Apology to the raccoon in my yard


You appear in my frame of vision as I glance out the back door
as I’m on the phone with a friend
talking about the hollow shell of our President,
and the crumbling ash of Lindsey Graham’s soul.

I interrupt my friend to tell her about you, and as I do,
you slow to a stop.
Then, cautiously step forward, and wait again
for several

It’s possible you heard me exclaim aloud at the sight of you –
the glass door thin; your senses keen.
It’s possible that my presence is as strange and exciting to you
as you are to me.

Or do I simply alarm you?

You look left, right, 
halfway over your shoulder, 
lower your head.
You begin walking again with what looks like trepidation, 
a hesitant skulk.
Or, is this the normal gait of a nocturnal creature 
inexplicably bathed in late afternoon sunlight?
Or, are you surveying the area for enemies?
Am I them?

Which brings me to the issue at hand.
How sorry I am for how carelessly we treat the place we call home.
Forgive us for crowding you out,
For somehow deeming tract housing, strip malls, and traffic circles more important than your continued survival.
For leaving you with little more than patches of grass,
spindly new saplings in place of old-growth trees now leveled,
whose limbs stretched out and up
to support, sustain, shelter.

I try to memorize you as you walk slowly and carefully through the side yard.
The bandit mask of fur around your eyes flecked with gray, gold, and brown
The light gray fur of your body dotted white, charcoal, and umber.

But it’s your tiny hands, gloved black
that seem somehow miraculous.
I imagine you using them to pop off the garbage can lid
in the deepest part of the night,
eager to dig into my leftover spaghetti,
and upon finishing,
upending the can and its remaining pungent, oozing contents
and leaving it
a ripe example of our carelessness,
reckless excess and wastefulness,
a mess we really ought to clean up.

I watch as you disappear into the drainage ditch,
in which lazy, passing drivers throw candy wrappers, beer cans, 
and once,
an entire Styrofoam cooler.
You deserve better than us.

Sometimes I think we should all die under the weight of all the waste 
we’ve ever created.
Look for me beneath 
a turquoise Frankie Goes To Hollywood t-shirt,
cassette tapes,
pounds of dirty napkins,
31 years of tampons,
and whole forests of paper.

Seem dramatic?
No more dramatic, I’d say, 
than forcing you out of your home
into the late afternoon sun,
seeking a safer place to snooze
until night falls,
and I finally say, I’m sorry.

Make Welcome The Wild

boneyard sunrise

A while back we had the incredible opportunity to reimagine the branding and website for our friends at Coastal Expeditions. Our first meeting with husband-and-wife owners Chris and Kari Crolley was full of all the energy and excitement we hope for and seek out in clients. A few days after that initial meeting, Kari stopped by our office with a box . Inside it was a universe of things: sharks’ teeth, shells, dried plants and sea life, maps, animal skulls, postcards, and ephemera of all kinds. It was like a museum exhibit out from behind the glass, a work of art, and a deep look inside Kari and Chris’s hearts, minds, and souls. As we stood in amazement, pulling things out of the box, and naming them, Kari smiled and said, “I want you to make our website out of this box.”

I will always remember the power of those words and that gift.

In the work we do, we sometimes forget about the immense trust people put in us — to tell their stories, to rethink and reshape their brand, marketing, and businesses. When Kari gave us that box, to me she was saying, “Here is our livelihood, our passion, our family: please take them and us where we need to go.”

What an honor.

As I often do, I wrote a manifesto for Kari, Chris, and their incredible team: a story that speaks to more than just what and how they do what they do, but why it matters.

We study Lowcountry tides, flora, fauna, and history. We explore. Make maps and routes. Care for our guests. Refine our skills. Nurture our fleet. Feed our curiosity and sense of adventure. And work always in service of the natural, the mystical, and the magical.

