two turkeys
A poem from my driveway
I’m sitting here in my driveway watching two wild turkeys gobble their way down the street right in front of my house. I can hear them chattering with each other. I immediately invent a story about the two of them being old friends who had a falling out over something neither of them can remember. Probably over who gets to eat first or something else that became unimportant as time passed by them. Now they are finally clearing the air during a winter walk down a residential street in Omaha. I laugh at how ridiculous they look, stuttering past the sleek parked Tesla sleeping at the curb. No. Wait. It’s the modern technology that looks ridiculous next to these birds. Now I’m crying. with all of this innovation, all of these invisible signals threading the air between us, none of it not one little bit of technology and progress that surround us has helped me find the courage to knock on your door and invite you for a walk so I can finally say “I’m sorry.”
A quick reminder: starting this Thursday, I’ll be adding a paid post each week—deeper essays, videos, and live “write with me” sessions. Today’s poem is free, as always. If you’d like to support the work and get access to the Thursday posts, you can upgrade here:
Either way, I’m so glad you’re here.
There’s a line from Kae Tempest’s song “Grace” that runs underneath everything I do:
“If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. But if you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”
That’s what these writing retreats are about.
It’s not worrying about becoming a better writer or excavating trauma for a performance.
We don’t spend time crafting the perfect essay.
Just bringing it forth.
Whatever’s been sitting inside you ~ silent, unnamed, waiting.
The thing you’ve been carrying alone because you thought no one else would understand.
We write to survive. Not to publish. Not to impress anyone.
To survive.
Because what stays trapped inside doesn’t just sit there quietly. It calcifies. It poisons. It convinces you that you’re the only one who feels this way.
In 2026, I’m hosting writing retreats in Arizona, Madeline Island, Alaska, Santa Fe, Italy, and California. Also some offerings exist online.
We slow down enough to hear ourselves again. We tell stories without needing them to be impressive.
We write without needing it to be good. We sit in silence when words aren’t the answer. We let things unfold without rushing toward resolution.
Nothing has to be shared. Nothing has to be dramatic. You don’t have to perform your pain or your healing.
What people tell me afterward:
They remember what their voice sounds like.
They stop waiting for permission to tell the truth.
They leave feeling less alone in their own skin.
Most of my retreats fill quickly….not because I’m good at marketing (I’m not), but because people who’ve been feel safe enough to come back, and they tell others.
If you’ve been thinking about it, don’t wait too long. Spaces go fast, and I only do this a handful of times a year.
All the details: