Occasionally, on a beautiful summer afternoon, I opt not to take my kayak up to the lake or my bike out on the trail; I don’t walk in the woods or weed my gardens. Instead, I read in a comfortable chair on my porch. I might play some of the New York Times games, and I make some cyanotype prints in the sun. “Is this OK?” I ask myself, when I haven’t gotten any aerobic exercise in a few days and, still, I opt not to again. “Is it OK to be lazy and just read and rest on this beautiful day?”

Summer is my favorite season. (I live in Vermont, remember, not in Arizona.) Life can be as rich on the porch as it is on the lakes and trails. For instance, several days ago, a bear visited my yard while I was hanging out reading. I heard a loud rustling at the edge of the forest, a stone’s throw from where I sat. This disturbance was too loud to have been caused by a squirrel or other small mammal. When I looked up, I was delighted to see a medium sized black bear emerging from behind a tree at the edge of my yard.

He (I believe him to be a young male, a yearling most likely) sauntered over to our Shad Bush, rose up on his hind legs, grabbed hold of a main branch and bent it to the ground for further inspection. Two months too early for berries, Dude. I took a couple of photos from where I sat but mostly watched in wonder. I’ve seen many bears here on Bear Hill (we were able to name our private road that we share with two other homes), but this was my first standing bear. He was miraculous. It’s one thing to watch a bear in film, another to watch one a few yards away.

After his failed attempt at the bush, my bear (yes, I claim him as mine now) moseyed over to one of the large pine tree stumps in our backyard, where he proceeded to rip sizeable pieces of bark away from the stump. Looking for bugs to eat, no doubt. This is when I got out of my chair; I now had words for this interloper. “So, YOU are the culprit, damaging our tree stumps.” He turned to me and stared. “Can you leave at least some of that bark?” I inquired. He continued staring at me. (Man, was he cute.) Then, just as I was switching to video mode on my phone’s camera, he turned and sauntered into the woods.

So, yes, that afternoon, it really was OK to hang on my porch. I was rewarded not just with a relaxing time outdoors, but with an animal sighting that made my day special.

Why is it that we feel we need to be busy? I like being productive, but I also like a day when I have no plans and can just see what may come my way. Going with the flow of a day often leads to me to dabbling in art projects, reading, and writing. If I had been out and about away from home that afternoon I would have missed my standing bear. I have recently written about a mink in a lake and a porcupette in a tree. And just last week, I watched a huge woodchuck climbing a tree in the woods. But those skunks in my backyard a couple of weeks ago and my recent bear have come to me. Sometimes, when we sit still, we are rewarded with wonder.

I have several bear stories, some that I have written and some that I just like to tell. (I met my first bear as she tore open my tent in a campground in Virginia in 1975.) I love animal sightings. They keep me connected to the natural world in a way that feels meaningful to me. I see animals wherever I go in Vermont, including when I just sit still. In fact, sitting still is often the best way to spot wildlife. A few years ago, a bobcat cruised through my backyard while I was eating my lunch on the porch. This stunning animal was completely unaware of me sitting just a couple of yards away. After watching him (her?) for a bit, I moved my chair to create just enough noise for the bobcat to look in my direction. These cats are shy, so of course s/he then took off into the forest, but not before we had a good look at each other. This remains one of my most cherished memories of wildlife sightings.

Do you allow yourself downtime that might be rewarded with something wonderful that you could never had imagined when you woke in the morning? If you don’t live in a rural setting, it may not be wildlife, but there are so many possibilities for what might fill your time when you allow it to be unscheduled. I would love to see such stories in the comment section here.

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I don’t know about you, but I try to practice acceptance and non-judgement. It’s easier with trees than with people, making this practice in regard to humans important. I find that growing older has muted that critical voice in my head, but it has not been eliminated.

It certainly feels better to view people we know, people we meet for the first time, and people we pass on the street with compassion rather than judgement. I read somewhere recently that research psychologists have determined that it takes us mere seconds to judge a stranger as safe or unsafe. Of course, this makes sense. We are hard-wired to do this. We evolved, eons ago, to stay clear of someone who feels threatening. This is a survival response. However, I work to remain open about my misconceptions. We all experience faulty first impressions of people, but we can’t learn that these impressions are faulty if we don’t remain open to that possibility. Decades ago, I realized that I tended to make quick decisions regarding how I feel about someone new to me, but that I was also quite open to being wrong about them. These days, rather than waiting until a person proves my impression wrong, I try to soften my view of them immediately. How wrong I’ve been before, so that may easily be the case now. Why not give someone the benefit of the doubt, even when a first interaction feels off? We are all flawed characters, and we all deserve a second chance. Often, the quickest way to get past a first negative experience with someone is to react with kindness, either in that moment or by welcoming that person with kindness upon a second encounter. This may feel counterintuitive, but most people respond well to kindness. It’s worth a try.

