A Letter To Rita

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I recently learned there’s a five year grief timeline – a predictable set of stages one goes through after a loss. I don’t know the details other than around the five year mark you gain perspective on both the loss and the relationship you had with the person who is gone. You should be proud; I’m right on track. The five years since you left us have gone something like this.  

Year One – Shock and the Business of Death. I didn’t realize how much being your caregiver dictated every aspect of my day-to-day life until you were suddenly and unexpectedly gone. Before I could adjust to the new normal, I first had to get through the business of death – funeral arrangements, legal this and legal that, and going through your things.   

Year Two – Grief. The distractions of year one gave way to the pain of grief. Maybe I’m slow or maybe as a society we’ve got it all wrong. After the first year, even the most well-meaning people expect you’ve cried the tears and felt the sadness. To still be grieving or in my case to just begin grieving makes people uncomfortable. They start to worry you’re stuck and the unspoken message of “you should be over it by now” is clear. I quickly learned to smile nicely and assure everyone I was fine.     

Year Three – The unfolding began. I don’t know how to explain this other than to say there were glimmers that I was being unleashed for something new. Somehow, your passing opened up new possibilities for me that I didn’t yet understand.

Year Four – Just as those glimmers were coming into focus my life fell apart. I’m so grateful you weren’t around for The Great Divide. You would have raged, and I would have felt it was my responsibility to keep you in check. But, to be sure, there were times I secretly wished you were here. You would have spoken and acted with open hostility – uncensored, in a way I couldn’t be. Primal. Sicilian. Even our sweet boy would often say, “If Maw-Maw was here. She’d…”   

Year Five – Perspective. Around the four-and-a-half-year mark our story tumbled out of me, begging to be told. It’s still patiently sitting on the page. I know exactly how and where it wants to be heard, but I’m stuck, taunted by the whispers of, “Who do you think you are?” We both know the origin of that question, but I won’t spoil our story. Its time is coming.

Of the lifetime of memories, the one that comes to me most often is of us standing at your kitchen sink the night before you passed. Everything about that night was ordinary, yet different. We all had dinner together as usual, but at your house instead of mine and you cooked instead of me. As we were cleaning up, standing side-by-side at your sink, you turned and looked at me. I felt that look deep in my bones and five years on it’s still pulsing through me. It was the last time we saw each other.

Not long ago I shared that moment with my friend Tamara. You met her a few times. Has she found you yet? Did you know her family and Maw-Maw Ferrara were from the same little village in Sicily? Anyway, back to my story. I shared that moment with her and without hesitation, she said, “She was studying you, remembering your details. The angels knew it was time.”

I think she was right. You were studying me. Yes, for the eternal memory, but let’s be honest, you were also still trying to figure out what the heck I was all about. Mama, the two of us, we were the ultimate odd couple. Pairing us as mother and daughter was some kind of cosmic joke and we both got a good laugh from it all.

You were always baffled by my “being so serious all the time.” My favorite thing to do was surprise you with unexpected silliness like impromptu kitchen dance parties or goofy games with the kids. Do you remember the backyard Easter Olympics? You crushed it on the bucket game!

You and I both mistook my naturally reserved (cautious?) nature for being too serious. I now understand I need permission – in the form of a safe place – to relax, be playful and reveal my softer side. I really like that about myself. It’s like having an inner homing beacon. On the exceptional occasion I find myself in that safe place, the signal is unmistakable; I’ve found my people.    

I used to think I didn’t get what I needed from you, and in some ways that’s true. But as I continue to evolve I’m starting to see a bigger truth. I got exactly what I needed to shape me into the person I am today. From our deficit I found abundance.

For that I am grateful.


The Myth of Ready-Made Relationships

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I’ve been thinking a lot about titles, especially the relational kind like sister or brother. What is a title, really? Letters arranged in a particular order. A word. A noun. Used to categorize, to identify, to convey position, to assert power.  

There seems to be an unspoken collective agreement that familial titles bring with them some kind of Norman Rockwell storyline. It’s like a cosmic two-for-one: With this title you get a ready-made relationship for no extra charge.