We can’t summon the sunrise or sunset. And while we can’t beckon the blue heron, the osprey, or the dolphin, by virtue of our lifelong fascination and love for them, we find the route to be in their company, again and again. Which makes us devoted students of a particular discipline. Practitioners attuned to a particular frequency. Guides on a particular journey. Called to safely and securely put people in the path of beauty; then, step back, and witness what unfolds.

What moves you? When, or how will it manifest, we can’t predict. Is it sunlight shimmering along the water’s surface? Paddling toward your own strength? An ancient shark’s tooth in the palm of your hand whispering of millennia? The rush of air through a pelican’s wings as it takes flight?

Only you may know in that instant – when you move outside yourself – and into the wideness of the universe. On a soulful journey to become more than just aware of the beauty around you, but part of it. So that seeing a dolphin rise in the water beside you is no longer just a personal, glorious sight, it’s an exchange between another life and yours, a story to share, a feeling you can’t quite name. We believe that’s the exact place where want and wish fall away – and awe and wonder are revealed.

To us, that’s the connection we’re born for – the stimulation we long for. It’s the stuff of earth and sea and stars. Of people and animals and plants. Of natural and human history entwined. The understanding of our precious smallness in the largeness of the world and the rhythm we do not make, but are made of.

That’s the gift, and it belongs to all of us.

Coastal Expeditions
make welcome the wild

The Way Out There / Episode 5: Sara Clow

sara gf

Subscribe to the Way Out There podcast here.

Sara Clow is a native of the Garden State, and one of my very best friends. We grew up together in the New Jersey suburbs, playing soccer and spending days exploring our extended outdoor “neighborhood.”

Sara is also General Manager of Growfood Carolina, a food hub based here in Charleston, SC. Since being recruited by the Coastal Conservation League to Charleston in 2011 to start-up and lead GrowFood, Sara and her dedicated team have built relationships with more 80 local producers and 250 wholesalers. To-date GrowFood has returned nearly $5 million to South Carolina farmers and helped ensure that rural working lands continue to flourish. We talked with Sara at the GrowFood Carolina warehouse about her passion for food, farming, and the outdoors.

I’ve outlined a few “chapters” below for your listening pleasure. Simply jump to the time stamp in the podcast. Happy listening!

2:15 Berkeley Heights, Gardens, Soccer, & Trespassing at Bell Labs

7:25 Telluride, Colorado

9:45 The Love of Feeling Small

20:56 Meet Me In San Francisco

23:40 Rock & Fred Tackle The Hedge Fund World

30:30 How We Almost Lost Sara To New Zealand

45:30 Career Angst

56:30 GrowFood Carolina (code word: Blue Indigo)

GrowFood Carolina team

GrowFood Carolina warehouse

South Carolina radishes

CCL team

Show Notes:
Guest – Sara Clow
Host – Jenny Badman
Music / Audio Production – Nic Lauretano
Editing – Nic Lauretano
Location – GrowFood Carolina Warehouse, Charleston, SC

Giving Thanks

It’s been nearly two years since I was diagnosed with aggressive, fast-growing breast cancer, and nearly a year since I completed “active” treatment. In my case, “active” treatment included four months of chemotherapy (1 drug for a year), a lumpectomy, and 33 radiation treatments. As of my last mammogram and check up a few weeks ago, I’m still cancer-free.

I’m incredibly lucky.

Four people I know died from cancer this year. I’ve had a difficult time making sense of their losses.

I’m so grateful to be here, even if I don’t understand why.

That’s what I want to write about.

When you survive cancer, everyone who knows and loves you is overjoyed and relieved. Collective deep exhale.

I’ve been somewhat reluctant to write about my cancer overmuch. Does the world need more cancer stories? We made it through so why, on some level, relive it?

Maybe because to fully understand my gratitude you need to understand the context in which I was given so much.

A week after my diagnosis, I had surgery to remove a cancerous lymph node(s) and to implant a port in my chest. The port, a quarter-sized catheter, was positioned just under my clavicle. Under my skin, the port had a septum through which my chemotherapy drugs would be injected directly into my jugular vein. Easy access for my medical team and no chance of collapsing arm veins for me.

