Children come to our doors and ask for treats (the threat of tricks isn’t real, not anymore). Or is it? That’s part of the fun. Give me something sweet or I will give you something frightening?

Life itself has been thoroughly frightening this last year and a half. We have been compulsive about germs, viruses. And rightly so. We knew so little about the terror facing us. Now we can see that some of our rituals to protect us were not quite on target. We sanitized everything. And it turned out that the air we shared was the thing that was most dangerous. Airborne pathogens. Nothing, really, is more terrifying. Unseen enemy, carried by children, friends, relatives. Without intention, without malice.

And we faced other airborne terrors, too. From our persistent media that can so easily spread, through the air, information that is twisted, malicious, and destructive.

But tonight we had a little slice of normalcy. A little slice of neighbor visiting neighbor, secure in the fact that a good share of us have been vigilant, have done what we can to protect ourselves and others. And for a time, we feel like we can safely breathe, safely interact, safely enjoy each other’s company.

Tonight I thought of my mother as I ate a bite or two of Butterfinger candy, her favorite. And I thought that if I had such a thing as bacon drippings and rye bread, I might eat that in honor of my father. Simple little pleasures. Tasty, comforting. Happy memories.

I hope you had some happy memories too, tonight. And some fun. Let’s all move towards more.

I am in my thirties, and we have two young children. My husband has taken them off to church and I am home attending to the housecleaning and cooking of the turkey. Guests are coming in the afternoon, expecting the traditional holiday feast. I’m new at cooking turkey, but confident I can manage. What’s so hard about seasoning a bird and putting it in the oven? I’ve done it with chicken hundreds of times. I’m optimistic, looking forward to the family gathering in our home for the traditional feasting.

So the bird is in the oven, holiday music is playing, and I am sweeping the kitchen floor, tidying the living room, and making sure the bathroom has the required fresh hand towels and new bar of soap. I unwrap the Palmolive, and for a moment breathe in the smell of clean -- the linen-closet kind of clean -- where I’d like to rest a few moments with the folded towels and sheets. But I must keep moving. Still a lot to do.

The table is set with my grandmother’s china (she gifted it when we got married) the little pink flowers scattered across the plate, fading gold trim at the edge. Never quite the pattern I would have chosen, but pretty enough, and service for twelve. I was glad to have it, and glad that it had once graced my grandmother’s table. She hasn’t been with us since shortly after our first child was born, and that is such a loss for me, and for them. She was the calm center at the eye of our extended family storm. Although always at odds with my other grandmother, who she referred to as Mrs. Efverlund, and Mrs. Efverlund referred to her as Mrs. Smith. They had taken ‘polite’ to a level of contempt that was palpable. You get the picture. But she was the one with a ready laugh, a new story, that could make us all glad to be together. And her appreciation for just being alive was like a balm for the troubled souls around our table. I miss her. I will always miss her.

I pass through the kitchen, and notice that the heat that had been emanating from the oven was no longer happening. I put my hand on the stovetop. It’s cold. I open the oven door. A slight warmth, but only slight, seeps out. The turkey is still cold. The oven has stopping working. I panic. I pour myself a glass of wine. I breathe. I think to myself that there must be another way of cooking a turkey. The burners are still working, thank you universe, but how can one cook a big turkey on top of the stove?

Then I remember that I have a big drop-drop baster, also inherited from my grandmother. A heavy, cast iron pan with a domed lid. Would the turkey fit in that? I can hear my grandmother saying to me “Come on. We can do this! There is more than one way to cook a turkey! People are just going to cut it up anyway, and if it tastes good, no one will even care.” I’ll just have to cut it in pieces. But at least it will be cooked. Somehow I wrestle the turkey onto the cutting board and manage to cut it in such a way that all the pieces do fit. I add some broth and a bay leaf to the pan, cover it, turn on the burner and hope for the best. What else could I do? It will be a slow roast on top of the stove.

I am disappointed it will not be the way I pictured in my head. It wouldn’t be gracing the table as a centerpiece, nicely browned, waiting to be carved, showing my culinary achievement to best advantage.

I take a quick shower, and change into a long skirt and silky blouse. The church service will be ending soon, and my husband and kids will be back before I can finish the relish plate. Our guests will start arriving in an hour. At least the house is now filled with the smell of Thanksgiving, the turkey roasting away on the top of the stove. I am grateful that others are bringing the side dishes, and the pumpkin pie.