One look at your own family and it’s probably pretty obvious this is not how it works. Relationships are built over time. Reinforced and recommitted to time and again. Not handed out like a dollar store coupon.

Yet, the most precious of titles – mother, father, son, daughter, sister, brother – are granted by the happenstance of birth or adoption and we consider them irrevocable, furthering the myth that the title somehow entitles one to and automatically delivers a relationship.

Maybe it’s time we re-consider.

What if we thought of ourselves as Mother-in-Training? Or Brother, temp-to-permanent position? How might our behaviors change? Our mindset? How might our family relationships be different if we stopped assuming we were irreplaceable?

What if we regarded these relationships for what they truly are – the ultimate family heirloom to be carefully crafted, refined, polished and protected?

Newsletter: Special Edition

My newsletter is a no-fuss monthly missive of the things, people and places that inspire me, make me think and bring a smile. The content is usually exclusive to the people on my list. This month is a very personal special edition that I want to share with everyone.

June 2019

This special edition of the newsletter is a celebration of wisdom, strength, grace, curiosity and wonder – a few of the qualities embodied by my friend Tamara.

Dear Tamara,

I’ve been carrying your purse. It makes me feel closer to you.

I was at Lowe’s today looking at cabinet hardware. Please forgive my choices. You know I haven’t made a paint or design decision without your input in 20 years. I’ll never have your impeccable eye for design.

Oh, how many nights did I sleep on your sofa over the last two years, waking up to Lark’s persistent nudges? (She’s the best alarm clock.) I will never praise your illness, but I will be forever grateful for the opportunity of time it gave us. As my life fell apart around me your life slowed down, and together we acknowledged the divine timing of it all.  

From the outside, it looked like I was taking care of you, but we know the truth. You and your home were my sanctuary. On the days it felt like I couldn’t breathe you were my lifeline.

I know I’ve not yet begun to truly feel the impact of your passing. In time, my heart will break a million times over. I’ll shed countless tears. I will ache for one more conversation.

And I will give praise for the pain because it stands as a testament to our friendship, to decades of shared adventures, and to the love of soul sisters.

I know you have my back – soaring with the angels and hanging with “the gang.”   

All my love,

TAMARA ANNE GUNTER    February 27, 1971 - May 19, 2019

February 27, 1971 - May 19, 2019


Wanderlust propels us to a faraway place and when we arrive we settle in and become still. It is only then that we are able to see for the first time. But, this place is not new. This place is quickly recognized deep within — by our very soul. We have been here before.

Our exploration is not of foreign vistas, rather memories of home.
— Tamara Gunter

Tamara Anne Gunter, 48, born in Phoenix, Arizona, grew up chasing fireflies and photos in Austin, Texas, where she lived with two Golden Retrievers underfoot. After earning a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Graphic Design from Arizona State University, she worked in the creative field as graphic designer, art director for Sirius Publishing and brand identity manager for 21 years at Tivoli and IBM. While the focus of her advancing career with IBM centered on global marketing and technology, her art and heart remained in travel photography. Tamara’s photographic work was shaped by her design discipline and ethos. Her artistic point of view was stirred by her grandparents’ humanitarian work abroad and cultivated through her own journeys from Cape Town to Sichuan to Cappadocia and beyond. As a fine art photographer, Tamara explored manifestations of solitude and the culture and character that is born of landscape. It is the Spirit of Place that compelled her.

In spite of a terminal diagnosis that gave her too few years to live, Tamara filled the last 15 years of her life with travels, her career, her adoring Goldens, family, and friends. With pen in hand, she checked off bucket lists, to do lists, estate lists, and beyond. She passed from this world, surrounded by her loving family and friends, as she wished, in her home. The only box left unchecked. . .obituary. The item was given to me and, as her loving Mother, I was honored to check the last box for her.

Tamara is survived by her father, Thomas G. Gunter and wife Donna, mother Elizabeth Anne Boykin, brother Thomas A. Gunter, niece and nephews Thomas Allen, Ava Delaine, and Forrest Calvin Gunter and step-sister Shannon Fralick, and a host of precious family and friends. It was Tamara’s request that memorials be made to Neuroendocrine Tumor Research Foundation and Gold Ribbon Rescue. If you are interested in furthering Tamara’s legacy, see her photography books at tamaragunter.com.

