My Muse by L. A. McMurray

“Chase the Sky”

Tue, 07 Apr 2026 13:26:41 GMT

Chasing Sunrise Colors

A Journey to Mindfulness and Joy!

Curiosity and determination led me out my front door at sunrise with wild bedhead hair and still in the clothes I slept in to capture the magnificent colorful sky.

I walked barefoot swiftly through cool wet grass and rough sidewalk and smooth blacktop to secure a spot unobstructed by houses and powerlines and trees.

I may have appeared in a mindless tizzy to the neighbors or anyone passing by. But I didn’t care, I knew I was more sane and more alive and more curious than ever before.

Barefoot in the middle of the street chasing the purple, orange, and pink masterpiece.

The spontaneous journey remedied my morning headache and started my day in a place of gratitude and peace for the ability to walk, to feel the earth, to hear the birds cheering me on, and to see such a beautiful and mysterious moment on this Holy Saturday.

“Zimmy” Part One

Tue, 07 Apr 2026 13:17:57 GMT

Serendipity and Spirituality: Unraveling Mystical Connections with Bob Dylan

Pure magic! While listening to the book “Bob Dylan: A Spiritual Life” by Scott Marshall I passed a street sign in rural Ohio “Zimmerman Ave.” Bob Dylan’s birth name. I’ve passed that street frequently over the last five years and never noticed it. Yet on that very day while Zimmy was on my mind, something instinctually moved my eyes just in time to notice the street with his very name.

A few days later I was checking into a hotel and the man next to me was doing the same, when they asked him his last name, it was Zimmerman. My head instinctively snapped in his direction; excitement arose within me to talk about Bob. But I read the room and looked at this young stranger and thought otherwise.

Then, while watching my beloved TCM that same evening, a movie I had never seen before came on as I sat down to relax from the day, it was “The King of Comedy” written by Paul “Zimmerman.” If that’s not kooky enough, Dylan wrote a song about Lenny Bruce, a comedian and social critic from the 1960s who is “known for his open, “free- wheeling” and critical style of comedy that included religion and politics.” For those who don’t know, “Free Wheelin’” is the name of Bob Dylan’s album from 1963 that catapulted his career and includes songs of political and religious nature.

Isn’t it even more interesting that the movie, “The King of Comedy,” is about the extreme behavior of fans toward celebrities. The history of Dylan fans has been intense at the very least, some border extremism, and the rest of us are merely obsessed. In the movie, the celebrity comedian is kidnapped by two fans to get his spot on the nightly TV show. I would never kidnap Bobby D., but when I read Bob Dylan was a part of a Bible study, I would do anything to be a part of that small group discussion. Or just a conversation over coffee, or a walk through Greenwich Village, or sitting on the Pacific Coast just conversing about scripture and divine experiences.

What makes this more than serendipitous is recently I’ve been wondering about various cultural spiritual practices. I’ve always been highly respectful of the Indigenous peoples, even more so after reading “Braiding Sweetgrass” by Robin Wall Kimmerer. Another recent book I read was “Awakening Your Ikigai” by Ken Mogi which is a Japanese way of making the most of each day and becoming your authentic self. Both cultures believe in many Gods. I agree with and live by the teaching of Buddha, Jesus, and the Great Spirit. Yet, which is the correct path for me, and is there only one?

Pondering and asking God during our ongoing conversation, who or what divine entity should I focus on? I wondered about it, thought about it, but not in a hard pressing seek mode. It was sort of lurking in my thoughts and following me around.

“Zimmy” Part Two

Tue, 07 Apr 2026 13:12:17 GMT

Discover Bob Dylan:
A Journey Beyond Labels and Beliefs

The book of Bob Dylan’s spiritual journey was on hold for me through the library app for quite a while, it only recently became available. And I almost didn’t check it out because I was like, “It’s personal, and who was this author to know something that intimate about another person, least of all the very private and legendary Bob Dylan.” But instincts told me to read it. So, I did and I am happily learning more about the man, his music, and that he, like me, don’t buy into labels.

While discovering his music I recognized biblical references and just thought it was coincidence that he knew of the same people and stories that I did, and he was just being creative. After learning more about his spiritual adventure, albeit through interviews and references from others, it’s much more than shared common scriptural knowledge.

His lyrics are subtle, poetic, deeply meaningful and personal reflections of who he is, and what he believes. He was born and raised in the Jewish faith, then became “Christian,” some say, “Born Again” or “Fundamentalist.” But I don’t agree that he abandoned his Jewish roots, nor does he fit the confinement of the “Born Again Chrisitan.” He is clearly not a Jewish hating Christian. Bob is what he is and his relationship with God is personal and never ending. He is a believer, without a label. He is a lover of the Lord, without being contained. He is tuned into the source of creativity with deep respect and gratitude. And thank God for Jesus for his lyrical and musical genius .

After listening to this audio book, I downloaded the albums mentioned that most reflect a post spiritual experience that led him to speak and sing boldly for following Jesus. It is said, that a few of his most favorite songs come from these albums, “In the Garden” from the album “Saved” and “You Gotta Serve Somebody” from the album “Slow Train Coming.” I am enthralled with these albums and sincerely and fully sense the presence of God while singing along.

One of the songs, “Pressing On” from the “Saved” album is my new theme song, for many reasons. One because it reminds me of a woman who is 94 years old and her theme song throughout her whole life has been “Keep on Pushing” by the Impressions. She sings it frequently and with her state of dementia, they are words that center and comfort her when frustrated.

Dylan’s “spiritual” albums have phenomenal Gospel singers in the background holding Bob’s voice to a higher ground. My friend with whom I just spoke of, was a gospel singer her whole life, traveling the country from Alabama to Chicago and places everywhere in between. It’s unfortunate that she can’t share the details about her life, but when I turn on a gospel CD, she knows every word from the first note. I don’t need to know the details of her life when I can see her soul so deeply satisfied.

There is a mystery to the power of music, and it’s influence on our memory and minds. It’s my soul’s love language. And the more I learn about Bob Dylan, Zimmy, the more I believe my daughter when she calls him my spirit guide.

“Remember Me”

Fri, 27 Feb 2026 15:51:41 GMT

Finding Comfort in Loved Ones' Passions

Remember Me, is the title song from the movie “Coco.” It’s the story of a little boy who wants to play the guitar but his family, for unknown reasons to him and us, forbids him to play. The movie unfolds the backstory of the grandfather who abandoned the family. The sound of a guitar was tied to that traumatic event and therefore causing the family to shun music. Once the truth was exposed, life was musically well again.

We’ve all lost loved ones who have had a hobby or unique interest or talent for which we fondly remember them. And once they are gone, seeing that thing, hearing that sound, or anything specific to that person has the potential to bring us comfort. Whether it’s butterflies, coins, music, crafts, or classic cars, hobbies and unique interests leave a legacy.

For my dad it was classic cars and motorcycles. He worked on them and knew them by make, model, and year. My children and I have the same enthusiasm. We honor the engineering, history, and art of the classics, and welcome the gentle reminder of my wonderful dad whenever we see one that he owned or admired.

One day after exercising, I looked around the floor and saw a scattering of disposable plastic water bottle lids. I knew my husband had been in the room. I can’t explain it, but he is unable to throw them away. There is a decent-sized trash can in the room, unobstructed, conveniently located by the door, but these little lids are everywhere but in the trash receptacle. If he dies before me, I will always think of him fondly when I find these plastic circles everywhere around the house, the yard, our cars, like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of breadcrumbs.

Because of this thought about dying and leaving a legacy, I asked my beloved groom, if I should die first, what is something that will remind him of me, he said, “Oh, there are so many things.” Name one. He said, “peace signs” and found a reason to scurry out of the room.

What will people remember you for? I think about that, probably too much. I believe my husband was on target when he answered, “so many things,” because I am all over the place trying to find something that I can do well enough to pursue past the initial learning phase. I’ve tried playing the banjo, which is much harder than you realize. I’ve tried painting, but I lack the vision of an artist. I’ve tried softball and golf, l rocked the outfits, but not the balls.

Perhaps one item I will be remembered for is tissues. My lifelong friend fondly and without provocation recalls the sleepovers from high school where she awoke to find a pile of used tissues next to my bed. Tissues are still wherever I am, my bedside, my car, my office. I’m also known for the intense sound upon clearing my nasal passages, my son’s friend said it sounds like an animal at the zoo. Most likely, when my loved ones hear a gentle goose-like honk and see a balled up used tissue, my sweet face will come to mind.

I consider music the language of my soul, although it changes frequently with my mood and situation. I listen to everything from Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan from the ‘60s, to Olivia Rodrigo, back to Jackson Browne in the ‘70s and 80s, up to Bruno Mars and Lady Gaga, over to Ray Charles, classical calms me while navigating traffic, and anytime is a good time for an Irish jig.

On the flip side, my husband is all Bruce Springsteen, every album, CD, and the only thing he listens to in the car is E-Street Radio. He’s attended countless concerts, taken all four of our children to see The Boss live, it’s 24/7 Springsteen for him. So maybe when I hear a Bruce song, I will think of him in addition to the clear circular plastic lids.

What will people remember you for? If you have nothing wonderful to bring them comfort and fond memories, change that right now. Find an interest, or let your personal uniqueness be known, share what matters, give those you leave behind something to remember you by and a reason to smile when they encounter that special thing. It lets them know you are always with them.

“Dirty Laundry”

Thu, 26 Feb 2026 14:02:48 GMT

Connecting Generations Through Memories.

There once was a time, long before social media, when a secret could be kept secret. This wasn’t always a good thing, especially when silence allowed people to harm others. I am not talking about those kinds of secrets. I am touching upon the difference between generations ago and today when it comes to personal and familial privacy.

A few years ago, I hosted an all-female art show while working at a retirement village. I had artists of all ages from high school to senior adults with various forms of paintings, photographs, and other media. One piece was a colored pencil drawing of a clothesline with a variety of clothes being blown and dried by the wind. It didn’t connect with me, until one of my wise residents shared her memories and read the poem that accompanied it, by Marilyn K. Walker:

“A clothesline was a news forecast to neighbors passing by. There were no secrets you could keep when clothes were hung to dry. It was also a friendly link for neighbors always knew if company had stopped by to spend a night or two. For then you’d see the ‘fancy sheets’ and towels upon the line; you’d see the ‘company tablecloths’ with intricate design. The line announced the baby’s birth to folks who lived inside as brand new infant clothes were hung so carefully with pride. The ages of the children so readily be known by watching how the sizes changed you’d know how much they’d grown. It also told when illness struck, as extra sheets were hung; then nightclothes, and a bathrobe, too, haphazardly were strung. It said, ‘Gone on vacation now’ when lines hunglimp and bare. It told, ‘We’re back!’ when full lines sagged with not an inch to spare. New folks in town were scorned upon if wash was dingy gray, as neighbors carefully raised brows, and looked the other way. But clotheslines now are of the past for dryers make work less. Now what goes on inside a home is anybody’s guess. I really miss that way of life. It was a friendly sign when neighbors knew each other best by what hung onthe line.”

My perspective changed with every line of the poem as I pondered the ways of the pastand the story our laundry tells. I also thought of how exhausting and never ending this chore is and how grateful I am for the modern-day dryer.

Another one of my favorite activities with the senior adults was our book club. At the time, I was in my late forties, they were in their early nineties, and my daughter in her mid-teens. Each of our perspectives came from widely different generations. My daughter wasn’t a part of our book discussion, but I would compare the world in which she was living to the one in which I grew up and that of my residents.

One book we read was “The Pilot’s Wife” by Anita Shreve, where a wife’s husband, who was an inter-continental pilot, died suddenly in a plane crash. His wife and children mourned his loss, but then discovered he had a whole other wife and family across the pond in England. The story is full of mystery, drama, romance, and explores themes of grief, betrayal, and the inability to fully know another person.

My first reaction was what a loser the husband was, my resident’s reaction was much more forgiving. In all our discussions about the various themes of the book, his adultery was overlooked by every one of them.

I also considered how the pilot’s second family was kept a secret. Perhaps that was possible at one time, but not today, not in my daughter’s world with cell phones and location trackers where we trace everyone’s whereabouts 24/7. And social media posts that put our business out there for all to see. There are even sites to run someone’s name to check if they are being faithful or not. And for some people, social media is their way of airing their dirty laundry.

Our family has a few secrets of its own, both of my great grandmothers have tall tales to tell. One had three children from three different men and never married any of them. My other one died after a botched home abortion performed by her mother-in-law. I am not judging any of these women, honestly, I wish I could talk with them and hear their version. I am only saying every family has their own colorful history. My parents kept secrets from me, and rightfully so. It was my cousin who after researching our family genealogy pieced together about our great grandmother’s history of giving birth “out of wedlock” as they used to say or noted on birth certificates as “illegitimate.” How awful!

It was my grandmother, well into her late eighties, that during a car ride with my grown adult sister confessed the truth about her mother’s tragic death at the hands of our great-great grandmother. The version my grandmother told me was that her mother died from falling off a stool reaching for something in the kitchen cabinet. She must have sensed I couldn’t handle the truth, or I would expose the family secret. She wasn’t wrong.

The picture accompanying this story was given to my father from one of his Sunday schoolteachers, Mildred May, in 1946, my dad would have been eight years old. I wonder what secrets she knew or heard tell of my father’s family.

“Shade the Bride with a Family Tree”

Thu, 26 Feb 2026 13:44:53 GMT

Embracing Bridal Showers

It was during the COVID shut down when my two sons were engaged to their future brides. One of my first tasks as mother of the grooms was to host a bridal shower. May I say, I am not a fan of bridal or baby showers. I believe them to be tortuous and didn’t want one when I was a bride or new mother. It’s awkward being the center of attention and exhibiting social etiquette to people you rarely see and hardly know. However, as a bride I went along with the tradition and did my best to look up when prompted by my maid of honor even though my head felt like the weight of a bowling ball. It’s a miracle I survived the spotlight. But when I became pregnant, I put my foot down and never had a baby shower with all three pregnancies.

