Word of the Month: Obtenebrate

Nothing’s sexier than a good vocabulary, so let’s get hot? At the very least, let’s learn a new word.

Today, I used the very scientific method of flipping to a random page in the “Dictionary of the Strange, Curious & Lovely”, by Robin Devoe and closing my eyes to point to a word. That word, was obtenebrate. To which my brain and tongue had to slow down and work together for a few seconds. Tongue to back of teeth, lips puffing. It feels like a word that would provide the hearty mouthfeel for spoken poetry. And it rhymes with other gems like, confiscate, innumerate, postulate, adulterate, articulate…and now I’ll probably be working on a poem later.

It’s a fun word to say. But the meaning, hit a little too close to the heart, particularly this week.

Obtenebrate: To darken or make dark; to enshadow a thing; to obscure.

The word itself, comes from the late Latin obtenebratus, past participle of obtenebrare to darken, from Latin ob- to, toward, over + tenebrare to darken, from tenebrae darkness, and also shares roots with the Portuguese trevas (darkness or gloom).

And whereas there are a lot of different directions towards gloominess I could take this post today, (aren’t we living in a space and time where a malevolent shadow in a bad spray tan is constantly covering us?) I want to talk about it in terms of ourselves. Our own psyches and perceptions of the world. Beyond the simplifications of being classified as an optimist or a pessimist, I’ve noticed, particularly in the case of a dear friend, the uncanny ability of the mind to obtenebrate itself.

But why does it do this? Why do we do this? This dance with darkness that quickly spirals into an ocean of shadows too deep to keep our heads up?

During a weekly Buddhist gathering, we talked about the concept of being entwined without becoming entangled. To be present without absorbing. To always come back to one’s self, in a world that is constantly pulling us and scarring us with traumatic happenings. All of which, by the way, add up in our physical bodies and in our reactions and fears towards others. From childhood and the father who was abusive, through college and the professor who said we’d never be a writer, to the poor reviews or rejections of lovers…the body remembers, the mind tries to protect. And in doing so, both become entangled. Gnarled roots take hold, darkness shadows over our thoughts, clouding our vision and perception of the world. Until we no longer remember what a bright day looks like. This darkening is cyclical. It feeds on itself, growing larger, and expanding over more and more. Our memories, our achievements, our hopes…the people who love us.

It feels like “the Nothing” from Neverending Story, a bit, doesn’t it?

And to watch it happening to someone you love (or even yourself if you have that kind of self-awareness) is a frightening thing indeed. Because shadows don’t listen to reason. Darkness is too accustom to swallowing light, to pause and ask if it belongs there. Where there are scars, the obtenebration plants seeds. Grows more darkness. Until it can feel like there isn’t much warmth or light worth sticking around for.

And I’m not smart enough to offer solutions. Because the undeniable truth of our own birth and death means that the constant state of existence is one of entropy. And if the shadows are dark enough, perhaps you can only see the decay, the breakdown, the demise. Maybe you don’t yet understand that the breakdown often happens to feed something deeper, brighter that will cycle back around out of the shadows. Maybe we have, for too long, overcomplicated our own wounds, become entangled by them, and forget that we are the only ones capable of hacking through the briar patch of shadows. Maybe we don’t think there’s a reason to bother.

Look, I only have forty some years of experience, but what I do know, from nature, and from my own cycles of loss, and suffering, is that shadows and clouds, night, and darkness, all come through, and then…eventually they are broken apart and carried away by the light, the wind, and the dawn. Yes they come back. Because the only truth of life is change. But instead of running to stay beneath the shadows of those dark clouds, perhaps we can sit still. Come back to ourselves. Shine our own light on these wounds, these entanglements. Work to understand them and, this is the important part, find a way to love and accept. So that maybe the next time the world obtenebrates our lives, we are not allowing it to entangle us.

Take care of yourself. Accept the shadows that come, but don’t invite them to stay. It’s a waste of your one, precious life.

Photo by Javier Balseiro on Pexels.com

Poetry 3/26/26

The week has been a full one with meetings and interviews, all manner of busy-making to keep myself…accountable? Distracted? In a false sense of purpose? Sometimes, in eras of encroaching depression, I find that making myself go through the motions is akin to treading water in the middle of the ocean. I’m not really getting anywhere, but I’m not sinking under either. All that to say, here’s some poetry. About quietness. And how loud it really can be.

