This blog was first a book. A book born of a need for purpose and a richer emotional life. That, and to quell an anguish, a fear and a powerlessness that cracked me open for months on end following a five-level lumbar back fusion at Cedars Sinai hospital in Los Angeles in December of 2022. Post-surgery I settled into my home on the back bay of Newport Beach, heedless of a black solitude that awaited. Time stretched like warm taffy as I eased a stiff frame into physical therapy and neighborhood walks with my short, dear and funny helper Lee.

As my recovery lingered however, isolated days and nights became deeply troubling and phone calls to a sister and a friend did little to quell fears heretofore unknown to me. To my own detriment, I had cultivated few friends in the vicinity, and none that I would call close or could call on. My stronger circle of childhood friends reside in the Colorado mountains where I hale from.

Under a lamination of Diladud, claustrophobia and a grim look into my own aging and loss of physical prowess and power I forgot to breathe. Even projecting out into a future that featured what I was sure to be a fully uncourageous death. Yikes.

As is my way I gutted it out, right up until I bumped up against a therapy session one non-descript afternoon when my counselor suggested a move back to my mountains and closer to friends, family and the familiar. A clap of thunder to end a trance and one of the great wake up calls of my existence. Three days post-session I commenced the process of selling my house, shuttering my home inspection/mold investigation business and moving to Denver.

I write this from south of downtown Denver, as I have landed.

I came to a resolute pact moving forward as well that I would newly navigate and build community. It was all too habitual for me to step through the flooring and plummet into a familiarity of semi-solitude and isolation. As a youngster, withdrawing to cope and survive was forced on me. But no more.

I hold gratitude as well for a mentor who passed onto me some celestial communication and interpersonal skills. At the time I was emotionally starved and from her came sustenance for my psyche, limbic, heart and soul. She encouraged me to write of my spiritual/consciousness journey, as well as the group that we had formed. We were a fine coming together of seven, every last one committed to integrity, love of one another, and an honest, raw disclosure of our personal fears and defenses. We created a safe space for one another long before the term ricocheted through social media.

Our group dissolved over time, but not my resolve for meaningful community. Initiating deep friendships, love and trust is a thing I’d never once attempted. A prospect as well that I find a bit unsettling and uncertain. I am a conversationalist and can chat anyone up, so that is not it. It is the disappointment I most often feel in these interactions from the dearth of depth, stirring dialogues and authentic connection that leave me wanting. I simply haven’t known what it is to ask for substance, much less where I might unearth some magical village of conscious, spiritual people. 

This writing began as a gnawing on the state of communication in our world, and some of the ways in which we muck up our lives in the process of talk/text/email. In fear and anger, scorched earth is too often the end game with those that we care about the most, the ones that we are the most emotionally invested in and feel their disaffection the most. “You are a bitch beyond measure in this moment and I am wondering if the crack in you is unrepairable. In fact, I know that I can do better.” Generally a hard repair.

Been there, and said the similarly unforgiveable.

I know now of an elegance and purity of communication born of an intent for greater connection, finer love, and clarity. Oh my word, can I get an amen for clarity. And for “I” statements. The humble, but mighty “I.” As in any of the following, “I missed you at the gathering, I so want to know you more.” “I love that you lead with your vulnerability, yet you are fierce!” “I have such respect for you and I respond so strongly to your kindness.” “I love your smart-ass humor! I love you for your strength, vulnerability, often gentle, often carefully worded honesty, and your willingness to work at us! I am blessed that you are in my life.”

You will find me writing in this first person, because I can speak only of my experience and do not presume to know your motivations or beliefs. Of those, I can only ask.

So I write and post to my devoted blog “Genuinesterling.” Penning possible names of substance for the site, I ruminated on their vibe for a time. With a cherished sister, and dear friend and spiritual guide Laura weighing in, genuinesterling seemed to choose itself. It speaks to me of a vulnerable, authentic me that I nurture always, happen to love, and fiercely protect. It is my last name as well and one that I adore and carry forward in the name of ancestors that bravely came before me.

There is for me as well a divine purity and beauty inherent in the metal of sterling silver. Hardened miners braved the myriad of tunnels cut under my hometown of Aspen to extract tons of the silver-laden ore. Silver was king and built my little town up until it died with the ore market, only to be reborn into the uber-wealthy, beautiful mess it has become today.

I grew up skiing every inch of Aspen Highlands, Buttermilk, Snowmass and Aspen Mountain. At three I was on snow and on skis between my father’s legs, all jelly and no muscle. It was not long before he could not keep up with me. I went on to ski race at the professional level, and maintain a love of carving turns to both the left and the right to this day.