The challenge for me was to conjure up the inspiration to have a bridal shower, not because I didn’t want to shower my son’s fiancés with a party and gifts, but I just wasn’t into the planning, hosting, silly games, and small talk. The whole process drains me.

And yet, it was the right thing to do, regardless of my personal preference. In addition to making the shower happen, I was to create an event that kept everyone healthy, safely distanced, and not so boring where minutes pass like a slow drip from the faucet.

Since everyone lived in different cities around the country, I decided to host a virtual bridal shower. At that time, all business meetings were held over some virtual platform, so why not a bridal shower? Everyone on the guest list knew how to use a computer, and there was no travel required, no dress code, no party favors or chicken salad on croissants served on fancy plates.

I had the date and virtual venue, but wondered how to make it interactive and fun? The creative gods joined energy with my ancestors and gifted me with an idea. I created a “Welcome to the family” themed event.

I asked everyone on the invite list, including all grandmothers, aunts, and cousins on both my husband and my side, and the brides two sides of their families for uniquely fun or fascinating family facts.

I collected the information, including some drama and secrets, and turned it into questions. We played a “Guess Who” game for us to get to know the brides and for them to get to know us.

I created a Power Point presentation with questions and pictures to accompany our Zoom meeting. I must admit, it was genius. That was six years ago and I am still beaming with gratitude for the creative angel and ancestors who gifted me with that idea.

A selection of the trivia questions from various family trees:

“Which young bride became so homesick on her honeymoon that she and her new groom had to come home early, and while she was driving, the car slid off the icy road from traveling too fast to get home?” Answer: my mother-in-law

“Whose great grandmother established a pottery and tile company in Malibu, California, and her home which she decorated with the tiles became a public state park museum?” Answer: my nephew’s wife

“Whose uncle left his wife behind at a rest area restroom in New York and was pulled over by the state highway patrol asking if he forgot anything? His response was no, the officer asked what about your wife, and this uncle responded, “I thought it was quiet in here.” Answer: my husband

“Who had a grandmother arrested for bootlegging, and spent a night in jail for making wine in the basement?” Answer: my son’s bride

“Who has a relative, many generations back, who was an owner and farmer on the land that is now Brooklyn, New York?” Answer: my other son’s bride

There were more, but you get the gist of the fun it can be to explore family history.

I encourage you to collect as many fun facts in your family as possible, you could create a family trivia game played over the holidays, vacations, or whenever you are tasked with giving a bridal shower. Another idea, create one for a baby shower, you could find fun facts about each family member from when they were babies. For example, birth places, record breaking weights, quickest or longest labor, most unique labor technique, but only share positive experiences, no woman wants to hear horror stories while expecting. A sample baby trivia question, “Who asked ‘Why?!’ when he found out his new sibling was a girl?” Answer: my third son upon the birth of his little sister.

I admit the virtual “family tree” themed shower was one of the best I’ve ever planned and/or attended. It was chock full of never-knew-before nuggets that made the time together fun, enlightening, unforgettable.

“What Did You Do, Nini?”

Mon, 16 Feb 2026 15:56:20 GMT

A Nini's Call to Open Hearts and Minds

“Nini” is what my grandchildren call me, and the minute their bright eyes look into mine, my heart melts like butter. When I think of the questions they ask me now, and will in the future, and being the matriarch of our family, I need to look directly into their baby blues and speak honestly and with accountability.

Which leads me to this moment in our history and the theme of this month “open.” There comes a time when remaining the same tight-lipped woman watching from the sidelines and not getting involved is not an option. That time is now. Truth be told, it’s been “that time” since the day I was born into the civil rights movement of the ‘60s, and certainly at the inception of this country. But we will focus on the here and now and how unfolding ourselves into something worthy, something bigger, impacts the greater good.

When I see small businesses, artists, influencers, individuals of all ages, nationalities, school students, and nursing home residents willing to speak up, walk out, and lose business, followers, friends and family, that is the group in which I want to be included. Millions of decent human beings are willing to sacrifice their livelihood, lives, and relationships in this time of reckoning, and so am I.

Artists, entrepreneurs, and musicians are saying, “Don’t buy my stuff, or listen to my music, or frequent our establishments if you agree with this administration’s lawless behavior.”

This is NOT political. It’s personal and powerful to have conversations with my children about my values, what I believe in, what is and is not acceptable behavior. My children and grandchildren are looking at me, talking with me, and watching how I respond to the treatment of this administration towards children, women, people of varying skin tones, and those peacefully taking a stand against atrocities, and how this president’s actions instill fear, division, and financial gain for himself, his family, and their circle of billionaires.

When I consider the “Christian” churches and organizations responsible for putting such an evil man in office and continue to support and defend his immigrant policing, killing innocent people, racist, felonious and adulterous behavior, idolatry of self, it makes my skin curl.

I can’t tell my children and grandchildren that I kept silent or in any way supported such inhumane behavior. Over the years, I simply removed myself from conversations in which I disagreed with the topic. Those leading the conversation felt my actions rude and represented a political difference, but it wasn’t about politeness or politics, walking away protected my peace. Anyone who mocks a person with a disability is not a respectable human being. The list of his and his administration’s unethical and vile behavior is too long for this piece. “When people show you who they are, believe them the first time.” Maya Angelou

This piece is about me answering the call for action, and being willing to lose readers and followers, family and friends in order to look my children and their families in the eye and say I didn’t stand for violence against children, women, immigrants, people of color, trans, LGBTQ, and anyone else who has felt marginalized, minimalized, and treated as less than. I stood up and spoke up and joined forces with many courageous souls.

People have tried to support human rights for centuries, within countries, communities, within homes, and through various movements and revolutions. Many paid a high price for doing so. I want to be counted among those who didn’t stay neutral or silent, especially when innocent lives have been taken and families ripped apart.

“What did you do, Nini?” I will tell them, “Things I’ve never done before, I wrote letters to the president, vice president, and state representatives. I made phone calls to local offices and supported businesses who stood up for justice, and I stopped giving my business where they supported the perpetration of injustice. I did little things within my space and time to add to the collective greater good. I stood with millions across this country and around the globe at rallies for peace, justice, and human rights. I lost relationships with family, friends, and readers and I would do it all again to protect my children, grandchildren, our community, state, country, and world.” On that I can look them in the eye and rest my head at night.

“Home Sweet Home”

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 13:25:09 GMT

On a cold December afternoon 10 years ago, one of my residents at the retirement village stopped me in the parking lot to say hello. I excitedly spoke about the upcoming holidays. He became somber and offered, “Not everyone looks forward to them.” I immediately questioned his Scrooge attitude with “What about the music, the lights, the trees, homemade cookies, the magic of Santa?” Then, this 6’ 4” 200-pound man with a well-known sense of humor, who lived happily in retirement after accruing an extensive career and traveling the world, began to weep.

Rediscovering Joy

He shared that his wife loved the holidays -- all the decorations, cooking, family time, everything I had listed, but this was the first one without her. And he was not livi ng in the home where they raised their children, welcomed grandkids, great grandkids, and enjoyed every detail of ‘tis the season. He just couldn’t imagine Christmas without her and not in their beloved home.

My heart broke into pieces for him. I never considered that side of the holidays. I hadn’t lost a loved one at that time to empathize. My whole attitude toward the holidays changed that moment in the parking lot. Another resident confirmed after the death of her husband, “I just want them to be over.”

What Truly Matters

I wondered, what makes Christmas special and what if all that made it “the most wonderful time of the year” was gone. Could we still enjoy them? Is it possible to peel back the layers of Christmas and still find joy?

After this epiphany, I asked my children what they enjoyed most about the holidays. It was partly to simplify the work of creating the perfect holiday and make sure I was on point with what mattered to them. I was happy to hear that it was my homemade meals and cookies, and not gifts. That was a relief since I deeply dislike shopping, crowds, and spending money I don’t have on things people don’t like.

I considered what I enjoyed about the holidays, and it was the music, baking cookies while watching a classic movie, the Christmas tree and lights, and most importantly being with my family. I also enjoy decorations, but not too many, the more I put up, more work to take down. I also believe people in general are friendlier, more courteous, and happier overall during the holidays. There is a sense of sparkle as everyone prepares for the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ.

The birth of Christ was the original purpose of the whole season. All Christian religions and many non-religious folks take one day out of the year to acknowledge God’s child being born on this earth to save our souls. It doesn’t get more unifying, special, and joyful than that.

However, the celebration of Christmas has changed over the last few decades. A favorite tradition, when I was a child, was driving to the country to cut down a real pine tree. I loved walking through the farm, seeing a dog (I wasn’t allowed to have one growing up), drinking hot cocoa by an open fire, sensing the festive spirit, smelling evergreens, breathing in the crisp air, and almost always enjoying fresh snow on the ground. I kept that tradition with my children when they were young, until the tree allergies supplanted that fun.

Also, when I was a child, we attended church on Christmas Eve. Afterward, we drove the quarter mile to my maternal grandmother’s house for a huge smorgasbord of meats, homemade noodles, warm rolls, beef sticks, cheeses, lady fingers, chocolates, and presents. She prepared the feast, and each grandchild had stacks of presents as high as we were tall. My grandparents’ fireplace was always lit, and the warm hearth was my favorite place to sit. My grandmother’s twin brothers stopped by to eat and visit, which was annoying because it lessened the cookie options and delayed opening presents.

On Christmas day, my sister and I awoke to piles of gifts under the Christmas tree and then visited my dad’s family, stopping at various aunts and uncles’ homes. This wasn’t fun since all I wanted was to be home playing with my toys. But my father insisted on spending time with his siblings and their families too.

After I moved four hours away, my parents tried to keep the same traditions, but being married and having a family of my own made that impossible. I read an article once if you take your children back to your childhood home every holiday, then they won’t have any memories in their own home. It was then that I created our own traditions.

I made sure to combine all the best parts of the holidays, replicating the perfect Norman Rockwell painting. I kept this up until that day in the parking lot with my resident.

Is it possible to enjoy the holidays without our loved ones and without the traditions that we consider the best of Christmas? I can’t imagine the day when my family is no longer with me, or when I can’t bake and ice dozens of sugar cookies, or put up a tree, or drink our special Christmas drink of hot cocoa and candy canes by its light, or when the music stops. Where will my Christmas joy come from?

I also met a few residents who lived in a room the size of a walk-in closet, without any family or friends to celebrate with, no home-cooked meal, decorations, festive music, or freshly baked gingerbread people, and yet they had joy. Everyday joy, not just December 25th joy. How could this be?

After taking the time to get to know them, I learned it was their faith in God that made it possible to live in a 200-square foot space with joy, peace on earth and goodwill toward others, when they had nary a crumb or candle. I finally understood “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.”

I am not saying everyone who doesn’t enjoy the holidays are those who lack faith. It’s more about knowing the source of joy and living each moment filled with the reason for the season. Welcome, baby Jesus! May we show grace to those experiencing the holidays without their loved ones, in nursing facilities, facing hardship, illness, terminal diagnosis, or feeling alone. May the peace and comfort of Christ be with them, you, your loved ones, and everyone this holiday season.

“What Do I Really Need for 24 Hours?”

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 13:25:08 GMT

How I Turned a Slip-Up into Adventure

An hour into my three-hour drive to West Virginia for two days of work, my husband sent a text with a picture of my luggage by the front door. Oh nuts! I didn’t have time to turn back, retrieve it, and get to my appointments on time.

I mentally ran through my options. Turning back was not one of them. My husband offered to meet me somewhere, that was sweet but not convenient for either of us. I could return home at the end of my workday at 11:00 p.m., then get up the next morning before sunrise for another three-hour drive. Or I could buy the overnight necessities and make it through the next twenty-four hours. Since I am an adult with a credit card, I opted to buy the basics and wear the same clothes the following day, or perhaps, buy a new outfit.

Mastering Last-Minute Shopping

I had one hour to spare in the afternoon. I used it to peruse Macy’s, Dick’s, Kohl’s, and Walmart. I am a fast and focused shopper, and partially successful at Dick’s and Walmart. My short list included a pair of sneakers, an outfit for my morning walk, a sweater, undies, socks, and toiletries. Before this opportunity presented itself, I planned to purchase a pair of tennis shoes to keep in my car for walks at my destination after long car drives. I needed a new pair of yoga pants, and I shopped previously without success for a black sweater to go with the pants I was wearing. The shopping excursion was justified.

Leaving my luggage behind wasn’t all that bad, until I couldn’t find a pair of shoes that I liked under $130, a black sweater, or yoga pants within the time allotted in Huntington, West Virginia.

I decided to get the basic toiletries and forget the rest. I’m low maintenance, and I was staying at a hotel that provided shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.

Embrace Simplicity

I learned the next day that I needed much more than hotel quality products for my curly coif. Every strand lay semi flat with a slight kink, my center part exposed grey roots, and my front and back cowlicks formed capital Cs. The best solution was to avoid mirrors all day.

Prior to this situation, my headspace was focused on “the basics” since we were planning for two Thanksgiving feasts, one that would occur two weeks ahead of the actual date and the other on the calendar date. It’s just that way when family is spread out and commitments are many. We still planned for the full Thanksgiving smorgasbord on both days. I was willing to do the work; I just wasn’t sure if I was able.

I considered, “What are the basics of the T-Day dinner?” I made that list and so my mind was already in a “basic” thought space when the luggage left behind allowed me to keep thinking about the bare necessities and embrace an opportunity to simplify.

However, I realized that my double Thanksgiving lists and overnight essentials were a little off. I had too much food at one meal, not enough at another, my hair requires more than I imagined, and I just wasted time shopping for clothes I really didn’t need.

My “basic” mindset overflowed into Christmas planning. What are the basics for a joyful Christmas? Fewer decorations? Less shopping? Baking fewer cookies? But those aren’t what really make my holiday joyful. It’s being with my family. If I could have only one aspect of the holidays, it’s time in the physical presence of my children and their families. My children shared the best part of the holidays is my cooking. That works for me. I will happily create nourishing meals and sweet treats all day long and willingly eliminate shopping and extensive decorations. Our plans for this year include spending time doing something for those in need, a coffee gift exchange, and white elephant to get rid of something we already have.