In Quiet

the world is less complicated
without the obligation of you

it is simple now
in droning waves of sunshine and
isn't that better?

no need to perk my ears
to your words

no longer worrying my lips
over where yours are residing

life is simpler here
it's quiet like
a ragged street in a forgotten city

trash caught in dead weeds and
chainlink

its quiet like
burnt olive carpet in funeral homes

ghosts of lilies
blooming to fade in grief
it's quiet

like a room with no children
and a meadow with no breeze

silent like a catacomb
stale and cold communion with death

my world is less complicated
without you
in it

it's finally
oh so quiet

Where You Hang Your Hat

This particular phrase came to me me during a few years ago post, on the subject of home. This week, I’m on limited mental and emotional bandwidth due to stuff and things, so I decided to dust off this still-timely look at what home means, where home is, and all the hats we wear when we go ‘outside’ of it.

I’m from Wyoming, born and raised, with some detours along the way.

Wyoming has some pretty awesome colloquialisms (for more on that, please check out my Sweet Valley Series, set in Wyoming—very romantic-west) and “Home is Where You Hang Your Hat” is no exception. (Some other, unrelated, favorites; “wouldn’t mind if his boots were under my bed,” and “wish I had a swing like that on my back porch.”)

I could go into the history of hats, cowboy and otherwise, what they meant, where they came from, who wore them, the political and pop cultural significance each one carried, but you didn’t come here to listen to the historical social scientist in my back pocket, you came here for an expansion on home.

Cowboy Hat1

Hanging your hat up was something you used to do when you came in from a long day of work. I’m looking at you…slack-jawed twerker, with your suuuuper cool trucker’s hat turned sideways at the dinner table…you realize that it’s the same ‘model’ my 97 year-old grandfather would get free from NAPA (that’s the part store, not the wine country) and wear until the brim fell off… And, he wore it better but never at the table… sorry where were we?

Yes, gentlemen used to take off their hats inside and, in the case of coming home, would hang them on a hook or rack by the door.

A simple move that signified something so much more profound.

Hanging your hat, coming home, dropping the world at the door and breathing. Breathing in the place of your own, the space you occupy, the people who wait for you; who love you, who have seen your head without hat, your hair going gray. Coming home meant escaping the life’s demands and the outside world’s burdens and just be.

Why is it important, that we take off our ‘hats’ in today’s world? Why does it matter?

I’m glad you asked. It’s kinda why I’m here.

Humans these days are so connected by technology and the speed-of-light information bursts, that there’s really no such thing as a safe space anymore. Now your home has multiple outlets for this information to stream in, constant and blaring.

And the ‘hats’ have changed too, haven’t they? We used to wear one, maybe two. Now, we’ve got them stacked one on top of the other until they tilt in the breeze and wobble when we try to move forward. We’re doctors, and scientists, social activists and martyrs. Writers and poets, librarians and board members. We’re frienemies and friends, lovers and exes. We’re husbands and mothers, daughters, sons adopted or otherwise. Victim and accuser, the pious and the demon. We are presidents of PTAs and the one mom that always forgets cups. We’re the one to takes the dog to the vet and the kids to the dentist and forgets to pick up their dry cleaning. We’re the ones who need more sleep, but don’t get it. The ones to work long hours, for little recognition. The ones who scoff and say ‘its fine’ when it isn’t.

Caps For Sale
Caps For Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys, and Their Monkey Business. Esphyr Slobodkina (how is it I never knew that was the full title?)

We’re chained to the images that we build on our social media pages and constantly feel the need to live up to the happy smiling selfie that the world thinks we are. It’s getting so one can’t even close the door and drop what’s not real for a few minutes.

And if you can’t ever drop it, how do you even know who you really are?

It’s no wonder we’re overmedicated, depressed, anxious and stressed. People constantly shoving hats into our hands, telling us what we should be, what we could be, showing off how beautifully they’re balancing their own stack with perfect pictures of perfect lives through perfect filters that they post fresh every day.

It can leave a person feeling that if they aren’t getting enough ‘likes’ that no one actually likes them. That the measure of being loved is dependent on some superficial and meaningless emoji.

Listen, kid, ain’t nobody that happy. Ain’t nobody that perfect.

