Love is Kind


Love is kind.

Three words long, and yet it lacks nothing; it explains and concludes itself with perfect precision and full comprehension, leaving no room for negotiation or modifying clauses.

It’s whole.

It’s complete.

Beginning, middle, and end.

It doesn’t say love is sometimes kind. Or love is kind when it hasn’t had a really stressful morning. Or love is kind so long as a messy human doesn’t get its human-y-ness on love.


Love is kind.

But what I TRULY believe it’s saying is YOU are kind. Because Love is not a place or a feeling or a thing. It’s animate. It’s alive. It’s YOU. What you’re made of. Blood and bones and sinew — yes. But that invisible element binding it all, holding you together, THAT’S Love.

When God the Baker was creating your recipe, after all the measuring and adding and stirring and mixing, He took all your youness and poured it into a Love mold that could never be broken. Like cast iron but WAY stronger and WAY softer.

That mold was what you were formed inside. It is woven throughout your entire DNA. It’s like human Scotchguard. None of those stains are ever going to set in. Not a single one. People will hurt you and betray you and leave you. But you remain whole and pure. Encapsulated in the most durable substance that ever left Heaven. It’s how the bible can say preposterous things like Love is kind, without providing back doors.

We don’t have to armor our hearts. We just need to remember the Love.

That the Love is YOU.

You Are Enough


You Are Enough is my song.

I listen to it in the morning when the gremlins are whispering I’ll never get it all done. I put it on in the afternoon when I realize the jerks were right. And I listen to it in the evening, when I’m at my most contemplative and consequently most vulnerable. You Are Enough is my all-inclusive ticket. It’s how I travel from Today to Tomorrow.

Lately, though, between getting ready to move and trying to “stay creative,” I’ve neglected to play my jam. Instead I’ve been listening to “Just 3 sales this month? Kinda sad, don’t you think?” And “Definitely not your best work, Cara.”
Strange, but for some reason, I’ve been feeling anxious, exhausted, listless and afraid. I feel stiff. Like old bread or frozen celery. Like if you tried to bend me, I would snap in half.

And so I took all of that with me today as I began a new piece; and what do you know: it pooped itself on to the page like pomegranate run through tree shredder.

The day is happening too fast.

I feel like I’m barely holding onto its coattails, as it drags me from hour to hour, whisking me from morning to noon without even a pause for the beautiful day happening for me.

A second ago, I did two things.

The first: I ate chocolate. Because — as if we needed a reason — it makes me pause to savor. Savoring leads to gratitude, and gratitude leads to joy. Joy is a superpower. It is the best superpower of all superpowers because, unlike every other superpower, it does not depend on things going well to work. Sisters, hear me. You do NOT want a thin body or flawless skin or worldwide recognition. Those things taste sweet but they quickly turn sour. Then they go rancid, and start to eat at all your most special soft parts. What you want is JOY.

Joy will feed your whole broken heart.

The second thing I did was put on my jam. I’m listening to it RIGHT NOW. I’m also praying for each one of you by name, asking God to send my jam into your hearts, so it can be YOUR jam if it’s not already.

This is what I know: you are enough. You are. The amount of enoughness in you could light up Times Square. It could fly a plane from Hawaii to Russia.

It could change . . . everything.

It’s My Heart Beating


You wouldn’t know by looking at me,

but I’m sick.

Not in THIS moment. Right this moment I am eating a delicious bowl of rice in preparation for a workout. 3 months ago, however, I was writhing on the floor, every molecule on fire. 18 months before that, I was fighting for my life. Specifically not to take it into my own hands and end it. Pain. Pain. Pain. Depression.



More Pain.

This was my world. My tiny, little, needle-sharp world.

Most days I would lurk near the kitchen window, look out, wonder what all the healthy people were going to do with their day. I became very angry with and resentful of healthy people, convinced that none of them were grateful enough for their lives. Today they would complain and grumble, spend hours worrying about things that didn’t matter, miss a thousand moments hand-stitched just for them.

During these horrific months that were just like geodes – bleak and hopeless on the outside, impossibly beautiful on the inside – I determined that being healthy is its own kind of affliction; blindness and apathy and joy atrophy.

Still. I envied them. Healthy people. Sometimes I would imagine trading places, dream about how I would spend their 24 hour day sooo differently.

I told the Lord, in one of my many pleas, bargains and wrathful monologues, that if He were ever to make me well enough again to leave the house, I would never take a minute of my life for granted.

Honestly, I’ve not been a perfect steward of the life He gave back to me. But I AM changed. I’m better. I think maybe sometimes God has to make you sick so He can make you better.

And fuller. And braver. And softer.

This life is gorgeous and brutal and fleeting. It’s NOT to be wasted. Not a smile, sparrow, or a sunset of it.

It’s ALL for ME and YOU. There’s a buffet of magic right outside your door. I swear it. I’m looking at it. It’s looking at ME. Reminding me I have eyes and ears, legs and feet, a tongue to taste, and lips with which I can kiss the love of my life.

I have no greater gifts than these.

I own nothing more precious than Right Now.

It’s just a business card, says the photo. “No. No, it’s so much more than that . . . it’s my heart beating.”

Cats, King Arthur and Caramel Squares

One of my favorite quotes, by Aesop.


Only nine words long, yet it reminds us that big things happen in micro moments, that when you put the words extra and ordinary together, you get extraordinary.

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The One That Will Never Get Away

10 Years. Ten of them – IN A ROW. It’s not a little mind boggling when I really stop to think about it. Other than exist, I’ve never done anything for 10 years straight. Well, all right; I’ve brushed my teeth and shaved my legs, but only to avoid the unfortunate consequences caused by not doing those things. Which are, of course, wookie legs and gingivitis.

On May 22nd of this year my husband and I celebrated 10 years of marriage. He came home with a bouquet roses, a juicy fillet and asparagus, and a bottle of champagne I sucked on until the very last drop slithered down my gullet. He also got me a little something, which turned out to be a lottle something, because I am easily delighted and slightly manic and tend to get excited and make a VERY BIG deal about little things. Done well, they’re better than big things, I think.

He bought a dozen bags of Skittles, in a variety of flavors, then separated them – one by one – into mason jars, creating his own “special blends.”

I’m not going to lie. He knocked this one outta the friggin’ park. Not only are they pretty to look at, a confection of color, jars of art, but — SKITTLES. Yum.


We celebrated the day by staying home, drinking the whole bottle of champagne, and watching Jimmy Fallon clips on YouTube. It was fabulous. We will do BIG celebrating this summer when we road-trip-it to San Francisco for TEN days! One for every year. That wasn’t intentional, but I rather like it; it’s fitting and feels right.

But to be honest, a decade ago, as I waited for the pastor come collect me and my entourage, Canon in D Minor wafting up the staircase, I wasn’t sure I would ever see ten years. Most brides are blushing and glowing and flicking scepters are their poor indentured bridesmaids doing everything from blotting spackled lips to waving thuribles to ward off evil spirits. I was calm, serene even. Frigid as my feet were, I knew I would say “I do.” It’s true I love a good spectacle every now and again, but my wedding, a 15k affair, wasn’t the time for one. I would marry my husband because I told him I would, and because he was a good man that would love me and take care of me. And I would do the same. For how long – that was the question. My heart was a mess and there were tears in my eyes; tears my guests mistook for tears of joy, as I glided down the staircase, smiling on cue, aware of the camera capturing what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I dutifully took my place beside my fiancé. A broken girl in a stunning white dress, I took his hands.

“We are gathered here today . . .”

The next thing I knew, ten years had passed. I decided to write my husband, Michael, a letter.



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