We will be together, not all together on the calendar date of Christmas, but the Tuesday before, between 5:00pm – bedtime. And basically, that’s fine with me.

“When no Leads to Change”

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 13:25:06 GMT

Advocating for Seniors: Standing Strong Against Excuses and Resistance

If you tell me “no” there’s a good chance I may ask you why. And if your why is a variety of excuses or because you want to exert your power over the decision, I will push back.

I’ve had to push back at work many times and it has always been for the good of residents or patients, or clinics for whom I put first. I was met with a negative response too many times to count at the retirement village. It was usually because it created more work for someone else, not because it went against rules, regulations, or codes of conduct. My constant advocacy for residents and families didn’t sit well with some staff or leadership. I pushed limits and boundaries, but always for the betterment of the seniors I served.

I still face negative responses in my pharma life as well. Recently, I was told “no” for an event, but I kept moving forward to find a way to make it happen. It was the right thing to do for the community and the commitment I made to a provider. After many emails and phone calls involving multiple parties and leadership, I got my green light.

Responding with “no thank you” is a big one for the holidays too. There are times, places, people, and traditions that we can skip without explanation and hopefully spark change.

Prioritize Self-Care:

We don’t have to go “Over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house” anymore. Nor attend a church that doesn’t follow the life of Christ. It doesn’t add up spending time and resources traveling across the state or country to see family who don’t leave their front yard to see you. Stop the nonsense of consumerism and spending money meant for rent, medicine, and groceries. Take a hard stance against traditions that only add stress, anxiety, and angst to the “joyful” holidays.

It’s okay to say “nah” when it’s about self-care, family preservation, mental health, and for the good of the whole. Pushing back leads to something more, it disrupts the status quo, which is needed for growth.

The Power of 'No': Clarity, Purpose, & Bold Action

I’ve been told “no” by my editor on various topics, and at first, I didn’t like it. But the internal dialogue that ensued made me think harder about my goals, purpose, the real story, and to consider the possibility that it wasn’t the topic for me. It created greater clarity with my writing.

Of course, the ability to respond with nope, or no way, or no thanks, or under no circumstances are needed in every society, especially in the home, community, workplace, and family. Consider everything we have today because of those who took a hard stance against slavery, lack of women’s rights, abuse, violence, patriarchy, lack of medicine, injustices, corruption, unsafe working conditions, etc., etc., and so on, and so forth!

There is a place for “no can do” at the table, however, what is the motivation, and how does it impact the whole picture? I am not perfect, but I am passionate about doing the right thing for another person, or the good of the organization, community, or family. A bold “under no circumstances” with the right motivation has changed the world. We are in a time when a solid “nae” is needed to stand up for what is right until common sense and what is best for humanity reigns.

Let’s know when to use and/or not accept “not on your nelly” and step back, push back, and move forward.

Gratitude

Mon, 03 Nov 2025 18:37:44 GMT

I have also chosen a few outliers worth celebrating and/or honoring with my celebratory energy,

Nov. 1 – Author’s Day

Nov. 4 – Stress Awareness Day

Nov. 5 – Make Men Make Dinner Day

Nov. 8 – Cappuccino Day

Nov. 9 – World Freedom Day, Go to an Art Museum Day

Nov. 10 – World Science Day for Peace and Development

Nov. 11 – Sundae Day

Nov. 12 – Nurse Practitioner Week

Nov. 14 – Pickle Day, World Diabetes Day, National Family PJ Day

Nov. 15 – America Recycles Day, Clean Out Your Refrigerator Day

Nov. 16 – International Day for Tolerance

Nov. 17 – National Hiking Day, World Prematurity Day, Homemade Bread Day

Nov. 19 – Great American Smoke Out, National Rural Health Day, World Pancreatic Cancer Day

Nov. 20 – Transgender Day of Remembrance, Universal Children’s Day

Nov. 21 – World Television Day, World Hello Day, National Adoption Day

Nov. 23 – National Espresso Day

Nov. 25 – International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women

Nov. 27 – Native American Heritage Day

Nov. 28 – National French Toast Day, Red Planet Day, Small Business Saturday

Some are just for funsies, but others are worth a moment of reflection and prayers for the people impacted by or affected in some way, and for the general betterment of our world, personally and globally.

When I consider the Thanksgiving story we were taught in school, I am disappointed by those history lessons. On one hand, I believe the Indigenous peoples welcomed the immigrant settlers to their communities, because they were smart and saw business opportunities for trade and alliances to a new world. However, the line was drawn when the military and “Christian” organizations took their land and children, broke treaty agreements, and destroyed their lives, culture, and environment. We don’t have to look very far today to find the evidence and truth of that horrific history. Today, with authors and organizations giving voice to real history, let’s learn about it, from it, and be better humans.

Fortuitous Poetry

Mon, 06 Oct 2025 14:40:43 GMT

Unexpected Connection

Working on my next writing project, I had the honor of interviewing an authentic cowboy. He is

my husband’s cousin’s brother-in-law who lives in Montana. I reached out to this cousin to

schedule a time to talk with her and her husband about my project. Afterward, she suggested that

I speak with her brother-in-law Brian who restores motorcycles and has horses.

In between completing my lengthy to do list on a busy weekend, I seized a moment to call him to

schedule a visit or zoom meeting for some time in the future. I planned to leave a message if he

didn’t answer. To my surprise, he answered and said that I caught him at a good time, which after

talking with him, I realized how truly rare the moment was. He explained it was a fluke that I

called at that moment as he had just returned from a long trip. He works most days from five in

the morning until ten at night and was scheduled to leave for a month-long adventure early the

next morning.

Embrace Your Dreams: A Cowboy's Philosophical Call to Action

A few moments into our conversation he quoted Heny David Thoreau, 19 th century poet and

philosopher. I was taken aback since I never expected a “cowboy” to quote poetry on our first

phone call. He described his life as Thoreau said it best, “Most men lead lives of quiet

desperation…” We had a fascinating, funny, and highly philosophical conversation. If only we

had been sitting by a campfire under the stars with me wearing cowgirl boots would this have

been more perfect.

The next morning, I researched Thoreau. I knew he was a poet but wanted to get the quote right.

Pleased that I took the effort to do so, I found several other quotes worth remembering. The one

that resonated most with me: “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you

have imagined.” Oh, that’s so good and spot on for my head space right now as I evaluate my

midlife dreams and where I want to be.

That same morning while driving, I listened to an audio book, “Learning to Love Midlife” by

Chip Conley. It’s a book offering a whole new mid-life mindset and who does the author quote?

Henry David Thoreau and the very quote the cowboy stated about living a quiet, desperate life,

and the very one I took a screen shot of two hours prior to this moment.

I am not a poetry fan per se. Although, I am nuts for a great quote or audio book. Those books

save my sanity during the long spells in my car. Sometimes I have six audio books on my library

bookshelf app at once. I choose them by topic, length of time, and my mood. Most are business

related, health, humor, inspirational, or self-help. But, never fiction, I can’t focus on my driving

while following along a storyline with characters.

Currently, the ones on my shelf range from knitting to midlife to having fun. So, when the author

voiced the very quote I had looked up that morning, a surge of adrenaline shot me straight up in

my seat. I had taken a screenshot of the quote at 5:30am and then the author repeated it at

8:15 am that very morning.

Those moments stop me in my tracks. And no matter what I am doing, I offer my gratitude for

perfectly timed connect the dots from the Creator who created the serendipitous moment unique

to me. If you’ve read anything I’ve written, you know these sequential fortuitous events happen

frequently. I’ve noticed the more I pay attention to them, verbalize my gratitude, and recognize

the cosmos accesses my calendar, the more they occur. Connecting fortuitous dots energizes this

midlife midwife.

Rounding the Bend

Mon, 06 Oct 2025 14:40:41 GMT

Unlocking the Secrets Behind the Pharmaceutical Rep's Roster

Every team has its roster. As a pharmaceutical rep, I have a list of physicians. Unlike the

mathematical stats of the athlete and its team, the accuracy of information in my database earns a

C average at best. Every quarter I get a new list of physicians that my company expects me to

call on which is generated by a supplier that collects and sells the data to companies like ours.

Most clinicians don’t like that we have these stats, but it’s not a hill they choose to die on.

Whenever an unfamiliar name and address appear on my roster, I check it out. I call this roster

“the magic list” because it’s generated by a computer, filtered through a microchip, and my

performance is evaluated by the number of calls to the providers listed -- regardless of the list’s

accuracy. Recently, while in Dayton, I decided to investigate three unknown providers on my list.

My goal was to confirm addresses and determine if they were indeed in practice and in need of

my product.

Listen, I’ve had this list since July, it is now the end of September and the end of the quarter. But

I know my territory and the high probability that these three don’t exist in my geography.

However, after I had already made the expected calls to every legit name on my list, and in the

spirit of exhausting my due diligence, it was time to be a good scout and check out the new

potential. Perhaps, these obscure players had the capacity to elevate my status back to number

one in the country like last year. Yes, I was number one in the whole country. That was then, this

is now, and I am hanging around 18 out of 64.

I entered one of the addresses in my GPS, put my car in drive, and began my journey on a street

I’ve never been, on a quest to find a physician I’ve never met, at a clinic I never knew existed. I

love adventure!

Also, on my mind was how to spend my time over lunch. I contemplated going to noon Mass,

but then I had another idea: an art museum. It had been a while since my last visit to both

options. I ruminated about paintings, sculptures, and exhibits displayed in the well-known

historic art museum and how spending my lunch hour within those walls surrounded by

masterpieces would satiate my appetite for art.

I kid you not, this was my headspace when I rounded a bend and out of nowhere, there was a

museum. Not the one I imagined but one I had never seen before. It was a three-story warehouse

marked, “British Transportation Museum.” Whoa, pump the brakes! Did I manifest this? Chills.

Just past the museum was the clinic I was searching for. It was permanently closed and I was not

surprised, and quite pleased. It gave me time to explore this gem.

This was a special find since my dad loved British bikes and cars. He had several over the years

including an MG, Austin Healey, a Triumph motorcycle, and his last one a Royal Enfield Bullett

(that one has its own special connection and is the heart and soul of my first book, “God Is In the

Odd, the Ordinary, and Outside Church.” Check it out, wherever books are sold.)

I stopped to get out of my company car and snoop around a bit. There was an open garage door,

and I peeked inside to see a few cars under restoration, disrepair, or just forgotten under inches of

dust. I didn’t see any humans, but I felt a presence. I looked online. Unfortunately, the museum

was closed, and no one was around to talk with. The website said it’s open on Mondays and

Saturdays, and it was neither of those days. I called the number listed, since the site offered

appointments outside of those days, but my call went to voicemail, and the mailbox was full. I

marked my calendar for the next Monday I am in this town and peruse the British fine art of

transportation.

As you might guess, I went to Mass to thank the serendipitous British angel for this magic

moment in Dayton, Ohio. Spontaneity rewarded!

Ripples in Three Score Time

Mon, 06 Oct 2025 14:40:36 GMT

It’s a wild ride watching unplanned connections unfold into perfect alignment. A dear friend

recently started creating pieces of artwork inspired by his love of music. He’s always been an

artist, specifically a sculptor, but with his recent diagnosis of ALS, it’s not possible for him to

create as he once did.

Seeing his struggle, someone suggested that he express his artistic talent on paper rather than

through the larger, more physically aggressive sculpting media.

Thank you to the smart soul who recommended this therapy and to his beautiful wife and sister

who nudged him along. His initial sketch was of his son as a child - a full-faced, wild-curly

haired, little boy. The work was raw and captured the sweetness and energy of his child. This

was his first pencil drawing since his days in school, and in the making of this piece, at a time of

Art and Resilience: Defying ALS Through Creative Expression

Since my friend listens to music every waking moment of his life, discusses it with anyone

anywhere, anytime, and enjoys live concerts more than most, music inspired his next few pieces.

He posted a few of his pencil and watercolor sketches on social media and his followers went

nuts to purchase them. That really wasn’t my friend’s intention. He was just sharing what he had

been up to, but as soon as people saw his artwork, they wanted one.

I believe these new creative pieces are one way he tells ALS to go F*** itself! He won’t let the

limited use of his hands stop him from expressing his soul and using his talent. He is a gift and

inspiration to everyone.

One print that I purchased was a rooster. It had a raw feel to it, a few details with a smattering of

color at the bottom, sides and top. He captured the animal in action. I loved this piece because of

a lyric in one of my favorite Bob Dylan songs, “…when the rooster crows at the break of dawn,

look out your window and I’ll be gone…” I recently visited Grand Cayman Islands with roosters

everywhere, crowing throughout the day. The song was on repeat in my head for four days.

A Bee's Message to Johnny

The second print spoke immediately to me. It was a bee with the words Johnny above it and

Goode below it. That song by legendary musician, Chuck Berry, never fails to get people off

their feet and onto the dance floor. The center had an oversized and intricately detailed bee,

which reminds me that we should all be focusing on saving bees and being kind. Beyond all

those points combined, my son’s name is Johnny. I purchased that piece too.

Unraveling Connections: A Journey Through Music and Memory

The third print featured a train with a bright headlight and the words above it “wish I was a

headlight” and below it, “Northbound.” It didn’t speak to me, at first. I wasn’t familiar with the

song reference. I looked it up and discovered it’s a Grateful Dead song, and the lyrics ripped my

heart. The song is “I Know You Rider.” One stanza talks about missing him when he’s gone.

This led me to research the Grateful Dead, for I am not a Dead Head, however after reading

about them, I have potential. I learned they began in San Francisco in the mid-1960s, a very

special place in my heart since 2018, and I’ve been in a ‘60s vortex for the last eight months. The

Dead, along with their dedicated fans, became symbols of the counterculture movement,

representing freedom, experimentation, and strong sense of community. I’m all in for that!

Also, while exploring, I found out the Grateful Dead performed “Johnny B. Goode” and so did

Bob Dylan and they performed it together once!