And the brilliance of those images, I guarantee, is hiding the same nasty, visceral darkness that resides in each of us, fed on self-doubt and anger. Jealousy, dis-ease with the person in our skin, and the pressures squeezing through our walls each day.

I just want to go home.

Let’s go back to that place.

The place where you put your phone on the shelf by the door and kick off your shoes. Leave your meal un-Instagramed. Your run un-shared. Write down the cute thing your two-year-old said, and then tell your mom face-to-face over a cup of un-tagged, un-pinned coffee.

Wait for your meal in silence and anticipation. Look up something– in a book. When you feel the need, the itch to pick up that screen, or turn that television on, or otherwise disconnect from real life, don’t. Over half of our lives are spent looking at the world through our screens and its becoming a new, cold, disconnected home where we find no respite.

The ball is in your court, the stack of hats in your arms. Drop them all, for just a moment and pick up only the ones that satisfy your soul. Even those, hang up once in a while and sort through how they make you feel when you wear them.

Find your home by letting go of the things that are outside of who you feel you need to be. Find the home in the center of your chest, your truest self, and come back to that. Hang your hat there. That’s your home.

Worth for Awhile

A large part of human nature’s beauty lies in our failures and follies. Perfect people are rarely very interesting. As a writer, creating ‘perfect’ characters is a sure-fire way to distance your readers and lose their interest. Why? Because no one wants to read about someone who always gets it right. Who can share commonality with that? And yet…our reality is often ruled by what we, as actual humans, fail at.

When thinking about human frailty and my own failings I stumbled across the largest stone in my path of late; Self-Worth.

I know I’m not alone. I see you out there.

It’s more than fair to say that we are comparative beings. The media propagates it, competitive constructs in work and school demand it, and long-standing cultural threads tie our successes (and our failures) to what we’re worth in the eyes of the rest of the world.

Its the single most destructive lie we’ve ever been told.

And its easy to say that it doesn’t affect us. That we don’t care how we stand in relation to other people, that we don’t have a competitive nature, that we don’t feel the need to be anything else than what we are. I say those things all the time. And they rarely do more than offer a feeble disguise over the surface of self-doubt.

If we didn’t care, we’d cease to try. We’d stop looking for ways to improve. But something that should drive our greatness often tears us apart and we are left with shreds of the human we used to be, torn apart in an effort to create something more inspirational in the eyes of the world.

I was recently told, by a very generous soul, that my self-worth shouldn’t come from anyone but myself. That I couldn’t let the berating, criticism, or comparisons of the world let me feel any less than what I was worth. That it wasn’t the outside that should decide, but what was inside of me.

So it made me wonder; What am I worth?

In terms of chemistry, my physical make-up is probably no more than about $3.00 worth of material.

If you broke down my daily tasks and how much you’d have to pay someone else to do them, some would say I’d be worth about $140,000 a year. If you based my worth on what I contribute to the world with my writing we’re looking at a solid $50 a year. Monetarily, its not very impressive. And again, I’m basing my worth on what other’s consider useful tasks/materials.

So what am I worth? What are you worth? Sit still with yourself and ask the question:

“What do I do, what am I, that matters to me? That impacts the world? That brings me contentment?”

Deep…yes. Sometimes we gotta get past the cloak of simple thought to really understand why we matter. We have to, for the sake of our own self-preservation. After all; if you don’t see worth in yourself, you start to feel like a burden to the people you love. And all sorts of ugly outcomes arise from that train of thought…trust me, I’ve been building a scary set of tracks in that direction myself of late.

So I sat down, prompted by my friend’s words and suffering through a trough of depression, and asked myself what I was worth.

I came to the conclusion that for a long time I’ve let the words and actions of other people (in their own beautiful human imperfection) determine my self worth. If they were mad at something in our shared existence, I took it on as a fault of mine. As a problem that I didn’t fix or prevent. If comments were made about appearance, I took the darkest path of focusing on my imperfections and felt the need to correct them by any strange and unhealthy way possible.

It left me wanting and sick.

Why do I let my brain do that?

Because we’re taught to improve. To impress. To be better. To strive for more. Instead of just being what and who we are and understanding that we aren’t responsible for other people’s happiness or conforming to ideas of perfection. We must set boundaries to the information we let affect us. Even my friend’s well intentioned advice was still someone on the outside telling me what to think about my self worth. It’s not about letting someone tell me I am worth-while. Its about knowing my own worth and not letting the outside world sway that knowledge either negatively or positively.

