Blog Posts / Newspaper Column

1/2 Dozen Quatrains for a Three-Wheel Motorbike
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2024)

There’s time to slip in one more issue of the Commuter Column as a poem for National Poetry Month (April). How could I not write about my favorite mode of travel?

The long days can be difficult at best

Wrapped in challenges of body and mind

The scraps and brawls are of many a kind

Until it comes, the end of day at last

Jacket with liner, rainproof gloves and boots

Air pressure 20, 20, 28

Face shield and windshield debugged, a clean slate

Helmet shoved over hair braided, or loose

Into the wind flying past fields and trees

Crest over hills, and dancing with tight curves

Occasionally the avoidance swerve

From deer and worse, drivers who cannot see

I’m no legend, but I know what Young meant

As I too collide with the air I breathe

And the wind pulls my heart worn on my sleeve

The current my savior, the bike my friend

A third wheel, two-fold while on my bike

While some may scoff, others welcome us

Camaraderie and feeling of trust

Bikes are worthy whether two wheels or trike

For no matter what machine carries you

With the loud wind neath the moon or the sun

You ride because you can, because you must

To not would make your heart deeper than blue

Without Poetry, How Would We Understand These Things?
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2024)

In honor of April’s National Poetry Month, I have written this issue of the Commuter Column as a poem about poems.

Without poetry,

words would just be letters of the alphabet.

Without poetry,

there would be no mysteries of rhyme and beats.

Without poetry,

line breaks would be predictable.

There’d be no jumping off the cliff.

Hands would remain in pockets while plummeting down the coaster track.

Without poetry,

how would we feel the trill of the whippoorwill even when one is not near,

or be dampened by the brown headed cow-bird’s water droplets?

Without poetry,

how would we know which yellow wooded path to take?

Without poetry,

how would we find hidden tintinnabulations in the words, words, words, the ringing of the words;

or understand the permanence of the love for a maiden by the sea?

Without poetry,

how would we feel the warmth of a wheat field when the summer sun kisses it, when we are in winter?

Without poetry,

how would we etch the dreams of others into our minds and history books;

and feel the deep sorrow of the catalysts of those dreams?

Without poetry,

how would we know the difference between what feels like forever and what really is forever?

Without poetry,

how would we understand all these things or really anything at all?

Dogs: More than Memories
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2024)

One of my playlists is limited to instrumentals and one of the songs I’ve been gravitating to lately is “Only a Memory,” by Yanni. I’ve been thinking about memories that are only memories compared to those that never seem to cross over to that realm. They are real and present despite how long ago they may have surfaced.

One of those live memories is when our Labrador, Sam, who earned his wings early 2021, had first experienced being released from his leash while we were hiking. He is the only dog I have shared my life with who I could trust with that freeing and frightening privilege. Sam would always run ahead on the trail and then either come back to check on us or would turn around and wait for us to catch up. It was a “catch up” moment that became frozen in real time. It floats in my thoughts nearly every day and it greets me in my dreams. I can vividly see Sam on the dirt path ahead surrounded by the lush green summer foliage looking back at me with his big grin.

Like moments that are so much more than memories, the love we share with our canine loved ones is also lasting. Yes, it is heartbreaking when they leave us. But the love and joy we share while they are here is worth the heartache. I have learned that it will never be okay when they go. So, I have stopped fighting the desire to make it right. And I have also learned that it gets better and that, at least for me, there is no timeframe for when I can open my heart to a new four-legged friend.

This is why rescue dogs and shelters have been so important to me. Except for my first dog as an adult, all eight since she left have been rescue dogs. Sure, they come with a hidden menu of challenges, but in time, the edges soften and they learn they are safe with you so that you can truly enjoy each other’s company and share a deep and everlasting love.

Dogs who need rescued are plentiful, and for that time when they are in limbo looking for their lost home or their to-be home, they are kept safe and fed in shelters, the Wright-Poling Pickaway County Dog Shelter, of course, being one of them. And just like the dogs could use a helping hand, so too can our shelter. And one way that help is generously given is by our local organization, Partners for Paws, which is about to hold its famous annual fundraiser on April 20, 2024, at 6pm at AmVets on Tarlton Road in Circleville.

The fundraiser features appetizers, desserts, wine from our lovely and local winery, Manchester Hill, and silent and live auctions. I love supporting the shelter and doing so through Partners for Paws. And this event has always been one of my most favorite things to do. But because I remain immunocompromised and under treatment for a flare up of recurrent pericarditis with myocarditis, my participation in April will be limited to purchasing a ticket that will not be used and sharing these thoughts with you.