Last week, there were four skunks in my yard. They traveled en masse, body-to-body, undulating in their movements as one entity. When one of them veered left, the other three followed immediately, which I found reminiscent of the way migrating geese will adjust to a new leader, falling quickly into formation behind that goose. We observe these creatures with curiosity. They don’t behave at all like we do, and often not at all like any other creatures. We observe them with interest, not with judgement. Wouldn’t it be great if we could do the same with non-threatening humans?

I don’t approach bears, but I do watch them from a safe distance. Likewise, I am unlikely to approach a homeless person who appears to be high on drugs when they are hanging out in a parking lot asking for money. But I can wonder, with kindness, what life circumstances have led them to this place in their lives. Blaming a victim of societal ills makes no more sense than blaming a skunk for its defensive mechanism of spraying what appears to threaten them. Yet, often, we humans are much harsher in our judgments of our own kind than of other creatures that may feel threatening to us.

What do we have to lose by attempting to judge less and accept more? Where are we without compassion?

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I’ve been thinking about mortality. Less about my own and more about that of a friend who has a terminal cancer diagnosis, that of a daughter who died young, that of a brother who has advanced dementia.

As Mitch Albom wrote in Tuesdays with Morrie, “Aging is not just decay, you know. It’s growth. It’s more than the negative that you are going to die. It’s also the positive that you understand you that you are going to die, and that you live a better life because of it.”

Must we wait for a diagnosis that indicates that an end of our life is near to embrace this notion of reflecting on how we have chosen to live and what remains unfinished for us?

“What will you do with your one wild and precious life?” wrote Mary Oliver, in her poem titled The Summer Day. This line is often quoted as inspiration to not wait, to live life to its fullest now, to reflect on what you might be glad you did when you do find yourself at the end of your life.

These notions are not new. Yet, they are powerful to revisit. I have a friend who grieves for his wife who died two and half years ago. He called me this morning, on the anniversary of their wedding. We don’t talk often, but he knows me as a compassionate person who has also suffered a great loss. He knew I would understand what he was feeling. We talked about living with loss. We talked about some of what we do that brings us joy: travel, spending time with our adult children, our friendships. I am making art and writing; he is looking for an antique car to fix up. We are pursuing some of our dreams. We attempt to balance our grief with joy.

Grief and loss, anticipating loss, reflecting on one’s own mortality…this work becomes more frequent as we age. The older we become, the more losses we experience. The older we become, the closer to our own death we become.

Do you have a bucket list? Places you want to travel to? People you want to see again? Art you want to make? Subjects you want to learn more about? Stories you have thought about telling or writing for those you will leave behind when you go? Do you have ideas of how you might want to live differently? Areas of your personality you might want to tweak?

Food for thought, all of this. It’s a rainy day here in Vermont, and I am feeling reflective, especially after that morning conversation. I will go out soon, to meet another friend for a drink, a friend who has recently returned from living and teaching in Rome for a year, despite being in her 60s and single. She is adventurous, an excellent role model. She loves to say, “Life is to be lived!” I couldn’t agree more.

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I was riding my bike on a dirt trail through a wooded area along a river this week, when I passed a baby porcupine sitting on a confluence of branches of a small tree. This was not my first porcupette (seriously, that is what a baby porcupine is called), but it was my first perched on a branch. They usually feed on the ground during summer months.

Porky was extremely cute, as young animals tend to be. My inclination was to stop and take a photograph, but I did not have my smartphone with me. As is typical when I can’t take a photo because I have left my phone at home or in my car, I missed it only momentarily before feeling glad not to have it.

I tend to experience a feeling of freedom when I realize I didn’t bring my phone along. I feel more like I did in the pre-digital years of my life. I get to just revel in the moment of whatever it is I am observing, without the interference of trying to record it. I like this feeling. I like living, at least for an hour here and there, in the moment, not thinking ahead, not recording my joy, just feeling it.