And now it is time for Tamara to have the last word: I have planned a most secret and special Celebration of Life. It will be a delightful, euphoric celebration. I am excited and look forward to reuniting with our family and loved ones who have passed. I suspect that they will join me in being with you in spirit at this celebration.

Written by Anne Boykin

Tres Amigas. Our Last Hurrah. 
May 2019

Of Note

© 2019 Tamara Gunter

© 2019 Tamara Gunter

You can see Tamara's photography here
Her fine art travel books can be purchased here

How I Increased My Creative Output

Summer is quickly approaching and here in Central Texas that means months of long, hot, dry days. Temperatures regularly soar above 100 degrees and by late July the Earth will crack right open, begging to be quenched.  

Relief comes, eventually, and usually in the form of a torrential downpour. Without warning that well-prayed-for rain can turn into a fast moving wall of water with no regard for anything in its path. Newcomers, certain tales of flooding are just that, Texas-sized tales, quickly learn why this region is known as Flash Flood Alley.

For a long time I thought the creative process was like those long Texas summers. You endure the dry spells, waiting for inspiration to sweep you up in a flood of creative genius. Oh, it sounds so artistic and mysterious and kind of sexy. As a Creative you’re this chosen being walking the Earth waiting for the gods to bestow greatness upon you. (Conveniently, it also means we don’t have to take any responsibility for your own creative output.)

I was certainly not one of the chosen and I assumed I was destined to remain firmly rooted in my left brain world. Then on the pages of Turning Pro by Steven Pressfield I met the liberating truth: The muse rewards those who do the work.


I didn’t need to be chosen?

I didn’t need to be labeled creative?

I simply needed to do the work and trust the rain would come?

It was the permission I didn’t know I needed. Permission to expand, to push the boundaries of my self-imposed limits, to rethink what I thought it meant to be creative.

The secret, as Pressfiled points out, is in the momentum of doing. (Inconveniently, it also means we have to take full responsibility for your own creative output.)


Then keep starting.

You’re likely to produce some real rubbish. That’s ok. It’s the movement that matters. The good stuff will come.

Seeding Creativity

In my own practice of doing I discovered I could improve my odds of getting to the good stuff more quickly by engaging in the activities that feed and free my mind.

My formula, in no particular order    

One part, Aspiring Novice. Because expertise is too limiting. I’m curious about so many things, most of which have no direct connection to my everyday work. Books, stories, speeches, great interviews – I can’t get enough.

One part, Dirt Therapy. The garden is the one place I completely lose track of time and my body pushes through long after it’s tired.   

One part, Pen and Paper. I must get the scraps of ideas out of my head and give them room to breathe. I prefer to go analogue with a Post-It Easel Pad and a pack of chisel point Expo markers.     

One part, Where the water meets the trees. A river bank, a mountain stream, a quiet pond. Worries fade. My mind slows way down. Clarity reigns. 

One part, Sleep + Exercise. I’m useless when I’m tired. I sleep better when I exercise.

Mix with equal parts Start, Do the Work and Keep Starting.

Apply regularly.

How To Find Your Own Secret Sauce

I’m certain, you too, have your own unique formula for priming your creativity. Start noticing…

Where do you unexpectedly find interesting ideas?  (Go here regularly.)

Where do you lose track of time? What’s the thing you can do for hours but it feels like minutes? (Do this often. Your brain needs to rest.)

Is there a place or activity that immediately releases the tension from your body and mind? (More of this please.)

When are you the least productive? Most irritable? (Can you eliminate? Mitigate?)

What’s your go-to tool for moving a spark of inspiration from concept to a concrete idea? (Use it!) Don’t have one? Experiment!

It’s Not A Silver Bullet

Imagine being able to set yourself up for creativity, setting favorable conditions for inspiration. And imagine the fun you’ll have discovering your secret formula.

But it’s not magic. It’s a tool to give you a head start, to aid you when you’re feeling stuck or when the anxiety rises or when you have too many ideas competing for your attention.  

All the tips, tricks, quieting your mind and moving your body is for nothing unless you sit and do the work.