I woke up from that surgery crying and saying, “It hurts.” And while I don’t remember that exact moment, I remember that for days afterward, I felt like I’d been kicked repeatedly in the chest.

When I had my first chemotherapy treatment a few days later (December 22), my girlfriend at the time, and a few dear friends, were with me. I had already been to “chemo class” as I called it, so I knew what the process looked like, and I had a notebook full of information, including three pages of side effects for each drug I’d receive through my port.

The nurse repeated the process to me and asked if I wanted the “cold spray” when she put my IV in. The “cold spray” temporarily numbs the skin. I said yes. Yes, please.

Needles have never really bothered me. I’m fine to have my blood drawn. But before the nurse put my IV in, I instinctively grabbed my girlfriend’s hand. In that moment, I think I needed grounding and connection and physical reassurance that I could endure everything that lay ahead. I think somehow I knew that once that IV went in, my life would change forever.

The nurse smiled, looked me in the eyes and said, “Take a deep breath for me.” I did and watched her arm draw back. She inserted the needle with the force necessary to penetrate the rubber pad beneath my skin. The sound it made going in was a deep, toneless “womp,” not unlike the sound a ripe melon makes when you thump it, which is actually the sound of your own body giving way to force, to intrusion. As she stepped near me to adjust the IV, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me, more from the sound than anything. I felt that sound deep within me, and I couldn’t believe how incredibly strange it was to have someone inside this most vulnerable part of my body.

In subsequent treatments, that wave of nausea was no longer an issue, but the strangeness of the experience itself remained. I realized later that whomever held my hand in those moments (a must for every treatment), always inhaled with me. We took that breath in tandem, I think, because on some level, we were all getting hit in the jugular.

Over the next four months, once my IV was in, we were in for a four to six hour-long process during which I received four drugs: Herceptin, Perjeta, Taxotere, and Carboplatin. Plus, we began with Benadryl to prevent any allergic reactions and a cocktail of anti-nausea meds.

While I was never able to tolerate Benadryl orally, it mostly just rendered me sleepy and slightly stoned intravenously. I got to know when it was kicking in. I’d feel like a veil was being drawn over me, some sort of strange Instagram-style cancer filter. My motor skills slowed; my speech slurred.

That was Day 1 of treatment.

I am so grateful to so many people, for so much.

When I see the people who were so present during my treatment now, they beam at me, hug me extra hard, sometimes with eyes glassy from joy. And I know we are all standing there thinking: “Can you fucking believe we made it?”

I just want everyone, everyone, to know how grateful I am for every moment, every email, every Tupperware of soup, every time you held my hand, or sent me good energy. Because here’s the thing: my gratitude hasn’t diminished. It continues to expand and grow.

It survives.

It endures.

Eight Stops

I look up as we pause between stations.

Into her eyes, slate flecked with flame.

Seven seats between us.

Also acres, miles, millennia.

As one does when one locks eyes with a stranger, I pretend I didn’t.

I let my gaze drift to those beside her.

And then, long beat, to her.

I watch her expressions shift.

Smiling, not.

Brow knit, not.

Flashes of light through trees, shadows play across her face.

Patterned light then dark.

Like a hundred dreams I’ve never had.

Her hands fold, unfold.

Her eyes fixed on mine.

I forget transit etiquette.

I don’t look away.

I feel the question inside her,

Have we met?

No one speaks.

Molecules move.

Internal circuits flicker off, on.

Time collapses against a backdrop of bakeries, bookstores, cafes, trees, blurred city.

She rises as we reach the next stop, her gaze still on mine.

She steps through the doors, looks back as they slide shut.

I smile, watch as she ascends stone stairs, into a crowd, into honeyed light.

The train moves toward Central.

When Men Leave: Part 8

soccer ballIt’s time for the final installment: part eight. However, if you’re just starting this short-story journey, here are parts one, two, threefour, five, six and seven.

P.S. Thanks for reading.

