle. Once a piercing, vivid scarlet, but today, remorsefully, leached of its color, making its slow descent back into the earth from whence it came. I have reached the point of no return. The problem is I keep TRYING TO RETURN. If I were a Jedi, maybe it would work. Sadly, tragically, I am not.

To make a long story short, my second book was done. Like done done. I finished it over a year ago. It had been edited and beta-read and all that jazz; I was simply waiting for a few final pages of edits, typos and grammatical what-have-you, and then we would publish. Easy peasy, right?

Normally my husband is the one to make changes in my WIPs, and there are good reasons for this. Are you listening, Cara? GOOD REASONS. Because I am a smart girl but also a ninny, I decided to work on it myself. After all, it was only a few edits. Rather than explain how it all went down, I’ve decided to show you.


An open, editable document is a highly dangerous thing. It is the writer’s siren, singing an irresistible song. It was only supposed to take a couple weeks. It was only supposed to be a few key scenes. It was just going to be minor edits.

Only, only, only, only, only, just, just, just, just, just.

Just and only–they are snipers; be vigilant.

In conclusion, I got stuck; and for three months now I’ve been editing and rewriting, every day, anywhere from 7 to 9 hours a day. This might not have been the horrible decision it absolutely-definitely was–because I truly enjoy the polishing aspect of writing books–if not for the fact that I had already begun outlining New Book, hatching plans and ideas I was extremely excited about. Yet, I knew Old Book could be better, and therefore I had to try. Except I couldn’t and it killed me. It was like trying to break a coconut with a clothespin; I couldn’t get in. My mind, for what it was worth, was there with the Old Book, while my heart remained dreaming about the story–back there–taking its first beautiful breaths. And I was missing it, because I was stuck with Old Book. So I became resentful, which was all sorts of lovely and perfect, because everyone just adores a novel written by a fatigued, resentful writer, said not a single person in all of existence.

It got so bad, even texts wearied me. I began doing something that, as a lover of language and proprietor of vocabulary, I swore I would never do. BRB. IDK. C u soon. L8r. It was scary times.

I don’t know you, not personally, and while we may look quite a bit different on the outside, on the inside it’s all pretty much the same stuff. Which means if I’m struggling, then you must be, too. I’m so sorry about that. I know how heavy it is, and I so wish I could take it from you, just for a few moments, give you a chance to catch your breath. Normally this is where I would engulf you in my arms. I’m a hugger; like, slather-my-body-against-yours and commence-side-to-side-rocking kind of hugger. I hate that I can’t do this; however, I refuse to let something so trivial as the spacetime continuum deprive us a hug. So, here. Just for now.


Maybe, like me, you are feeling wilted and dry. Maybe, like me, you have convinced yourself that stepping away is the same as failing. It isn’t. What you need is a time-out. It is not punishment, it is grace. It is a pause button. If there is no one in your life to do this for you, then consider that person me: I am pausing you.


You have been paused. You can come back anytime you like, an hour from now or in three months, but however long you decide to pause, you need to be real and honest with yourself about when you’re really ready to come back. No one else can tell you; no one else has a say. Only you. In the meantime, you are to do other things–think of it as a loose pause. You’re not frozen, you’re simply spliced, allowing you to put with one thing on hold while pursuing other things. It’s our make-believe, we can do what we want with it. It doesn’t matter what you do, so long as they are activities that nourish your heart, soothe your soul. It’s works. It’s working for me. While I am paused, I am taking naps and extended walks with Bella, having coffee with friends. I’m also drawing. Who knew!

I thought about writing captions for each one, but to tell you the truth, I’ve grown weary. Even this blog was probably a little too much for me at this point. I’m already four days into this post, which means by now it’s lost all novelty and I’m convinced the whole thing is one giant crapsicle. I’m highly temped to trash it and just post pictures, but I’m not going to; because if even one of you is helped by some of the things I had to say, then the strife will have been totally worth it.

However, since I basically hijacked this drawing from another artist, I feel it merits a wee caption. This girl, “Avery,” a piece by Kelli Murray, an artist I absolutely adore, was the first thing I ever drew.

Perhaps it’s not what we see, but what we make of what we see that determines what is created.


FullSizeRender 2


Bella and I walk the same route everyday, and every time we passed that decrepit rose, I had to look away, because one of two things was going to happen: I would start to blubber, because I can’t help but see the deeper meaning in everything. The other thing, well, it was a bit, shall we say . . . illegal. I thought about leaving my house sometime in the night, taking with me a pair of shears. *snip* Luckily I was spared from having to trespass and commit lawful rose-slaughter; the other day while Bella and I were on our walk, we saw that finally it had died. Thank GOD.

Speaking of Bella, the whole dying so we can become born again fresh and new–yep, that was a true story. All that genius came out of my Chihuahua’s teeny tiny cumquat brain. Shocking? Meh, not really. Bigger isn’t always better. Certainly not where pimples and hemorrhoids are involved. Amen? People often tell me Bella bears a striking resemblance to Yoda. And you know what, I don’t disagree. No. In fact, every day I’m becoming more confident one of his descendants is living in my house. 


may The Force of my love be with you,

~ Cara


Hey! If you’re on Instagram, I would love, love, love to connect with you. We can commiserate about art and life, how one is always imitating the other, and exchange more of those virtual hugs. I’m not yet sure what these will look and feel like, but we’ll figure it out! @theycallhercara

I don’t know.

Well, hello.

I hope whatever timezone from where you’re reading this, life is serving you up equal parts beauty and beast.

This post is going to be about writing; it’s also about life. It’s about writing and life. If either of these interest you, please, do read on.

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When the dog bites . . .

Today I stray from Meaty Ave. and head down Dalliance Ln. Won’t you join me, please?

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