All three music legends -- Berry, Dylan, Grateful Dead -- were at the start and heart of their

careers when I was born into the world. That era of a generation making their own way, breaking

barriers, expressing love, peace, and music as a lifestyle touches the song within my soul.

The city of San Francisco has also been a theme in my life ever since my daughter and I took our

first girl’s trip there in 2018. Another new obsession of mine is the writings of Jack Kerouac, a

poet and writer from the 1950s-1960s, also known to the bay area, and who personified the Beat

Nik life, the precursor to the Hippie. I recently purchased one of Kerouac’s books, “The

Lonesome Traveler” and on the cover is a train with its headlight glaring and approaching us just

like my friend’s work of art. I contacted him immediately and purchased the third print that I

thought I had no connection with, but it turns out the tapestry grew exponentially.

Lead with Love like Loretta

Sun, 14 Sep 2025 04:00:00 GMT

Championing Respect:

Standing Up Against Ageism in Sales

After a long day of making sales calls in two states, three cities, in six hours, I was short on patience. So, when a colleague made a derogatory ageism comment, I brazenly called him out and spoke with bravado to set him straight. I was the hero of the aged, fighting injustice and silencing the villain.

A few weeks later, I finished a ground-breaking book, titled “ Calling In,” by Loretta J. Ross, which changed my view of “calling out.” In her book, Loretta shares her personal and professional history of when she called people out, which resulted in severed relationships and tarnished reputations. After reflecting on these ruins, she crafted a better way. Now, she “calls them in.” Her words and ways of coming together with other people at work, at home, in the family, throughout the community, on social media utilize a more human approach. And one I hope we can all adopt.

We all work with, live with, and know of challenging people. Day after day after day. It’s what they say, how they say it, when, and where they speak. They sigh heavily, they stick their noses into our business, and their mere presence becomes so annoying and stressful that our arteries clog. And yet, it’s just who they are at their core. We can’t change that or them.

Yet, when there is a specific work or relationship issue to be addressed, calling out doesn’t get results like calling in does. Calling in comes from a place of love, grace, respect, and common ground.

When my children started working and struggling to do their job alongside some difficult people, I explained there will always be a “insert Name” wherever you work. And they can make our life miserable, if we let them.

This same call included a new program the company is rolling out around “culture.” The culture of integrity and doing the right thing in and outside of our workplace. Loretta’s book, still fresh in my mind, and her way of calling someone in instead of calling them out gave me the courage and collaborative attitude to reach out to this leader and have a conversation about the use of this word.

The day after completing Loretta’s book, I had a national sales call, and a member of leadership announced a new name for our region, the GOATS, “greatest of all times.” Sure. Then he explained, a pack of goats is called a tribe. Hmmm, watch out. And he continued for another five minutes about us being his tribe, using the word multiple times. I know , this is not a cool word to use. To make sure I wasn’t overreacting, I looked it up. I was correct in its offense to indigenous people.

I do not have one cell of indigenous blood in my body, although I wish I did. I have always admired their culture of strength and bravery, environmental wisdom, the use of animal skins for clothes and footwear, storytelling, dance and ceremonial customs.

With my deep respect of indigenous people, coupled with assuming this leader meant no offense, I decided to call him in on the use of the word “tribe.”

I had a negative response when he used it on the call. I wanted to make sure my words and timing were chosen wisely to be received well. I knew not to say anything on the nationwide call with 600 employees.

Instead, I texted him after requesting a few moments of his time. I pondered the words and ways of Loretta and focused my intent on reaching out to him on a level of love and common ground whilst knowing his excellent character and maintaining my integrity.

This wasn’t easy for me; I have certainly called people out over the years and hurt people’s feelings and damaged lifelong relationships. I can be quick to judge and therefore say things I should not. Giving others the benefit and believing the best in them instead of assuming the worst does not come naturally to me, although I have been working to improve that character flaw in me over the last few decades. I am a work in progress, as we all are.

When he called me the next day I was driving and didn’t answer, because that is against our company policy. Once I found a safe place to park, I pulled into the parking lot to return the call and explained why I wasn’t available when he called. He appreciated and complimented me immediately on my integrity. That was a good start to our conversation.

I admit, I cringed a bit as I spoke. Because my words were so guarded and layered in love it wasn’t natural for me. I sifted every word that exited my mouth for positivity, respect, kindness, and a collaborative tone. Sitting in the confines of my car, my hands twirled in the air as I twisted my thoughts and words with kindness to be delivered in a way that would be best received. I wanted my conversation to end with both of us feeling respected, elevating our mutual professionalism. With one conversation, I wanted to improve company culture.

When we spoke, I kept my approach respectful, calm, and focused on our mutual concern for the culture of our company. I mentioned the book I had just read and how it led me to contact him about something he said during the national town hall. I began with commenting on his well-known character and high standards. Then gently explained how the use of the word “tribe” can be offensive. I highlighted the company’s new program of “culture” and wanted to solidify the policy in real time and practicality and not just in words on a slide.

In our volatile society, including our homes, communities, workplaces, out in public, on social media, people are quick to criticize. Calling people out points fingers and results in hard feelings. Calling people in fosters improvement and shifts the focus to cooperation. I believe it’s better to follow Loretta, and lead with love.

Once I finished, he paused. I held my breath. Then he said how much he appreciated me bringing this to his attention. He asked me my opinion of the new culture program and after offering my honest feedback, he said, “You gave me the chills. Because you are SPOT ON!” Oh, the relief. I felt good about what I said, and that I took the time to say it. Loretta’s book did that.

Pancakes and Cookies and Doom

Mon, 01 Sep 2025 04:00:01 GMT

Facing Fears: A Morning Journey

It started with a stare down. I took a few steps into my morning walk on the street where I grew up in Boardman, Ohio. A full-grown, mean-looking German Shepherd stood solid and ready with his eyes zeroed in on my chicken legs. I was not about to start my day challenging that canine and luckily a side street allowed me to exit stage left, praying the whole way that I wouldn’t get attacked from behind.

Not long after almost become a dog’s breakfast, I wished I had rainboots because it started to sprinkle, light at first, then pour, hard. It was a hard, it was a hard…singing to myself, “ a hard rain’s a-gonna fall .” Everything in my head circles back to a Bob Dylan song. Bob provides the soundtrack to my life.

My morning walks are non-negotiable for me, even when traveling. When I visit my hometown, I keep this routine and walk from my parents house up to the high school or middle school, sometimes around the track and back. Every time, memories flood my mind of when I walked to school and grasshoppers jumped at me, which I still hate to this day, and then wonder why the sidewalks still haven’t been repaired. It has been more than 40 years, and the seismic cracks are still dangerously disjointed. It was a good thing I wore hiking shoes to navigate over tree roots, through gravel, and up and down ramps of broken cement.

Later into my walk, I approached a pack of geese blocking the road like a gang protecting their turf near the track stadium. Several hissed in my direction. Fearing their bold aggression, I chose to walk through the grass to avoid confrontation. Only to look down and see the patch of clovers, with bees buzzing and ready to sting.

I wondered why I felt so much fear and sense of doom while trying to enjoy my walk. Then I remembered the day before when we had an emergency alert on our phone stating to “stay inside and lock your doors.” It was overly vague and highly alarming. The alert sounded the same as an Amber or weather alert, but with minimal information. I immediately looked outside to collect my own facts about the situation. But there was nothing to see or hear. No Armageddon, no mass riot, no explosions, or bomber jets overhead. My son suggested we go back inside, lock the doors and search social media for clues. We found nothing.

If that wasn’t enough, I heard a flock of seagulls squawking from the top of the high school. They were clearly off course and I prayed again, this time that the disoriented fowl wouldn’t fly toward me and peck my eyes out. Oh no, no, no I’ve watched that movie many times before.

We texted a few other family and friends to see if they received the same cryptic alert. Some did

and some didn’t. That gave us a clue to the geographic location of the situation.

Then we got another sonic buzz that told us, “Don’t call 9-1-1 if you have an emergency.” Is this

a joke? What was happening?! My friend was working at a local gym, and they were told not to

let anyone leave or come into the building. My daughter-in-law who was working at a local

hospital was told there was an active shooter in a shopping center and nearby neighborhood. We

also heard a sheriff had been shot and killed, and it was all unfolding in a neighborhood with

million-dollar homes, behind Walmart.

People were calling 9-1-1 to find out what the emergency was. Can you imagine being a 9-1-1

operator answering thousands of calls with “what’s your emergency?” and the caller saying,

“what’s the emergency?” then the operator asking again, “What’s your emergency?” And the

caller stating more anxiously, “WHAT’s THE EMERGENCY?!” Who knows how many times

that went back and forth.

It helps to have a Fire Chief who lives next door. My son texted his son and found there was a

SWAT stand off about ten minutes away.

Then another alert was issued stating, “An alert went out inadvertently to counties not involved

in the situation.” Okay, there was still an emergency, and where was it all going down?

Then a follow up follow up alert said, “The situation is contained, and you are no longer in

danger.” Or something like that. So, we went about our day.

I think that feeling of emergency and doom lingered with me into the next day on my walk

through Boardman, more than 200 miles away from my home in Cincinnati.

Well, my radar wasn’t too far off. A house that I passed coming and going on my walk, had an

unexpected death at the very time I had walked by. An hour later, the police and coroner arrived.

My editor has accused me of committing early writer crimes. She thinks that I write prose akin to

the children’s books “If You Give a Pig a Pancake” or “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.” But, ya

know, sometimes my life is a live version of those books. And, may I remind my editor, those

books are highly successful.

Was it a local situation, statewide, national or global emergency? We had no clue. This could be anything. Do we secure ourselves with distilled water, a generator, guns or knives or baseball bats, candles, or whatever items needed for survival in a crisis?

Words as Weapons

Sun, 24 Aug 2025 04:00:00 GMT

Rediscovering Faith: The Bible Beyond Tradition and Context

Growing up Catholic, the Bible wasn’t read in my home. It was quoted at mass, but not at home.

My mom had a copy of the good book, albeit tucked away in her panty hose drawer. Historically,

the lay people of the church were forbidden to read it citing “With their lack of religious training,

education, and understanding, they could not comprehend it.” That was partially true.

When my ears heard the holy word of God through Christian radio, my appetite for

enlightenment burst forth and consumed me. I bought my own copy, read it, shared it, joined a

bible study, and my life changed forever. I memorized scripture and told everyone it was the best

and only way to know God. That is partially true.

I later learned that nature; earth, animals, vegetation, ecosystem, and the galactic universe were

God’s first word and “It was good.” Time spent in nature is time with the divine.

Later later I learned how important it is to consider the era in which the bible was written, the

people for whom it was written, and the context of that culture. It is a living document meant for

interaction, discussion, and dare I say, change. There is variability among each interpretation of

this ancient text, and from whence an archaic culture it comes.

I’ve had religious people confidently proclaim, “If you don’t forgive, you don’t get into heaven.”

Or “The woman’s role is in the home.” I questioned those declarations and felt inspired to find

the validity in unprovable religious hearsay.

Finding Divine Clarity: A Transformative Journey Through Faith

Beginning May 1, 2020, I decided to read the bible with an open heart, open mind, and one word

at a time first thing every morning. I read it in alphabetical order, skipping names and

geographical references. It’s been five years now, and I quit counting the number of days that

have begun with jaw dropping clear communication from God. It’s not every day, but honey,

when it happens, I know I am in the right place at the right time doing the right thing. And that’s

the whole truth.

One recent poignant moment happened the morning when the word “father” fell on the

anniversary of my father’s passing. Signs aren’t lost on me. While attending mass that same

morning, the very one in honor of my dad, the scripture was about the man who said he couldn’t

follow Jesus in that moment because he had to bury his father. That one, a billboard.

I believe God loves it when we are open to the mystery of faith and willing to ask questions.

When people or a situation puzzles me, I discuss it with Yahweh on my morning walks, while

meditating, and in the word of the day. I usually gain clarity, or direction, or a creative solution,

and peace knowing the Creator is listening.

A recent hot topic, which really isn’t a new issue because it’s been happening since the beginning

of human existence, is the immigrant, the foreigner, the outsider of one’s culture. I personally

believe people should be able to live wherever they want and to make a living, however, and

wherever they choose. This is not a political stance or statement, I see it as a human right.

During the most recent fury, my word was “fatherless.” The scripture, Deuteronomy 10:18, “He

executes justice for the fatherless and the widow, and loves the sojourner, giving him food and

clothing.”

Reclaiming Love: Unmasking Misused Scriptures to Embrace All

Clearly, God cares about the orphan, widow, and loves the immigrant, stranger, traveler, and

alien by providing them with basic needs. My first reaction was to post this scripture on social

media and call out every “Christian” in this debate. I was ready to aim and fire the holy word of

God everywhere!

Then…God’s gentle voice reminded me of the way the bible has been used to alienate, abuse,

isolate, and ruin millions of lives by the scriptures people have twisted to fit their own agenda of

hatred, judgement, and condemnation.

I think about the way the LGBTQ community has been and continues to be ostracized. I think

about the way divorced and single parents have been treated. These Biblers proclaim, “The holy

word of God says “this”, and it says “that” and “You are going to hell, and God hates you for

who you are!” Totally UNTRUE!

Recently, and most thankfully, there are intelligent people digging deep into church history and

context of the Bible. They are revealing the truth about the culture and authors who interpreted

its text. And sorry, not sorry, holy rolling lads and lasses, but it’s not in favor of those who use

the Bible to spread hate and do harm.

I dig my heels in and push back when someone takes one scripture verse and makes a statement

without reading the whole story and the context of the story. For example, one line thrown about

by uninformed Bible thumpers is the one about cutting hair and having tattoos. A relative of

mine once quoted this scripture to judge someone in our family with tattoos. She said, “It’s in the

Bible.” I questioned her about the whole sentence that included cutting one’s hair, (her hair is

short), she said, “I don’t cut my hair, someone else does.” Read the whole paragraph, my kin,

because not cutting one’s hair and having tattoos was about worshiping false gods.