Now there are times, when someone who loves us may come to us with good intention, and full hearts and offer us a viewpoint about something destructive they see in us. There are times when someone has honest praise to offer. With careful appreciation of the information we’re given we can chose to look at it with neutrality and see if there is helpful advice within it, and take it as an opportunity for self-reflection.

I love you guys, for all you are. Just as you are. Have a beautiful week and stretch your brains and hearts to fit the worth inside of you. It’s there.

“My dear,
In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love.
In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile.
In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm.
I realized, through it all, that…
In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.
And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.

Truly yours,
Albert Camus”

Poetry 7-31-2025

Hey there. Last week was a series of battles between work, life, and a newsletter. It was a growing time, a time of transition and time to try and wrap my head around the growing responsibilities in my life and what that means for my writing. It was also a time of softness. Moments of respite, and fostering some connections that felt good and expansive to my heart. Life is a wobbling balance act, and lately I’ve felt more wobbling than balance. So here’s some poetry, from both ends of the spectrum.

Meditation on Old Wounds

See how turbulent winds
blow sweet words away
sand on black top
sand on black top
clouds in blue sky
the blue sky where nothing good sticks
where every promise comes with
an emergency life vest,
and when I get scared,
I can pull the cord
explode the meaning
dismiss it for a lie
another half-truth
sugar sweetness to
worm their way in
and nothing is true
but the stink of my rejection and
love is a dark cloud
I must constantly clear away
clear away
to empty blue skies
lest I be caught in the storm
once again battered
sand on black top
why do I continue reaching
for the chance to be seen
to be known
in all my stormy dark
when I am unknowable
I will wiggle my way out of any noose
of supposed love
it only hurts
it only hurts
it only hurts

except
when
it doesn't


Reawaken

Feel this ancient rumbling
shake and tremble
below what was once
barren ground
the river springs to life
from the soft and patient rains
bubbling up from
the forgotten cradle
soaking the ground
feeding the forest
until it overflows
warm and crashing
over banks
mountainous peaks above
hardened in cold breaths
and warmed
with praise, of god-like hands
and the land settles
into its rhythm
of pulsing
electric
joy

Poetry 7-3-25

Travel leads to thoughts. Interesting new connections and inspirations do too… Travel also leads to not a lot of time getting to sit down and make up blog posts. So I hope you’ll forgive me for posting two poems in a row. This is an older one, not in my current headspace, but always, somehow, tattooed beneath my skin.





Remember Your Lines

What does depression feel like?

Like I want to sleep forever

but every time I fall into that

blissful unconsciousness,

I hope I never come back out

that it’s just a peaceful send off

So long…have a good flight

Don’t call when you get there.

Because…that would be weird

And freak everyone out…

It feels like…

I can’t feel

sunshine, or joy, or pride, or hope

I’m a slab of granite,

wavering on two crumbling pillars of sandstone

stuck in quicksand and sinking

and I don’t care if I go under

in fact, I welcome it and hope

it suffocates me

with calm commands,

breathe in…breath out…and hold

like an MRI of your final moment

but it never tells you

to breath in again

Depression feels like

I have no energy in my synapses

and even if I did, nothing I could do with it

would be worth anything to anyone

least of all myself

Depression is a gray, weighted blanket

only not for comfort, it’s for the unsurmountable load

that life gives you to carry

and you just can’t find a good enough reason

to carry it anymore;

but you can’t find your way out

from underneath it either

Depression is seeing through eyes

that are a movie screen

to an audience that lost its will to care

lacks empathy, doesn’t recognize

Art

or love

or fleeting time

or beauty

Depression is a cage that I shout meaningless words out of,

fake platitudes

in hopes no one else falls into the cage next to me

I’m fine!

You’re fine,

you’re fine, baby girl

you’re fine…

I love you

it’ll be okay

It’ll be okay is tattooed beneath my skin

so that I don’t forget these

lines to a play that I rehearse and repeat,

back to the world that asks

Are you?

Okay?

