Ana and Hana say goodbye to 2020 and ring in the ever so hopeful 2021. 2021 is greeted with further isolation due to the continuation of the pandemic which is not lost on Ana who is experiencing acute isolation and loneliness during the holidays. Not only is it the very first "pandemic holiday", it is also Ana's first holidays living alone and divorced. In a vulnerable reading, Ana shares a story she wrote on the evening of Christmas night while allowing the depths of grief to take hold. Hana discusses with Ana the importance of Ana's spiritual practice during the holiday season and how she may pass on her own traditions to her son.Originally recorded on January 17, 2021.The Loneliest Christmas I have never been alone on Christmas. Until today. Christmas has always been an occasion where I allowed myself to experience joy, joy in the moment, joy in sensations and experiences, joy in the belief of magic. As a nonreligious but heavily spiritual person, Christmas has become a baffling holiday. My tree, the first one I ever cut and put up on my own, sits resplendent in green, white, and red lights, with hastily tucked presents in various stages of unwrap spilling from beneath. Yet I sit alone watching the cheerful electric glow feeling wave upon wave of nostalgia. What is it that drew me to this holiday as a child? There were no passionate stories of baby Jesus told by my family other than the ones told in media, school, or books. My childhood holidays were plentiful but never glorified presents and getting. Instead, I searched for a certain resonance which I ached to find each year. I began to liken that ‘feeling’ to the heavy softness of a pink glowing snowy night. The kind I can stand in and feel every beat of my heart.  With each passing year however, I grew older and began to lose my ability to feel that quality of awe and magic - like a relationship growing stale with disillusionment. When I held my newborn son in my arms, I fantasized of Christmas’ to come, of allowing him to experience that same joy and excitement that I once felt. And it is true, at nearly 6 years old he has found that wonder. He still believes in magic and the unknown, still freshly innocent from the skepticism of our modern society that is hell bent on cutting us off from that vital connection of flow and spirit.  However, just as important as finding that intangible joy of holiday spirit, is experiencing that joy with others. How I dreamed of hosting Christmas at my home so I could perhaps hold that space of love and excitement for my loved ones. Children excitedly run about the house preparing for the arrival of a strange man. Telling stories to my family, sharing in laughter, food, and memories of Christmas past. And for a time, I had a glimpse of that. I played host. Filled stockings. Laid long tables in my living room for multitudes of guests and family.  Tonight is different. This year is different. More people than ever are experiencing a lonely Christmas for perhaps the first time. Many more are coping with past and recent losses of loved ones, of lost lives, of people too faraway to share in the collective joy.  I am not a victim. I do not pity myself or think I am in any way special in my solitude. I feel a deep, cavernous sorrow. A grief so heartbreaking it threatens to burst from the pain in my chest. The grief is not just my own and it is not just about this moment in time of lost and far away memories. I am living alone for the first time in my life - I chose to break away from what no longer held me, supported me, and nourished me. And I grieve, as much as if it wasn’t my own choice.  As I allow the flood of emotions to rise and fall with my breath, I choose to explore questions I have - before tonight - never considered. How do I experience that purity of innocence, joy, and wonder every day - not just during an...