If you have never been to the event, you can call 740-420-6277 for more information. If you have room for another furry loved-one in your home, you can find the dog shelter on Facebook and at 21253 Ringgold Southern Rd. Circleville, Ohio 43113 or call them at (740) 474-3741. Both the event and adopting a dog are excellent ways to have what would otherwise be “only a memory” become richer, fuller and ever present.

Words Behind the Women
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2024)

According to www.history.com, “Women’s History Month is a dedicated month to reflect on the often-overlooked contributions of women to U.S. history.” In reflection, I also think about the words behind the women.

We recently witnessed a woman crossing the threshold of “women in history” by becoming the first American woman to sail solo around the world. In an interview with Inside Edition, Cole Brauer shared that there was a pivotal moment when things were not going well and her mother told her ‘You’re not stopping, like no way. We don’t stop.”

What if her mother had said something like, “Oh, it’s okay, honey. At least you tried. We are women so we can only do so much.” The whole dream could have ended there, as could have the dreams of so many other women who have been watching her trek with eager anticipation.

But then, negative words can make a positive turn too; right? A demanding “No” can be the most powerful “Yes,” a woman can hear.

Think of Kathrine Switzer who registered for the Boston Marathon in 1967 and got through because her normal practice was to use her initials. When she was discovered on the course (a woman runner for goodness’ sake!) by the race’s co-director, he attacked her; but she still finished. Unofficially, because she was not able to register with her name, Bobbi Gibb, finished the Boston marathon nearly an hour ahead of Kathrine, both proving that women have a place in endurance running.

And then there is Bessie Stringfield, who, in 1930, became the first African American woman to ride her motorcycle solo across the United States. Think about that. A woman in 1930 riding a motorcycle, let alone solo across the United States and adding to the level of potential danger, a black woman. Let’s talk about bravery!

All these women were clearly told “No,” and the power of those blockades morphed into an amplified “Yes” in their minds.

Our history is rich with “Nos” being turned into “Yeses” by determined women. Just think of the jump start that would have been afforded them if, instead of the Nos, they had begun their journey with “Yeses” or a “We don’t stop.”

And the thing is, any one of us can be the jump start - the words of support behind a woman who will one day become a woman in history. When I was a kid, my stepfather did not hesitate to teach me how to crew on our small sailboat as we spent the weekends chasing the wind and racing for trophies. I had friends support me on the street courses as I completed quite a few marathons. And I have had many enthusiastic congratulations for my purchase of my motorcycle.

I’m certainly not of the level of women in history, but between the words of encouragement I have received and because of women in history like Bessie, Kathrine, Bobbi and now, Cole, shattering barriers, women, like me can live our dreams today. Maybe we won’t all become “Women in History,” but any one of us can tune in for opportunities to be the words to inspire those who will.

Shout out and get a second, third or fourth opinion – A research gap, lag in care in women’s heart health
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2024)

This one goes out to my heart sisters – women on the road of life who warrior against diseases of the heart. I never thought I would be one of you. But on May 6, 2021, I joined your sisterhood. I survived a heart attack through a four-pronged divine intervention: 1) I felt God and my sweet angel dog, Sam, surround me, 2) I had read how heart attacks present differently for women, so I knew what was happening, 3) I was in a meeting with doctors who reacted swiftly and 4) I was rushed to Grant hospital in a matter of minutes.

I sealed my membership to the club when I began my third flare-up of pericarditis in the fall of 2022; one which I am still fighting my way through. The delay in its resolution brought myocarditis along for the ride and a complicated and long road to recovery. So, it’s not lost on me that this year the CDC has declared that it is encouraging women to “listen to their hearts and speak up for their health” in recognition of February serving as heart health month (https: wwwcdc.gov/heartdisease/American_heart_month.htm). I certainly had to be vocal before I finally got the care I needed. By the time I was heard, I became too complicated for local care and now I must make the trek to the Cleveland Clinic.

The CDC references an article by Wenger, Lloyd-Jones, Elkind, Fonarow, Warner and Alger (2022) that discusses how the most common cause of death in the United States is cardiovascular diseases. Sadly, there is a gap in research and a lag in care when it comes to women, which is even worse when you dive deeper into racial and ethnic diversity.