The family dynamic was as expected. Some people carried old grudges and those grudges sat right along side them at the dinner table. Some people drank a little too much, some people were bored, some people argued. But there was laughter, too, some of it about my adventure with the turkey.

It turned out to be a very good meal. The turkey was tender and full of flavor. The side dishes were delicious, even the traditional lime jello salad with pineapple, celery, and carrots was more palatable that year. It was as good as it could get.

I was grateful...for that drip-drop baster from my grandmother, but mostly for the whisper of encouragement that I knew came from her sweet and optimistic self. I know now that I carry some of that sweet optimism in my very bones, and that means she is with me always.

My parents always sang in the church choir. I started when I was thirteen, so proud to join and go every Thursday night to choir practice. My dad was a tenor, because tenors were scarce and he could stretch his baritone to suit; and my mother was a soprano. Her voice was clear and pretty, but not strong. I sat in the alto section and was able to follow along with the three or four other women with confidence. One of my happiest memories is of singing with my mother as we did the dishes. It didn’t happen often, but when it did we had a wonderful time. She loved the music of Doris Day, Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, Dean Martin...that was one thing we shared. And we sang the dear old familiar church music, too.

In high school I was fortunate enough to be invited to join the prestigious Acapella Choir. Auditions had to be passed. Could you actually carry a tune? Could you read music well enough (which wasn’t very well)?

From talking to me, the Director said “You’re a soprano, right?”

“No. An alto,” I said.

She looked skeptical, but had me sing the alto line of Silent Night, a piece I had sung a thousand times.

I waited to see if I passed. You weren’t told right away. Finally I received the hand-written note that welcomed me into the choir. One of my best friends was, too. Andrea and I always sat together during practice, stood together when we performed. We were both tall, so we were in the back row. It was glorious. We toured the city, performing in various venues, including the Ambassador Auditorium on one occasion, as I recall, under the direction of Howard Hanson and with hundreds of other choirs from high schools all over Los Angeles. What a jubilant sound we made!

I chose to be an alto because I knew I couldn’t make the switch from my lower register to the higher head tones at B below high C. Someone should have taught me how to do that. I longed to soar with those higher notes, but so fearful of cracking, of screeching. I was asked to sing “The Lord’s Prayer” in church for a Sunday evening service. It was way beyond my range, way beyond my comfort zone, but I did it. And I did it loud, because I didn’t want to sound weak, or timid. I had been taking singing lessons, and my teacher was confident it would be fine. It wasn’t fine. And I did only one solo in public after that, “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” a suitable range, but a difficult song for a kid to sing. But I was comfortable with duets, where I could sing alto, and did many of those for church services.

When I had children I had a string of lullabies I sang for them from the time they were born until they didn’t need sleep-singing any longer. I was never ready to give it up, and I miss it!

Will there be a time this year when we can gather and sing? Maybe. Just maybe. Until then, maybe we can be like the Mocking Bird and sing alone. Let’s do it. Let’s sing our tunes on our own until we can bring them together. We could all use the practice, right? What song will you start with? Will you stretch to the high notes?

I tell you this because it proves I can be optimistic.

One large red onion sprouted magnificent green fingers on

my kitchen window sill.

It was good, green company.

Today one onion has become three. Miracle, right?

Three from one, already a bonus.

Tucked into the warm earth side by side (not too close!)

I left the sagging, spent tomato plant nearby.

There may still be whispered wisdom about living in our

hard adobe earth.

vw 2022 #1

Every morning I wake up hoping that this will be the day my energy will return for all the pending tasks needing attention. And every day I go to bed having fallen far short of my own expectations. Even the simplest things like folding laundry and putting it away have morphed into monstrosities that refuse to be tamed. I have books that need reading (not just for pleasure!), a number of quotidian tasks that should be undertaken, and my level of enthusiasm and energy for such tasks has deserted me. I feel a sense of accomplishment when I can get the dishes loaded into the dishwasher before I go to bed. Such a small thing!

I want to sort out all the accumulation of generational paraphernalia that has found its way into our house. But my interest in most of it has dwindled to nothing but a slight sense of guilt that these things haven’t been cared for or cataloged more carefully -- but for what? Who cares now? I have thrown away photographs containing faces that I do not know, never met, and have no idea why they were saved. I feel like a sea creature scuttering along the ocean floor compulsively collecting every discarded shell, rock, and piece of junk I come across. I am weighed down with loads of other people’s stuff.

