Nicole Huesman: Laura, it has been so wonderful to meet you. And when I heard about the work that you were doing, I just, I was so uplifted. So thanks so much for being here and for spending your time with us today.

Laura Stanfill: Oh, thanks so much for having me, Nicole.

Nicole Huesman: Can you introduce yourself? Just tell us a little bit about you and where you are in your journey today.

Laura Stanfill: Sure. I am an author and a book publisher. I run Forest Avenue Press and I have always been a writer. So I'm kind of living the dream.

Nicole Huesman: You are living the dream. You are living the dream. Can you talk about some of the pivotal moments and experiences that landed you where you are today and made you who you are today? Do you think your early years had an influence on that?

Laura Stanfill: Absolutely. As an only child, I spent a lot of time by myself with an amazing array of art supplies that my mom basically thrifted and found in sale bins. And I always had paper and pencil and pen and markers to create worlds. And I made whole story villages out of cardboard and pom-poms. And I wrote novels. And I created secret languages. And I just was always writing. 

In fourth grade, my elementary school librarian invited me to bind a short story I had written into a real book, and she took me and one other student to the library to bind a book. And when I grew up and started Forest Avenue Press, I named it after that school, Forest Avenue School in New Jersey.

Nicole Huesman: Oh, so cool. Wow. You've been a newspaper journalist and then like you said, you founded Forest Avenue Press. You're in author. Wow. You know, and we talked a little bit about. Your, your brain injury in, was it 2014, I think, and can you talk about what impact, uh, that experience has had on your approach to life, your approach to work, uh, and your advocacy for neurodiversity.

Laura Stanfill: Well, before 2014, I prided myself on being able to do all the things. And when I say all the things, I think of it in capital letters, bolded, all the things. Um, it doesn't mean I was good at all the things, but I I constantly pursued or attempted to pursue the, the ability to do everything and be competent at everything. And I think I was fighting the disorder of my own brain and the quirks of my own brain by trying to appear normal and trying to appear competent at in all these different levels. 

And so basically what that looked like inside was I was constantly fueling my everyday with anxiety. I was worried that I would let somebody down. I was worried that I wasn't going to be a good enough person to help someone do this task or to volunteer at the kids’ school or whatever. But I did it anyway because I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. 

In 2014, I fell on the ice. uh, Just a fluke thing. Landed on my bottom. I was wearing a heavy down coat. Didn't cushion me enough. Uh, The impact ricocheted up my spine and jiggled my brain around. And I began having intense headaches. And I was unable to function as an, as an everyday like basic level, not to mention at that supercharged level that I had been trying to, to achieve every day. 

So I went into a year of therapy, occupational therapy, physical therapy, a lot of rest at the time. They really wanted me to spend dark room hours. And so I just laid there. They didn't want me to read. They didn't want me to, to listen to anything. I was terribly bored. And of course I did listen to a lot of writer podcasts. 

But what came out of that afterwards is, at first I thought I wanted, I thought successful recovery would be picking up all the things and I think, I mean, again, I see that all the things in bold and uppercase. And I felt if I could return to that efficiency of living, no matter the disordered chaos in my brain and this actual injury to my brain, then I could move on and, and I would be me again. 

But as I discovered fairly early on in that journey, I actually didn't want to pick up everything again. I had been running myself so hard that my nervous system was constantly engaged. I was being a great parent to my kids, but I wasn't modeling how to take care of myself. I wasn't adjusting for my, my health or my pain levels or my, how my body was or brain was feeling in the day. And post brain injury, I had to really rewrite my sense of what a [00:07:00] day should look like and what I was able to do. And there was a lot of frustration early on. I just felt like I should be able to pick everything up. And then when I got to the point of realizing that I was actually living a better life, a more thoughtful, joyful, connected life, I started seeing that moment of falling as a way that my body and brain reset. I mean, it was a catastrophic health issue, but I feel like if I had continued to going along that path, there might be, there might've been a different catastrophic health issue where my body actually broke down and my body could not manage any more stress. Um, and so I've retaught myself how to motivate based on curiosity and creativity. And I've spent a lot more time laughing at myself than I ever did before. And it's so much better. I feel like I am the me I was supposed to be at eight years old before I tried to be the me that I thought all the adults in my world wanted me to be.