Mom invited Liam over two weeks later. She told us he was coming over to cook dinner. Scout was thrilled.

“Fun! I like Leem.”

“What’s he cooking?” I asked.

“Hmm, I don’t even know,” Mom mused. “He said he’s bringing everything over with him at four.”

“We’re eating at four?” I asked, incredulous.

“No,” Mom said, slowly. “I thought he’d come over. We’d all hang out for a while, and then he could cook dinner. OK?” she asked, eyeing me.


At exactly four, there was a knock on the door. Scout went tearing out into the kitchen to open it. “Leem’s here!”

I stayed on the couch in the family room while Mom walked out to the kitchen. I heard Mom say hello and heard Liam’s annoying accent. Scout was already in full tilt I was sure, smiling and batting her eyes. Gross.

Liam walked into the family room behind Mom with Scout attached to his hip practically.

“Hey there, Sara,” he said and sat down next to me.

God, he was big. His knees were almost up to his chin sitting on our couch. His thigh was wider than my whole body. He looked awkward.

“Hey,” I said finally.

Scout skipped over and perched herself on Liam’s right knee.

“Scout,” I started. “Get off Liam’s knee. He doesn’t want you drooling all over him.”

She stuck her tongue out at me. “Leem doesn’t care,” she said firmly. Liam shifted in his seat and laughed uncomfortably.

Mom sat in her rocking chair and shook her head. “Girls, knock it off, already.”

“Why don’t you guys go out on the porch and hang out and I’ll get us something to drink?” Mom said encouragingly.

“Great,” Liam said.

Oh God, I thought. This was just the worst.

We all walked outside, and Liam and Scout sat on the porch swing while I sat on the railing across from them.

“So, Sara,” Liam started. What is it that you do in that booth of yours when you come visit your Mom?”

“Nothing really,” I said flatly.

“That’s not true,” Scout said. “She draws pictures and writes stories about all the people in the diner.” I gave her the meanest look I could. She’d get a wicked pinch later under the dinner table.

“Is that so?” Liam asked, interested.

“Yeah, I guess,” I said lamely.

I’d like to see some of your drawings or stories sometime, if that’s OK,” he said.

Who did he think he was anyway?


“Leem,” Scout said, bored because she no longer had his undivided attention. “You wanna play?” She tossed him my soccer ball that was sitting under their swing.

“Is this yours, Scout?” he asked as he caught the ball.

“It’s mine,” I said clearly.

“Do you play football, Sara?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Girls don’t play football at my school. They’re not allowed.”

“Oh,” Liam said and laughed. “I’m mixed up. In Ireland, we call soccer ‘football.’ That’s what I meant. Do you play soccer?”

I had scored three goals just the other day against Jennifer Ellerbee, the toughest goalie in the county. I prayed that Scout would, for once, stay quiet.

“Sara won the game…” she started to blab.

“Yeah, I play,” I interrupted.

“Shall we have a kick around then, before I start dinner?” Liam asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Now he was in for it.

We walked down to the grass and started kicking the ball between us as Scout sat on the porch steps, mesmerized by this big lunk. I started kicking the ball a little harder each time, trying to get him to miss. He never did. He trapped each of my kicks quickly and neatly with his huge boots. It was hard to believe those giant feet could be gentle enough to control my hardest kicks. I started getting frustrated.

“Can I try to dribble past you and score?” I asked.

“Sure.” He passed the ball back to me.

This was it, I thought. Now I’d show him. I’d fake him out, leave him in the dust. I started dribbling slowly at first, taking my time to jog over to where Liam stood. I controlled the ball perfectly with my left foot, then, tap, tap with my right. I was in my groove. I came within two feet of him and started teasing him with the ball, kicking it back to myself if his foot ventured out too far. This would be easy, I thought.

I faked to my right and then cut quickly to the left to get around him. To my surprise, he moved right along with me, so I couldn’t get past him. I turned my back to strike the ball hard, another fake, but Liam didn’t flinch. He stood there, looking right into my eyes.