Another interesting article, “The Slowly Evolving Truth About Heart Disease and Women” written by Laura Williamson (https://www.heart.org/en/news/2024/02/09/the-slowly-evolving-truth-about-heart-disease-and-women) further describes the gap in research concerning women’s heart health. And hope is offered through the American Heart Association which offers a wealth of information and resources to support heart health for women and men (https://www.heart.org/en/).

It seems strange to me that, in 2024, women must fight for health care. Even stranger that the distance between health care for men and women is great, and even greater depending on the color of our skin. I’ve been fighting a tough fight that would have been even harder if I was not white. And that truly breaks my heart.

So, my sisters, all, whether you are aware of having a heart issue or not, fuel up please on the plethora of information that is becoming available – and don’t settle. If you are prescribed antacids for what you know in your gut is not a problem of your gut, shout out and get a second, third or fourth opinion. This road of life is too short as it is, let’s not let them steal even one mile from us.

The air is the only place free from prejudice"
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald February, 2024)

As someone who does not fly planes, and rarely passengers on a commercial flight for that matter, the thought of flying is something that occupies much space in my thinking. At night, I dream that I float over sleepy villages with randomly lit windows and during the day, when I ride my motorcycle, I am convinced I am flying as well. And I oftentimes think about the women who have truly flown and broke through the barrier of the glass sky. Lately I have been thinking a lot about Bessie Coleman.

I briefly wrote about Bessie before, but my thoughts are more focused today in light of celebrating Black history month.

I have been randomly reading inspiring tidbits about Bessie and how her courage and fortitude were a part of her core at a young age. I read that Bessie was born in Texas in 1892. As a daughter of sharecroppers, she spent time as a child working in the cotton fields. One source I looked at reflected that, as a young girl, Bessie vowed to become something one day. And she did, but it was not easy.

The roads to achieve our dreams are typically paved with challenges, but Bessie had extra layer upon layer given the times, that she was a woman, and that she was Black.

I read that when Bessie was only six, she had to walk four miles each day because that was the only way she could get to the segregated school she was forced to attend. She was an excellent student who loved math and reading. I think of that little girl and all that time walking to and from school – what thoughts must have swirled around in her courageous and brilliant mind? Certainly, there were thoughts of flying.

My understanding is that Bessie’s brother, John, filled her head with stories about war pilots and that was the spark that fed the fire. Just one problem Bessie faced with was that, at that time, women were not permitted to earn pilot’s licenses in the United States of America. So, Bessie traveled to France and, in 1921, she became the first African American woman to earn a pilot’s license.

Throughout her career, Bessie balanced being a hero of the sky with being a hero for equal rights. She never spoke in places where discrimination lurked, which I imagine would have been challenging in and of itself. Bessie died doing what she loved, flying. Albeit, on that fateful day, she was not piloting the plane. She was only 34 years old.

Bessie must have loved the sky and performing arial acrobatics. To combine that love with fighting discrimination and inspiring others to break through the wicked barriers of such is amazing. I read that Bessie said, “The air is the only place free from prejudices.”

And I dream of a day when that is no longer true.

January Ride - "I felt my angel dogs flying alongside me"
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald February, 2024)

It was Saturday morning. Not that it really mattered from a commuter’s perspective given that my cardiologist’s current work from home orders have brought morning drives to an abrupt stop. Still, it was Saturday, and the temperature had bumped to above 40. My pericarditis/myopericarditis was offering me a temporary window of a pain level sweetly dropped to a 4, and in matching empathy the sky was offering merely a vapor when it was evident that she was fully stoked for a hard rain.

All these windows opening at the same time. It was fate. I donned my winter “Michelin Man” appearing riding gear, checked my tires, and unhooked the battery trickle charger. My motorcycle was still dirty from the last ride, but the roads were wet and messy, promising another layer of splatter, so I limited the sponge bath to the windshield, my face shield, and the side mirrors. And then my motorbike and I were off for an adventure.

In no time, I was free from the shackles of my temporary, yet long-term, cardiac invoked limitations. I was one with the wind. It extended its icy tentacles into the hidden little nooks and crannies of my helmet and my double jackets, but I didn’t care. The chill vitaminized me. The hues of grey in the low-hanging clouds whispered mists of rain. The fields were shades of brown matching the tall hills along Route 56 just past Laurelville. So many shades of brown. But then, in that moment, what appeared muted, screamed with vibrancy. So many stories of seasons past and those to come. The space in time between winter and spring was cloaked in the invisibility of hope.