Once I returned home, I sent a text to my daughter (and to a couple of close friends who love nature) to celebrate my porcupette sighting. It was nice to be able to do that, but I could have waited until I next saw each of these people to tell them about my baby porcupine, like in the old days.

Close to a year ago, I eliminated social media from my life. I haven’t missed the time-suck of scrolling through Facebook or Instagram. I know that I look at my phone way less often than some people do, but perhaps more often than some others. I am wondering what it might be like to not look at it at all for a full day. Lots of emails to clean out the next day, no doubt. A missed text or two to read later than intended by senders. But the freedom of not picking up that device might be worth the catch-up. What if I did this every other day (allowing for catch-up days in between)?

I appreciate the information age in which we live. The convenience of being able to easily look up answers to questions that occur to me is no small thing. But what if every other day I were to jot down my questions on a small pad (one that I keep in the car and one at home) to seek answers on my “phone days”. I wonder if I might pick up my phone less often if it were to become an every other day allowance. Would I wean myself of my current level of phone time?

Don’t get me wrong. I am not a person who has my phone sitting on the table when meeting a friend for lunch. And I don’t tend to pull my phone out while waiting for a friend to arrive or when they make a trip to the restroom. I don’t have an enormous phone habit to break. But that occasional glimpse of what life was like before we carried these pocket computers around with us has me wondering what place I want this technology to play in my life now. I would have seen that porcupette in the tree even if my phone had been along for the ride. But if I had stopped to snap a photo of Porky, would I have frightened it? Would it have fled its comfortable branch and meal?

I don’t think there are right and wrong answers to these questions about phone use. But I do think these questions are worth asking, pondering, and experimenting with. The intention that I always set at the start of a yoga class is “presence”. I want to be as present in the here and now as I can be. This requires practice. I want to up my game with this intention. I always make sure I spend a bit of time looking out on the day when I sit down with my morning coffee, before picking up my phone to read the news. What if I took a break from the news every now and then? I sometimes do this, but rarely. What it be like to do it more often? How much would I really miss? The news is serial; I’ll catch it all the next day.

What keeps us attached to recording our lives? To staying current with breaking news? To reaching for our phones during downtime? What would fill that pause between activities on non-phone days? I may be curious enough to find out.

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I watched a mink swimming and fishing in a lake in the forest near my home on a beautiful afternoon this week. This was my first mink. I get excited about seeing an animal I haven’t seen before.

I had walked out to the town’s reservoir, which is surrounded by forest, as an alternative to walking to an 1840s one room schoolhouse which I access through the same woods. I am truly fortunate to have these hundreds of wooded acres abutting my ten (most of which are also wooded). We see a lot of wildlife out our windows and from our screened porch: bear, bobcat, coyote, fox, fishers and weasels (rarely), deer, skunk, racoon, barred owls, songbirds, woodpeckers, rodents…and more (who am I forgetting?), but never a mink. This mammal is semi-aquatic and we don’t have a body of water on our property. We do have easy access to that forest, though, and I take advantage of that regularly.

I also watched a lone loon on that same lake yesterday. I’ve not seen one there before, and because I saw just the one I wondered if it was passing through, perhaps in search of a mate. I kayak on another lake, just a few miles away on dirt roads. That lake serves as a backup reservoir for our town, so it is always noticeably quiet there. No motors, no swimming, no nothing but paddling is allowed on Sunset Lake, which is home to a pair of nesting loons every year. I remember when there were no loons this far south in Vermont; I am extremely appreciative that they have made such a successful comeback.

Sunset Lake has a small island which is perfect for a loon nest on its edge. There are some predators (mink, for instance) that can swim to the island, but that nest is in a safer place than it would be on the mainland. I have been lucky enough to see loonlets riding on a parent’s back and to watch them learning to fish, which is adorable.

Loons are known for deep diving, staying underwater for long stretches, and then emerging quite a distance from where they dove. I can watch this, and listen to the adults calling each other, for long periods of time from my boat. I’ve also been lucky enough to watch a male loon dancing high above the water (feet still paddling) to impress his mate in the spring. What I didn’t know before yesterday, is that a mink can swim under water for a long time too. They can dive to eighteen feet. Yesterday’s mink was going for distance rather than depth, coming up far from where it dove.

I had a grand time yesterday watching both the mink and the loon fishing. I know I occasionally missed each of them emerging from their watery ventures, as I was scanning the water surface for the two of them simultaneously on different parts of the lake. At least the mink traveled on a straight trajectory; you never know where a loon will emerge.