I look down to the scars I once cut

but can’t cut again; they’ll see

Children learn from watching

so I don’t show,

I tell…

I tell lines

I tell them the lines I need to tell

I tell them,

Though the world is burning around us

and women will never be safe

and human lives don’t matter

cattle for the breeding grounds or

simply to slaughter to the gods of capitalism

Stop!

don’t say that…

don’t project the hopeless…

Read the line

Read the provided line

not the truthful line

of scars….

It’ll be okay

I’m

Okay

You’ll be…

… will you be?

Okay?

Depression is lying to loved ones

so you never have to worry that you’ll be

their downward spiral,

the same scythe of your mother’s loss

that cut you down

Cause we’re all Ok

we just need to…

I just need to

Remember my lines

Poetry 5-22-25

I’m in a weird mood today. This is the season of transitions, of pressures and demands, and I feel like I’m shutting down in the face of so much of it. Here’s a weird poem to align the inner workings of my mind to the outer life, relentlessly attacking.

Sweater

I put your memory on
like an old sweater
in all the little winters
of my despair

Here the arms pull through
to hide the stinging cuts
Here, ribbed neck fraying
to protect from the noose of loss

Here the cabled warmth
falling over my eviscerated belly
Here your memory tucks my vital pieces
back together, safe and warm

The woolen comfort of words
I will never hear again
from nights you probably don't remember
a softness in the dark, held briefly

I am a lint fuzz on your shoulder
but you are my favorite sweater
the one I cannot sleep without
the only thing that offers relief

Purpose and hope exist
in the scratchy bulk
of a garment I once borrowed
but was never mine to wear

I put your memory on
like my favorite sweater
in all these winters
of self-imposed despair.

Poetry 1-23-2025

It’s a tumultuous time. An era where its hard to trust information, its hard to have privacy, and its even harder to envision a world where we can be a functioning community again. These are the days that try good hearts. You are not alone. We are all in some phase of struggle. We are all clawing our way up. I love you. I see you. Do what you can, to be kind to yourself and others today. Don’t give up.

Love Me Enough

I've tried to breathe it away
this constant ache
a hunger, not satiated

I've tried to busy it away
with lists
and checked boxes

I've tried running it away
until my knees were torn
and my vertebra grew together

I've tried laughing it away
your darkest friend
is always the most funny

I've tried writing it away
harsh words and compassionate pages
like arms to enfold, or choke

I've tried drinking it away,
until all I lost were words
and years with my children

I've tried cutting it away
sharp stings and
barely hidden red bracelets

hoping someone would notice
but even when they did
no one loved me enough to stop me

I'm trying to love me enough to stop me
I'm trying, this time
to love it away

And I'm learning
that means
feeding myself on breath
sitting through it in stillness
running headlong into the fire
allowing the storm to laugh through me
and writing only the truth
watering my brain like a garden
holding my body close like a child
Soothing the scars and
loving the woman who survived long enough
to stand in love now

Poetry 10-24-24

I’ve been attempting the challenge of writing a poem every day in October. They’re not all amazing, but some of them land in places I didn’t even know I had.

Birdhouse

I put a birdhouse up, next to my window
I like to watch the lithe lightness of their bodies
Bright colors and whisper bones
Harbingers of Spring,
Survivors of Winter
sharp-beaked truth sayers
forever in love with the dawn
I like to watch them,
hop and flutter in tree branches and
shadowed gardens
such a pure, simple existence
I wanted to give them a home

But none have come to nest
and I am wondering now,
if it isn't my fault
maybe I am too much heavy dark
and granite bones
I am the decay of Fall
cold graves beneath snow,
soft lips full of lies to myself
and the ones I love
forever lost in some night

Perhaps I am
a treacherous black hole
that they cannot call neighbor
Still I will wait

Perhaps even dread
longs for hope.

Poetry 6-13-2024

Her List

let’s make a list
of all the things
I didn’t do
of all the tasks
still uncrossed
the boxes
unchecked
and measure my worth by them.

How it had been months
since I last dusted well
and when some fog of
depression lifted
and I stared in disgust
he breathed a sigh
of ‘finally’ relief
and happily let me scrub them down
even seeing my obvious self-loathing

what did you do with your day?
I erased months of my skin cells
erased months of myself
with disgust at the oily build up
of what I’ve become…

but no matter how much grey brown filth
I rinse down the drain
I’m still here

were that my cells finite,
and every time I shed
I just became smaller
and smaller
and smaller
until one day
I would blink out of existence.

a last checked box
disappear,
check.