Hana brings her story of a potentially haunted toy to a close and feels the satisfaction and relief of resolving an open task, while treating her character with respect. She discusses the pitfalls of perfectionism with Ana, the experience of falling prey to the allure of procrastination, and the repeated lesson that putting things off never feels as good as finishing them. Finding methods to encourage accountability, breaking projects down into more-manageable pieces, reaching out to colleagues/podcast co-hosts for help - these are just some of the tools that Hana and Ana have developed and are still working on to make the work of writing achievable in their daily lives.Originally recorded December 13, 2020. A Discarded ToyThe day was waning, shadows from the trees long against the grass as the girl walked her dog down the lane. Though the leaves had barely begun to lose their green, there was a crispness to the air that hinted at harvest time, morning frost, and the need for sweaters. The dog ran slightly ahead, trotting toward the field in anticipation of the long expanse of grass to run through. Occasionally, she would stop to sniff at a plant here or a pile of dirt there, responding to cues that were invisible to the human senses. They approached the overgrown walkway leading to the field where the dog hesitated, waiting until her companion was with her before stepping into the shade cast by the trees overhead.“You always stop at the same spot,” the girl said to the dog, reaching down to give a comforting scratch between her ears as she wondered out loud to herself, “Is there something you can sense here that I can’t?”They continued down the path, the dog wandering from side to side until they reached the field, where the girl unclipped the leash and immediately the compact, furry body went flying across the terrain in an ecstasy of joy and freedom. As she watched her faithful shadow run in widening circles around her, she felt a slight chill in the air, though no breeze ruffled the tall grasses around her. For a moment, everything seemed to pause slightly, as though the world were holding its breath. The sky darkened for a split second and all sound stopped, then everything started again, so quickly the girl thought she must have imagined it.The dog came bounding over from where she had been investigating a shrub beloved by all the dogs of the neighborhood. Panting, she sat down expectantly and cocked her head to the side, waiting for the treat she knew was coming. The girl looked closely at her to see if she had noticed the same odd moment of stillness, but she seemed unaffected or, at least, wasn’t dwelling on it. Shaking her head to clear the fog, she reached into her pocket and held out her open palm to the waiting dog, who eagerly scarfed down the small knot of dried beef before turning around to head home.The girl was walking down the tree-lined path behind the dog, lost in thought, when she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise in response to being watched by someone. At the same moment, the dog stopped, dropped her head down, and began to growl softly, until the girl tugged on her harness to get her moving again. She looked around, but saw no one on the path in front or behind, nor were there any noises of people in the fields and yards hidden by the trees. Once they reached the end of the path where the pavement began, the feeling began to fade until just a faint sense of heaviness remained, echoed by the clouds that had rolled in during their walk back home. The dog relaxed out of the hunting position she had adopted, trotting cheerfully back to the house.Walking to the field the next day, late in the afternoon, the girl had forgotten entirely about any strange occurrences from the previous day. The sun was hidden behind a veil of clouds and the air felt thick with cool humidity, the moment of calm before the torrent of rain....

Ana gets a confidence boost at work and Hana gives her high praise as Ana learns what her writing "jam" is - writing about nature connection and mentoring. Through Hana's praise and curiosity about the piece, Ana comes to the realization that she can easily and smoothly write clear and concise instructions about how to teach activities. Ana attributes this ease to her many years of teaching children in the method of "Coyote Mentoring" through her nonprofit she co-founded. Ana's writing mentor and colleague helps Ana discover her writing "blocks" by purchasing a book that is designed to help people with ADD type brains to write in logical and concise ways. Ana is floored by how simple it is to reroute and rewire her outline processes by following the simple steps outlined in the book. Originally recorded December 13, 2020.

Hana continues to offer support and guidance for Ana's professional writing within her new position. In Episode 10 ...Finding its Voice, Ana speaks about her struggles with writing her first blog piece. Now, a month later, Ana realizes that many of her writing fears and struggles from college are rearing its ugly head. With the help of Ana's co-worker and team's editor, the two embark on a promising journey to help Ana overcome her inexperience with writing concise, informative pieces. While speaking with Hana, Ana reveals certain aspects of her brain and learning challenges that has come to light during this process. Originally recorded November 8, 2020.

Hana asks Ana for assistance after getting stuck halfway through her second scary story. Ana reads the excerpt aloud and the discussion goes into an exploration of anxiety, gaslighting, what it means to have mental health challenges, and how to write those aspects of a story responsibly. Ana helps Hana brainstorm some potential paths to end the story that hopefully avoid caricature, stereotyping, and other lazy but common tropes.Originally recorded on November 8, 2020.Written piece to follow in Episode 14, The Pen Is...Putting a Story to Bed