We need a spiritual and scriptural revolution to undo the damage that has been done and to prevent more harm from happening.

Even though I was locked and loaded to blast my pro-sojourner scripture, I didn’t. I sat quietly

with the knowledge that Jesus would NEVER treat an immigrant in such a harmful way. I also

know the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God, that the Lord Almighty is ever

present, all knowing, and loves all.

There is more love in God’s word than anything else. Referencing the Bible triggers trauma for

some, and that breaks my heart. I experience divine power and presence through that book. I

don’t want anyone to miss these moments because a misguided person pointed their judgemental

finger in their face with a false interpretation of the living, and loving word of God.

Character or Cauliflower

Sun, 17 Aug 2025 04:15:00 GMT

Craving Deliciousness vs. Standing on Principles

The struggle is real; do I have a delicious lunch or stand on my principles. I loved this

restaurant’s buffalo cauliflower lettuce wraps and the ability to build my own bowl of soup or

cauliflower rice base or greens base. They have bone broth, sweet potato fries, grass-fed Wagyu

burgers, keto friendly choices, and vegan options. It’s delightfully healthy and tasty, a rare

combo. Wherein lies my dilemma. The owner is a horrible human being.

The well-known restaurateur employs only “pretty” young women whose t-shirts make it easy to

guess their bra size, and shorts made with less than a yard of fabric. I know, I used to sew.

I frequented the place before and after I heard he was bad but didn’t know exactly how bad. The

last time I was there, one of the employees let her Siberian Husky sit in the booth on the seat

with her, eat off her/the restaurant’s plate and lick out of her/the restaurant’s glass. Disgusting!

Were my receptacles ever dog bowls?

That hit high on my repulsive meter. I contacted the health department and knew I couldn’t go

back. But… enough time lapsed where I considered it. I wanted those cauliflower wraps. I chose

a different café nearby yet still contemplated which one would get my business. The cauliflower

was calling me. Torn, I googled the owner again and read information I had not heard before. In

bold headlines, he was accused of rape, kidnapping, strangulation, felonious assault, and

attempted murder.

Demand Integrity: Stand Against Unethical Behavior Everywhere!

I also read of employees accusing him of sexual harassment; employees lose shifts for not

following unlawful protocol, management take tips, and he requests photos of the servers in

advance of hiring them. Reportedly, he called out an “ugly” server to be fired on the company

chat with more than 150 other employees. But then posts on social media “Christian” principled

statements. Hmmm.

On Reditt they call him a “douchebro.” It means exactly what you think. Deflated, I couldn’t get

the cauliflower wraps, no matter how good they were. I can’t give my business to a Douchebro.

Which turned my thoughts toward other dilemmas, or at least for me, maybe not for others. I find

it hard to accept unscrupulous behavior, criminal actions, and lack of character, integrity, and

human decency just because someone is …a winning coach, celebrity, star athlete, CEO,

politician, billionaire, priest, pastor, boss, etc.

Why is this behavior and mistreatment of other humans overlooked just because that person has

money, influence, power, talent, amazing cauliflower wraps?

We buy from companies run by unethical CEOs. We purchase goods from countries with known

human rights violations. We have no problem using social media sites built on betrayal,

manipulation, privacy violations, and deliberate misinformation.

Where are our morals, standards, and the courage to stand up for character, integrity, and human

decency?

We need a spiritual revolution, character metamorphosis, integrity uprising here, there, and

everywhere human rights are violated and buffalo cauliflower wraps are sold.

Step First, Trust Later

Sat, 02 Aug 2025 13:57:01 GMT

Finding Inspiration in Unfamiliar Paths

I woke up later than normal in my hotel room in Perrysburg, all because at 4 a.m. I awoke with

ideas I had to capture in writing. After an hour of creative release, I told myself to lie back down

and rest before starting a longer-than-normal workday, a day that had me arriving back home

close to midnight.

Luckily, I fell back asleep. An hour later, at the sound of my alarm and the sight of my yoga mat

already in place, it was GO time. I preferred an invigorating walk outdoors but wasn’t familiar

with the area and wasn’t crazy about hoofing it around a parking lot. After thinking about it a

little more, I decided to give it a go anyway.

Exiting the back entrance, I started through the parking lot passing cars and campers and was

quickly pleased when I saw a sidewalk to the left. It looked as if it meandered through an

industrial park, not sure if that was any better than a car park, but there was no traffic, so I

followed it. The buildings appeared abandoned or perhaps just too early in the day. My thoughts

turned to the regional economy, and I hoped these businesses hadn’t succumbed to yet another

shut down that is all too familiar after growing up in Youngstown.

Discover Nature’s Hidden Gems: A Serene Urban Escape Awaits!

Within a few quick strides, another pleasant surprise appeared on my left, a butterfly

conservation garden. What a lovely sight to see between a shopping center and an industrial

park: a sanctuary city for butterflies with yellow and purple and pink wildflowers. I paused,

snapped a photo, then picked up my pace.

I strode past more empty parking lots, again no activity. Then the road bent into a new and

decorative roundabout. I continued in the direction of an apartment complex. The sidewalk

wound like a serpent and was lined with pine trees, ones I had never seen before, they had tiny

light green pinecone shaped buds. There were more trees of varied species, more pausing, more

photos. Moving further I saw flourishing perennial blue hydrangea bushes. Birds sang in chorus;

the sun was shining…good stuff!

I was thrilled that I took that step of faith and walked outside to see where it would lead.

Eventually, the road led back to the front of the hotel on the edge of the shopping center.

By now, I needed coffee, preferably from a local place. I opened my phone to search for one and

noticed it was 7:58, the same numbers that comprised the extension that began every phone

number in Boardman, my hometown. I looked past my phone to see a quietly flowing stream

below. Two good signs!

The coffee shop was located on the opposite side of the shopping complex. That was okay, I had

plenty of time and paused to listen to the gentle flow of the water, another photo op, and say a

few prayers of gratitude for where my surprisingly nature filled walk had taken me.

The route to the coffee shop zig-zagged through another apartment/condo area with more

blooming bushes, well cared for landscape, and a complex called “Mosaic.” Hard stop to snap a

photo. Prior to my walk, one of my friends posted on Instagram about life’s difficulties, being

broken, and the new version of ourselves being a “mosaic.” Good thoughts!

It was a pleasant walk to the coffee shop under blue skies in the morning heat. Once inside, I saw

the menu featured Superman themed drinks, in honor of the movie release and being filmed

locally. I caught the vibe and ordered the Superman Kryptonite toasted marshmallow cold brew

with espresso cold foam. I was having a super morning therefore I had to honor the superhero

with ordering this super drink. Not disappointed, it was one of the most delicious cups of Joe

I’ve ever had in my super life, and not too sweet, as I feared. But I should not fear when

Superman is near. They also had merch, t-shirts, coffee, and hydro flasks with their coffee shop

logo. I didn’t have enough money with me to make a purchase; I vowed to come back to buy a

souvenir of my powerfully pleasant morning.

On my way back to the hotel, I was super stoked at the spontaneity of stepping out without

knowing where I would end up or what would happen along the way. Positive energy filled me

with every sip of my creamy delightful, caffeinated brew. Step, sip, smile, step, step, sip, sip,

smile, step, step, sip, sip, sipidy do dah, smile.

Then, out of nowhere, it hit me… kryptonite is Superman’s weakness. My thoughts spiraled. My

Irish sense of doom kicked in. I knew the rest of the day would be all downhill. Clouds rolled in,

the heat turned to humidity, I hadn’t eaten breakfast, and like a metronome ticking in my brain it

was time for: “work, work, work, work!”

After a few quickened steps in the direction of the hotel, something snapped, and with one swift

swipe of my Wonder Woman metal braceleted wrist, I swished my thoughts away. Not today

negative neurons! Not today. I took a hard left to follow a different path back to my hotel and

focused on all that was wonderfully spontaneous and peaceful and vibrant and flowing and

beautiful and butterflies and Boardman and mosaics and …thank you Superman, you saved the

day!

The day ended with a magnificent sunset at the start of my three-hour drive home to pick up my

loved one at the hospital emergency room. I knew it!

Dreams and Dying to be Better

Sun, 20 Jul 2025 04:00:00 GMT

Unlock Creativity:

Discover the Art of Literary Cut Outs

I’ve been going down a rabbit hole ever since last December after seeing the movie, “A Complete Unknown,” the Bob Dylan biopic. I’m slightly obsessed with reading and listening to authors who inspired Dylan as a songwriter, poet, and activist. Most notably, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Keraouc.

In the audio book“First Thought Best Thought,” author William S. Burroughs provided advice for writers for doing “cut outs,” which is rearranging already written words or sentences or paragraphs from various sources. Anything from a magazine, religious text, newspapers, other books. Then you put the cutouts all over the floor or table and move letters, words, sentences or whole paragraphs around to mix and match them into something new.

I never heard of this technique that was taught in the 1950s. Interestingly, this process subtlety appears in the movie, “A Complete Unknown,” with Dylan sitting on the floor of his apartment amongst pieces of papers of various sizes and shapes. He is looking at them and moving them around, reading them, and rearranging them. Another scene shows his girlfriend collecting her belongings to travel to Italy when she finds one of these scraps of paper which littered the ironing board along with her passport. She removed it from her passport and read it to him. It’s one of the most poignant scenes in the movie.

I, too, write thoughts or something to add to a current writing project on scraps of paper, napkins, envelopes, an open space on my paper calendar. Anything I can write on is appropriate to capture the gift of a newly worded phrase, scene, additional thought, or fresh angle.

When an idea comes, and I can’t identify the exact source, I gratefully and enthusiastically welcome it. I capture it as if it will never come again, most often it doesn’t. Because it’s not me who conjures the idea. It comes to me from an unknowable, unnamable, creative philanthropist. In the taking and keeping of the thought, I agree to do something with it. It’s not meant to just be written down, I must honor the gift by using it somewhere in my writing. I believe the creative universe connects to each person uniquely and when a human receives inspiration and in turn creates something with it, it’s a way of thanking the source.

Another method taught by Burroughs and author Allen Ginsberg is where to find ideas and inspiration, and one of them is from dreams. They suggest keeping a notebook next to our bed to record whatever comes to us in our dreams. We don’t need to make sense of them, just record them and see what may develop.

The night after hearing this advice, I dreamed about the world potentially coming to an end. Planes were falling from the sky. Thick, horizontal grey storm clouds collapsed into themselves. People scurried about, panicking, and shouting. But I was not a part of the hysteria, because in the middle of the chaos my daughter was having medical crisis. I was calm and taking care of her. It wasn’t clear what was happening, but I was confident, directive, and knowledgeable about her condition and medication. I was open, honest, and direct with the nursing staff on how to best handle the issue and the importance of confidentiality. It was potentially the end of the world, but I wasn’t so sure. I questioned the truth of the situation, while maintaining my focus, and determination to protect and stand up for my child.

Embrace Change:

Nurturing Your Dream Self into Reality

To experience this dream for the initiation of this new writing exercise is nothing short of flabbergasting. Why? Because I am never calm nor confident in real life or in dreams. I am constantly frustrated, overwhelmed, and don’t speak up for myself. When I awoke that morning, I liked who I was in that dream. Moreover, I liked getting it on paper and thinking about being that person, recording her, and committing her to a future project or my current self.

As soon as I was done with recording the details, it was time for my word of the day in Scripture. It was from John 12:24: how a seed needs to die to become a plant and talks about how something needs to change to become something else, a seed, with proper nurturing, becomes a plant or fruit. My dream included death and dying, and truth, and becoming different, something better. I felt a divine nudge to nurture that version of myself from the dream into reality.

Another layer in the cake came when I clicked on my morning meditation app and the theme was go with the flow when change happens. We are constantly changing, our bodies are in a state of change, if we don’t we die. And people and things die, and yet we must keep going whatever the situation. Change is the natural flow of life.

When I got into my car to start my work travels for the day, it was time to start another audio book. It was one that I had been waiting in line for more than a month. It was “The Year of Magical Thinking,” by Joan Didion. I had reserved it weeks ago when I looked up good writers for writers to read and Joan Didion’s work came up. I selected the one that sounded “magical.” I had no idea of the content. I only knew she was considered a writer’s writer, and it was about a magical year. It turns out, it’s not magical in the sense of hocus pocus or enchanting, yet it’s full of deeply personal enlightenment. It’s her story about the year after her husband’s death and how her life changed in an instant.

Her story helps the reader understand what happens on a daily, sometimes momentary, basis after the loss of a loved one and gives much needed insight for those of us who love those who have lost a loved one. It’s beautifully written and brings comfort to people who have walked the same path.

The layers continued to pile on when she mentioned the poet Dylan Thomas, the very poet from whom Bob Dylan took for his last name when he changed it from Zimmerman. A fact not totally substantiated.

I almost drove off the road when she described her dreams and how she talked about them with her husband and her interpretation of them. I am listening to this on the very day I began to write down my dreams after learning it as a writing exercise.

The cherry on top was when she described how Julia Child passed away while writing this book which was only a few months after her husband’s death. She felt a seed of joy knowing their mutual friend and famous chef would bake the best soufflé for her beloved husband in the next life. Less than two weeks ago, my daughter and I saw a Julia Child exhibit at the Cincinnati Art Museum. The exhibit was fascinating and still on my mind when Ms. Didion mentioned her in this book.

Life is like a layer cake, or onion, it depends on the day.

Ratatouille Please and Thank You

Sun, 13 Jul 2025 04:00:00 GMT

Ask me, one more time, “What’s for dinner?!”

My mom cooked, her mom cooked, all moms cooked going back to the stone age, as far as I knew. I continued the tradition because I felt it was my responsibility, and so did my husband because his mother cooked, all her sisters cooked, and their mother cooked, and so on and so on for centuries. For me, this responsibility comes with equal measure of burden and blessing.