I have a cabinet with glass doors that contains a scramble of vases, decorative ceramics, and dishes I never use. I can’t remember the origin of many. And I know that those designated as ‘valuable’ are not. I’ve looked them up. Someone may like to own them, but that someone is no longer me. So they will go up on the “Buy Nothing” Facebook page for our area and see if anyone wants to come pick them up. Eventually!

I long to eliminate things from the past that I never intended to take responsibility for, things that someone else valued and decided to make me their caretaker. But I own it freely, I am not that caretaker any longer. And there is a kind of relief in owning that. All of my life I have taken on things that really should not have been my responsibility. I was designated as the one who would be the good custodian, and since my lot in life was to live up to those expectations, I never felt like I had a choice to do otherwise.

But I am owning my heart’s desire now. Writing it down here, so I can be reminded of it. I long for my own space, spare and uncluttered. I deserve it. Perhaps this spring is a good time to do that clear-out, bit by bit, and claim my space in the world.

If it’s opening the window to hear

the birds

If it’s to give the cat some treats

If it’s taking your time deciding what you want

for breakfast

If it’s sharpening a pencil

If it’s lighting a candle

If it’s making a pot of tea

or coffee

If it’s listening to an old song your old self loved

If it’s taking a nap

If it’s unwrapping a new bar of soap

If it’s window gazing

You know that all of it, every bit of it, is a good bit of doing.

The task isn’t as easy as it used to be. Bending, reaching, stooping, sweeping, are all activities I mostly try to avoid. My body is not as responsive to requests for movement that requires balance and a certain amount of energy. But today was a very good day because I was able to do what I wanted to do. The simple task of sweeping the porch, watering the potted plants, and dead-heading the roses in the front yard proved to be strangely energizing. Hanging the lights was a bit more taxing, and I’ll wait until those who are younger can climb on a step to hang lights too high for me to reach from where I stand.

Finding balance, keeping balance, on whatever level one must, is important at any age. And lately I am reminded that I still have the ability to achieve a bit of equilibrium that makes me content. I lived so long pushing myself to complete one task or another, that I now feel I’ve earned the right to do as much as I like of one task and stop, or take up another. There will be time to finish what is important. Or there won’t! But does it really matter? All will be well, and I own a responsibility to myself to enjoy whatever moment I can.

Oh, and by the way. I did finish a task. My novel is now complete, and out to ‘beta readers’ who have given me some encouraging feedback. Hopefully it will be out early next year for those of you who care to read it!

Happy Halloween! Eat some candy! Sweets to all you sweet readers!

I remember clearly feeling happy about this little assignment, because the design was pretty, and I was happy to make it even prettier. But the paper was hard to color, and if the crayon was pressed too hard it tore. If the light wasn’t just right, the embossing disappeared. I think I probably used two or three of the napkins until I found just the right pressure so that the color would take but not damage.

Isn’t that the way with memories, though? We carry them, lightly embossed on our minds, our bodies. If we touch them too hard some of them can dissolve or tear. If we color them in, are we getting that right? Was the tree really that yellow against the blue sky that day? Was grandmother’s house really white on the outside and so very dark on the inside? Do we even have that shade in our color box? Is the implement we use to fill in the blanks too blunt or too sharp for our fragile recollections?

My Dad used to tell us his memories. Some of them were so detailed, so clearly defined, that I wonder now if he could possible have remembered with such clarity. But recently I do recall how he would say, when pressed, “Well, I do like to tell a good story.” Was he coloring them in?

What truth do we rely on when we think about our own memories? Are they embossed deeply enough that we can see and feel them with any accuracy? Or are they fleeting impressions that fade or tear if examined or pressed too hard?

The process of recall is on my mind. We will go to our Thanksgiving tables tomorrow and reminisce about the past. And each impression will be as real and as individual as each person sitting around that table. I will try to remember that and collect each impression without judgment or the urge to correct or redefine. Our memories are ours. They belong to us exactly as we recall them, as we feel them. They make us who we are, for better or for worse. But maybe with the different lights and colors others bring to them, they are a bit more colorful, a bit more rounded, given a bit more depth, and hopefully accepted with generosity and love.

May your Thanksgiving be full, and your giving thanks heartfelt.

When I was a kid in the 1940’s and 50’s, no matter how depressed things were in my house, and often that was the case, whenever I saw the bright Christmas decorations and the row upon row of holiday ornaments lined up at the dime store, my spirits lifted. I knew it wouldn’t be long before my mother would come out of her downward spiral and rally for Christmas. Sometimes those Christmases were more manic than fun, but at least they weren’t sad.