What does any of this have to do with resilience? Lots. My forever grief of losing my daughter is with me every day. I have many happy memories of time spent with Colleen, but I also have many sad memories of how hard her life was for her. And then there is the missing of her. This is an ache that returns again and again. Time spent in nature helps me to balance those feelings of sadness and loss with feeling joy and focusing on what’s good in my life.

I have been keeping a “good list” since mid-March this year, as I have sometimes done in the past. I make a note each evening of what brought me joy that day. Nine times out of ten (or more often) those joyful moments are spent outdoors, sometimes alone and sometimes with friends. I’m just an outdoors girl.

What do you do to balance the challenges in your life with joy?

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The couch in the photo is long gone, as are the home-made costumes. One of the girls is also gone, physically. But this all feels like yesterday, in my memory.

I have so many fond memories of raising my daughters in the house where I still live in rural Vermont. I think of both of their girlhoods often. I think of things they said and did, both individually and together, and these memories make me smile.

I think of Colleen (the one we lost when she was just 27) in her growing up years more often than I think of Caitlin during her childhood. We get to watch Caitlin as she moves through her adult life. She has a meaningful career that suits her talents and values. She has found a partner she loves and will marry. She is a delight to watch.

We have just our memories of Colleen. But those memories are vivid. It does not feel to me that Colleen is fully in the past. Faulkner’s words, “The past is not dead...it’s not even past” resonate with me. I understand this sentiment. While I miss Colleen (and I so wish her life had turned out differently), I do not feel that I have fully lost her. She was our only child for five and a half years before her sister was born, and my bond with her was strong. She and I continued to be close throughout her life, even during her tumultuous adolescence when she lied to us (in service of her eating disorder) and was so mean to me (as she navigated her age-appropriate need to separate from me despite her strong need for me as her advocate). She always knew I had her back. Our bond survived those hard times.

There were hard times for all four of us, for many years, but it was I who most often found myself on the front lines with Colleen, trying to get her to choose good health and a continued life. Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “A woman is like a tea bag. You never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water.” (I include this light-hearted sentiment here because I like to throw some levity into my serious stories.)

The first time I read Faulkner’s words about the past, years ago, I pondered them with interest. But I didn’t understand them in the way I do now. This is what I like about revisiting written words that I have read in the past. With greater life experience, what was understood on one level earlier can take on much greater meaning later. This is one of the reasons we read--everything from great works from the past to current day Substack posts.

I could create a long list of reasons to read, but instead I invite you to share your motivations for reading in a comment here. I remain committed to writing about surviving and thriving after huge loss, but, as you may have noticed lately, I like writing about books too. Reading has been a major player in my ability to maintain a sense of resilience throughout my life.

Why do you read? What do books do for you?

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During this challenging era in our country, I’d like to recommend a couple of literary novels that involve humor. I’m not talking about romantic comedies, which have their place but don’t interest me in the way that humorous literary fictions written by accomplished writers do.

Headlong, by Michael Frayn, is a farce. And it’s a romp. It offers some laughing aloud moments. It also provides lessons in 15th and 16th century Netherlandish art. Frayn is a brilliant writer and author of the well-known comedic play, Noises Off. He does not disappoint when he creates outlandish characters. His narrator in Headlong is reliable, despite the poor decisions he makes as he attempts to procure a painting he thinks is a long-lost Bruegel. The humor in Headlong makes excellent use of metaphor and hyperbole. Themes include greed, desire, and obsession, just as Bruegel’s paintings warned of temptation and obsession. Not everyone likes this book as much as I do. I chose it for my book club because I wanted to re-read it, having first read it a decade ago. I thought it would be fun to discuss. It was, but no one else in the group plans to read it again in 10 years. However, the friend who read it alongside me the first time around reread it as I did. And she plans to read it again with me a decade from now.

Milkman, by Anna Burns, won the Booker Price in 2018. Set in Belfast in the late 1970s, the story involves themes of social pressure, violence, and survival. And, while there wasn’t much funny about the Troubles in Northern Ireland, Burns inserted some excellent subtle humor (dark humor and euphemisms, mostly) into her novel. Her main character is a teenage girl who refers to no one in her life by their given name but rather in terms of their relationship with her, e.g., “first brother”, “second sister”, “maybe boyfriend”. She herself is “middle sister”. I read this book in 2019 and again in 2023. It’s that good.