Only in the doing, drop by drop, will the muse unleash the flood of your best work.   

Happy Birthday Helen


This is Helen Fendlason Bottolfs & Arthur Bottolfs, my paternal grandparents. Helen would have been 103 today. She died when I was only nine, but my most vivid early childhood memories are from her house, her big yard, the old chicken houses, and the barn. She lived just across the field from my house and I would find my way to her doorstep most summer days, usually barefoot.

Helen did not approve of my unkept tom-boy ways and for me that was part of her charm. In one look and tsk tsk of her tongue she could both disapprove of what was before her and simultaneously see right into me— who I could be, who I really was. She had higher expectations for me. ⠀⠀⠀⠀

Of all the stories I could tell, my favorite memory is of the Christmas Helen let me help with her gift wrapping. I was probably in 1st or 2nd grade. She let me write all the To/From tags and I did so diligently and with such pride. Helen was very particular and I fully understood what an honor this was. I remember beaming with pride with each little tag.

Later I learned I had misspelled her name on every tag. Hellen with two Ls. I was crushed. Why didn't she say anything? I was convinced my mother was wrong. Helen must really be spelled with two Ls because my Maw-Maw would have most definitely corrected my mistake. Anyone who knew her would tell you that.

I never asked her about it. She never said a word. It was our unspoken secret. The message was clear, "I see you, mistakes and all, and it's ok. You're ok."

64 Shades of Spring Green (& 10 Other Random Observations)

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In no particular order, a few observations rattling around my brain.

  1. The world is a complicated, chaotic place. It’s also elegantly simple.

  2. Stripping away the noise, the pretense and the posturing is always a good idea.

  3. Givers expand. Takers contract. (Oh, the irony.)

  4. Empathy is a super power.

  5. We all need more impromptu kitchen dance parties.

  6. Trusting your instinct is one thing. Learning to act on it, in the moment, takes a whole new level of faith.

  7. There are at least 64 shades of spring green.

  8. True leadership is a thing of beauty.

  9. Kindness is contagious.

  10. Asking for what you want can be an act of courage.

  11. Emotional intelligence is sexy.

Just As You Are



I wrote a story for you about an interesting encounter I had recently. Great story, but I couldn’t properly capture the ending. After weeks of re-writing I gave up, thinking…

…maybe this isn’t my story to tell.
…maybe I don’t have the skill to bring this together.
…no one will ever know if I don’t publish it.

Then I remembered my golden rule: say what you mean in the simplest way possible.

So, here’s what I want to say, without pretense or story arc.

In a little coffee shop, sitting with a new friend, the world became slightly less complicated as I realized that wanting to be seen – really seen, for who we fully are – is a universal desire that crosses gender, race, age, culture and all the other classifications that try to separate us.

 But here’s the rub. Before we can be seen by others, we need to first see ourselves.  

 We all get a bit lost along the way. Life bullies us around. We give in to fear. We dim, and we shrink.

Our people pleasing, rule following and believing them (the others) instead of ourselves, leaves us as a character in our own lives. We become so accustomed to (addicted to?) playing a role, we can’t see it’s replaced our true self.

Eventually, some of us will have the courage or be desperate enough to wake up and reclaim ourselves. And I do believe it is a reclaiming, not a “New You” to be created.  

Maybe there are people lucky enough to ease into this awareness. But not me. I prefer the long way around. Brene Brown best sums up my experience: “It was an ugly street fight, and even though I got my ass kicked, it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

It’s going to be messy.  

But if you can no longer ignore that deep longing to discover the real you. That longing to be seen as You instead of the character you’ve fallen into.

And if you’re scared and wondering if it will be worth it.

Please, come have a seat with me. I want you to hear this:

Resist the allure of yet another layer of shiny armour disguised as “New You.”

Instead of a New You, how ‘bout you become a deeper, fuller version of who you already are? Not the person you think you should be. Not the person others say you should be.

The real you. The person you were meant to be, with a unique combination of gifts and talents and quirks. And flaws. Oh, honey, we all have them. We’re human. 

I have a hunch the real you – you fully embraced – is way more appealing than any shiny new version.