Nicole Huesman: Wow, so what an experience. What impact do you think that that has had in terms of what you're doing through Forest Avenue Press?

Laura Stanfill: Well, I've definitely noticed over the years that my favorite stories are ones that do not fit into a certain box or into a certain genre even. I really like tales that keep me engaged, and that surprise me, that take turns that, um, nobody else could have written because the author who has penned this work has such a specific set of ideas and experiences and ways of looking at the world that only that person could come up with this plot, or this particular shift in the plot to the next chapter. And that's what I love and that's what I've always published. 

Uh, Not all my authors self-identify as neurodivergent. At first I didn't even talk about it or, or ask for neurodivergent authors because I wasn't yet used to self-identifying. In fact, I really didn't tell anybody about my concussion, my traumatic brain injury year of recovery. People just saw me disappear out of the literary life here in Portland. I just stopped showing up to things. Turns out I couldn't drive and I was in bed, but most people just didn’t know because I didn't have the emotional bandwidth to explain it, wasn't supposed to be using screens, really didn't want to come out publicly in the middle of something either. And now, 10 years later, it's something that I still don't always talk about, but I've gotten more vocal about it.

And in terms of the books, I feel like I've gotten more vocal in submissions where we are actively seeking neurodivergent voices as well as other types of marginalized voices because brains that work differently can tell stories that move and flow in special and exciting ways, and that is what my brain really likes.

Nicole Huesman: Well, and you have this real appreciation for brains that work differently, which I absolutely love because as a mother of a neurodivergent ADHD, now teen, it's, you know, it's been a journey for me to to understand and appreciate that he doesn't think like I do or that, you know, and, and to really develop an appreciation for, for his way of thinking.

And that's one of the reasons that I was so drawn to, uh, when I was talking to Zaji earlier, your, your honor of her, your respect of her, uh, and the way that you two worked together, I just thought, Oh, I've just got to, I've just got to talk to you. I, I, yeah, it was, it was, uh, yeah. I just, I can't tell you what a deep appreciation I have for others who have that appreciation, because going through school and helping him, you know, through school or through sports or through everyday life, whatever it may be, is, isn't always easy, and so others who have an appreciation for brains that work differently, I just really have a deep appreciation for that.

Laura Stanfill: I wish I mean, some, some of the way I talk to my fellow neurodivergent parents and friends and writers and publishers is about giving everybody a lot of grace, because a lot of the times people whose brains work differently, uh, struggle with things that seem maybe simple or normal or basic to other people. And it can be really frustrating to have a hard time getting the dishes done. Or like, I know I, my books are never organized. I often just make a big pile of books and someone else might walk into my house and go, Oh, my gosh, there's a big pile of books. And to me, it's comfort and joy. 

And so giving grace to other people for how their brains work and what challenges they have to overcome, especially around everyday tasks, has become part of the way I walk through the world. And I'm so much happier because then when I get frustrated with myself, I'm like, wait a second, but brain, you also did this amazing thing today. I love you too, brain. You're not great at this other thing that I'm really struggling with right now, but it's okay, like, we'll just get through it and we'll, we'll move on. I mean, I don't really talk to my brain, but I kind of, I kind of do. I kind of give it a pep talk and a good pat on the back.

Nicole Huesman: Yeah. And what gratitude, right? I mean, being, being grateful for what we do have and what we are, uh, the areas we are strong. So you worked as a newspaper reporter, and then you founded your own press, which I think is so magical. Can you, can you talk about kind of moving from one to the, to the next?