Music streamed through my bike’s speakers, “The Story,” written by Phil Hanseroth and released by Brandi Carlile.

“All of these lines across my face tell you the story of who I am. So many stories of where I've been. And how I got to where I am. But these stories don't mean anything when you've got no one to tell them to. It's true, I was made for you.”

And I felt my angel dogs flying alongside me. And I was enveloped in God’s embrace, assuring me, as He has done so many times on this journey, that all will be well. And I thought of Gary, our dogs Rusty and Harry, and a hot cup of cocoa that would be waiting for me when I returned home. And all these stories of where I’ve been and all the stories yet to come. I was made for them.

Name the Sky Our Own
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald January, 2024)

The bitter wind is howling outside my window. Inside, the furnace fiercely fights to keep pace with the frigid temperatures. It’s January in Ohio. All is as it should be as far as the chill is concerned. But all is not as it should be when you think of that one day in January – the third Monday, Martin Luther King Jr. Day. It’s not as it should be because he was taken from us too soon and so our recognition of his work falls short of what it could have been had he been able to continue his fight.

I recently read “Caged Bird,” written by poet and civil rights activist Maya Angelou.

“A free bird leaps / on the back of the wind / and floats downstream / till the current ends / and dips his wing / in the orange sun rays / and dares to claim the sky. // But a bird that stalks / down his narrow cage / can seldom see through / his bars of rage / his wings are clipped and / his feet are tied / so he opens his throat to sing.”

While I am trapped inside by the inclement weather and the incessant recurrent heart condition flare-up I am battling with, I am keenly aware that, like the free bird, I still dare to claim the sky. I believe that warmer, and pain-free days are coming, and I will once again run and bicycle. But I also know that I will do so without fear that the pale, white color of my skin will not have a negative impact on my safety.

The poem continues, “The caged bird sings / with a fearful trill / of things unknown / but longed for still / and his tune is heard / on the distant hill / for the caged bird / sings of freedom.”

The fight of Martin Luther King Jr. for a world free from discrimination, racism, inequality is a war that continues today.

And so, on this cold, grey January day, I think of Martin Luther King, Jr. and pray that one day the fight will be won and all can be free as Maya Angelou wrote in “Caged Bird”: “The free bird thinks of another breeze / and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees / and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn / and he names the sky his own.”

A New Year: Embracing the Past and Welcoming the Future
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald January, 2024)

On the desk where I write sits a cup of hot tea. My tongue anticipates the warm sips of spiced comfort coated in honey. The house is quiet. It is early Sunday morning. Gary and the dogs are still sleeping peacefully. The day awaits. Hopefully, it will come with some needed rest. I know that it will be filled with interesting conversations with Gary. And I eagerly await the sound of a squeaky blue ball and padded paws dashing through the house in playful chase.

It is New Year’s Eve. I am painfully aware of those who are no longer with us. And admittedly, I am worn out and a bit frightened by the cardiac flare-ups I have been enduring and knowing that the word “flare-up” doesn’t necessarily match the temporary timeframe the brain conjures up in response. One year down, potentially another to go.

I look out my window to the bare, and yet majestic, Maple tree where our husky-mix, Mosey, and our Labrador-mix, Sam, would always lay to nap and to gaze at the tree line down near the stream. I always imagined that they were in mindful conversation with God and philosophizing about life. The deep grief I am feeling suddenly shifts to an awareness that, while we had been gifted them to share our lives with, in turn, by rescuing them, we gave them the gifts of happiness, peacefulness, and comfort. They had good lives. It was not always easy. They certainly had their own medical battles. But just as our lives were richer because of them, so too were theirs happier because of us. The realization is soothing.

We never really know for certain what the next moment, hour, day, month, or year will bring. Sure, we have our intuitional moments and our plans; but it isn’t until the moment is upon us that we can really know for sure. An old friend may come back into our lives, a cure for whatever ails us may finally come to fruition, an old new year’s resolution may finally be achieved, a new dog may come trotting into our lives. Every moment is a memory in the making – a visit with sadness, and yet love and comfort. Each minute a fusion of waving good-bye and saying hello.

And so, we embark on another new year to be filled with met expectations and unanticipated events. A year of farewells and greetings. Experiences will wrap themselves around us, ignite our senses and touch our souls. And somewhere in the din of these encounters, I hope that we always find quiet moments like I am this morning, where we can embrace what has passed and prepare our welcome for what is to come.