Ana has been gifted the opportunity to push her writing chops at her new job and is excited to share the process of writing her first professionally published piece. Ana's co-workers help her to work through some of her writing challenges around structure and concise language by guiding her to use her strengths in writing to showcase her passion for the Earth and sustainability. A personal triumph, Ana shares a real story that weaves her vision for connecting people to nature and boosts her writing confidence.Originally recorded on October 11, 2020.I sat tucked beneath the tree, my head resting on the pillow of her fibrous bark. Absently, my fingers had been twisting and wrapping the aromatic leaves of the sagebrush, each crush igniting fragrant oils into the air. My eyes gazed out across the vast stark white lakebed of the Alvord Desert. The air had begun to cool as the sun migrated closer to the mountains edge preparing for the freezing starlit night. It was here on my very first solo camping trip that I began to contemplate what it mean to ‘belong’ and to question why I felt so inextricably disconnected and foreign sitting upon the Earth.  In times of trouble I am drawn to the plants. Over the past decade I had spent my life dedicating myself to the study, immersion, and teaching of plants and nature connection. I was attempting to bring some passion and interest back to children and adults who had grown up entirely disconnected from the deeper teachings of the natural world. The world however, didn’t seem to be ready for humans to remember this connection. I felt anger and frustration living in this society where collectively and routinely we are separate from our environment. A world that is fast paced, virtual, padded, and insulated from the natural processes and forces. A world where species are going extinct every minute and no one seems to be able to stop it.  I abruptly got up and faltered, my body reminding me I had been sitting in one position for the better part of an hour. I looked around me to the company I kept in that moment, the sagebrush community. Silver grey shrubs littered the landscape punctuated by the brilliant purple of the various lupines blooming in the late April evening. These plants, this community belonged to one another and they needed each other to keep the delicate balance of life in this harsh ecosystem. An emotion bubbled up, envy! How could I possibly be envious of these plants? I stood there as witness, a European transplant high on my existential crisis in a land where the ancient Burns Paiute people lived (and the Burns Paiute Tribe live today) as an integral part of this ecosystem. I didn’t feel integral. I felt alien, removed, invasive, caustic.  I wanted to cry and scream, throw my hands in the air and give up. It was in that moment that a sound had been penetrating my awareness, a screeching and calling. I stopped moving, instincts telling me to pay attention and look. My ears perked and noted the location of the calling birds. I crouched down all my senses alert, my feelings of despair forgotten. Pay attention! To the south the calling came from two black and white birds, long tailed and clearly agitated. The magpies were extremely unhappy about something and I was bound to find out what. I watched as they took turns flying up into a willow shrub then swooped down over sagebrush on the eastern side of the hill. Over and over they repeated the process but each time they flew over the sagebrush they moved further and further up the hill, as if following something. I quietly stalked closer, heart beating but breathing steady, moving at a pace that wouldn’t attract the alarming birds to my presence. Suddenly my peripheral vision caught movement, I focused in and noticed tan, brown, and white, moving quickly along the hill. As the creature came into view it showed itself as a large tailless mammal. A bobcat! She slinked...

First up, a correction: This episode talks about a fish with a light on its head that it uses to lure unsuspecting victims, but that fish is called a lanternfish here when it is in fact an anglerfish *facepalm*. Many sincere thanks to Hana's brother-in-law Cody for the correction AND the incredible artwork for this episode. (Check out @cpburke.nvartwork on Instagram for more of his artwork.) Hana shares a scary story she wrote based on her fear of the deepest, darkest recesses of the ocean. She and Ana discuss her writing process, beginning with the initial inspiration that shaped her tale and moving into how she refined the tone and why she made particular stylistic choices. Plus, the scary story author's ultimate fear: is my story scary enough?Originally recorded on October 11, 2020.The LanternfishOlivia wasn’t sure what first drew her eye to the girl on the veranda, but once she glanced over, the scarf drew her in. It was a beautiful goldenrod with a pattern of ruby-colored fish on it and it hugged the girl’s neck like a glowing, silky living thing. Olivia smiled slightly, the universal sign for opening a conversation with a stranger and the girl waved her in through the gate.It was her first week in this new town and she was enjoying the solitude of her nightly walks, getting to know her neighbors at a distance, through brightly lit windows, before she’d start greeting them in person as a new librarian. As much as she enjoyed wandering through the stacks of books, breathing in the smell of paper and binding glue, she tolerated the need to interact with the public as a necessary part of her job, but not an attractive one.She hesitated a moment with her hand on the gate knob, then turned it and walked into the long garden that led to the small house set back from the road in the embrace of a sea of weeping willows. Normally, approaching a stranger to strike up a conversation was something Olivia would do only under duress, but the girl looked so friendly and unthreatening. And there was something about her outfit that was magnetic. The jewel-toned scarf was the crowning piece, but her buttery yellow dress and crimson sweater were somehow both soft yet impeccably tailored, and her green pumps showed off her dainty feet.“Good evening, it appears that you’re enjoying our uncommonly fine autumn weather as much as I.” The girl’s voice was bright and musical, none of the annoyingly chipper tones of the busybody mothers one found in a town this size, nor the wistful sighs of the other spinsters Olivia was lumped in with at community potlucks and town hall meetings. Yet it also sounded a bit...old-fashioned was the only word she could think of. Indeed, her style seemed a bit outdated, yet somehow timeless and classic. From a distance, Olivia had thought she was young, but from closer, she had almost an ageless appearance. A woman, not a girl.“Yes, I always like to go for a stroll in the evenings as long as the weather permits. I’m Olivia, I’m new to town,” she said as she continued up the garden walk. A thought skittered across the back of her mind that the house itself was surprisingly shabby, especially in contrast to the vision of color and elegance the woman presents, but it all faded into the background, the house and the thought. Nearer the house, a refreshing whiff of sweet but salty air chased the mustiness of the evening away, reminding Olivia of her childhood summers by the sea. “Lovely to meet you, Olivia, I don’t receive many visits from neighbors so this is an undeniable treat! My name is Marina.” The woman stepped back to where she had been sitting and gestured to Olivia to join her. “May I get you something to drink? I’ve been savoring my nightly mug of tea now that the heat of summer has passed us by.”When Olivia said that she would very much like some hot...