Laura Stanfill: Absolutely. Uh, I love journalism. I was good at writing stories and using myself as a lens because my I think my whole life my brain has worked differently, and it was just the concussion that helped me start finding language for it. And then I got to look before that time, before the TBI, and think about, well, my brain was actually weird then too. It was different than my friends’ brains and my, my peers' brains. And one of the ways that my brain worked really well was I love disappearing. I loved. I knew that there were social scripts in play and I knew that there were appropriate ways of being in the world and I knew that I was always, like, trying to figure that out.

But as a journalist, you walk into a room and you're supposed to be the, the cipher, the empty place, the magnifying glass, the receptacle for words that other people share your way. And so being that empty page, being that blank space, reporting and recording what other people had to say was a great fit for how I wanted to be in the world. I wanted to disappear and just be like the instrument through which other people's voices could be heard. You'll hear in ‘that instrument in which other voices could be heard,’ uh, has a lot to do with publishing. Um, I created a press so that I could amplify voices, not through me or through my perspective, but to give space for them to speak directly to readers and directly to people who show up and listen to their events.

And I kind of felt the same thing about journalism. My notebook was an extension of myself, and I, I had a really great ability, probably some of it learned, probably some of it innate, to hold whole conversations in my head. Pre brain injury, I could remember what people said. I mean, I wrote it all down. I wrote like crazy, but when I went back to do the notes, I almost could, like, hear it, hear the whole hour or whatever, hear the person who got up and shouted at the city council meeting. And so I'd find that part in my notes and I wrote my newspaper stories from my notes, but also from this map I already had in my brain.

And so moving into publishing, um, one of the biggest challenges of my life and career was when I worked as managing editor on a small Oregon coast newspaper and half my staff died and it was within two years. And I was so devastated from that. I really didn't want to go back into newspapers. I didn't know if I could be that blank slate. I didn't know if I could accept all those voices through the blank page of me and hold space for all these stories. 

And so I started writing a novel. Um, it turns out all my novels have neurodivergent characters in them. I don't know how to pretend normal people onto the page. And so I had two novels that had gone out and never sold. And so I was working on a third novel at the time and really getting into it. And then I thought, well, you know, I have so many writer friends trying to find places for their work in New York, knocking on doors and nobody's listening. Why don't I see if I can, you know, make a book or two here in Oregon for Oregon writers and see what happens. See what that's like. 

So, in, in some ways, it was a direct translation of my skill set from newspapers and bringing people's words to the people of the city to working with a slightly different format pre written words that have already been written on the page instead of transcribed by me, Um, but very similar. Like, let's get these stories into the world because stories create empathy, stories from people who have not been in the paper before, or who have not authored a book before, whose lived experiences are not well represented in the world. Those are the people I want other people to hear. And so it was all just a matter of making space.

Nicole Huesman: Wow. And I, and I love that because that's so much of what I'm about as well in terms of getting stories out into the world about underrepresented and marginalized groups and individuals. I wonder, so you've said of indie bookstores that, and I think this is so magical, that they are stars to wish upon. I love that. Can you just talk a little bit about what you mean by that, what that, your, your statement, what that mean, what indie bookstores mean to you?

Laura Stanfill: Indie bookstores to me connect to childhood magic. Some of that is, um, connected to my old childhood, my childhood years in the library where I read through the entire children's section. We didn't have as many independent, we didn't have an independent bookstore in my hometown at the time. So, so for me, those early magical reading experiences were library beast.

But as I've grown into being a book publisher and being part of the book community, I have, I've found so much appreciation for bookstores, not just as a place of commerce, where objects can be purchased or discovered, but as a safe community space for expression of ideas for connection with other reader types or literary types who want to come and listen to events, um, and for all the amazing bookstore staff members who actually take the time to read books before they're on the shelf and then tell their people who come into the store about those books and what they might like. I just think it's magical and I know it's, I know it's a job and I, I said magical because you did, um, but I really do feel that sense of wonder and joy when a bookseller finds a Forest Avenue title and loves it and writes a little shelf talker. 