Christmas Contentment
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald December, 2023)

These nights have been long. Flare ups of heart conditions bring insomnia. And, as with all things unpleasant, there are blessings riding shotgun. I’m blessed that one day I will feel better, even though it looks like it may be months from now. And yes, as odd as it may sound, I am blessed by insomnia, especially these nights of late.

Insomnia can bring gifts of peacefulness and mindfulness. Late at night our little home hums in harmony with the tintinnabulation of the front porch wind chimes. I step through the dark rooms and find my way to the kitchen. I light the small lamp so as to not disturb Gary and our dogs and I make a cup of mint tea and garnish it with honey.

I grab a warm blanket and huddle in my big, favorite chair. Sometimes I read, but this season I tend to quietly soak in the presence of our Christmas tree. Its white lights are elegant and romantic. Several generations of store-bought and handmade decorations add a flavor of playfulness. Many of the adornments remind me of those who are no longer here to share the Holidays with us. I am warmed by the company of their memories. They never really leave do they? Our loved ones are always in our hearts and minds and will remain

there until we are together again.

There is a peacefulness on dark nights kept company with a brightly lit Christmas tree that cannot be matched with any other quietude. I’m reminded of a time years ago when I realized that to be content is not to settle, but rather to feel calmly sated in your heart and your mind and to know that you are right where you should be, and to know that, while things may not be exactly the way you want them to be, they are the way God has planned.

I am warm, I have a husband who loves me and makes my life rich with happiness and delight. We have two rescue dogs who love and entertain us. We have a roof over our heads and food to eat. And we have this beautiful Christmas tree that has lived with us for over 10 years, coming back every year at this time to make things merry and bright. I am blessed with Christmas content. And I am wishing all who are reading this a wonderful Holiday season and blessings of contentment like mine.

Doggie Holiday Firsts and Lasts
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald December, 2023)

Holidays are a mix of joyful and sad moments, and crowded and alone moments, all intertwined with firsts and lasts. Even though some of the firsts and lasts are anticipated, we can never truly know what they will feel like until we are in the throes of them.

Our little Yorkiepoo, Jasmine, passed away suddenly after last Thanksgiving, and our Husky mix, Mosey, passed right after New Years. Jasmine was a surprise departure, and to some extent Mosey too. We knew it would likely be our last Christmas with him, but we thought he would stay until the trees were filled with leaves again and he could spend one more warm summer dreaming under his favorite Maple.

I knew it would be hard being without them, especially during this first Holiday season. The edge of pain is smoothed a little by our other rescues, Harry, a Chihuahua, and Rusty, a Jack Russel mix. It is Rusty’s first holiday season with us, and Harry loves him. Jasmine would have approved too, especially because of his keen television watching skills. I swear Jasmine whispers to him. Mosey would not have liked Rusty, but he would approve of the distraction and joy he has brought us and the way Rusty checks on me when I am not feeling well. Mosey may not be whispering to Rusty, but he whispers to me. As, of course, do our other dog angels.

In my heart, I know that those who are no longer with us are in a better place. I know they are free and happy in God’s Heaven. I dream about them and about the day we will all be together again. But I am not ready to join them yet and so I will move forward enduring and embracing the firsts and lasts here on Earth.

This will be our third Christmas without Sweet Sam, our Labrador, our second Christmas without Jasmine, and our first without Mosey. But this will also be Harry’s third Holiday season with us, and Rusty’s first opening of Christmas presents. While there are many dramatic changes, there are some things that will remain the same. Our home will be filled with comforting love, the warm glow of the Christmas tree lights, the joyful recognition of the reason for the season, and the anticipation of the new year around the corner. Another year of firsts and lasts.

I hope that during this Holiday season, your first and lasts are peaceful and joyful, and that if they are challenging, you have a companion to help you find your way. If by any chance you have room for a companion to share not only this Holiday season with, but all the beautiful years to come, I hope you will consider adopting someone new from the Pickaway County Wright-Poling Dog Shelter (740 -474-3741), the Circle Area Humane Society (740-474-8690) or D.A.S.H. Animal Rescue (614-655-1007). You can find them on Facebook, and they also frequently have ads in the Circleville Herald where you can see those looking for their forever homes.

Thanksgiving and Getting
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald November, 2023)

In his poem, “When Giving is All We Have,” Arizona poet laureate, Alberto Rios wrote, “We give because someone gave to us. / We give because nobody gave to us. / We give because giving has changed us. We give because giving could have changed us.”