After exploring writing a piece that uses only dialogue in Episode 5, Hana pushes Ana even further by challenging her to write a fiction piece that mixes dialogue and expository text. Ana - ever ready for the challenge, finds herself writing an emotionally laden conversation between two people working through a tense exchange. Ana surprises herself with how easily she was able to work in some of her own experiences with allowing emotional acceptance and finds that dialogue doesn't have to be spoken to be heard. Originally recorded on September 20, 2020She sat down. It was an intentional sit. Slowly lowering herself to the cushioned chair, prim, poised, and ready. Her heart kept beat. A waltz. 1-2-3, 1-2-3. The steady rhythm calmed her. In her mind she imagined conductor’s hands, baton flying through the air holding pace, keeping steady, leading with ease while orchestrating the conversation at hand. Firmly seated, she raised her eyes across the room to him. There he sat eyes aglow. Waiting. For what? For the baton to drop? For the still air in the stifling room to suddenly shift, a ghost of a breeze wafting as if on cue to begin the inevitable? Her heart ached. Still pounding with the dance, counting, pulsing, whooshing blood in and out, up and down. He seemed so far away even if it was only several feet, it felt like miles. Miles of distance, untouchable. “I’m not afraid.” She stated. Only her lips moved, her eyes locked into his. He didn’t move or react. In his silence there seemed to be a placid allowing, as if he knew exactly what she was about to say and he agreed. He breathed in deeply, letting the breath expand his chest, his eyes not moving from hers. He spoke now after with the last few beats of exhale. “I might be.” She was not surprised by this response. His body posture gave the false impression of utter calm, yet his eyes shone with such intensity it seemed as if the emotion might burst forth in a flash of light and fear. Instinctively she wanted to reach out and touch his cheek as if to comfort a child. Her hand didn’t move. Nor did her body. The space between them had become far too great, far too expansive for such a singular journey. Sensing her inner conflict he offered reassurance. “I can hold this. I can bear it.”“What if I can’t?” She asked, eyes near to tears. Her barely held back grief had begun to leak out, tearing at the seams with the pressure of holding in it. Holding it down. Keeping it close. “I’m scared I’m losing. Losing this game of pretending it’s all ok. I’m wavering.”At this he smiled slightly. The smile spoke of understanding and immense love. He knew only too well that sense of slipping and of losing. It was his turn to feel the urge of bridging the echoing distance between them. To take her in and bring her gently to his heart so she could hear the waltz beating consistently within his own chest. The same rhythm. The same song. The same desire. After several measures he finally spoke. It came out in a heartbreaking whisper and floated towards her with fierce tenderness. Yet no words actually escaped his lips. It was the very essence of his meaning and emotion that transmitted instantly into her core and she knew without knowing the message he needed to send. A mutual acceptance filled their void and held the space within.