The shelf talkers for those of you not in the biz are little pieces of paper that sit usually under, but sometimes over, the top of a book and it's they're generally signed by the bookseller who's recommending the book and it says something special and an original about that book. um, Whether it's a staff pick or just something that one of the booksellers read and loved, the bookseller will say why they loved it and why you should read it or for fans of and then list a couple other books. 

And I don't know about you and your, your writing life, but when I was a little kid, I used to always walk into, we did have a Barnes and Noble, I used to walk into the Barnes and Noble and look on the shelf in the fiction section for my last name and see where my book would go someday. And so that's part of that magic, and wishing also. I've wished on bookstores and, and agents and publishers and all the rest of it, um, you know, thrown coins in the fountain of wishing for people to read my work and booksellers are the answer to those wishes, I guess that's it.

Nicole Huesman: And I so identify, and it is, I really do think it is magical. So I grew up in Berkeley, at least for the first part of, of my life. And I remember my mom taking my sister and I into the public library. And I loved, it was such a world of discovery. And I love just opening books.

My husband loves to read books, um, like on Kindle, right, in digital. There's something about paper, even for me, the smell of, oh, wow, when you open a book, it's this, you're going to dive into this world and learn all about this new world and kind of get lost in a story. Um, and so it is that when you mentioned going to the library, and then, you know, in Portland now with, uh, Annie Bloom’s being one of our, you know, indie bookstores in a, you know, small bookstore in a neighborhood where people gather, it's this whole sense of community.

Um, can you talk a little bit about how community has played a role in your life and in your work and how you've sought to create that sense of belonging and support for others through what you're doing?

Laura Stanfill: That's a great question. I, in earlier days of my career, I connected and understood the world through community because I was a community journalist. I started for working for a weekly paper chain in Virginia, and everybody had their own city. And so I began to understand the world as a series of interlocked cities or towns that had similar challenges because they were all in the same state, much, most of most of them were in the same county. And so there were overarching issues about development and growth and schools that everybody was grappling with, but the players and the conversations were all different based on where they lived and who was speaking up at which town council.

And so, my professional view of the world was very much impacted by that. And by my early interest in land use and development because a lot of, I was working in northern Virginia where at the time we were in the, I was covering at one point, the fastest growing school district in America, because America Online was big back in those days and Loudoun County was just exploding with growth. They had to build something, something wild, like, maybe twenty six, twenty five schools every six years for the foreseeable future to, to manage population growth. And so I understood community as, uh, as an evolving thing with voices in the community who were standing up for what they believed or what they wanted to see in their community.

Translated to the literary world, when I moved to Portland in 2001, I didn't know anybody besides my roommate, and I didn't know how to connect. I wanted to connect. So I started showing up at events at Powell's and driving downtown by myself and sitting in the audience. And I would go to Annie Bloom's and Broadway Books and 23rd, 23rd Avenue Books, I think was also there. And I would just walk around and look and see what was on the shelf and try to figure it out. 

My friend, Liz Prato, she said something to me when we were together with a group of people. And she said, why are we waiting for other people to like, let us do things? Why don't we just get out there and, and, and teach and write and, and be part of the community. And up until that point, I had been lurking around the edges of community, wanting someone who had a voice, wanting someone who had a platform to notice me and to say, Hey, come on over.

Um, and Liz, this one, this one conversation, I still remember where we were walking. When she said this to me, rewrote my whole perspective on community, and I realized that there are a lot of us who do not have a platform who do not have a voice or a space to share that voice, uh, who are do can do the work of just opening everybody up to listen to each other more. And so I've always approached publishing from the outside and very much as a community, community, but not from the inside, from the nucleus of power, but from the outer fringes of trying to get everyone to listen to each other and, and honor each other's work.

Nicole Huesman: Wow. And how beautiful. Oh, gosh, Laura, you have. You've worn so many hats and done so many things. What do you think has been the most rewarding for you?