Show me your scars.

Your wisdom. Gained from the doing, the failing and then doing some more.

Your laugh. Ya know, the one that can only come after you’ve felt the pain.

How? you ask.

By deeply listening to your body, your heart and your soul. By employing a depth of self-honesty that will test your resolve.

In these practices you will start to re-discover You.  

And, you know that thing you’re afraid to say out loud? The one that seems just a little too much? That’s a clue. Your True Self is in there. Look a little deeper.  


Let me see You.


Happy Birthday : A Tribute

Arthur Bottolfs. Ponchatoula, La

Arthur Bottolfs. Ponchatoula, La

That's Arthur Bottolfs, my paternal grandfather. He would have been 113 today. We had 12 years together and I adored him like only an awestruck little girl can do. If you met him you'd be immediately taken in by his deep set, crystal blue eyes. They would be your first clue to his kind and gentle nature.

I lived just across the field, at the edge of his farm, and I was by his side at every opportunity. When I think of him, words give way to a flood of vivid memories. I'd like to share a few with you in hopes you'll get a glimpse of my good fortune.  

His vegetable garden was at least a 1/2 acre, plowed by tractor, planted by hand. He taught me to place the seeds just right and how to dig potatoes and pick corn. He'd be proud that I've taught his great-grandson to do the same.

The smell of his pipe.  

The way he showed me the importance of speaking softly to the milk cow as he would grab the little three-legged milking stool off the wall. The barn cats got first dibs on that milk. He'd always fill a pan for them before leaving the barn. 

His denim overalls and a featherweight long sleeve shirt to protect his arms, covered in sun damage from a lifetime of work outside.   

Our tractor rides to the back field. He'd set me up at the edge of the pond with a cane fishing pole while he did tractor work in the field. When I was older he loved to tell me how he'd return to find me...asleep, often with a fish on the line. It's no mystery to me why my soul place is where the water meets the trees. 

How his cattle herd knew his voice and responded to that unique call he had for them. I never thought to ask if it was an old Norweigian word or something he made up.

Hay baling was my favorite activity on the farm. For the adults it was hard work and a race against the clock praying the Louisiana rain would hold off long enough to get the hay in the barn. But for me it was like the grand ball of the farm. A crew would gather and after the work was done we'd enjoy Pop Rouge and watermelon in the shade of an oak tree. 

I’d watch the grass grow taller and taller until some magic mark was met. Then cut, tedder, rake. After it was cut Paw-Paw walked the fields each day, checking, and when the grass was just dry enough Mr. Newman would appear with his red baler and turn those wavy rows of cut grass into uniform square bales. Paw-Paw gathered his work crew and we'd be off "haulin’ hay," with me skipping along side the action, marveling at the orchestration of tractor, trailer and the guys on the ground easily tossing those hay bales up to the stackers on the trailer. All in perfect unison. 

I was 8, maybe 9. We were in the northeast corner of the back field just before that little dip when he said he needed me to drive the tractor. Me? I didn't know how to drive. He acted like I'd done this a 100 times before, full of confidence that I could. And I did, under his watchful eye and easy instructions. I stalled the tractor when I got to that little dip. As I nervously looked at him he never took even one step toward the tractor. He simply talked me through it, again, with every confidence I could do it. 

I slowly released the clutch, pushing the power lever forward just enough for the tractor to smoothly move forward and the guys resumed their hay bale dance. I think that's the moment I knew I could do anything. And it didn't matter that I was an 8 year old girl surrounded by boys and men. 

In his presence, I felt capable. Like I could conquer the world. 

It was the greatest gift. 

Kindness In Action

Reading, Berkshire, England. December 2002.

Reading, Berkshire, England. December 2002.

Please note: This post covers the subjects of pregnancy and loss.


That’s me. December 2002. Wearing my bulkiest sweater and trying my best to create the illusion of more than a tiny 10 week baby bump.  