The giving could be like when you waited in the drive-thru lane of a fast-food restaurant and the driver ahead of you paid for your meal, so you, in turn, paid for the car behind you. And the giving could be so much more. Someone took the time to help you through a difficult challenge or taught you the ropes so you could soar on your own. And, in turn, you did the same for someone else and perpetuated the circle of giving, the evolution of change, as it were.

And then there is the circle of non-giving. We give because no-one gave to us. We know the difference it could have made, so we chip away at the wall for someone else. We provide kindness for others despite the kindness that was not shown to us.

“Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,” Rios wrote.

I have been thinking about that lately – the many faces of giving. One of the faces of giving is getting. There is the comfort you get when someone gives to you, and there is also the warm, content feeling you get in your heart when you give to others.

Giving does not just travel from you to someone else, or from them to you. There is also giving to yourself. Perhaps this can be one of the most difficult gifts to give. But it is one that deserves a big box and a big bright red bow. These gifts of self-compassion can be removing something from your to-do list so you can get needed rest, speaking up for yourself, or asking someone for help. And as giving tends to be cyclic whether intentional or not, by giving to yourself and supporting your own wellness, you are more able to give to others.

Rios’s poem closes “… You gave me / What you did not have, and I gave you / What I had to give—together, we made / Something greater from the difference.”

When sharing gratitude this Thanksgiving, I hope among yours will be the full circle of the contentment from giving to others, the comfort of being the beneficiary of kindness from others, and the gift of self-compassion.

Shine On!
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald November, 2023)

My commute of late has been shuffling across the living room. One year of a flare-up of a chronic cardiac condition finally sunk its claws in so deeply they have not only penetrated my ability to do the things I love, but also my capacity to have the desire. So, I’m working from home and not able to do much after.

I aim each day to point my thoughts away from misery and toward a focus on the recognition that the one-year delay in treatment is testimony to my resilience. It also serves as a story rich in self-advocacy; but not one to be told today.

Today, the difficulty breathing curbs my appetite for spoken words. I fold a load of laundry and the pain in my chest from the exertion is odd, like something I read about in a horror novel, not something that could really and truly be happening to me. “Beep beep, Richie. We all float down here,” Stephen King’s terrifying clown mocking my weakness.

It seems like only yesterday I was running, hiking and bicycling. I remember it so keenly. I was there; right? I’m sure I was, for the dim afterglow seems to remain. I can just make out the fragile light flickering in the dark corners, weakly, but valiantly, fighting the shadows that seek to succumb it.

And I think of the Leonid Meteor Shower which arrived November 3 with a plan to linger through December 2 and to peak November 17 and 18. The shower is named for its relationship with the constellation Leo the Lion. Apparently, the peaks have paled since the November 1966 show when thousands of meteors firecracked across the sky every minute. According to EarthSky.org, in the years since “… the Lion whimpers rather than roars.”

I feel a kinship with Leo. I’m not shining so bright these days either. I may not be able to run or hike, but I can still ride my motorcycle. I can still fly through the winding roads while the red and gold leaves snow upon me. I can still feel the crisp pre-winter air through my helmet. This will do until I am back on my feet. And I will try with all my might to keep the light shining bright in my mind’s eye. Like the Leonids, I might have a bright surprise or two tucked away waiting to show itself in time.

If your light is being snuffed out like mine is, I hope that you will find time to venture out into the dark one of these November nights and take in the glory of Leo and his Leonids. And may each meteor re-illuminate the glows that we have lost and help us find our way to shine again.

There's No Peace Like Home
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald October, 2023)

When in the midst of the most difficult of times, the awareness of blessings heightens. A few days this past week were spent in a commute of a different kind – different direction, different purpose, different destination. After spending a few days up at the Cleveland Clinic, we returned home. The blessings being as simple as those. We were able to go somewhere to get the help of a specialist and we were able to come home.

The whole time I was at the Cleveland Clinic I thought about hospitals crumbled by the wars over seas. While on the road, there was no need to worry for my sweet little family. I knew they were safe. And when we returned to see our house just as we left it, I prayed for those who vacated their homes and were never able to return, or worse, those who were not able to leave their homes before the bombs struck.