As long as we are reading, why not consider some recent novels that focus on the female experience? Milkman certainly fits into this category, but the books I will discuss next do not involve humor. Nor are they about dysfunctional families or abusive childhoods or recovering from addictions; they are each unique stories focusing on the perspectives of women.

I recently read Sarah Jayne Phillips’ Nightwatch, a literary historical fiction which takes place in West Virginia during and after the Civil War. Winner of a Pulitzer in 2024, Phillips explores themes of trauma, survival, and healing through her telling of the plight of a 12- year-old girl and her mother. The story is rich in history, but while it involves men, it is told from the perspectives of the women. A different take on that war and its aftermath.

I am currently reading this author’s memoir, a compilation of essays looking at her experience growing up in West Virginia and subsequently becoming a writer. I will write another post, soon, about memoirs I recommend (as a person who reads few of them).

In the meantime, I can recommend a few more books written in recent years that focus on the female experience:

1. Hamnet, which tells the story of William Shakespeare’s wife and the loss of their son (from her perspective; after all, she was there and her husband was not). This is a beautifully written book by an author I follow. I was just a few weeks into taking a memoir writing class, in 2021, when I read the death scene in this story and realized that if Maggie O’Farrell, who has not lost a child, could write such a scene, then maybe I could too (despite being new to creative writing at the time). I put the book down, opened my computer, and wrote the prologue to what become my memoir, These Dreams of You. I hadn’t planned on writing a memoir about Colleen and me; I was working on stories from my growing up years, in suburbia in the middle of the 20th century. My pivot to writing the story I did was inspired by a novel. Reading offers us so much.

2. Last summer, I read Stone Yard Devotional, by Charlotte Wood. Shortlisted for the Booker Prize the year before, this is a fiction that reads a bit like a memoir. Wood is Australian and writes about a woman who leaves her marriage and career to live in a clustered convent in the Monaro Plains, the area where she grew up. Through the narrator’s journal entries, the book explores themes of despair, personal choice, and spiritual struggle. The narrator is not a Catholic; she is simply looking for a quiet place to reflect. Things happen; this is not just a meditation. It’s worth a read. I like a unique story.

3. Next up for me last summer was The Safekeep, by Yael van der Wouden. This debut novel was also shortlisted for the 2024 Booker. A historical fiction, the story takes place in a rural area of the Netherlands in 1961, 16 years after WWII ended. It is an atmospheric, often tense, tale of hidden secrets, desire, and the aftermath of war. This story is expertly written, and I enjoyed listening to it just a month after reading it. I recommend it highly.

4. Last summer, I also read Charlotte McConaghy’s Wild Dark Shore. A contemporary fiction that is also speculative in nature, this novel concerns itself with climate change and asks what happens when the seas rise and endanger the world’s seed bank. The venue for the seeds is on an island between Tanzania and Antarctica, as opposed to its real location on a Norwegian island close to the north pole. Our main character is a woman who mysteriously washes ashore. Severely injured from a boat wreck, she is nursed back to health by the family that lives on the island--caretakers, if you will, who share the archipelago with scientists. A lot happens. It’s a good read, as are all of McConaghy’s books.

I will end here, for now. Next up will be a post about memoirs and perhaps a short foray into time travel.

What have you read in the past year that you recommend, and why?

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When I was in college, studying social work, I was given the assignment of asking three people what they felt were important social services in a community. I queried my friend Beth, an English major, and she answered, unequivocally, that a good library was essential. She made such a good point that I have remembered her response for more than 50 years. I don’t even recall who else I interviewed on this topic (a professor, another friend) as they probably gave more standard responses.

I, myself, have relied on libraries for reading material all my life. First, growing up, my father took my brother and I to our local library every Wednesday evening after dinner. Libraries were quiet places back then. The rule was to talk in whispered voices only and only when necessary, like when checking out books. The libraries whispered, too. This quiet ambiance added to the intrigue of this place of knowledge. I always came home with the four books that allowed out at any one time on a library card.

As a teenager, I lived in the Netherlands for a year with a Dutch family. I learned to speak and read Dutch but, occasionally, for a more familiar and relaxing reading experience, I went to the local library to borrow one of the few English fiction books they had. I read Jane Eyre that year.