Oh, the things Baby D and I had already done. We braved the bitter cold at the Newark International Antiques Fair in Nottinghamshire, lugging our many finds on and off trains, The Tube and a bus. We marveled at the Pont du Gard and all things Provence including an unforgettable meal at La Fourchette in Avignon. Not long after this photo was taken we were off to Bonneval-sur-Arc, a magical little village tucked into the Alps near the Italian border where we rang in the new year, post card style -- snow gently falling as we watched the torchlight skiers make their glowing descent down the mountain.

2003 would be your year, dear baby.

4pm, January 14, wet, cold and pitch black – a typical winter day in England. My (then) husband and I waited quietly to see the doctor (ever aware to not be the loud Texans). Introductions made and details charted we were down to business. I couldn’t wait to get the first glimpse of my little world traveler.

I was a newbie, but this sonogram seemed to be taking a long time. The doctor asked, “When did you say your last cycle was?“ then he said something about a heartbeat, but I couldn’t hear him. The room had gone silent for me. I vaguely remember an internal sonogram to confirm what I didn’t need to be told. I don’t remember the blood draw or the instructions or the drive home. Had I even spoken? Oddly, I remember the nurse was an American and I found that comforting.  

Officially, I had a missed miscarriage. At some point the pregnancy was “no longer viable” but my body hadn’t gotten the message so it continued to act, look and feel pregnant. Barely into my 2nd trimester I had a choice to either let my body catch-up and miscarry naturally or have a routine procedure. I decided to give my body a chance to handle this.

Three grueling weeks of trusting that my body would cooperate.  

9pm, February 4. It started just like the pamphlets said it would.

1:30am, February 5. She looked at me and said, “You’re in labor.”

Labor? Somewhere in the middle of the pain and exhaustion I hadn’t recalled the list of warning signs of when to seek medical care. By the time I had woken my husband at 1am I had lost a dangerous amount of blood and as the nurse would later explain, I was in full labor.

I don’t know that nurse’s name and I don’t recall what she looked like but I distinctly remember meeting her eyes as I stood in the triage room, mid-contraction. She took my arm and stayed with me right through the delivery.

As nurses do, right? Except, her shift had ended just before I came in. She was simply passing through triage on her way out to meet her husband. A chance encounter.

Sixteen years later, her act of compassionate kindness stands out clearly in a sea of blurred details. That’s what this story is really about — acts of kindness.

Miscarriage is the most common form of pregnancy loss. Yet, it’s a strangely taboo subject.  I hope sharing a part of my story, talking about it publicly, will help lessen the uneasiness. Loss makes us uncomfortable and we often don’t know the right thing to say or do.

I was graced with tremendous love and support from friends and family. Two instances stand out. I’ve called on these examples time and again as my guide to how to approach difficult situations. I hope they can serve you too.

After excitedly announcing the pregnancy to everyone back home via email I had to follow up with news of the loss. Within hours of sending that second email my friend Pat called me from Austin. An email response would have been easier and more than sufficient, especially given the bother of making an international call. Instead, he chose to call. He led with, “Sunshine, I am so sorry” then he simply listened to me sob.

Kindness. In action.

A couple weeks after the miscarriage, I received a letter from my friend LB. She is genuine and loving and filled with grace. Her words that day were no different. She led with saying she didn’t know the right thing to say. That simple truth was immediately comforting. It felt like we were in this together: I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.

Kindness. In action.

I wasn’t sure why I felt compelled to tell this story until these particular details flooded back to me. They are a reminder that kindness is a deliberate act. Kindness gets involved.

Kindness is always worth the effort.

Things That Did Not Happen in 2018

It’s the obligatory end-of-year review. A random list of things that DID NOT happen in 2018.

The massive Texas Black Walnut tree that fell on my house in a storm DID NOT cause major damage.

I showed up to classes, workshops and masterminds that were way out of my league and I WAS NOT asked to leave.

The billowing white smoke from my car’s exhaust WAS NOT a major engine issue.

I leaned on people in outsized, disproportionate ways and NOT one sweet soul turned me away.

I followed my intuition without question, made bold decisions and jumped without looking more than once. I DID NOT regret a single instance.

I gave my writing a public home, posted my first selfie, did my first “live” anything, created my first videos, and wrote/said what I wanted to say when and how I wanted to say it, uncensored. I DID NOT shrink.

Here’s to more NOTs in 2019.