A tradition was born when we were newlyweds in 1970, and we were decorating our first Christmas tree as husband and wife. I made pea soup and cornbread, we crafted homemade ornaments, and watched The Bishop’s Wife starring Cary Grant and Loretta Young. I have continued to make pea soup during the holidays, and we could probably recite all of the dialogue from The Bishop’s Wife.

It rained last night and today is chilly and overcast, so perfect pea soup weather. I’m a little late with the soup, but since it is technically only the fifth day of Christmas for some, I think it still counts. Chopped onion, celery, carrots, ham, and a lovely little bay leaf fill the house with savory smells as they flavor the dried peas.

It makes me think of all the things we humans do to fill our need for tradition and connection. I am thankful that these small acts bind us closer whenever we repeat them or even just remember them. I think of Christmases past when we had Swedish Fruktsoppa, or fruit soup as we called it. It was the one thing my Swedish grandmother made that my Dad loved and looked forward to. But then he loved fruitcake, too, and that was something only he had a taste for. That tradition hasn’t carried on, but remembering it still fills a little corner of my heart.

Remembrance of Christmas past, and the honoring of some of those old traditions in Christmas present are ways we honor our ancestors. Maybe we even consider some of our decorations to be an altar, as does one of my dearest friends. Certainly for me, they are sacred. Even the pea soup. Happy Holidays!

under the drooping branch of wet poppy leaves?

Even after days of rain it still looked dry and dusty, the skin cracked like old leather.

I feel like that some days, split, spilled, cracked open.

The bright seeds inside still held a juicy promise for a brown squirrel with a watchful eye

and he, or she, took time to taste those tiny glowing morsels

and then in a flash disappeared

the fruit empty, picked clean.

Read more if you are interested, available on Kindle or paperback at Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGJTFFH

Dinner preparations are going on, and now I’m in charge. When I was a kid I tried to be on hand whenever that was happening. I liked to find pieces of cabbage hearts, celery bottoms, raw potato. I would salt them and amidst many warnings from my grandmothers or my mom, I would eat them. They would shake their heads and return to whatever task called them. One of my grandmothers was sure I was poisoning myself. I wasn’t, though. In fact, I think that habit did me a power of good. Yes, sometimes there was a bit of grit in the celery bottom, but why wouldn’t there be? It was the part that touched the earth. This was in the days before all the pesticides and chemicals were used. As far as I know. But somehow I’m still around at 81, anyway.

Today I’m making an Irish stew. No meat, just lots of vegetables. I can hear my grandmother saying “You can’t eat that potato skin!” Yes, yes, I can. I rarely peel my potatoes, even when making potato salad. I say if you are going to eat a potato, eat the whole potato. I didn’t put the cabbage core in the pot because that’s just for me and my salt shaker. Thin slices, nice and cold. Yum. Better than potato chips.

Scavenging now has become really popular. Even the city now wants our table scraps for composting. Finally, and about time too, and yes let’s all do this! Green bins are the new Robin Hoods, doing what they can to save the earth and us in the bargain.

I think there is something to be said for this approach to all of life. Take what you need, not what you think you want. Don’t let anybody tell you that this or that isn’t going to suit you. If you find it good and pleasing, that’s what you need. Nay sayers may have something to offer you, but it isn’t their nay saying that is going to be of use. You tell you what you want.

I scavenged some flowers from my rain-ravaged garden today. They are by no means perfect, bent and beaten as they have been, but they look pretty happy to me. Anyway, they are making me happier and healthier. Eleven storms in the last several weeks has beaten us this way and that, but we stood it because we know how desperate we are here in California for rain. More on the way next week, too. But for now let’s scavenge some sunshine and appreciate all the green. Oh, and Happy St. Patrick’s Day and don’t forget St. Gertrude!

You can get a copy of my novel here.

If you like it, let me know!

“The traffic felt like another personal attack. Another kind of boxing in, not giving her room, impeding her. It made her angry, and it made her sad. She’d felt trapped so long by her mother’s illnesses--mental and otherwise--even after she left home. The relationship she craved from both her parents kept eluding her. And now, just when she thought she might have a chance at building something with her dad, there was another needy woman in his life. Somebody else with a claim on his time, his focus, his emotional energy. Would Jenny ever get to be the focus? Even for an hour? A minute?”