Growing up in my house, meals were homemade, eating out was a treat, and I loved when it happened. Opening my personal treasure box with deep fried chicken, mashed potatoes, warm biscuits dripping with butter and honey on my greasy fingers made that “Wednesday Special” extra special. The perfect start to an occasional weekend began with Friday night pizza, pop, potato chips, and ice cream.

Upon marriage, meals became more than meat and potatoes as the bar was set unreachably high by my mother-in-law and her sisters. Box potatoes were fine at my house, not so at my in-laws. Pepto-Bismol was a side dish at our house, not so at my in-laws. Heaping helpings were offered at my house, while my in-laws ate like birds. When I dated my husband, I came home and ate a second dinner just to meet my caloric intake for the day.

I willingly accepted the challenge of creating delicious and nutritious homemade meals for my husband and soon after for our family of six. But this was no easy taskwhile working outside the home. With five picky eaters (four of whom were children), it was nearly impossible to please everyone. To this day, no one agrees on the type of pasta to have with my spaghetti sauce. One time, I made chili three different ways - one with meat only, one with meat and beans, and one with meat, beans, and peppers. And yet, I willingly and happily used the extra pots or pans to please my family.

My time, energy, and extra effort paid off, because when I recently asked my grown children what they enjoyed most about the holidays, it was unanimous: my delicious cooking. Well done, Momma.

Transforming Mealtimes: Connection, Competition, and Cherished Memories

It wasn’t until I worked in a retirement village that I understood the power of food and mealtimes. Many of our family meals were rushed because of activities and just a routine part of life, butfor some senior adults, mealtime became their only socialization. Ergo, I began to look at food differently.

At that time, my daughter and I enjoyed Food Network, our favorites were the cooking competitions. When I was the Activities Director at the facility, I organized various food contests that were blue ribbon worthy. Those women and men baked and cooked (two separate talents) and took great pride in sharing their favorite dish. I never could have imagined the impact those friendly competitions would have. It gave them something to look forward to, a challenge, and an opportunity to socialize and reminisce while preparing the dish.The unique ingredients, family history with some recipes dating back 100 years, and fond memories that came along with these special events satiated much more than my stomach.

Food is more than fuel, and meals are more than consumption. It’s the gathering together at one table, the conversations, the love that goes into the preparation and purpose of nurturing another human,and the delightful silence of when everyone is enjoying the fruits of the labor. One of my favorite movies is “Ratatouille.”Specifically, the scene when the cranky old food critic takes his first bite of ratatouille and is immediately transported to when he was a child coming in from the cold, his mother smiling as she sets the piping hot dish on the table before him.

It was food and cooking that opened the door for Julia Child’s career as one of the most famous French Chefs of all time.In 1948, she was an American living in France and struggling with the language and meeting people, so she took cooking classes to find a social circle. That worked out very well.She went on to publish 20 books, had an extensive television career offering cooking classes, and becamean advocate for food, education, and research.

I tried one of her dishes. Once. It was a red wine beef stew. The steps were like a grand staircase. Do this, then put it aside, mix this with that, put that in another dish, brown this, put it in another bowl. I used every bowl in the house and followed the recipe and instructions as best I could. The result was extraordinarily delicious! But I didn’t do it again. I need a recipe with as few ingredients and steps as possible. I am fine with homemade, but let’s be practical.

Recently, my daughter and I had the privilege of seeing a Julia Child exhibit at the Cincinnati Museum Center. It detailed her life from childhood through the end of her career and how much she wanted to serve in the military in WWII, but at 6’2” she was too tall to qualify. She then became a part of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS). She was an ordinary woman, who loved her husband, wanted a career, needed a social circle, and created the opportunity via cooking classes and became a legend as a chef, author, and TV personality.

She was a driver of change! Thanks to her, regular people began cooking like award winning chefs and learning how to pair any dish with a fine French wine.

My best friends in the kitchen over the years have been my crockpot and any recipe that I can put everything in all at once, cook, and forget. Although, I do believe I make a mean beef brisket, delizioso spaghetti sauce and meatballs, killer cream cheese potatoes, and to-die-for Christmas cookies. If someone were to ask.

Now that the children are grown and some have flown, and I am asked, “What’s for dinner?” The request both grates on my nerves and reminds me meals make memories. Joyful are the special occasions, but that daily expectation of creating dinner…stick a fork in me, I’m done!

Tried and True or Something New

Tue, 01 Jul 2025 13:00:00 GMT

Experience a Taste of France

On one side of the street was La Chatelaine, a bakery established in 1991, the year my twins were born, and known for offering “a little France to every customer.” It claims to be the first French Bistro and bakery in central Ohio. To them I say, “Merci Beaucoup!” The ranch style building had a European feel with low ceilings, sturdy wooden chairs, and small tables, perfect for a warm chocolate-covered croissant and spot of tea. Of course, I have never been to France or anywhere in Europe, so this is my assumption from watching movies or pure imagination.

Thirty-four years later, there is a “new kid” café on the block, Paris Baquette, across the street from La Chatelaine. This café promises “expertly crafted baked and brewed goods to our guests through a warm and welcoming bakery café experience that delivers joy to everyone...treating you as our neighbor.”

Two Bakeries, One Street!

While walking between the two establishments, I wondered if La Chatelaine was concerned about the Paris competition. The aroma between these two establishments baking fresh bread and pastries nearly brought me to my knees. Two bakeries are never a bad thing.

I remember the nuance of going to La Chatelaine when it first opened with the ambiance of the café and the unbelievably unique fresh baked goods. It was impossible to choose between the layered chocolate cake with mouse and ganache, or the fresh fruit tart, or warm cherry pinwheel croissant. I wanted to dive headfirst into the dessert case. Being with my family at this place was as delightful as the food was delicious.

Those memories cannot be taken from me. And yet, I wanted to try the new café too, especially since it promised award-winning Italian coffee.

Upon entering the multi-story building, it wasn’t cozy, rather, it was open and bright, and I don’t hate that when I like to see what I am eating. The woman who waited on me gave me the maluch when I interrupted her conversation with a coworker. One sip of coffee hit my taste buds like an Italian Stallion punch. I opted against trying any food item. I wouldn’t say the experience brought me joy, outside of drooling over the mouthwatering pastries in the case.

While continuing my walk, I thought about the people who go to places or hold onto something or someone out of consistency or habit. And then I thought about the other people who love to try something new to add spice to life or perhaps are never satisfied or purely enjoy something different.

I am married to the first camp. He and his family prefer the same restaurants, hotels, narrow food categories, music, and vacation destinations. I have my feet in both camps but tend to be more in the second one. I love variety and trying anything new. One camp isn’t necessarily better than the other, but it does make me wonder why camp one members hold onto the same thing over and over and over. Is it holding onto a memory? Food, music, and travel all have their own embedded place in our soul, and I understand the desire to repeat a good experience. But I’ve never been able to do that. It is never the same experience twice. It’s never as good as the first time.

Admittedly, I have been disappointed in trying something new too. Yet, change and being different are inevitable and not all bad. Someone once told me “You’ve changed.” I tried to get greater clarification on exactly what she was referring to, but she couldn’t or wouldn’t name it. I said, “thank you, I hope so, because when we stop changing, we die.”

I don’t believe in sticking with the same anything just because that’s what I’ve always done or known. There are people who go to the same coffee shop, bookstore, vacation spot, church, restaurant …just because that’s what they’ve always done. I am not a “just because” kind of gal. My husband has his few favorite restaurants, fewer favorite foods, and even fewer favorite musicians. He listens to one musical artist 24/7. Not an exaggeration. In this moment, I am on a continuous loop of Bob Dylan, but he is totally new to me. And it’s his music from the 1960s that has enamored me with him as a lyrical genius and his music from the years when I first came into the world. It’s connecting with my genuine spirit and self.

Are you a tried-and-true kind of person or up for trying the new? I think there’s room for both.

Back to La Chatelaine being worried about the competition, they don’t need to be. And this leads to my current situation of a new competitor on the market with the drug I am selling. Our management is in a tizzy over how this new product will take away our market share and kill our business. But I am not worried. I believe there is enough difference between our two products and enough business to go around. Some people prefer proven and established products while others are willing to give it a go with shiny new drug. There isn’t one café best for everyone and there isn’t one drug best for everyone.

I believe in my product, and I believe change can be good, but more than anything, I believe choices are even better.

“I will not be IGNORED, Dan!”

Mon, 02 Jun 2025 21:38:33 GMT

(Movie quote:
Guess the movie, totally unrelated to this story.

The answer is somewhere below.)

Created from dust and breath, and to the earth we shall return. One can only hope. As of last

count, there were 8 billion people on planet earth and unless the asphalt jungles and urban sprawl

minimized, eternal resting spaces seem iffy.

A piece of paper plucked from the crevasse of my front door inflamed this concern of scarcity.

The flier described a proposed four-story performing arts center featuring 500 new parking

spaces on 50 acres of farmland only 100 yards from our front porch.

The mega project was news to me and the neighbors, who’ve always expected that farmland to

become a park -- a serene park for pickup games of various sports, afternoon picnics, and sunset

strolls. NOT a parking tower for a regional art center. The paper explained a public meeting to

share the details of the plan.

I, along with 200 residents, attended the meeting held outdoors in the public square. We faced off

with three members of the city council and city employees. Almost every resident spoke against

the towering theatre project. City officials appeared taken aback by the outraged residents and

were even more alarmed when documents circulated through the crowd exposing their blatant

disregard for the legal document, clearly outlining what the property was to be used for, which

was signed by the city and the property’s former owners many years ago.

I hadn’t intended to speak, but after seeing the land deed from 1999, I cried foul at the council’s

plan. Rising to my feet, I cited three performing art centers already in town, each with existing

buildings, land, parking, established infrastructure, and proximity to major freeways. The council

looked at me without comment. After the meeting adjourned, the city officials fled the crowd

with their eyes widened and lips shut.

City officials’ swift exit left a small group of residents on the public square to quickly form an

alliance to oppose the city’s grand illusion.

After the first public meeting, I was all in! I can’t save the whole earth, but I will join forces to

fight for the legacy of a family farm and the intent for which the land was purchased. Fifty acres

of green space were wiped off the blueprints for an event center that requires additional streets,

sewer and drainage systems, twice the traffic, sky-scraping metal lights and noise exceeding 120

decibels. I must get involved. When we take care of the earth, we take care of mankind, and

standing up for this space would honor indigenous ancestors and be an inheritance for the next

generation.

Every time the group of concerned citizens met, I learned where the real dirt was in this fight. I

learned of ethics violations, misappropriation of funds, false personal accusations, illegal

removal of council members, and verbal abuse between peers. One neighbor called it, “Politics

as usual.” Another resident told how he discovered the plans to expand roadways and sidewalks

the day a bulldozer drove through his front yard.

The concerned citizens’ committee attended every monthly council meeting asking questions and

presenting compelling evidence to pressure them into honoring the deed. We met in someone’s

home to share updates, compare intel, and discuss best strategies. The residents walked a fine

line because the land was purchased at a fair price and rightfully belonged to the city. It became a

matter of integrity to develop the park agreed upon in 1999. The more I learned of the

unscrupulous behavior of past and present councils; the more I doubted decisions would be in

favor of green space. What appeared to be a simple save the land initiative soon became taking

on city hall.

At several council meetings I approached the podium, spoke directly into the microphone,

nervously stated my name and address as protocol requires, and asked about the intentions for

the property. I was methodical, direct, and expected answers. What I didn’t expect was the

collective refusal to respond. Every time, each one completely ignored me.

I tossed and turned in bed many nights, calculating what I did wrong and wondered about a

better approach to get council to respect the deed. I dreamt of tactics used by one determined

woman in Fatal Attraction.*

I assumed standing on science and a legal document would produce a positive result. I shared the

science behind utilizing the land as a park. I included facts such as green space improving overall

health and wellbeing, the physical and mental impact of being in nature, and improved mood,

focus, and Vitamin D. I held up research about physical activity reducing anxiety, increasing pain

tolerance and improved sleep. I summarized a synergistic effect when physical activity is

combined with being in nature.

Yet, despite the sound data, my presentation was met with silence and pitiful stares from every

council member.

As time dragged on without results, threads began to unravel within the neighborhood

committee. Differing opinions surfaced on how best to move forward.

I reflected, this fight will require more money, resources, and energy. None of which I had much

of. And yet, standing up for green space requires digging deep within myself to find a way to

make it happen. Saving the environment is worth the unrelenting effort required.

Then, a minor miracle occurred. After three of our committee members met privately with city

employees, the city agreed to recognize the woman who sold them the land with a 100 th birthday

celebration. Declaring it “E. Gould Day,” council created a pocket park just off the main

sidewalk measuring approximately 30’ x 12’, with a sign designating “E. Gould Park.” There

was fanfare with city council members beaming proudly over the newly created park.

Newspapers covered the victory for the people, townsfolk showed up for the ribbon cutting, and

the city hosted a birthday cake reception at city hall.

And yet, there is still 49 ¾ acres of green space not being discussed in public, a fact I couldn’t

ignore.

TBD…

*answer to the movie quote quiz

Something Out of Nothing

Mon, 02 Jun 2025 21:38:19 GMT

"Weathered Moments: Reflections on Nature and Family"

My mind wandered with the river. I thought, “How does the atmosphere and ground culminate

into a substance that can be felt and seen, sometimes in quantities of destruction? What makes

rain, thunder and lightning, wind and any form of precipitation, appear out of what seems like

nothing.”

It takes temperatures from above, on the ground, and in the air to mix with whatever is in

between to create a tangible, sometimes terrifying, weather situation. This is much like a recipe

or favorite cocktail when ingredients come together, mixed, shaken, warmed, or cooled, to create

something solid and ne w.

The weight of precipitation is equally fascinating. Snow can be light or heavy, making for great

packing snow for snowmen, snowballs, forts, and ramps for sledding, while other flakes have the

consistency of boxed mashed potatoes. Rain can be as misty as a steam sauna or fall from the sky

in drops large enough to crack a windshield.

My wondering weather contemplations ended when we arrived at the ramp to disembark. It was

time, no one really wanted to be ki-yi-yaking anymore.