I am an avid reader, having averaged a book a week starting back in my high school years. I occasionally download a book onto my e-reader (particularly on a stormy Sunday afternoon in the winter when my library is closed). When I have a long solo drive to do, I often listen to a book via my Spotify account. And I occasionally order a book from a publisher, particularly when it is something unavailable in other ways. But, mostly, I use my library, which is in consortium with other libraries throughout my state and can, therefore, provide me with almost anything I want.

These days, I shelve books at my local library. I started this volunteer gig a couple of years ago. I like being part of keeping the library running smoothly. And I’ve learned some things about the Dewey decimal system that I didn’t previously know.

When my own book was published, my launch was at my library. About fifty community members came out to hear me read my memoir and talk about my writing process. My library has been good to me, so I am good to it.

Reading can provide escape, solace, knowledge, food for thought, and more, all of which can foster resilience. How important are libraries to you?

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Colleen and her tree in 1994

The other was a gift to me a year and a half later, for my December birthday (but planted in November, before the earth began to freeze.) These beautiful trees bloom together every year on Colleen's day. There is so much that reminds me of Colleen every day, but gazing at these blooming trees are my favorite way to commemorate her during the week of her birthday.

I have written here before about our blooming crabapple trees, but I don't tire of them. Happy birthday, dear sweet Colleen. It's been eight and a half years since you left this earth, but you live on in so many people's memories of you.

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Bloodroot poking up in the forest is evidence of nature’s victory every spring.

In the mid-1880s, Horace Mann became the first president of Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio. I attended one of Antioch’s graduate schools a hundred years later (in the early 1980s) and then taught there for 18 years (late ‘80s through mid-2000s). Mann’s quote about winning some victory for humanity has been a mainstay guiding principle of that university for about 145 years. It may seem a lofty goal, but when we look back on our lives I think that most of us can point to ways in which we have made the world a better place.

Think about the lives you have touched. Think about the work you have done throughout your career that has had a positive impact on other people. How have you improved the world we live in? What is your legacy? If you struggle to answer this, it is not too late to get involved in your community to affect positive change. It is never too late to deepen your connections with people in your life. Your victory for humanity may seem, at first, not all that consequential, but no such victory is too small to acknowledge.

These are challenging times in the history of our country. It is easy to feel that what one stands for and what one values is being overlooked or deemed unimportant. But this is not true. You are not alone in your despair. Find ways to stand up for what you believe in. If you are too busy earning your wages to fight for your rights or for the rights of others, focus on what you can do, which may mean continuing to do what you have already been doing. What victory (large or small) for humanity are you already working towards in your day-to-day life?

You might be focused on doing right for our planet. An example might be reusing stuff you have and avoiding unnecessary consumerism. This doesn’t take much of your time; in fact, it takes less time than shopping for new stuff takes. You might be volunteering for an organization dear to you, or you might be donating funds to such if you are short on time. There are many ways to affect change. What may seem like small efforts, when taken together with similar efforts of others, can make a difference.

“Be ashamed to die before you have won some victory for humankind” is a sentiment worth reflecting upon. I haven’t grown tired of this quote since first hearing it 44 years ago.

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I chose the above quote to start this post because it so closely aligns with my own thinking about forgiveness. The author of the quote is not someone I have read, as I don’t read self-help. But these words of his are wise.

Forgiving a person who has wronged you is different from forgetting a wrong. We don’t consciously control what we remember and what we forget, so hurtful acts done unto us can linger in our memories long after we feel we have forgiven the person who wronged us,

When we forgive, we do so for ourselves, more so than for the person we are forgiving. Forgiveness is a conscious choice to release oneself from the feelings that result from another person’s actions. Holding onto resentment hurts us more than it does the person who did the hurting. Forgiveness is what sets us free from that resentment.

A long time ago, I had a lot of forgiving of one of my parents to do. It took significant effort, but it did set me free from some tough aspects of my childhood. I know a woman who has been terribly wronged by her former husband, the extent to which has come to light some years after their divorce. Last I knew, she was seeking revenge by attempting to ruin his career. She has her reasons for going after him in this way. She feels justified. I understand her rage and her desire to hurt this person who has so egregiously hurt her. And yet, I do not believe that revenge will set her free from her feelings about him. Only forgiveness can set us free.

Forgiveness is typically not an easy path. But it is a rewarding one. What place has forgiveness played in your life?