Family dynamics have an impact long after those who were our parents are gone. Developing awareness about how those dynamics assist us or hurt us is a long, complicated process. Will they continue to shape our days in patterns of worry and sadness for things we could never have controlled? Or will we manage to break free enough to make new paths that include joy and freedom on our journey? It can take a lot of intentional effort and a lot of trial and error before we find a way that suits us better, that feels like our own.

Sometimes Jenny found herself locked in isolated patterns of negative emotional responses that weren’t quite suited to what was actually happening. And those responses made her turn even more inward, made her tighten her grip on the familiar rather than risk opening up to something new.

If you’d like to read more about her journey you can find her story here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGJTFFH

I hope you like it.

Do you suppose, that 2000 years ago, when sandaled feet, dusty and dirty with the labors and travel of the day, were bathed by family or friends, it felt any different than it does today?

Was the water less or more refreshing than we are used to?

Was the soap or oil used to help in the cleansing any less effective?

Were cuts or bruises on those feet from an unexpected encounter with thorns or rocks or sticks any less sore?

Were the cloths used to dry those tired feet less effective than what we have today?

After a long day of play or helping with daily tasks were children any less wiggly, or giggly, or whiny?

I suppose it was all very much the same then as now. We are, as they were, grateful for any small attention from those welcoming us home. Whether it is the ceremony of bringing slippers, pouring a glass of wine, rubbing the knots out of aching shoulders, we are nurtured on a deep level, as they most certainly would have been.

Maunday Thursday is a reminder that these small tasks of grace we do for others are sacred. They connect us deeply as family, as friends. And even if we find ourselves alone on this day, we can do something that reminds us we have been loved and cared for in ways we may never have noticed.

Let’s be more aware in the future. Let’s provide the smallest of gestures of care when we can. Let’s handle each other gently, doing the same for ourselves. I suppose that, in fact, small gestures of self-care make every other act of kindness possible.

“Her extremes cornered him...immobilized him, until he was forced into action to protect her. It would mean another hospital stay...another attempt at medication....The toll it took on [their daughter] Jenny had been huge. Neither one of them were available to her after she was about ten. She had to learn to fend for herself. ...There were so many sleepless nights, so many spoiled holidays, so many times when the house had been in chaos. No wonder [Jenny] left home when she was so young.”

More about Jenny’s story in THE CUCKOO.

Jack is on his way home from collecting firewood in the San Jacinto mountains when he sees a woman pushing a bike along a back country road. For a split second something about her reminds him of his dead wife. She looks vulnerable and so sad. That chance meeting pulls Jack into her dark past in ways neither of them could have predicted.

It’s not like I’m at war with it, or anything. I frequently order up dreams of one kind or another. But that doesn’t always pay off, either. Say I want a calm dream of meeting a friend in a quiet garden or by the sea. The response I get could very well be a dystopian dream or one of being expected to go on stage not knowing my lines.

I do know that these burps and misleading responses could very well be easily interpreted by any qualified Jungian. But frankly I’m getting a bit annoyed. I have tried, over the course of many years, and in many professional settings, to interpret what gets shown up on the screen of my mind’s eye. And when I break these things down for my conscious mind, they all seem way too simplistic and obvious. I expected that there would be more sophistication in my subconscious, more nuance, a bit of subtlety. But no, usually after consideration I see a child’s drawing of a horsey or a boat or a bowl of spaghetti. The cause and effect is no Wagnerian Opera, as I had thought it would be, but only a simple little ditty like “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”.

But sometimes we need to celebrate what we do have. And we do have so much. Without times to appreciate the freedom we have, we cannot find the strength to keep working toward the ultimate goal.

I sent a last minute invitation to my family on July 3rd, telling them I was going to have potato salad, baked beans, and hot dogs available if they wanted to visit on the 4th. And yes, ice cream. I felt in need of a normal holiday with family. Potato salad is easy to throw together, and ‘my’ baked beans consist of canned beans in the crockpot with some brown sugar, ketchup, and mustard. How easy is that? This year I just put all the hot dogs and sausages in the same baking pan and put them in the oven to heat. How easy is that? There were times in the past when we made our own ice cream. We churned and turned and added more ice, more salt, to keep up the freezing process in an old fashioned ice cream bucket. But this year, store bought ice cream was pretty tasty, and effortless. How easy is that?