After her last piece kept things deliberately vague, Hana committed to writing a piece that was heavy on the detail and specifics. This week's piece is written from the perspective of a young woman unsure of her life's path and wavering on a momentous decision: to have children or not. Hana blends her own experiences and thoughts with those of friends to develop a story that is familiar, while being careful to double check her facts.Originally recorded September 20, 2020.Bethany takes a breath and starts to read, “Once upon a time, there was a little girl who-”“No! I said I wanted the other story, the one from the Today Times, not a Back-Then story,” Eleanor crosses her arms and pouts up at the older girl. It’s getting toward the end of their bedtime ritual, but Eleanor has been in a fussy mood all evening, demanding more hugs and treats than her usual happy-go-lucky demeanor suggests. Her parents have been preparing for the upcoming trip to the hospital, packing a bag for her mom and putting the final touches on the bedroom next to hers. Clearly, though she has no idea how much her life will change shortly, Eleanor feels the excitement and tension in the air. She wavers back and forth between gloriously happy anticipation and a frantic desire for everything to remain the same. Being a four year old on the cusp of sisterhood isn’t easy.Bethany pulls out the picture book with a sprightly redheaded girl on its cover and begins to read the well-worn story yet again. As she recites lines memorized from repeated performances, she steals covert glaces at the little girl lying in her parents’ big double bed. Whenever they’re out for the night, Eleanor insists on sleeping in their bed so that she’ll “greet” them when they get home, though she almost never wakes up while being carried back to her own bed down the hall.As if on cue, Eleanor’s eyes start to drift shut on the fifth page. Bethany wonders if there’s a Pavlovian response at work, given how often they read the Pippi Longstocking story and the fact that Eleanor falls asleep at exactly the same point in the story every time. She makes a mental note to bring the topic up in her History of Behavior Therapy class next week.Once Eleanor is soundly asleep, Bethany stands up, careful not to shake the bed, and leaves the room, closing it until just a crack remains. She walks down the stairs of the darkened house, guided by familiarity and the glimmer of light coming from a lamp in the family room. Her feet avoid the various scattered toys by instinct.Grabbing a Coke from the refrigerator (Paul and Marion keep their kitchen well stocked, knowing how much a college student appreciates free food), Bethany makes her way to the couch in the family room, where a pile of textbooks, handouts, and notepads sits. She sighs inwardly, thinking that she’d love to just enjoy the peace and quiet until the Camford-Strahofskis get home from their weekly date. When Bethany decided that she wanted to attend a huge state university two days’ drive from home, her parents immediately started calling around to friends to find a surrogate family for her. That’s how the nannying job with Eleanor came about and she’s grateful for the stability and spending money it provides. Plus, with Paul and Marion being on the faculty at the university, she knows they understand the college student perspective more than most - though their positions in Economics and Sports Marketing bear no relation to her chosen major, Psychology. Not only does she have a second home outside the dorms at the Camhofski residence, she also appreciates getting an up-close and personal look at the life of two hard-working professionals juggling family and career demands. Now that she’s in her fourth year of college, choices of job and family seem to be...

In response to Ana's prompt to write a fiction piece on an older person living out of the end of their life and how they’re addressing trauma they experienced earlier in life, Hana reads aloud her short description of a moment in time for Alva, her protagonist. Ana pushes Hana to continue working on the aspects of writing she finds uncomfortable, including vulnerability and emotion. Originally recorded September 16, 2020.Hana: write a fiction piece on an older person living out of the end of their life and how they’re addressing trauma they experienced earlier in life.Alva sits at the window and watches the clouds moving across the sky. Quietly humming to herself, she tracks the movements of sunlight and shadow on the ground and trees with her eyes and sometimes a half-raised finger, pointing at a particularly bright or dark spot. Most days, she doesn’t want to wear her glasses because the nose-pieces bite into the delicate skin on her nose, so most of the patterns outside are blurred. It was worse when they lived in the house near the airport, the sound of planes taking off and landing always throwing her back into days when loud noises meant fear and possible death, but the tasteful and deliberately calming environment of the retirement community doesn’t allow for such disruptions, so she can watch the clouds at her leisure.Once upon a time, just sitting at the window would have been a rare luxury, time spent alone with nothing else to do, no existential worries wearing on her mind if she tried to relax. The days of children asking her unending questions and ever-present piles of laundry and dishes waiting to be cleaned are long past, with those children tending to their own families’ needs. But lately, she’s been thinking more often back to the days before she was a housewife with a comfortable middle-class life, when the stresses of daily living were a threat to her survival.“Honey, can I get you anything?” the soft voice of the nursing assistant floats into the room, disturbing her reverie. She likes the earnest young woman who is so eager to please and will talk about her dreams of becoming a nurse one day, but the slight condescension of a woman calling her “sweetie,” “dear,” and “honey” when she’s never known true hardship is grating at times. She feels more kinship with the nurses, CNAs, and therapy assistants who have come to the US fleeing political upheaval in their own countries.“Thank you, Heather, but I’m fine.” Alva turns back to the window and resumes her train of thought.She finds conversations with others tiring these days. She’d rather continue the discussions in her head with people long gone. Full of excruciating memories and deep loss, these conversations feel like home to her in a way that inane small talk with chipper young people never will.A therapist she saw many years ago once said, “Processing your past experiences will help you put their traumatic effects to bed.” For someone supposedly so aware of the human condition, Dr. Feelgood (she doesn’t remember his actual name) was supremely unaware of the comfort of anguish. It may not feel pleasant, reliving these memories over and over, but it feels familiar. Why would she want to say goodbye to dear faces that are long gone, even with the sharp pain she feels at the sight of them in her mind’s eye?Alva realizes that the nursing assistant is still waiting expectantly in her doorway. She stops mid-thought and looks questioningly at her.“Mrs. Thompson…,” she hesitates, reluctant to bring up something upsetting, but Alva is braced for the inevitable question. It comes out in a rush, she wants to get on with the rest of her day, “I didn’t see your name on the list for this week’s shuttle, which stops by the cemetery, should I add you to the...