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Ania and I met when we arrived at the same small college in Pennsylvania in the fall of 1973. We have managed to stay in each other’s lives all these years. We settled on different coasts, pursued careers, and raised daughters. We’ve often gone years without seeing each other, Ania and I, but we have always stayed in touch. When we do get together, just as when we see each other on our screens for video chats, we feel close. Some friendships are like that. We get each other. We don’t take this for granted. We know we are fortunate in this 53-year relationship.

There is something so comfortable about hanging with someone who knew you when you were young. That person knows your long-ago history. Friends made later may need to be reminded about where you went to college, what you studied, when you went to graduate school. They may have never met your parents. They may not remember your siblings’ names. An old friend knows all that history; there is no need to fill in those blanks during a conversation.

Ania and I both enjoy outdoor activities, so we spent most of our time on and near the water last week. But more important than sharing outdoor fun, we talked and laughed (mostly at the same old jokes from our lives together in the 70s) and reflected on how fortunate we are to still be in each other’s lives.

Below is a photo of a non-stinging jellyfish, which we were able to touch from our boats. They felt just like jelly! We don’t have these in Vermont in the spring. Nor do we have Ania, but I am carrying her with me as I walk in the woods and clean up my yard and switch my snow tires for summer ones. It’s so sweet to be carrying this friendship with me as I welcome spring at home.

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In Vermont, we keep our Christmas wreaths by the entrances to our homes until they start turning brown in March...or April. I assessed mine as having seen greener days earlier this month, and I vowed to take it down as soon as the weather was less cold, less windy, less grey. This task involves removing the decorations, to keep for next year, before tossing the wreath into the woods behind the house. It’s a looking-forward-to-spring project, so I like doing it on a relatively warm sunny day.

When the mercury didn’t reach 45 in early November, I thought it was cold. I braced myself for the winter weather that was coming and I dug out my hats and scarves and mittens. Today, I was delighted to wear a light jacket and none of those warm accessories. Same temperature, different month and perspective.

How adaptable we humans are. We get used to the cold. But eventually we also get tired of it. We wait longer here than much of the country waits for spring weather and growth. It’s a long haul, waiting for spring in Vermont. They say April is the cruelest month in the Northeast. One’s hopes can be so easily dashed by a spring snowstorm. But days like today keep yearning alive. I have looked for crocus blooms in my garden but have found not even green shoots. Still, I find myself daydreaming of life on the screened porch. Dining al fresco may be many weeks away, but it will happen. And there won’t be a Christmas wreath hanging around when it does.

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Dear readers,

After signing off from writing this newsletter for the summer, I took up the practice of daily haiku writing. I found this practice challenging, but I kept at it. One day in July, I also wrote some words for those who are navigating loss. I was experiencing a period of greater sadness than I typically do. I also wrote, around that time, a couple of haiku poems inspired by the cyclical nature of grief.

I don't know if I will continue writing this newsletter. Over the summer, I missed the practice of writing my thoughts for others to consider, but my focus on writing about resilience in the face of loss may have run its course. I started this writing project over a year and a half ago and it has been a good way for me to continue the work I began with my memoir. Still, it may be time to shift my focus. My intention right now is to immerse myself in watercolor painting this fall.

I have not restored paid subscriptions this week, which I thought I would do when I paused payment around the summer solstice. I will do so only if I decide to start posting regularly again; I plan to make that determination by the fall equinox. If I choose not to continue, the following seems a good way to wrap up my work here:

When grief feels too hard,
May you bring softness to it.

When your days feel too sad,
May you find joy in small moments.

When you tire of the struggle,
May you rest and rejuvenate.

I think the above reads a bit like an Irish blessing, which was not intentional and not my usual way of writing, but why not? I hope the message speaks to those who are grieving.

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As I did last year at this time, I am taking a break from posting my thoughts on Substack for the summer months. I will resume this newsletter in September. Paid subscriptions will be paused. Monthly payments will resume when I start writing again and annual subscriptions will be extended by the number of months I am on hiatus.

Thanks to all, paid or not, for your continued interest in my musings. I appreciate all of you.

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You know how doing something (some activity you enjoy) or listening to something (perhaps a favorite musician) can bring you back to who you are in a fundamental way? Maybe you love to swim, but you haven't had an opportunity to do so in a long while, and then you do. Or maybe you are cooking dinner and listening to music and your streaming service tosses you a song by one of your favorite artists, a song you haven't heard in a long time. You know that joy you experience when you suddenly feel like you are home? That this activity or this music or whatever it is you are experiencing has brought you back home to yourself? I love that feeling.