I felt my face flush as I backed up and tried again. This time, I lunged left with my body and nudged the ball to my right. He was right on me. He didn’t steal the ball, but I knew I couldn’t get past him this way.

I was angry and decided to push my way past him. I backed into his chest with a thud that made me catch my breath.

“God!” I said. “How much do you weigh, anyway?”

He didn’t say a word.

I leaned against him with every ounce of strength I had in me. He was a rock, unmovable.

I had no other choice, so I drew my foot back and kicked soundly into his left shin.

“Shiiiite!” he yelled and crumpled to the ground. “Jesus Mary Mother of God,” he groaned and grabbed his shin. I stood above him, motionless, eyes wide. Scout ran over to where Liam lay on the grass, moaning and rolling from side to side.

“Jeeze, Leem, you alright?” she said, concerned.

“Fine,” he squeaked. “Just brilliant.” He sat up, rubbing his shin and wincing.

Mom suddenly appeared at the top of the porch steps. “What’s happening out here?” she asked.

I felt my face get hot. Suddenly I felt sick.

“Your Sara,” Liam started. I held my breath. “She’s quite a footballer. Quite a scrapper.”

“Yeah,” Mom said, looking at me suspiciously. “She’s something alright. Are you in any shape to cook dinner?”

“Of course,” Liam said and stood up slowly. “And Sara here, even volunteered to help me while you and Scout relax.”

He looked down at me and winked. I smiled my fakest smile.

I walked slowly behind him up the porch steps and followed him into the kitchen, defeated.

“Do you know how to peel potatoes?” Liam asked as he put on Mom’s apron and washed his hands.

“Of course,” I said.

“Great, you do that then.” He handed me the peeler and a bag of potatoes.

I rolled up my sleeves, washed my hands and started peeling.

Liam started the fire under a large black skillet and began unloading the grocery bags he had brought with him. He placed a carton of eggs, bacon, cheese, onions, peppers, and sausage on the kitchen table.

“You’re making breakfast?” I asked sarcastically.

“It is the most important meal of the day,” he said in an announcer’s voice. He smiled.

I laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“I heard you and your sister were big sausage and pepper fans, so I’m going to make you the best omelette and fried potatoes you’ve ever had.”

“Scout’s allergic to eggs, you know,” I said seriously.

“Oh God, really?” he said sadly.

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye.

“No, not really.” I smiled.

Liam laughed. “I see how it is with you, Scrapper.”

“So how did you learn to cook?” I asked, actually interested.

“My Ma taught me. I used to stand on a chair next to her while she fried bacon, boiled potatoes, baked cakes. I paid attention.”

“Does your Dad cook, too?” I asked.

“Don’t know, really. He never lived with us, so I just couldn’t tell you.”


We were silent for a while. I watched the thin, wet strips of potato skins pile up while Liam began cracking eggs into a light blue bowl. He grabbed the whisk from the drawer and began beating the eggs. I watched as his right hand blurred together with the whisk as the eggs went from clear goo to light, yellow froth. Huge hands, I thought.

Liam looked over at me. “You’re doing a fine job with the potatoes.” He leaned over to inspect my work. “Just brilliant.”

“Thanks,” I said, blushing and feeling dumb for blushing.

“Sorry if I hurt you before,” I said quietly, without looking at him.

Liam put out his massive, ruddy hand to shake mine.

I put down my peeler and shook his hand, the largest, cleanest hand I had ever seen.



When Men Leave: Part 7

dinerThanks so much for keeping up with this story. If you’re just starting, you may like to start at the beginning with parts one, two, threefour, five and six. Now, here’s part seven.

Mom didn’t bring any guys home for close to a year after we saw Glenn at the fair. That was just fine with me and Scout, because Friday nights turned into “Girls’ Night In.” Mom would bring home sausage and pepper pizza after work, and Scout and I would pick the best movie on T.V. that night to watch. Mom and I would act out the funny scenes from the movies we had already seen while Scout jumped up and down on the bed, red-faced with laughter. “Again!” she cried when we finished a scene. “Do it again!”

