Tread softly …


There are stories hidden here.

Threads of you

and yours

and theirs before.




Such wisdom to be extracted.
Here they rest,





Into metal and ink, paper and history.
The stories that built you … us.

The stories that gave us our own.



She’s looking up at me.

Careful, watchful, brilliant blue, green, gold.

Mind churning with silent observations she won’t truly understand until her heart’s been broken.

She’s learning the way I breathe deep,

How my shoulders tense,

Where my eyes wander,

What makes my eyes dim and brighten back again.

She sees me quiet, curled up on my corner of the couch;

armor dismantled.

She hears my real laugh, belly deep;

worries forgotten.

She knows my love, arms thrown wide;

ready to catch her.

She knows I am safe, a harbor for tears ripped open;

when the world outside rages against her.


She reminds me of my place here,

that words matter,

actions matter…

that I matter.

She’s looking up at me…
And there is no other choice,


but bravery now.




She is old worn-out denim draped sensibly over sequins and lace.

She is moonshine sipped from fine china and the sun-soaked drops of a glacier.

She is earth and wind and sea sewn indestructible with holy fire.

She is a border-less harbor seeking those meant to be hers.

She is joy and sorrow and a thousand fathoms deep.


I am 


I am a thousand tiny pieces, Scattered and reaching. 

I am a puzzle, Corners most distinguishable. 

I am a storm shrouded Wednesday, Letting loose in torrents. 

I am a sun soaked Sunday, Warm and bright and restoring. 

I am water, Born in a desert land. 

I am fire, One in a long line of passionate others. 

I am a whisper, A remnant of a history raised in shadows. 

I am an echo, Of all I have encountered. 

I am sorrow, An ache ever present to those who gave up the fight. 

I am laughter, Against the odds. 

I am forgiveness, Given and received. 

I am irrational hope, Thread together by grace. 

I am a curious collection of opposites, Fearful and driven, lost and found, hidden and illuminated. 

I am an endless story. 

Chelsey Whitlow

Where I’m From…


A dear friend signed me up for an online writing course recently called Finding Your Writing Voice. Last night I tackled the first assignment – Where I’m From. The goal was to create lists of words that reminded me of my childhood and the places and people from that time and then turn it into a sort of poem. So I turned on some Lynyrd Skynyrd and sat down in the middle of my living room floor and dug into a box of old photographs for inspiration.

I thought I’d share the result here.

I am from sunshine and moonshine,
from cigarettes and whiskey and Rolling Stones.

I am from red dirt and rainy Wednesdays,
from a prickly pear and a yellow rose.

I am from Native drumbeats and Highland Pipes,
from Fleetwood Mac and Silent Night.

I am from Budweiser and Sun Tea,
from pineapple pie and steaks on the grill.

I am from warm sprinkler water on hot concrete,
from red winter coveralls and ballet slippered feet.

I am from Mozart on worn piano keys and
Desperado on old stereos, from sequined tutus and and skinned up knees.

I am from homemade dresses and side pony tails,
from spy novels and Southern Bells.

I am from rock n’ roll hippies and prayerful hard working hands,
from light lost in darkness and feet that still choose to stand.

I am from creative spirits and stubborn minds,
from iron wills and all the lies in between.

Chelsey Whitlow

Saturday Scribbles – Heritage, Magic, and Possibility

reading time



I wrote, not too long ago, about why stories are so important. For centuries, storytelling has been the way in which we carry on our legacies and histories. They are how we learn and remember. Storytelling has always been how I learn best. You can lay a list of facts in front of me and I may or may not remember them. But, if you weave those facts into the form of a story, their truths will most likely engrain themselves within me for always. I will remember.

Stories were how I fought my dragons as a child. How I still fight them. They were fuel for my creative brain. Watching the characters of my favorite books and movies struggle and triumph or to witness them battle and fail, is where I found the courage to keep fighting myself. And it’s also within these stories, where I found the power to heal.

Both of my grandmothers were gifted and incredible storytellers. One passed many years ago when I was still a child, but the other is still spinning tales for her great-grandchildren. And wonderfully, even as adults, her children and grandchildren are still captured by her stories. It is a beautiful thing to witness. I can still hear both of their voices echoing in my ear at bedtime; grand tales whispering of both caution and possibility. Today, these stories still ring with wisdom learned and imagination ignited. I am grateful to carry this gift from my grandmothers within me.

In my early twenties I taught for a while as a preschool teacher at a wonderful Montessori school owned by my best friend’s mother. My favorite time of day was always Story time. I reveled in it. I wanted so badly to make books come alive for these tiny humans, so ripe with wonder. Their imaginations fascinated me and it was always such a joy to hear them replaying the stories during recess or free time later in the day. Now, I love reading to my nieces and nephews and it fills me with such incredible warmth to watch them get captured by the words and images, just as much as their Aunt Chelsey still does. And I can never deny them when they ask for more. I’m a sucker that way.

I still find myself wandering into the children’s section of my favorite bookstores and libraries, running my fingers over the spines lining the shelves. The potent magic of these books continues to linger for me and I am thankful I have never lost my own wonder, like so many do as adults. The other day, I found myself doing just that; wandering through the children’s section of my local Barnes and Noble. At a table, tucked into a corner, I spied a girl reading to her little brother. The little girl couldn’t have been more than eight or nine to the boy’s four or five.  His bright blue eyes were wide with wonder as he hung on her every word; gasping quietly at the particularly dangerous parts. She was even creating different voices for each character, just as my grandmothers used to do…just as I do.  I found myself snared up in her animated reading. I felt a little guilty spying on them, but it was just too enchanting to tear myself away. So, I listened for a few minutes longer, hiding behind a bookshelf. Not long after, a scribble began to take shape in my head. In a world full of distracting and rapidly evolving technology (not necessarily a bad thing in some cases), I find comfort in the fact that storybooks still have the power, like nothing else, to capture us so completely, to spark our imaginations, and give us the wings of possibility.

With that thought in mind, I headed back to the cafe where my friend was reading. I wanted to remember, in words, what I saw in that little boy’s face while he listened intently to his sister. I hurriedly jotted down the scribble below on a napkin, in the hope that I could capture, in some small way,  at least a glimpse of his curious spirit.  (**Note – the picture above happens to be of me reading a story to my cousin Michael, on our Grandmother’s couch. Coincidently, I was probably eight or nine to his four of five.**)


Sharp mind and discerning ears,

Keen eyes absorb bleeding pages…

With an open heart,

The child listens.


Dark and light,

Peril and triumph…

Drip from words alive with truth and imagination.


From these drops of blood,


from deep within,

a breathing creature that cannot be stopped….




Chelsey Whitlow