Who among us hasn't struggled with writing a series of "She said...he asked...they cried...she exclaimed," treading the fine line between too repetitive and too esoteric? After her discomfort writing dialogue in her most recent writing exercise, Ana develops a piece that is ONLY dialogue, channeling her theater experience and memories of improv practice into a prompt that encapsulates a humorous, real conversation. The process causes her to reflect on her creative process, both in the present day as a writer and musician and its roots in her childhood play.Originally recorded September 16, 2020.“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”“What?”“That!”“What did I do?”“You sighed.”“I sighed!? I don’t even remember doing it!”“Doesn’t matter, you did it.”“And you didn’t like it?”“No. I hated it. With a fiery passion.”“How fiery?”“As fiery as the depths of hell. I felt it burning deep in my gut like those burning farts when you feel like your butthole is literally on fire.”“Why is that?”“Why is what? Why do I hate your sighing so much?”“Ha ha, no. I mean yes, but no. Why do butt holes burn like that?”“I don’t know, cause your insides are dying?”“I thought it was more to do with caustic chemicals burning their way through your anus. Can’t you just see it?”“Ick. That’s disgusting.”“It’s true though! I mean why else would it happen?”“You are deflecting.”“Deflecting your farts?”“No! Jesus. The whole reason we started this conversation. Stay on track!”“So no more burning buttholes?”“Seriously. Stop.”“You hate my sighing. That’s where we started this and you haven’t exactly told me why.”“I don’t know.”“Oh come on. You can’t throw something at me like that and then retreat when I call you on it. Own it! Why don’t you like my sighing?”“I…I feel like when you sigh like that, you are tired of me.”“Tired of you? In what way?”“I don’t know! I just feel like you are disappointed in me all the time and that you have these nonverbal that are infuriatingly passive and then I suddenly feel like I have to read into to understand why you are frustrated with me and…and it’s not fair!”“Whoa, I had no idea. Seriously, my sighs are just that - just sighs. Why do you feel like you need to read into it?”“Well, it always happens when we are talking about something that I am interested in and that you don’t agree with or aren’t that interested in the subject. It’s like you are obligated to hear me out but are annoyed that you are obligated.”“Wow, I am only partially following. And - I am engaged and listening. I am rarely bored with you.”“Oh yeah thanks dude.”“Not like that! Of course there are times when I don’t follow you or aren’t entirely enthusiastic about a conversation but I never intentionally use sighs or groans or any other flippant nonverbals to passively express annoyance. Not even unintentionally. Now I might poke at you or rile you up but that is purely out of love.”“Still 8 years old aren’t you?”“Chronically.”“I’m sorry I snapped at you. I guess I am feeling tender today and I just want you and your support and I feel like everyone was pissed at me today and I am bleeding like a stuck horse, and I want to scream and cry and run around the neighborhood waving my arms about like a mad woman.”“I’d like to see that.”“You would.”“Come here. No come closer, closer. I’m not...