I recall other times the weather gained my attention. When my father-in-law became bedridden, I

opened the window whenever it rained for us to enjoy the shared admiration of nature’s sound.

Another evening, while I sat in a friend’s all-season room under a tin roof, I was lulled by the

steady rain tapping like fingertips on the roof.

Sometimes, I’ve sat in my car relaxing to the sound of rain. I never mind giving the rain a chance

to slow before getting out of my car. One day while making sales calls, the rain poured like

Niagara Falls. I didn’t have time to wait, and the only parking space was far from the door. I

walked as fast as my blinking eyes could see and was drenched from head to toe. With every step

I took, water squished from the pressure of my feet and bailed over the sides of my stilettos. I

wanted to throw myself in a dryer before presenting myself to the office. But in the end, the rain

worked in my favor. The nurse took pity on me, not only with paper towels, but two minutes of

access to the physician even though I had no appointment.

Much like rain, snow also calms me. Flakes falling from the sky lower my blood pressure with

waves of stillness each time my eyes follow the downward movement of white mysteries. My

mind settles, my heart fills with content, and the rare snowstorm is welcome here anytime.

I know it’s science-based with how the air, ground, and temperatures combine to create

precipitation, but there’s still an uncertainty to the timing and intensity of the result. What makes

it a “light” snow or a life-threatening blizzard? What takes a movement in the ocean from the

pull of the moon and water temperature to produce a devastating hurricane with damaging winds

days later and hundreds of miles away. What makes one storm system on the meteorologist’s

radar appear harmless, then suddenly become a disaster?

Even with all the scientific weather forecasting equipment there is still an element of mystique

and unpredictability and wonder.

The sound of thunder never ceases to startle and amazes me. Our house was hit by a ginormous

bolt of lightning in 2006 that sounded like a bomb exploded under my bed. I thought we were

under attack. Our home shook and my body jumped! While the storm was a tiny red blip on the

weather radar, that one bolt of lightning caught our house on fire and left us living in a rental

home for a year. To this day, bolts of lightning make me jolt like when my sister hid behind a

door and jumped out to scare the daylights out of me.

After penning my weather ponderings early one Saturday morning, I turned on Turner Classic

Movies, my go-to channel. I was blown away by Prophet Without Honor, a short film about Lt.

Matthew Fontaine Maury, a colorful naval officer who developed the first maps that chartered

the ocean’s winds and currents. The timing of his story and my fascination about weather are not

lost at sea with me. This channel really knows how to channel my thoughts.

To experience a visceral response to gentle rain, a blanket of snow or frightening thunderstorm

reminds me of how intricately connected our bodies are with God’s magnificent elements of

nature. God created this earth and atmosphere, as well was us. Weather reminds me that we are

delicately joined.

Once while kayaking on a river with my family in Michigan, it began to rain. The happenstance

of me being in a kayak on a river during a rainstorm surrounded by my family was once in a

lifetime. We don’t own kayaks, and we aren’t river people. So, to be on the water flowing

downstream with gentle, sometimes hard, rain from above was an experience I will never forget.

I felt immersed between two of God’s great wonders: nature and my family.

I want to be an outdoorsy kind of gal, but I don’t like bugs, and I don’t have the wherewithal to

be alone outside. I’ve watched many scary movies with wooded scenes and creepy people

popping out of lakes and behind trees. But this outdoor event was a planned vacation activity on

the weekend my son proposed to his girlfriend. Ultimately, whatever the soon-to-be engaged

couple wanted to do; we did. Because, she is an outdoorsy gal, and so are her friends and family.

While our family has been labeled “indoor cats” we are fully aware of, when in Rome, or

Michigan, do as the natives do, and go along with kayaking-camping-hiking people.

The fun went south when my daughter fell into the river, overturning her kayak. Then my other

son’s girlfriend fell in and neither of them wanted to be kayaking from the start. But they went

along to get along, because that’s what families do. Then came the rain, which wasn’t as

welcomed by others as it was by me. I was dry, and clean, and felt at one with the Creator in that

moment while kayaking.

Knocked to the Ground, by a Feather

Mon, 02 Jun 2025 21:37:51 GMT

Really Ready and Letting Go ...

Ruminating with each turn of my bicycle wheels, I pictured the many moments my son would

need me, and I wouldn’t be there for him. He was preparing to leave the safety of the nest, the

nest that I built with everything I had, and move five states south to finish college.

Yes, he was legally an adult, but I wasn’t ready to kick him out nor untie my apron strings. What

if he gets sick, or in an accident, or has heat stroke, or strep throat, or makes bad decisions. I

wouldn’t have my eyes on him to make sure he was ok, nor be able to drive down the street to

rescue him if he needed.

I don’t know if children are ever really ready to be on their own. Or is it that some parents aren’t

really ready to let go. I stand in that parental group. When our oldest sons left for college, I

immediately listed everything I hadn’t taught them. Did they know to wash chicken before

cooking it? We didn’t discuss financial responsibility or car maintenance. On the plus side, they

did know how to wash their own clothes. They learned that skill when I couldn’t keep up with

the laundry for six people, four of whom played sports with lots of dirt. My husband learned it

quickly when he questioned how I did the laundry. My answer, “Do it yourself!” My laziness to

keep up with chores and my feminist attitude saved me from doing anyone else’s laundry ever

again.

As a family, we got through each day. I fed and loved them, made sure they kept their

commitments to school, sports, and church, and provided them with clothing and shelter. What

else did we have time for? The older ones survived and learned more on their own than I could

ever teach in their 18 years under my roof.

But when my youngest son was ready to fly, all my shortcomings as a mother came rushing to

the forefront, reminding me of how I didn’t take enough time to teach him everything necessary

to live without me being within arm’s reach.

That morning while biking and counting what I hadn’t done and what he still needed to learn, I

stopped for a water break. The sun was shining. It was a perfect Saturday morning with blue

skies begging me to look up. I did. Caribbean blue above me! Then I looked down as I returned

my water bottle to its metal cage, and there on the black asphalt, beside my tennis shoe, I saw a

feather. A long black and tan feather. As soon as I saw it, I heard the Holy Spirit whispering to

let my son fly. The Divine cares for and takes care of the birds and lilies, and of course God will

take care of my precious child.

I felt a hint of relief and a little nudge to release him to the world. I had to let him go. I had to

trust him, and trust in the One who created him, who is ever present, within reach, keeping watch

with a protective band of angels hovering where I can’t.

A short three years later, when it was time for my one and only daughter to fly the coop, all the

same worries, fears, and “what ifs” filled my head again. How quickly I forgot that my sons were

quite capable without me. But this was my little girl, moving to a “party school” five hours away.

It was within a reasonable driving distance, but still! I didn’t know if she was a street-smart

young woman, and there was so much more we needed to teach a daughter regarding the ways of

the outside world. I couldn’t cover all the topics if we lived a lifetime under one roof!

Wouldn’t you know, upon returning from a run on yet another fabulous Saturday morning, I

looked down at the front door and there it was … the smallest blue and grey feather, the size of a

baby bluejay. Hmm….my baby girl. I had to let her go too.

Again, our loving God, through a delicately formed angel wing, gently reminded me, “It’s okay,

Momma bird. She will fly and I will surround her with love, protection, direction, and wisdom.”

I hold onto that holy comforting promise from Psalm 91:4, “God will cover you with his feathers

and under those wings you will be protected, God’s faithfulness is a shield…” Amen sister!

Fan or Foe

Mon, 28 Apr 2025 16:59:36 GMT

Unraveling Obsession: Bob Dylan’s Influence and His Nemesis

From Fan to Foe

Mr. A.J. Weberman was the most famous nemesis to my beloved Bob Dylan, and therefore, a

nemesis of mine. It’s only been a few months since the beginning of my infatuation with the

creative genius and musical legend, Bob Dylan. I blame and thank the movie, A Complete

Unknown, for my obsession with the man, the music, the ‘60s, and the power and influence of

certain people.

The movie opened a door for me to explore the relationships between Bob and his girlfriend,

Suze, his fellow musicians, his music, and his fans. I am fascinated with the dynamics of being a

creative person, developing that talent, building a career and having millions of adoring fans.

Then at the peak of popularity, and the flip of an electrical switch, he lost more than half of them.

He was at first considered an acoustic guitar folk singing icon, a lyrical and political hero for the

socially conscious. But when he added the electric guitar and rock genre to his repertoire, half of

his fans turned on him, one shouted “JUDAS” at his concert in England.

Creating music, art, poetry, or writing of any kind is deeply personal, and putting it out in public

is risky, brave, and unpredictable. A true artist doesn’t create for other people, they create

because they can’t not do it. The place where inspiration and creativity come from is

unexplainable. One can’t conjure an artistic creation into existence as if pulling it out of the

ground. It comes to the artist, as a gift, origin unknown. I find inspiration everywhere and

sometimes in the strange and serendipitous. They aren’t scheduled or cajoled or plucked from a

creative pantry. My best writing has come from life’s dark moments and odd circumstances and

being open to the moment, whatever and wherever that may be.

I believe artists follow where the spirit leads. Bob’s first album was mostly covers of other

people’s music. He was strongly influenced by folk musicians, but he also loved rock’n roll,

blues, and country. The album that thrusted him into stardom was Freewheelin’ in 1963. It was

all his own music and includes ballads, love songs, quirky ones, and political ones too. But I

don’t understand how such a prolific musician who wrote all kinds of music got pigeonholed as

“the political hero” and ostracized for not being political enough with his music and power.

Recently, Mr. A. J. Weberman has surfaced on my social media feed and I learned he was, and

still is, Bob Dylan’s nemesis. Back in the ‘60s he began as one of Dylan’s biggest fans, but then

he turned on him, and turned on him hard, when Dylan didn’t develop into a major political

musician activist. At least that is Weberman’s reasoning for criticizing Dylan from every possible

angle.

Since Weberman likes labels so much, let’s put him in the “foe” file. He felt Dylan was

neglectful of “the movement.” A view shared by others too, but none at this man’s level. I would

consider Weberman a stalker by today’s standards. He went through Dylan’s garbage, showed up

on Dylan’s front door, brought university students to Dylan’s private home, and organized a

massive birthday party. This last event included thousands of people outside Dylan’s townhouse

to the point where police had to close the streets. And he never stopped hammering Dylan, even

to this day, for not using his musical talent for political statements and change.

Its hard for me to comprehend having the talent and passion to create music, have millions of

fans adore the work, and then because you don’t create what they want from you, they heap hate

on you. My heart breaks for Dylan, who at the height of his popularity had many fans, and fellow

folk musicians, turn against him for not doing what they felt he should do.

Throughout Dylan’s sixty year musical career, Weberman lurked like a heavy storm cloud and

even turned his obsessive angst toward Dylan’s son Jakob. I wonder how one person can be so

concerned and expend so much negative energy toward another human for six decades and

counting? Good for Bob though, he got some great inspiration and unforgettable songs from

writing about it, although not substantiated, “Positively 4 th Street.” Where he sings, “I wish for

that just one time you could stand inside my shoes, you’d know what a drag it is to see you.”

Which further fueled Webermans’ spleen. Many artists have taken aim on their nemesis’ and

created some of the best music. Consider, Dolly Parton’s Jolene , Miley Cyrus’ Flowers , Nancy

Sinatra’s These Boots , and the queen of making music out of those who have wronged her,

Taylor Swift.

I work with and know people firsthand who are overly concerned about what other people are

doing according to their own standards and expectations. To them I say, “Mind your own

business.” Besides, our lives, and Dylan’s music, are more about love and life than politics.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized a Weberman lives in my own head. I question if

I am doing what I should be doing or am I just trying to please other people. I set unrealistic

expectations of myself, I ask more and more of myself and almost always do what others think I

should. I am never satisfied with what I am doing or have done, it’s never good enough, it’s

never enough. I give that judgmental and critical Weberman voice too much power.

I wonder how many other people have a Weberman in their life, by their own doing or through a

parent, sibling, spouse, or boss. I’m afraid there are too many Webermans in this world, that dark

negative sense always questioning, never satisfied, constantly expecting something else from

someone else. Just thinking about it, wears on me like a backpack full of bricks.

Free Her Soul

Mon, 28 Apr 2025 16:59:30 GMT

Unraveling Generations: Can We Break the Cycle?

Is it possible to heal the mental pain of my grandmothers and their mothers and perhaps their

mothers? Then I wondered, how far back does mental illness go in our family, and is it inherited?

I know of a family where six out of seven children have been treated for depression. Yet in

another family, only one of five children suffer from mental illness. Can we blame our genes or

change our genes?

My maternal grandmother experienced electric shock treatments and multiple psychiatric

hospitalizations over her adult life to treat her severe depression. She lost her mother tragically

when she was only nine years old. There are two different stories about how it happened, the G-

rated version and the R-rated version.

The kid friendly version is that she stood on a stool to reach for something high in the cabinet

when she fell off the stool and hit her head. It was from that fall that she died. My grandmother

told me that story.

The true story, and one she admitted to my sister later in life, was that her mother died of a

botched abortion performed by her own mother-in-law. Let’s unpack that version.

My maternal grandfather’s mother was a midwife, therefore when the “situation” arose, she

assumed her expertise would qualify her to rid her son and his wife of child number four.

Something went horribly wrong, and my grandmother’s mother bled to death at the young age of

twenty-nine.

The plot thickens. Why was the abortion done? Too many kids and not enough money? Did my

great grandmother ask to be rid of the baby? Or was the child another man’s child? Answers we

will never have. The final prospect leads me to the other side of my family. My father’s

grandmother who had three children by three different men, and none of which I know anything

about.

What kind of lives or traumatic events did these women experience to have impacted their

mental health or were they just born this way?

My father once shared with us, only a month before he died, about his mother who suffered from

suicidal ideation. It was revealed at a doctor’s appointment during routine questions about his

own feelings of depression and suicidal ideation. My mother, sister, and I were with him for this

consultation about his shortness of breath and pain in his lower lung. The nurse questioned him

about his family’s history and my father recalled a memory of his mother.