Laura Stanfill: I think the most rewarding to date in my career has been getting my debut novel published because I still think about that little kid walking into Barnes & Noble looking for the space on the shelf that might someday be mine. And I kept my promise to that kid. I've rewritten and reimagined and, and, and learned a lot more about how I work, how my body works, how my brain works, but I never gave up on that little kid who wanted to walk into the bookstore and find her book. 

And so my novel, it came out in 2022 from Lantern Fish Press. It's called Singing Lessons for the Stylish Canary. I worked on it for 15 years, did a lot of revision. Recently, I've been thinking about how the book that it was five years into its life was also a good book, and the book it was 10 years into its life was also a good book, but just different from what ended up getting published.

Nicole Huesman: Can you dive into that world for us just a little bit and tell us, you know, how the idea came to you for the book and what the, that process was like, that 15-year process was like?

Laura Stanfill: There were a lot of quiet, fallow moments in that 15 years where either I had given up on my book, I had given up on myself, or I was just deep into child raising. Turns out when you have kids and you're working on a creative project, you change so much. As a, by parenting and by being present with these little beings and teaching them things that when you get back to your novel, eventually at the end of the month or the end of the day, even you're slightly different than the, than the writer who has last touched the manuscript. And so part of that 15 years was readjusting. And figuring myself out, um, what I believed in and, and what story I wanted to tell. 

The idea from the book for the book came from my parents’ longtime love of music boxes. We think of music boxes as having maybe intricate cases, or like maybe a little ballerina that pops up and you keep your jewelry in there. Well, my parents have always collected music boxes from back in the 1800s, 1700s. Earlier iterations, some of them are very lovely. 

I fell in love with an instrument I had never seen or heard. But I found a mention of it when I was writing about music boxes, and I decided my whole book was going to be about this instrument. It's called the serinette, and serin is French for canary or songbird, and the serinette was used to train songbirds how to sing human-composed melodies.

Nicole Huesman: Wow. Wow. Ok.

Laura Stanfill: So we talked about the blank page and reporting and letting music flow through you or words flow through the, the clear lens to other people, and I found in that metaphor of canary training and having a high-pitched, piccolo-sounding, canary-training music box, I found a similar metaphor and rich textural material that I wanted to write about.

Why would someone want to train canaries or songbirds? Why is a bird's voice less important than a human song? Why would, who would, who would want to collect birds and who turn the crank over and over again so that after months of practice a bird would sing For He's A Jolly Good Fellow? And why For He's A Jolly Good Fellow? They also they also taught canaries Mozart and sonatas and other folk songs but uh For He's A Jolly Good Fellow is one of them. 

So I became obsessed with that, all of that. I needed to know all of that. And so I did a lot of research and what I didn't know, I made up, and I added a layer of magic to my storytelling because I wanted to cover my tracks a little bit, like sweep out the footprints of, of the, the author in a modern day writing about back then, and adding magic gave me a little bit of flexibility and the way to make more of it up. So I did.

Nicole Huesman: Wow. Wow. That is so cool. Now I just want to run out and get the book. It's, it just, it does. It sounds like just diving into this really cool world that I don't know very much about. Right? Um, but, oh my gosh, that's wonderful. That's wonderful. And yay that, yes, you, you got your name in print and you know, and like you said, you, you stayed true to that little girl. And you saw that through.

You know, we've talked about some of your health challenges earlier and some of your, wow, some of your just amazing accomplishments. How How do you take care of yourself? What does, what is the balance, what is the work / life balance for you, and what does self care look like for you?

Laura Stanfill: For a long time, it looked like taking care of everybody else, and I feel like I missed the point back then. But back then, um, it was, it was more like if I can take care of everybody's needs and if everybody can settle around me and I feel like I've helped where I can, then I can take a deep breath and like, let go of, let that tension ebb away.