Ana dives into a fictional piece about writing a first person story that connects healing from trauma with the help of the Earth. Ana discusses with Hana how daunting the prompt initially was for her and how the process of writing this piece gave pause to reflect upon codependency, compassion fatigue, and questions who might be our healers.Originally recorded on August 23, 2020. Every Little Thing It’s hot. The air is thick with it. From horizon to horizon the sky drops to a pale blue as if the very sky itself is bleached out by the sun. Being outside however, is better than being in the sterility of that building. Out here there is movement, breath, life, natural sound. Not the beeping of incessant machines or the constant squeaking of soles on polished, reflective floors.  I breathed in the languid breeze, thankful to be moving in a straight line and out of that oppressive environment. Three more hours and I will be done with my twelve hour shift, the last shift of my week. Three more hours my mind kept repeating. As my feet moved across the bumpy, scalding pavement my circular thoughts stayed back at work.  What did I miss with that last vital check? Shit, did I give the correct dosage? Person after person had begun to fuse into one needy patient. My compassion had begun to slip. Years ago, in the beginning, I faintly recall an impassioned, empathetic version of myself. Now I could hardly muster a genuine smile or word. Get through my shift. Get home. Lie down. Sleep. Just…sleep.  Just as my eyes dropped to nearly closed, lost in my reverie of sleeping, I heard a woman’s voice call out. Eyes wide open I whipped my head around to hear which direction the appeal was coming from, my body tense and poised for action.  The road I had chosen for my daily walking breaks lined the marshy wetlands. Tall grasses, cottonwoods, rose bushes, and vining blackberries fenced the aging pavement. I loved the openness of the marsh and watching the birds flock through the seasons. During mid summer as it is now, the swallows in particular tend to swarm, eating bugs out of the air in their playful, loving dance. Often I would see the perfect trio of swallows sitting evenly spaced on a power line and I would hear in my head “Three little birds, on my doorstep…Cause every little thing will be alright…don’t worry…” The voice called out again and reminded me of the other not so quaint inhabitants of this place. Modern day nomads living out of run down cars, trailers, or tents had also begun to flock midsummer and rapidly take over the otherwise peaceful nature of the wetlands. I couldn’t help but feel disgust and outrage at the sight of these people and what they are doing to this street, not to mention this town. Coarse, disturbing language, dropping f-bombs, and abusive vitriol floats on the wind mixed with the putrid scents of decaying rot of carelessly discarded litter. I am disgusted. How dare these people litter the beauty of this landscape? All I want is a peaceful place to walk and get away from despair and pain.  So when this voice began to call out in the direction that I could no longer ignore was mine, I felt that growing seed of resentment that had become a constant companion during countless moments of a single day. “Ma’m!”I’m not a Ma’m!  “Ma’m!”No! I don’t want this, I don’t need this right now.  “Excuse me, can you help me?” Screw you, I wanted to scream at her but my instinct to help when asked was far too engrained and I found myself walking toward the pestering voice. As I got closer to the caller I noticed that it came from a large, white, box van with windows taped over by pieces of cardboard and tapestries for privacy. The back doors of the vehicle were blocked by a...

Hana writes a piece about her identity as a Jewish person and discusses it with Ana, delving into her family history and the experience of being the grandchild of Holocaust survivors while living in Bavaria, the historical home of the Nazi Party.Originally recorded August 23, 2020.Hana - what is it like to be a modern Jewish woman with my parents’ and grandparents’ experiences and their influence on my development?This is such a large question, I could spend the rest of my life writing about this and wouldn’t be able to cover it entirely, in part because my perception of my Jewishness continues to change throughout my life as I gain new experiences and insights into myself and my family. Growing up in Los Alamos, I was a member of a small, close-knit, and very quirky Jewish community. I was used to not knowing a lot of other Jews and encountering Jewish kids who seemed to want to downplay their Jewishness, something I believe they did because it was associated with nerdiness or being the “other.” Many of my friends and acquaintances were quite religious, whether they were Catholic, LDS, Baptist, or some other Christian denomination (to be totally honest, I get confused easily by Protestant sects - Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian,...my eyes glaze over and I assign them all to a big box in my head where they sit all jumbled together). They would go on mission trips to Mexico to build houses and were active in their church youth groups. I was also very involved in the youth group at our Jewish center - we weren’t a synagogue or shul and were unaffiliated with any larger movement, I think to remain as inclusive as possible in a community where the nearest other options were an hour away in Santa Fe. Our youth group was affiliated with a Zionist organization, something that I’ve been unpacking in the years since my eyes were first opened to the fact that the Israeli-Palestinian-general Middle East situation isn’t one- or even two-sided. I was so involved that I became our youth group leader and joined the regional board in 9th grade, eventually becoming president of a territory spanning the Mountain West from Montana to El Paso (the rest of Texas we wisely left in its own region) and organizing and attending multiple conventions for hundreds of kids ranging in age from 8 to 18. I was also very involved in our local community, serving as a Sunday School teacher and attending bar and bat mitzvahs regularly every year of kids I had babysat at numerous High Holiday services.Outside of the youth group, Los Alamos’s small Jewish community, and my scattered extended family, I knew no other Jews. My few experiences at summer camp didn’t leave me with a favorable impression of other Jewish kids, especially my first encounter with Jewish American Princesses when I was 15, at camp in New York for what I still consider the worst month of my life. By the time I was an adult and meeting other Jews in college and afterward, I found that I felt awkward in large groups of other Jewish people. I didn’t feel like an imposter, but it felt strange to NOT be the “other” for once. This also produced a strange, underlying anxiety in me, as though gathering in large groups was drawing too much attention and asking for trouble. This, from a culture that has passed down its stories of continued persecution for generations and has instilled an almost pathological protectiveness and anxiety alongside its vaunted emphasis on education and debate. Once I left Los Alamos and stopped going to services on a regular basis, I felt detached from my Judaism for a number of years. This had begun earlier, when I realized at age 13-14 that I no longer believed in God, leading me to believe that I could no longer consider myself religiously Jewish. In my early 20s, Judaism was purely a cultural touchstone, one where I could host Passover seders and make jokes about anti-Semitic conspiracies, but which no longer...