I will never forget how defeated he looked sitting in the wheelchair with his eyes on the ground

and his mind turning back decades. He spoke softly, picturing the exact moment when his mother

said she was going to kill herself by driving her car into a lake. His voice and thoughts drifted

farther, and he said, “I chased after her…I never rode my bike so fast. But I couldn’t pedal fast

enough to keep up. I was about twelve years old.” His head remained low, perhaps thinking more

but not saying anything else. My sister and I darted a look at each other as we had never heard

this story before.

What happened in my grandmother’s life that led up to that moment? How did that impact my

father? I wish he were still here for me to ask him.

Scant research indicates the potential for a spiritual component to have a positive impact on

mental health. My maternal grandmother, Margaret, was raised in the Catholic Church, attended

mass regularly throughout her entire life up until she became bedridden in her nineties. She was

a practicing Catholic, but I will never know if that fed or harmed her soul.

My paternal grandmother didn’t go to church. My father was a spiritual seeker on his own, he

went to church even though his parents did not. He had something within that pulled him

spiritually. If only I knew this when he was alive.

Let’s explore when and/or how the spirit is activated, because we can take the child to church but

we can’t make them drink the holy water. Many children for generations are forced to attend

church, some once a week, some three times a week, others daily. The physical existence inside a

designated building doesn’t feed the soul. That is religion, not faith.

Is it something we are born with, a God gene perhaps? Looking back on my own life, my spirit

was always murmuring to me. At first, I heard it as threats of going to hell if I did or didn’t do

something. But as I matured in my relationship with God, the voice became one of love and

energy. Today, nurturing my soul is as necessary as food to my body.

I once read that we can help heal our ancestors’ pain. That intrigued me, as I know of the mental

anguish of many generations in my family. I want to tap into that process out of love for my

grandmothers and perhaps for their grandmothers and who knows how far back my gene pool

chemicals need balanced?!

Becoming a Bravey

Mon, 28 Apr 2025 16:32:12 GMT

Honoring Vietnam Veterans: A Parade of Remembrance and Unity

Our city council organized a “Welcome Home” parade for the 50 th anniversary of the end to the

Vietnam War. When I first saw the promotion for it, I hoped enough people would show up to

support and be thankful for our forgotten and often mistreated veterans.

I considered how I was coming into the world in 1964, while these men and women were going

off to a foreign land to “show up for democracy and stand up to Communism.” I heard the awful

way these heroes were treated upon coming home after experiencing the atrocities of war, I

didn’t want them to feel that again. Therefore, I wanted to support them and hoped everyone else

would do the same to honor those who showed up bravely for the good of all mankind.

Then, I forgot about the parade as my focus turned to another event on the same day, the women-

sponsored “Hands Off” rally: the movement to stand up to the idiocy of our government leaders.

It was a national event happening in DC and in cities coast to coast. I wanted to participate and

entertained the thought of driving to DC. But when I reached out to several friends, they all had

other commitments. If I went, it would be alone, probably not the safest thing to do. To clarify, I

am not a protester, as of yet, I have strong opinions, voiced within the confines of my home.

A local “Hands Off” event was happening in downtown Cincinnati. Not totally a safe place,

especially for a woman protesting solo. I was hesitant and slightly fearful as I let my imagination

spin out of control and pictured being tear-gassed or a physical altercation or getting arrested. All

scenes from my recent movie obsession, A Complete Unknown. My son even warned me, and

said I can do other things as effectively and not put myself in harm’s way.

I considered other ways to support the cause, send money, or join an organization. But while on a

walk the morning of the rally, I remembered the parade. It was scheduled for 10:00am, and the

rally at 11:00am. I thought I could attend both, maybe. After more walking and praying, I knew I

had to at least attend the parade.

I did, and it was emotional, powerful, and a bigger crowd than I thought, which was good. The

fire department ladder trucks formed an arch over the caravan of jeeps, each with a Vietnam

veteran or two inside. One veteran wiped away tears as we waved, clapped, and said “thank

you.” Some healing, perhaps.

I was inspired to go to the rally, albeit with hesitation. I planned to drive near the area and get a

feel for the crowd and my safety. All the while, I questioned if this was a smart decision. But

then I remembered another scene from A Complete Unknown when Suze takes Bob to a civil

rights rally. In real life, she was the one who influenced him to be politically and socially active.

Go Suze! Dylan attended the March on Washington to stand up for civil rights in 1963. I asked

myself, what would Dylan and Suze do? Go!

Once I was near the area, I saw the crowd of all ages, ethnicities, genders, and all carrying signs

that matched my sentiments, I knew I was safe to participate. I followed the traffic into the

parking garage, and once out of my car, followed women, some older than me, and some much

younger than me, alone and carrying signs. Signs made from anything they had, pizza boxes,

oversize envelopes, brown paper bags, cardboard, whatever would show their support for the

“Hands-Off” movement.

It was a positive, historic, and political movement to stand up for human rights, dignity, the

constitution, common sense, and against tyranny, abuse of power, ignorance, etc. And as one sign

said, “Too many issues, not enough posterboard.”

My inner hippie and confidence ballooned when they sang a Woody Guthrie song about fascism.

Woody Guthrie was one of Bob Dylan’s heroes. Then my inner bravey busted forth, when the

crowd broke into “This Land is your land, this land is my land….” Another scene from the

movie when Pete Seeger sings on the steps of city hall after going to court for being unpatriotic.

The timing of the veterans’ parade and the rally and the inspiration of Suze Rotolo are not lost on

me. If I had not remembered about the parade, and showed up for the veterans, I know I would

not have gone to the rally. But I was so moved by the American pride, humankind, and I was

already in my car driving, so why not drive downtown and put myself out there to support all

human rights. Stand up, show up, be brave!

I grew that day when I faced my fears, and I am grateful for the odd way the movie, and Suze

and Dylan continue to inspire and impact my life.

NYC, Bobby D, Suze and me

Thu, 10 Apr 2025 12:33:50 GMT

A Birthday to Remember

Last fall I mentioned to my family that an item on my bucket list was attending a national dog

show. My daughter-in-law searched the internet and quickly shared, “There’s one in NYC the

weekend of your birthday.” I looked at my husband and said, “Let’s go!”

His half-hearted enthusiasm at traveling to NYC for a dog show told me, “No thank you.” My

daughter-in-law said she would go with me and that inspired an idea for me to celebrate my

daughter and three daughters-in-law for being the most incredible women, and me for my

birthday. Hence, a girls’ trip to NYC was born.

Unbeknownst at the time of that conversation, when it came time to take the trip the following

February, I had become obsessed with Bob Dylan, NYC, and the history and power of women.

It was the end of December when two friends suggested the movie, A Complete Unknown, the

story of Bob Dylan. My husband and I, for something to do on a date-night whim, went to see it.

We were mostly alone in the theater, and weren’t Dylanologists, and yet, all I can say is that I

caught a spark that night.

It was a phenomenal movie, the acting, casting, writing, directing, music, all of it… spot on!

When it was over, my interest focused on his girlfriend, what happened to her, what made her cry

at his concerts, and not wanting to be with him when the whole world wanted to be with him,

and be him? I read about and discovered her real name was the only one Bob Dylan did not give

permission to use in the movie out of respect for her. She had passed away and Dylan wouldn’t

let her real name be used. I found that so sweet and respectful. I also found out that she wrote a

book about their relationship in 2008. I bought it immediately.

Her story is fascinating. Briefly, she and her family were political outcasts; she was only seventeen

when she was living on her own and met Dylan. She was an activist for human and civil rights,

an artist, an independent woman without understanding how to embrace that role.

This movie and her life came to me at a time when I was newly absorbed in women’s history and

women in business books, and civil rights.

The movie is set in the small timeframe of 513-315-2288, and the culture, counterculture, politics,

human rights, assassinations, annihilation from nuclear war, fear, and freedom all collided and

created some of the most poetic and profound music of all time. I came into the world while all of

this was happening.

So much history! And I am just now discovering all that I was not taught, including women’s

history, black history, indigenous, immigrant history, all of it hidden or poorly recorded. I want to

give it light and healing. The people who stood up in the sixties inspired me today to show up and

stand up to the equally horrendous (why can’t we evolve) politics and civil rights! Every word of

the folk singers, songwriters, and Dylan are as true today and needed as much now as then.

I am now reading the book in which the movie was based, Dylan Goes Electric, where it speaks

of music and political culture almost as one of the characters in the story.

The timing of this is what really leaves me speechless, and at the same time unable to stop talking

about it. The movie and its subject happened in NYC. When I made the comment out loud

about going to a dog show, and then discovering one in NYC over my birthday was incredible

enough. And the fact that it blossomed into a girl’s trip to honor them and then a few months

later being fully absorbed in celebrating the power of the feminine, NYC, and the desire to

change the world is nothing short of divine providence.

If all of that wasn’t enough serendipity for one to comprehend, a few weeks ago while updating

my head shots and photos for this website the photographer asked me to sit on the couch and put

my head in my hands. I smiled from the depth of my soul. Why? Because that is the exact pose

that Bob Dylan’s girlfriend did when they took photographs for his second album. The album she

inspired, the very one that thrust him into stardom, and the photo where they look so young, in

love, and fully committed to one another.

The photographer also asked if I wanted to play music while we took photos, of course I said yes

and turned on Bob Dylan. At the very moment when we took the shot of me posing like his

girlfriend the song was playing from the scene in the movie where she recites, “… the line it is

drawn, the curse it is cast, the slow one now, will later be fast, as the present now…” then he rips

the paper from her hand before she finishes. Then she tells him, “Your first album was all other

people’s music.” She turns and leaves him pondering those inspiring words. It was she who

inspired and encouraged him to be himself and trust in his talent. I love that scene, that song, and

their relationship. I am in a time and place in my life where “the times they are a changin’.”

How Celtic Ancestry Freed My Writing Voice

Wed, 05 Feb 2025 16:51:13 GMT

A Comforting Message

Three days after my father’s passing, I received a comforting message that my dad was, and

always will be, with me. Surprisingly, it was delivered by a hot-headed Irishman driving a Ford

Mustang in a murder mystery movie from 1968. Luck of the Irish? Indeed.

To begin with, my birthdate coincides with the Feast of St. Brigid, who is the only female patron

saint of Ireland, same level as Patrick and Columba. She is associated with creativity, extreme

generosity, and is also the patron saint of midwives. In addition, my great-great grandmother was

a midwife, who delivered her own son, unassisted, in a doorway. I had been pregnant with stories

for twenty years and after learning of my strong feminine ancestry, I gave birth to what felt like

an overdue child.

I knew Irish roots completed multiple branches of our family tree, yet with territorial changes

over the centuries, it was not clear if they were truly Irish or Scottish. But whatever I am, when I

honor the green, my stories fly like fairies.

The Gaelic flow did not happen at first, my recently published book, God is in the Odd, the

Ordinary, and Outside Church needed two decades to ferment. The manuscript flip-flopped from

a novel, then a screenplay, to first person memoir, then fiction based on fact, but it never found

its place.

The first version, a short story, offended my Catholic husband, which should have told me I was

onto something, but instead my conscience sequestered my thoughts, keeping them benign and

small. Also lingering in the back of my mind was the time when I was thirteen years old and

angered a priest when I questioned why women couldn’t be priests, bishops, or a pope. His

snarling look seared my memory bank for life, add to that my husband’s reaction, and the fact

that my mother was the church secretary, squelched my curiosity to challenge religious

traditions.

My obligation to write in a way so as not to get kicked out of the family, or ex-communicated

from the church, inhibited the truth. And yet, the more I wrote, the greater the inner conflict

divided my mind and soul. One wanted to shout furiously everything I believed to be wrong with

organized religion, while the other coated my words with sugar.

One year before my father passed, I left a job that nourished my soul for a corporate one that

crushed me to the core. It became a death by papercuts every minute of my work week. Then a

former colleague suggested, “You need to find something outside of your work that feeds your

spirit.” It was her advice that led me to discover Celtic culture, spirituality, and my authentic self.

I found social media groups, authors, and books that lifted the confinement of my narrow-

minded thinking and freed my writing to be what it was meant to be.

Once I connected with the Celts, I embraced the whimsical humor of their storytelling, along

with rhythm and musicality. I learned that prayer, meditation, communing with nature, caring for those in need, hospitality, art, and imagination are cornerstones of their spiritual practice.

Moreso, they believe the presence of the sacred is in all experiences. Every aspect of this culture

aligned with my inner voice and the story within my heart.

Typical Celtic personality traits include being emotional, possessing an active imagination, and

the gift of gab (which naturally includes storytelling). But also, a vivacious spirit, kindliness

toward frailties of others, personal charm, and wit. I’m all that and a bag of fish and chips. The

door flew wide open for me to cross a new threshold of freely expressing myself regardless of

how bizarre and odd the experiences were. My narrative voice flowed like whiskey at Tim

Finnegan’s wake.

On the occasion when my inner critic arose to tell me that my story was boring and no one cared

or that it really sucked, I reminded myself that I was writing for the four people I love more than

life itself, my children. Keeping them at the forefront gave me the confidence to kick that critic

to the curb.

Historically, women in the Celtic culture have been esteemed, holding leadership roles, including

as Bishops, priests, and in the military. Learning about how women were revered in most ancient

cultures and their stories of courage and steadfastness, empowered me to write with conviction

and vulnerability.

My current morning ritual includes walking outside to converse with my ancestors and ask how I

can honor them with my writing. Knowing they are only a breath away brings forth streams of

thought, details, and stories that strengthen my prose.

In my recent book, I share serious situations, including the death of my father, job loss, and a

house fire. Like most Irish songs, tragedy is alongside humor, and I discovered the twists of

humor in the dark moments were and continue to be more healing than medicine.

Embracing the Celtic belief that the sacred exists in everything frees me to find the story in

anything. Thinking with an expansive mindset broke the barrier of holding back for the sake of

others’ opinions. I believe my ancestors are honored when my writing makes people

uncomfortable, provokes thought and dialogue, includes humor, and leads to change.