Worn out from the trip and the reason for it, I unpacked my suitcase, very aware of the fact that having my own clothes to unpack is a luxury, but even more so having a washer and dryer to make them clean again. I took a hot shower fully realizing how many others do not have the benefit of water, let alone hot water, or soap.

In her poem, “Pray for Peace,” Ellen Bass wrote, “Pray to whomever you kneel down to…” and illustrated the importance of prayer for others and other things that could easily be taken for granted.

“Then pray to the bus driver who takes you to work. / On the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus…” she advised. “… To Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, pray. Bow down to terriers and shepherds and Siamese cats. Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries…”

I thought about this as I spent the day after our return home resting in my favorite big comfy chair with two dogs peacefully sharing the same space and keeping me warm. When I rose to make a cup of lavender and mint tea, I stepped out the back door and was greeted by the smells of damp grass and fallen leaves - the poetry of a cool and rainy autumn day. It was only afternoon, but the crickets and tree frogs had already begun their evening concert, perhaps realizing that soon the nights will be too cold for such performances. The scene displayed the transition of summer to autumn- green and red, full and bare trees. And I said a prayer to the One I kneel to for all who are denied a quiet moment and a peaceful home.

Adopt a Shelter Dog Month
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald October, 2023)

Imagine you finally had enough, so you took off to follow your own dreams. Or perhaps you thought you were living your dream and then something else caught your attention and somehow in the game of chase, you got lost and couldn’t find your way back home.

And then what if someone came along and scooped you up to take you to a place out of the rain. They would have had the best of intentions, and truth be told, save your life. They provide shelter from the elements and food and water. But the place is unfamiliar, frightening, and loud. You can’t really rest because of all the other rescues in rows of cages or kennels.

Maybe you pine for your family to find you, maybe they are not looking, or maybe you don’t even want to be found. And if you do want a reunion, how can that happen when you have no voice and wear no identification?

Such is the fate of 7.6 million companion animals every year who land in shelters according to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA).

Now imagine that you are one of those lucky people to adopt a dog from a shelter. Something has been missing in your life and you decide to fill the void. And once you do, when you come home at night, your day is all the better because there is a wagging tail greeting you. More than that, there is unconditional love – no matter what you look like, how grumpy you might be, or how tired, you are still their person who they love and adore. They keep you company; they cuddle you and they are masters of improving your quality of life.

You save a life and, in turn, yours is joyously flipped into a life richer than you imagined. Sure, there might be some work at first. It can take a little while for a shelter dog to recover from their previous life. They might make mistakes and leave some messes. But we aren’t perfect either, and we usually need some time to adjust to new situations in our life too.

But after the floor is cleaned up, the torn-up newspapers are swept away, and the shreds of toys mislabeled “for strong chewers” are picked up, you will both have better habits and a better life together. The life. The one you saved and the one that saved you will have years of richer, happier days.

October is National Adopt a Shelter Dog Month. What a great time to rescue a dog, so that they, in turn, can rescue you. Locally, we have three excellent places to find your companion: DASH Animal Rescue, the Circle Area Humane Society, and the Pickaway County Dog Shelter.

St. Augustine
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald September, 2023)

It was several years ago that we took the drive. And it was quite late at night when we arrived. It was pitch dark and we weren’t sure we were there, until we stepped out of the car. Greeted by the sound of the crashing ocean waves, we knew that we were. We opened the gate and climbed the few steps to the old cabin door, fumbled for the light, and we were in.

A few more trips to the car and all our gear were hauled in and strewn across the small living room floor. Then, hand in hand, we stepped out the door one more time. The full moon lit the way to the deck behind the cottage where the salty mist carried over us and the cacophony of waves meeting shore said everything.

Gary and I were only 8 months into us when we took that trip, but the magic lives with me every day.

My favorite memory is when we went to a small, local market and purchased the makings for a fine dinner. Back at the cabin, we rummaged through the kitchen to find a pot big enough to cook the crab legs, some semblance of a corkscrew and coffee cups that became our wine glasses.

Louis Armstrong streamed from the radio, and we felt the presence of those who had shared romantic evenings like ours decades before.

All lamps turned off; the little cabin glowed in dancing candlelight. The flames flickered in the breeze floating in from the windows we had opened so that Louis could accompany the sound of the waves with the honeyed, brassy tones of his trumpet.

We had not been together even a year, but we knew we belonged together. And the sweet evening served as confirmation.

