Parkour is my writing buddy tonight; the other pets have been put to bed and are quietly snoozing away in their little spots around the house.

The neighborhood is, thanks to it being hot and humid, full of people being fussy. I mean, I get it. I do.

I have a watermelon scented candle burning on the stove; for atmosphere.

I also have a flavored bottled water. It's too hot to be swilling coffee.

Anyhoody.

Let's do this thing.

Diving right on in..

Nobody wants to be called the family black sheep; it’s rarely meant as a compliment.

If you're the family black sheep, it usually means you’re the one who doesn’t fit. The one who asks too many questions. The one whose life doesn’t follow the family script. The one who sees and/or does things differently.

For a long time, I think many of us spend our lives trying to earn our way back into the flock. We soften our opinions. We hide our interests. We make ourselves smaller. We hope that if we can just become a little more like everyone else, we’ll finally belong.

But what if we’ve misunderstood the role of the black sheep? What if the black sheep isn’t the family failure? What if, instead, they’re the family’s first honest storyteller (s) ? (Some families have more than one black sheep..which is a whole discussion in itself..ahem)

The black sheep might be the first person willing to say, “This pattern isn’t working.” or '‘The role you've assigned to me doesn't fit.” or “I've outgrown the label you slapped on my ass back when I was seven.”

The black sheep might be the first person (or the first person of their generation) willing to build something different, and then, without further ado, haul off to go and do it.

Maybe that’s why black sheep are remembered. Not because they caused trouble; but because they, by God, changed the story.

For years I thought “black sheep” meant someone who flatly refused to fit in. Now I wonder if it often means someone who was never allowed to fit in, or destined to fit in, or, what-have-you.

You see, every family has roles. The responsible one. The funny one. The caretaker. The successful one. The difficult one. The disappointment. The peacemaker. The rebel. Et cetera.

The problem is, that when people grow, the family stories don’t always grow with them.

Once you’ve been assigned a role, it can become surprisingly difficult to point out the bad fit, never mind live it down, or, escape it.

Sometimes the artist is told to get a “real job.” Sometimes the dreamer is told to stop dreaming. Sometimes the woman who wants to build a business is told she’s too ambitious. Sometimes the man who loves to create is told that’s not what men do.

When people spend years trying to live someone else’s script..or the utterly wrong for them script, they often begin to believe that something is wrong with them as a person.

Maybe nothing actually was wrong with them. Maybe the role that got assigned to them just never fit, or the role was outgrown; if it can happen in business, why not in families?

Maybe that growth or poor fit is the gift of the black sheep. Not that they know more than everyone else, but that they remember what it felt like to have to learn without a map or a safety net.

So when they build something—a business, a garden, a book, a workshop, a planner, a community—they either create or leave the map behind for the next person.

Not because someone did it for them, but because no one would, or did, and they decided the bullshit and aggravation pattern would end with them.

For example, when I was a kid, I didn't always know how to make sense of the noise of my parents arguing over me after their divorce. So I'd grab a book, a camera, and the dog, and head for the woods. The judgement of me involved in all of that. It was..a thing..put it that way.

But..what no one understood very well at the time, was..

The trees didn't ask me to explain myself. The books didn't expect me to fit a role. The dog didn't care who was right. For a little while, I could simply breathe and be and lose myself in another, better, world.

Years later, I realized that's what I'd been looking to create all along, for others. Not an escape, simply a place where people can remember who they are underneath all the expectations that may or may not fit who they are.

That's what I hope, ultimately, the Black Sheep Outpost becomes.

A place where the coffee is hot, the stories are honest, the pace is a little slower, and no one has to earn the right to belong jump through hoops before they walk through the door.

I envision a quiet place to catch your breath; a place where a new, and better, story begins.

For now, this is all.

Talk again soon,

Deb

The pets have been put to bed and are quietly snoozing away.

The neighborhood is fairly quiet, although, there's a storm brewing, so the quiet may change to booming thunder and pouring rain at any time.

I’m sipping a lemon seltzer. Yes, that's an acquired taste, and one I acquired many moons ago.

Recently, I came across the notion of writing a letter to oneself, as a…I guess you'd want to call it, a ‘write your own prophecy’ exercise. I thought I'd try it. Because why not.

Anyhoo.

Let's do this thing.

Dear Me,

You have arrived as a multi-passionate creator. You have published books. People like what you do. A lot.

You've bought an analog truck, and a small car, for backup. You've upgraded your cameras. You’ve upgraded your computer. You've bought a drone that takes pictures and video, and learned how to use them to great effect.

The former general store in Maine that you thought you'd have to give up on the idea of owning, was re-listed. You were able to buy it, put the work into it to make it inviting and live-able; warm when it should be, and cool when it should be, too.

It's a pretty place now, what with its new color schemes involving, paint, wallpaper, and comfortable decor. Even if you did find that blending the old with the necessary new, was an interesting challenge.

But you're all set now. The whole project came out beautiful.

You're now settling into the living quarters, and the general store proper; your shoulders have finally dropped down from around your ears, and the pets are happy and thriving.

The cats have discovered whole new dimensions to Window and House Patrol; the dog has discovered the joy of long walks around the nearby lake.

You've started planning your gardens for the next seasons. Flowers. Fruits. Vegetables. You've ordered your raised beds and your greenhouse and your garden necessities.

Your specialty kitchen equipment has arrived and is gleaming on the counters, ready for use.

There are books on the bookshelves. There are, scattered about until the next set of bookshelves arrives, notebooks and corkboards outlining stories and characters and your body of work; past, present and future.

You're sitting at a desk in front of a window, maybe working on a new story, a class outline, a podcast, or a script for a podcast or a talk that could help change someone's world for the better. Maybe there's a drink of something nearby, forgotten because you got distracted.

You're making friends with the neighbors and the wildlife. Yours is a place where people and animals feel welcome, and, at peace.

In the shop, there are books, planners, and outdoor gear that you've commissioned because the great outdoors is two clicks off of the porch, tourists are gonna tourist, and that's ok. You make it work.

You’re someone who knows when sometimes an extra loaf of bread, or just a listening ear, or a place to sit for awhile, is necessary, and you can act on it.

You're someone who finds peace in ordinary days in a tiny town.

You're someone who learned that success looks like being useful, being kind, creating things that matter, and having the time to sit and talk with the people that you care about.

You have built a life that feels like home.

And you are so fucking grateful for all of it, as well as for having what it takes, to keep it all.

Love,

Me