The podcast gets off to an intense start, as Ana discusses a piece she wrote on the last time she was single - her senior year of college, giving rise to a discussion around vulnerability, growth, and what it means to be in a relationship. Hana's piece then takes the episode in a completely different direction, addressing how trauma plays a crucial role in the actions of governments and countries, while still giving insight into her self perception as a writer and person. Originally recorded on August 16, 2020.Ana - The Single Life: A Reflection My break-up with my ex was heartbreaking, freeing, and utterly transforming. And I was only 21. So young, so confused and bewildered, and terrified. My personal toolbox was nearly empty and so I had no awareness of how and why I behaved and thought the way I did. When I was with my ex, I was entirely negatively attached. We had trauma bonded and created an incredibly toxic codependent relationship. It was so caustic that I spent most of my days feeling physically ill because he wasn’t with me. Our relationship at that point was long-distance but short enough that I would waste away my weekends with him trying desperately to get my emotional and intimate needs met. When I returned home from these visits or “weekend booty calls'' as I began to refer to them, instead of being emotionally buoyed, I felt drained. Unhappy, angry, and lonely. Loneliness is a theme that I can follow the storyline of even in my first memories. Scared, sick and scared, always searching for someone to tell me it’s ok and that these scary thoughts and feelings aren’t real - that I would actually be ‘seen’.  The final ending of my relationship with my ex, though incredibly painful, was exquisitely freeing. I didn’t have to show up to anyone but myself. I didn’t have to be continually disappointed with someone or angry that my needs aren’t being met, yet confused as to why I didn’t actually know what they were. All my focus turned inward. I remembered that I loved to be social and I began to refocus on more friends. I found the friend group I had been longing to be part of. To feel part of something, to not feel so isolated and alone. I put myself out there. I began to date and allowed myself to have fun.  With my nights truly alone, I began to create more routines for myself. Even though I had never lived with a partner at that point, having a partner in my life filled up my head so much that I didn’t know how to just be “me”. All my thoughts were about him and my unhappiness in our relationship. But being single, somehow made me happier and more fulfilled. This was when I began to write music. I would sit in my room in the house I shared with my sister and write and write and play and play. I would journal like mad and yet I still struggled. Struggled with my circular thoughts and internal talk of self hate and loathing.  Loneliness. I couldn’t break free of it. Loneliness in relationship, loneliness without. Even then I wanted to be held in a way that transformed me, that saw me, that made me feel a sense of comfort, contentment, and calm - a way that I have never found in myself. So instead of doubling down on focusing inward, I focused out. I began the search for a ‘real’ connection, but only through the guise of romantic connection to a man. I ran from myself. It was too dark and ugly anyway to think I could ever truly be loved and healed from the inside. My God, if I had had the insight then to seek help and guidance and to understand that the mind numbing, anxiety-ridden world I lived in wasn’t healthy or a livable truth. I had resigned myself to thinking that this is what life was and that it was all I deserved. I was convinced that I was unlovable, broken, shameful, ugly, and cold hearted. Yet, I knew I wanted the holy grail of love. It was as if I was on a fantastical quest to seek out a mythical creature, a creature only in my dreams and...

Podcast co-hosts Ana and Hana introduce themselves and figure out what makes them tick as writers, while sharing their hopes for The Pen Is..., a podcast featuring amusing, introspective, and vulnerable conversations about writing as a creative outlet. Future episodes will feature discussions of personal stories, writing exercises, and explorations of everyday life challenges through the art of writing.