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SAPPY (Sad + Happy)

I’m writing this 1 Degree Newsletter for the new friends who have joined this brave community of creative soulful souls, and for those who have been with me for the past two years since I started writing you.

If I ever felt weird or insufficient, not believing I have enough intellectual chops to take up this space or believing I have too much in my passion for processing the stuff of life to be likable by anyone other than my best friends,

I don’t feel that way with you. And I want to thank you.

I am also writing this because I began this journey to re-launch Creativity Matters Coaching exactly 8 years ago today. That was the day I got the phone call that changed my life.

My father in law called me to say that we had lost Eric. His son. My husband. They found him alone. On the floor of his grandmothers kitchen. He had been living in that empty house for about two months with, I believe, the sincere hope in his heart that he would make it to a rehabilitation program that began after Labor Day.

Long weekends make me anxious. Kids always get strep throughs on a Friday. And the fact that my husband died hoping to reach the Tuesday after Labor Day, (as unlikely that it was that it would have changed the outcome) still tears at my heart.

I am telling you this because if it were not for this very space - this 1 Degree Newsletter - I would feel unexpressed in the kind of magical and liberating way you let have invited me talk to you, and then listened.

Thank you.

The name of this newsletter - 1 Degree - is intentional because that is the only way I can think about tomorrow. In degrees.

I don’t have a master plan for Creativity Matters Coaching.

I don’t even know for sure what my next workshop will be - (I cam promise that there WILL BE ONE though, I am imagining it up right now in fact), but I know that at least for me, there is no other way.

Not any more.

When I was in college I excelled inside of the structure it afforded me - born to please and to perform. No surprise then that when I graduated I was completely confused. What? No path for my gilded feet to step upon?

I was also really lonely . Where are my people?

And really scared. Who am I now?

That was when I first started to wonder about the purpose of transition. The purpose of not knowing the path ahead. The value in uncertainty. The wisdom in taking small steps every day. The quirky beauty (albeit in retrospect) of the struggle to belong to ourselves.

What has changed, and it’s a biggie, is that I now believe that what I put into the Universe - like this book you have all been hearing so much (too much?!) about - will contribute to whatever unfolds and rises up to meet me.

That is hope.

My therapist and I used to talk about being “allergic to hope,” and I was.

These past eight years, and all that I have tried and tested, have taught me that I have the fortitude to tolerate loss and grief, separation and rupture. And that even the worst of it can bring forth a kind of self-regard and courage that was not possible before.

Still, I believe that we have to do our part in order for the Universe to do its part.

We contribute to the mysterious alchemy of our own becoming.

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