These days though, my body is much more like a finely tuned serinette. It squeaks a little bit. It's a little bit high pitched at times. Um, sometimes it needs oil in its joints and I, I, I definitely need a lot more downtime than I used to. 

Sometimes I nap. I'm, I'm a champion napper. My mom says that that's because when I was a kid, she used to put me in pajamas as a toddler to go down for a midday nap and I would just sleep happily. I still sleep happily. Um, it's a way to reset and it's a way to stop all the sound and the visual input and the noise of everyday life and just like take a break. Um, It's almost for me, like restarting the computer. Sometimes it takes a little time to click all the boxes and and get the get the document up that I want to work on and like, come back into the world, but it's, I need that reset. 

I also really love baths and I love reading and I love walking my dog with my neighbor because we just chat about everything. And that's probably the most active of my resets because I'm, the walking the dog, because I am actively synthesizing information and stories that have come through since the day before when we walked last. And it's also kind of a settling or recording of the past days events and like, putting pieces into place, so my heart can feel restful about those things. Even if, um, even if something we're in the middle of, like, a challenge of some sort, I can still in sharing those words about those stories, I can kind of, like, lock them in, put the puzzle pieces into place and see the bigger picture through sharing with my friend and hearing her advice. And vice versa, we do that for each other. So that's the way I reset also.

Nicole Huesman: That is so, so important. And yeah, I mean, I, I could take a lesson or two from self care, right? Absolutely. Oh, wow. 

So Laura, what does, I know that success is kind of a loaded word and it means different things to each of us. What do you think success means to you?

Laura Stanfill: I feel a little bit, um, caught out by this question because I talk to publishers and authors all the time about redefining success. 

What I learned about the publishing industry when I was younger, like in my twenties, I was, I was already writing in my thirties. I was still writing in my forties. Eventually my book came out. But in all those decades, um, success meant the big deal, the big New York contract, uh, enough money to, like, buy a condo or a house even, to the big book tour, to go to 6 or 12 or 24 cities to share your words.

As that became a more microscopic possibility with the increase of the number of writers and books, and the decrease in budgets, and the increase in, um, online, online, alternate entertainment possibilities, I've told everybody they have to redefine success because chances are, if you pin your self-worth to the donkey of a particular financial goal or a particular imprint or particular agent picking up your work, chances are you're going to miss the mark and then you'll feel bad about your work when really it's your work matters. Your work is sacred. Your work is yours. And the, the moving target of the donkey of the, whether you're looking for an agent or a publisher or the bestseller list or whatever, you can't control where that donkey gallops off to. I'm sorry, this is quite a big metaphor, but, but you can hold, you can hold the tail and try to pin it, but you can't control how fast the donkey's moving. And so we have to find success metrics that matter for ourselves. 

And so for me, um, in writing and publishing, I have redefined success as hearing from readers that the work matters. That's either for my novel or for the work that I, um, for the work that I've decided to publish. When Zaji's book made it onto a library journal list earlier this year for Neurodivergence Acceptance Month, I counted that as a success. Library Journal didn't actually review it when it came out, but they heard enough about it and Zaji's book's footprint became large enough that someone at Library Journal became aware of it and decided it belongs on this autism list for other people to read. And then that opens up the door for more possibilities of more readers and even more, um, people finding her beautiful words and experiencing them.

So to me, that success is when one reader reaches out or writes about it or drops it in a review column. I'm not measuring by numbers anymore. I mean, I, I have to do all the accounting and royalties and such for my books, in which case I'm measuring in numbers because that is, um, it's a responsibility. It's a, it's a legal piece of the business that I have to do, but I never measure the worth of the book by how many people have bought it that month.

Nicole Huesman: Yeah.

Laura Stanfill: Or the worth of the person, or the worth of the person's story, because stories you can't pin a number on them.

Nicole Huesman: Yeah. Wow. I, and I, I love that, that you need to look really deeply inside yourself and, and not pin it on some, you know, pin your definition of success on some external thing that is beyond your control.