We didn’t have fireworks, no need for any more loud explosions here. Plenty going on all around us. Everybody said yes to my last-minute invite. And we gathered together, ate, talked, wandered out to the very warm garden (some of us), and the cousins made plans for a visit to an amusement park on Friday, and people moved from group to group. There was a lot of laughter, and we didn’t talk politics, not yesterday.

Remember how awful lock down was, and how we all felt imprisoned for so long? I won’t forget that, not ever. And our freedom to just be together put a shine on everything. There were no actual sparklers, but in so many ways, we all did sparkle. We all did shine. How easy is that?

The scenery is spectacular. I have traveled to Europe and when we reached the Mediterranean regions in Italy or France, I often thought I was home again in California.

We live in the San Fernando Valley, and we must traverse the canyons, one way or another, to get to the sea. Today we made the journey to Malibu where the surf is often ‘up’ as they say. Today the ocean was calm, the waves gentle on the shore where we sat enjoying the view and the food.

On our way back home we saw something we often see here, too. A large plume of smoke indicated somewhere in the Santa Monica mountains there was a fire. These brush fires are common in the summer and fall, and always alarming because of the tragedies that may follow. Today it looked like whatever was happening was being contained, mostly, because the smoke was white which I am told indicates there was water dropped. But there was still a reddish brown undertone that meant it might not be fully controlled.

We are surrounded by the folds of these mountains and the beautiful foliage that covers them, especially this year due to lots of rain. Everything is lush. But recent heat is begining to dry out the brush. Rye grass is turning yellow, then brown. Danger is ahead. If the mesquite goes up it will be a hot fire, hard to control. Mesquite has an oil in it that means it burns hot, and long.

It’s wonderful how we live with danger and beauty, somehow aware of both. Today was glorious. Lunch with good friends by the sea, a drive through the canyon back to our home, and a reminder that the world we have now is both beautiful and perilous, which sharpens our appreciation all the more.

It was a good day at school. I am in the fifth grade and today I wore my new saddle shoes. They look good, and the blisters on my heels are a small price to pay for being part of the after-school handball game. I’m walking home now, but the rubber ball bouncing on the asphalt and then hitting the backboard still rings in my ears. My fist opens and closes remembering the satisfying smack against the ball’s surface.

Someone has lit a fire and the smell of pine burning obscures the acrid smell of the smog. There’s a cool breeze, and some of the trees show they are getting ready to drop leaves. Their colors are muted, not brilliant, but still in California they let us know fall is here.

Will there be meatloaf for dinner tonight? Maybe. My grandmother will be there by now. It’s Thursday night, and she usually comes for dinner on Thursday. Meatloaf probably for sure. And baked potatoes. Maybe Coleslaw. My stomach is growling. I’m always hungry. Thursdays we have big dinners, not just a meat patty and some bread. I love Thursdays.

I am skipping now, in spite of the blisters. I can see my grandmother’s car in our driveway. Sprinklers are turned on all up and down the street, to keep the wide lawns green just a little bit longer. I skip close to the spray, mouth open, to catch a drop or two of water.

Then it’s up the three steps to our front porch. I can smell the meatloaf and baking potatoes from the door. Yep. Grandma’s here.

Children have an instinct about nature if they are exposed to it early enough. They understand completely they are part of it, not separate from it. I want to remember that as an adult. I want to get close enough to the leaves of my maple tree so that I can breathe the miracle of clean air. I want to stand under the full moon and drink in her kind, reflected light.

As a child I thought my relationship with the natural world was unique, that I alone could appreciate it for the tiniest flower, the hidden splendor of a seashell, or the faint aroma of rain. My dad pointed out the secret life of a ladybug when I was about three, and I took that idea and made it my own. My mother did not share my astonishment at the life of a ladybug or anything else I brought her from nature. I remember finding what looked like the tiniest of rose buds in the grass of our front yard. She was busy at the sink, and my treasure could not have been less interesting if I had brought her a handful of dirt. In that one moment I realized that some people did not see things as I saw them. And that is, of course, true. Personal experience is unique. No one can see through my eyes what I see, or hear what I hear with my ears, feel exactly what I feel when I touch a leaf. We come into the world as a part of it, but unique to it. The moon shines on all of us, we see it wax and wane, but the pull we experience in our bodies, in the tides of our blood and tissue, is different for each one of us.

I wish you joy in all the nuances of this season of change. Remember you are unique in your experience of every delicious, challenging, comforting moment. Savor all of them.