Wide Spot: an internal opening created by the convergence of heart and word.

I wrote my first book about three months after I started reading, enchanted by the written word that could create whole new worlds. I wanted to weave that magic, too.

Sixty-odd years later, I am still trying to conjure life out of words. I know that the right words can ripen my heart, root me in deeper reality, and reveal the shining effervescence in which we live, and move, and have our being. So I write to express the sacredness—the unimaginable depth and joy and sorrow—of daily life. I write because I long to turn that which is half-dead into dancing and that which is skin-deep into fathomless mystery.

Here’s what you’ll find on this website:

Singing the Red Dress Song” is a book-length collection of essays which trace the uneven/hilarious/heartbreaking path of growth in spiritual life.

The “Writings” page contains “Wide Spot,” the accumulated short, never-mention-God essays that I write monthly for the Valley Voice newspaper; and “Stillpoints,” which covers a broad territory: bears, consciousness, Alzheimer’s, St. Francis of Assisi, skinny dipping, and Eucharist, to name a few. Sprinkled throughout all this writing are podcasts offering contemplative practices or a spoken-word version of a given essay.

The other pages— “About,” “Calendar,” “Collaborations”—should be self-explanatory. If you’re interested in more information, just email me here. I’m happy to share retreat outlines and practices.

You can help me defray the costs of keeping all this material available by donating to Therese’s Wide Spot. Located on the bottom of each page is an email address to which you can send an e-transfer. (However, e-transfers only work for Canadians.) Alternatively, you can send a cheque of any nationality to the address listed there. And whether you donate or not, please feel free to use what you find here. All I ask is attribution—because I wrote all this for you.

Latest Posts

Singing the Red Dress Song

I roll over to turn off the light and address a silent prayer to my deepest part, to the Holy, to my unconscious, to whatever or whomever prescribes the nightly play that goes on when I slump into sleep: May I please have some joy in my dreams tonight? I’ve been tired, bone tired. The …

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Hands Like Roots

Our hands imbibe like roots, so I place them on what is beautiful in this world, and I fold them in prayer and they draw from the heavens light. St. Francis of Assisi, as interpreted by Daniel Ladinsky This is not a sound bite about how to reduce anxiety. This is not a short course …

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Learning to Love What I Love: Time to Give It All Away

There’s a new mental disorder stalking the western world: Nature Deficit Disorder. Our widespread disconnection from the natural world—most of us can’t distinguish one tree from another, don’t walk in the woods, don’t look at the stars, rarely stand in an unaltered landscape—is making us sick. The list of effects I found in the official …

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Learning to Love What I Love: Street Walkers

Street Walkers Ten years ago, in our lake, at the mouth of the bay where we locals swim, four young people drowned. I have not felt like I could tell this story. It is, for some families, a private and forever grief upon which I have no right to intrude.  But parts of that story …

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Learning to Love What I Love: Cosmic and Particular

Our daughter-in-law, Jane, interpreted the saying “It takes a village to raise a child” liberally. Of course, in these days, municipal boundaries are a bit wider than they used to be. A day’s plane journey appears to mark the village limits for our family. Which is why you would have found me in Washington, D.C. a …

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The First Practice, Or Learning to Love What I Love: The Red Thread

Songyuan asked, Why can’t clear-eyed Bodhisattvas sever the red thread? When I was in my early thirties, a ragtag group of friends and family assembled weekly in my living room to meditate. Our teacher was a recovering alcoholic and self-identified Sufi who taught us glorious chants. We’d sing and sing and sink into a silence …

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Reader Reflections

  1. This piece touched me deeply, Therese. I will read it over and over. The grief I carry about the devastation…

  2. Thank you for reminding me where there is light. It is in alignment with Creation. It is being tangled in…

  3. You have my attention, Therese, i’ve been wrestling with the destructive side of God/nature for a long time. It scares…

Like what you read? I would love to have your support!
Canadians can send an e-transfer to descamp@widespot.ca. Everyone else, I take cheques of all nationalities.
Box 452, New Denver, BC, V0G 1S0, Canada