I began this newsletter on a glorious warm day in January
and felt the need to reconnect with all of you, not because I had something
important to say but simply because I’ve missed you. Today it is 10 ° F.
Based on the paucity of my newsletters, it is clear that Inspiration
departed and writers block took its place when we moved from our home on Lake
Superior. During the nineteen years we lived within that magical landscape, it
was easy to write. I’m saddened I’ve done such a poor job finding inspiration here. Our new home is delightful. A residence for active seniors
filled with warm and bright people who have become a family. It is a very busy,
lively place. This busy-ness and immediate access to the many amenities offered
by Metropolitan living, has given me an abundance of excuses not to write. When
I was asked to help form a writers’ group here at RosePointe, I found a way out
of my creative lethargy. I can’t sit by and let everyone write but me.
I have several thick red journa…
In 1993, my sixteen-year-old daughter Francesca acquired a
tattoo without telling me. I thought she was simply spending the weekend with a girlfriend when it was actually a mutiny of sorts.
“Fran, what have you
done?” I gasped.
“I knew you’d never give me permission and Kelly was
getting one. So . . .” her voice trailed off but she didn’t drop her eyes.
is it anyway?” She told me it was a rose but it looked more like a dragon to me,
smoking its way toward her knee.
you’ve marked yourself for life?” Francesca nodded, a smile lurking at the edge
of her mouth.
Not long after, Francesca’s older brother Thomas had both his arms tattooed.
At the time it scandalized my relatives, friends, and acquaintances. Twenty
years later not a day passes without my noting young people and even elders flaunting tattoos that extended up arms and legs to the neck and ears.
On February 25, 2016 I gained a greater appreciation of tattoos when an exhibition at the Morikami Museum a…
For much of this past year my world was saturated with words
too heavy to write or speak. During that year, loved ones have died and my
husband Bill still bears the scars of his encounters with respiratory failure,
diabetic crisis and double pneumonia. Though it was spring, I felt muffled in a
winter world. I moved through each day in a strange inner silence, capable only
of coping with visits to the ICU and weeks of entire days spent in three
different hospitals. Bill returned home in such a frail and weakened condition I
moved in a vaporous world of uncertainty. Would today be my last with him?
Would I be alone tomorrow? Thanks, however, to the effort of a blessed crew of
doctors, nurses, and therapists and courageous efforts of his own, he is
growing stronger. Buoyed by hope and filled with gratitude, I can now reach for
words with which to reconnect with you, to let you know that though I was
silent, you were never far from my mind.
Conscious of the rapid
passage of …