What advice would you have for other women who are striving to find their voice or pursue their passions or make a meaningful impact in the world?

Laura Stanfill: I would say trusting yourself is a huge first step, because part of me in my 20s being a reporter, was that I felt safer amplifying other voices. I felt safer listening to everyone. And my brain did remarkable things with what I heard and what I collected. I wrote award-winning articles, and I changed my ideas on land use policy and I, you know, I learned a lot, but, um, but I didn't, it came from a place of not trusting myself. And so at this place and time, I realized that we've all survived some things and, you know, no matter where you are in your life journey, no matter what age, uh, you've had experiences that other people haven't had in the same way that you've had them. And that makes your perceptions and your insights valuable and special. And sharing them is, is important because often when I, especially when I talk about neurodivergence, I have women friends or women acquaintances who are like, Oh, thank goodness you said that. Or, I'm so glad you put it that way. Or, Oh my gosh, me too. And suddenly we all feel less alone. 

And so using your voice as a way to not only hold space for yourself and take care of yourself, but also it can be a lifeline to people who, um, are looking for that connection or who are feeling bad about themselves. If someone hears me giggling about my, my, my lack of, um, executive function, or how I have 6 things on my list, and I only got 1 done, they might give themselves some grace, too.

Nicole Huesman: So as we close, what does She Lights the Way mean to you?

Laura Stanfill: I just came back from outdoor school with a 6th grade class and one of the instructors at OMSI’s Hancock field station in Fossil, Oregon, demonstrated a rain shadow and they built she built a, um, wax paper model of the mountain range and showed where the coast was and how the water hits the coast range, and then how on the other side, on the other side of the mountains, Cascade Range, um, the other side of the mountains, uh, it's dry because the rain is getting stuck there. 

And so, when I think about She Lights the Way, I think about light and shadow, uh, because it was really cool to see that topographic map.

Um, the instructor used a water bottle filled with blue, uh, colored water to show the patterns. And I think sometimes when we think about making our lights bright, it automatically pulls the light from other people, or it creates a shadow like, like the rain shadow where, because there's so much rain here, there's the rain is getting stuck and it's, there's not rain on this other side.

And so, when I think about She Lights the Way, I think about a warm and welcoming porch light, not holding a flashlight and trying to get people to follow me because, because creating a long, narrow light like that excludes people and creates darkness or creates awareness of the places that aren't light, aren't aren't full of light, just like the rain demonstration at OMSI created an awareness of the rain shadow of where there was no rain. And so I think of, yeah, a porch light or a, um, you know, the light on the front of a bookstore that's still open for one more hour, and creating more of a glow than a, than a spotlight that, people can come to and flock to and be within, instead of trying to charge forward.

Nicole Huesman: I so love that. I, unbelievably, yes, I just, oh, what, what a, what a fantastic point that, yeah, and, and I loved the, the, the description you had for when you shine a spotlight or a flashlight, it excludes all of these other things. 

You know, I had somebody, I was in a conference in Seattle last week, and I had somebody who heard the name She Lights the Way and said, And I was explaining, you know, I didn't choose She Paves the Way because it seemed, like, too concrete, too hard, too something. And he said he liked the name because it was inclusive, because it was flexible. If you think about a paved road, it's, it's immutable. Yet, if you think about shining a light for, for yourself or for others, you can shine a, shine a light in any direction. Or, to your point, it could be a glowing porch light, but it's, it's more flexible, flexible or mutable or it changes.

Um, and so I loved your description of it.

Laura Stanfill: And there's a warmth too, to a light that people can, can arrive where the light is and feel like people are present to feel that sense of home or hearth or warmth or, um, safety, light, light, light can be safety, civilization, community.

Nicole Huesman: Laura, I, I absolutely love, love, love the work that you're doing, and thank you for being here today.

Laura Stanfill: Thank you so much for these fabulous questions and spending some time with me today.