That Sunday Mom was covering a shift at the diner for Lucy, one of her friends. Scout and I decided to walk downtown and visit her. Scout thought visiting Mom at the diner was heaven, because she could sit on the red vinyl counter stools, sip her strawberry milkshake through two straws, and bat her big chocolate eyes at all the truck drivers sitting near her. I liked to go because I got to sit in a booth by myself and watch everyone around me. Sometimes I wrote stories about the different people sitting around me, or I’d draw pictures of the fat truckers and show them to Mom when she passed by to give her a laugh.

She sat down next to me in the booth on her break. “You wanna meet the new cook?”

“What happened to the old cook?”

“Old Jimmy finally retired. He’s probably sunning himself on the beaches of Florida even as we speak.”

“Oh. So who is this new guy?” “Liam,” she said quickly.

“What?” “Liam,” she said a bit louder.

“That’s a weird name.” I scrunched up my nose.

“It’s Irish. He’s from Ireland. From Dublin.”

“Oh,” I said flatly, now bored.

“C’mon.” She grabbed my hand. “C’mon, Scout,” she said as we walked past the counter where Scout was flirting with yet another fat truck driver. “Let’s go meet Liam.”

“Who’s Leem?” she asked and jumped up. We walked through the kitchen door onto the greasy black and white til floor. To our left, Henry, the dishwasher, was up to his elbows in hot, sudsy water. He clanked the white plates together and looked up when he saw us. Sweat ran down from his receding hairline into his eyebrows. “Well, hello, ladies,” he said and smiled.

“Hey, Henry!” Scout and I shot right back.

Just then we heard the sound of things falling and a yell from the pantry. “Shite!” a big, husky voice boomed.

“What’s shite?” Scout asked Mom. “Nothing,” Mom said and rolled her eyes at Henry, who was trying not to laugh. I was confused.

“Hey, Liam, why don’t you come out here and meet my girls?” A massive figure emerged from the pantry dressed in black and white checked pant, black work boots and a white cook’s jacket. It must have been seven feet tall. It took up the whole doorway.

There stood the largest man I had ever seen. His face was flushed as if he’d just run a race. His hair was a tangled mass of straw-colored tufts, sticking up here and there. He blinked his khaki-green eyes a few times before he opening his mouth to speak.

“Hello, garls,” he said with a thick accent. Neither Scout nor I could speak. Scout’s eyes were so wide I thought they’d pop out of her head. Mom nudged me. “Hi,” I said, almost to myself.  Scout just stood there, staring.

Liam smiled. “How are ya?” Scout piped up, “Hey, how come you talk so funny?” I bopped her lightly on the top of her head from behind.

“Jeeze, Scout.” Mom and Liam laughed; I shook my head.

“Liam’s from Ireland, Scout,” Mom tried to explain. “He speaks with an Irish accent, that’s all. It’s called a brogue.”

“Really?” Scout said, now enthralled. “Say something else,” she demanded.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked.

Scout laughed. “You’re funny!”

Liam caught me looking him up and down. “Is there something on me?” he asked.

“No, why?” “You’re looking at me like I’m covered in horseshite or something.”

I was mortified. Scout cracked up. “You’re funny!” she yelled.

Mom walked over and put her arm around me. “You want Liam to fix you something to eat? I have to get back to work.”

“No, I’m not hungry,” I lied.

“It’s no bother, Sara,” Liam said.

“I’m ok, thanks.”

“Hey, Leem,” Scout started. “I wanna hamburger. Can you make me a hamburger and french fries?”

“Scout, stay out of Liam’s way no, you hear?” Mom walked back out to dining room. Scout wasn’t listening. She was sitting on the counter following Liam’s every move as he dropped her hamburger patty onto the sizzling grill.

Liam looked at me as I walked out of the kitchen. “I’ll see you later then, Sara.”

“Yeah, later.” I walked back to the booth, my stomach growling at me.