I also love starting my day slowly, in refection, with a perfect cup of coffee. Sometimes I pick up my phone too soon, but I realize my error when my eyes don't focus well on the screen. Thank you for that, I think. Thank you, eyes, for the reminder to look out the window and listen to the birds for a while longer before reading the morning news.

I like playing some of the New York Times games in the morning. I used to do this after getting up to speed on the news, but lately I start with the games. I have a friend who plays the same ones and we text each about our successes and challenges most mornings. It's nice to have someone to say good morning to, especially by text. There is no pressure to read or answer right away. By text, we can move slowly into conversing. I like a gentle start to my day.

How do you remain centered and solid during challenging times? How do you make sure that you experience joy each day? Do you find ways, every day, to feel like you are at home in yourself, regardless of where you are geographically?

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I have a close friend who is just a tad over half my age. I first knew her when she was about 20 and I was in my early 50s. I was her teacher; she was my student. We held a lot of respect for one another. Our paths crossed again about 10 years later, when we became coworkers. We got to know each other better, and we had some fun together. We became even more fond of one another. A few years after that, we began to spend a lot of together and became close friends.

These days, one of us needs to get on a plane so we to see each other. Despite our geographical distance, Sallie and I will be together in July for the third time in this calendar year. Otherwise, we text and we talk.

Recently, Sallie wrote to me to say that she and her partner had been answering some questions in a book for couples. One of these questions asked each person to say who their hero was. Sallie's boyfriend predicted she would name me, and she did. She wanted me to know this. She wrote to me, "How lucky am I to have such a great friend who is also my biggest role model?!"

You might imagine how honored I felt. Sallie and I think the world of each other. We are close confidantes and we have lots of fun together. But her biggest role model? Now that is a major compliment.

It's not like Sallie has me on a pedestal. We have had a couple of fights (which we now laugh about), but those incidences did not lesson our deep mutual respect. We can count on each other for honest feedback, not just support, and we each find the other very funny.

Sallie is, at times, like an honorary daughter to me, but more often, she is one of my closest friends. And now she says I am her biggest role model? I already knew that she sometimes looks up to me, when she isn't just looking over at me. Neither of us has ever looked down on the other (even when we were fighting). Mostly, our relationship is one of mutuality. I am still taking in this role model/hero thing. It's a lot to take in, but I will do so with humility and grace. I am pleased that I can model a way of navigating life that inspires my younger friend. And I am touched that she has shared her appreciation of me in this way.

Lately, I have been writing about bold living. I regularly write about resilience. This idea of being an inspiration is a step beyond these ways of defining oneself. This feels like something to think about, a role to take seriously and live up to.

Do you have a "biggest role model"? Are you that for someone in your life? Are you living your life in such a way that inspires your friends? Who inspires you?

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Who and what inspires you?

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This past winter, I wrote here twice about my friend Lyn, who was dealing with a cancer diagnosis. Her prognosis appeared grim at that time. A few months into treatment, Lyn's prognosis is much improved. She said to me a couple of weeks ago, "I feel like I have been given my life back!" She has.

Lyn and I went out one evening recently to celebrate. She was feeling so well that she had a cocktail (her first since my birthday dinner in December, when she wasn't well but didn't yet know why). Lyn and her husband will soon travel to California for a family wedding. Later this month she will undergo a surgery. By the end of the summer, cancer treatments should be behind her. Her hair will grow back and she will go on living. What a gift--for her, for her husband Jon, and for her extended family and friends.

Sometimes, medical professionals are wrong, and sometimes their errors bring good news. I feel beyond grateful for this particular good news. One of my closest friends is back from the brink and is feeling elated. I am feeling grateful.

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My father served in Europe during World War II, as a teenager, and (obviously) survived that war. I honor his service on Veterans Day each year. But I think of him on Memorial Day as well, because he landed on Normandy Beach on D-Day and so many men did not survive that deadly battle. Austin, my father, was 17 when he shipped out to serve his country. On D-Day, he had just a month earlier turned 19. He and so many other young men, joined the fight when they were still boys. The lucky ones came home, but they came home changed. The unlucky ones came home in body bags, were buried abroad, or remained missing.

If you didn’t do so on Monday, consider taking a moment today (how about right now?) to thank those who gave their lives, in both world wars, to protect democracy here and abroad. This year, as we find ourselves on the brink of fascism in the U.S., this may be more important than ever to reflect upon.

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