Here we are, October 2023, celebrating nine years of marriage, ten years since that night in St. Augustine. And this man who I have only known for 10 years is in my heart as though he has always been there. We have held each other when we lost loved ones. We supported each other through our own battles. And all the while, those promises serenaded by Louis Armstrong’s “A Kiss to Build a Dream On,” that moonlit night 10 years ago in St. Augustine have held true.

Missing
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald September, 2023)

On some phone, there is an unanswered text. At some dining room table, there is an empty chair. A passenger seat is empty. A radio is left silent. A dog waits at the door. Somewhere someone is missing. Not just one somewhere, but many. And not just one someone, but over 700,000 – and not just this year, but every year.

According to the World Health Organization, more than 700,000 people die of suicide every year. There are less than half that many people, about 326,000 living in Pickaway, Ross, Fairfield and Fayette counties combined. With the counties spreading out over 2,111 square miles, that is how far you would travel and find no one at home. So just think of the distance you would travel void of any living being if all 700,000 lives lost were in Ohio.

And every life lost is a domino downslide of hearts broken and families shattered.

But to the ones who chose to take their life, it most likely didn’t feel that way. They probably felt all alone. They may have felt unloved. They might have felt that the ultimate departure was the only road to travel.

And the reasons that brought them to those thoughts are varied. The wickedness that can bring someone to no longer want to live can come in a plethora of shapes and sizes. Anything from abuse, bullying, addiction, self-worth, body image, social media. The list goes on and on and on.

Suicide doesn’t always call ahead and warn of its impending arrival. Sometimes it sneaks in with hints perhaps so subtle they float away in the air, dancing on the very breeze that will one day carry only memories.

Whether we know it or not, we matter to someone. We all do. Sometimes, we have just not met the person we will matter to yet. How very worthwhile it is to wait around for that someday when that someone will arrive. And whether we are aware of it or not, we all have purpose. The signs are everywhere. A smile on someone’s face when we walk in the room. A thank you from a stranger. And whether we believe or not, our Higher Power is always with us. We feel like we have been abandoned, but just like Mary Stevenson’s poem, “Footprints in the Sand,” when there is only one set of footprints, it is because our Father is carrying us.

And we do not need to carry someone to save a life. Did you know that people who are considering suicide can feel a sense of relief just by having someone ask them how they are doing and showing that they care? This, and other important information is shared by 988lifeline.org. Additionally, resources are available at https://www.bethe1to.com/

September, National Suicide Prevention month, and always, let us pay attention, be kind, and offer another way to those who truly feel they cannot go on one more step. Let us love one another and help to ensure those text messages are answered, those seats at the table are filled, the dogs are not left waiting at the door and the hearts and families remain whole.

If you are having thoughts of suicide, please call the suicide and crisis lifeline at 988.

Empathy
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald August, 2023)

The wind brings the leaves to dance. The scars from the last tornado are hidden behind the lush foliage in all its summer splendor. No one would know what trauma occurred one dark and stormy night. No one would know that the middle is missing from the grand maple tree outside my window.

How’s one to know what scars we carry - hidden by neck scarves, long-sleeved shirts, forced smiles and any other costumes we dream up?

One never knows when kidding with another saying something like “I swear I’m not stalking you,” that the person they are speaking to was once stalked. Or someone says “Now, don’t have a heart attack,” not realizing that the person across the table was healing from that very same thing.

While we might not intend to stir up remembrances of trauma, we should recognize the possibility of their existence. We can pay attention to the signs: a faded smile, a wince, a turn of the head, a forced laugh – any of these could be a sign that our words struck a painful chord for someone whose spirit is still dampened by distress.

Misha Collins’s poem “Downpour,” goes “’Time flies,” an old friend told me today. / But maybe time slips through God’s fingers, / Runs down His arms and legs, / And pools on the ground at His feet,/ each moment evaporating, / Condensing and falling back / To us as rain, / And the whole time, we think things like, ‘poor me,’ / When instead / We could turn our bodies outdoors, / Feel the warm rain on our skin, / And watch the skies / Open for all of us.”

It is well-documented that positivity encourages healing and happiness. It might feel like a façade, but if we practice happiness long enough, we can become happy. The contentedness can wrap itself so neatly around our thoughts and feelings it becomes so deeply embedded that we almost forget. That is until one day when there is an unfortunate reminder. Someone says something, a trigger for the flood of memories to return.

On any day we can be the trigger or the target.

Practicing empathy will help dilute the opportunities for us to be the trigger. We can try to understand the thoughts and feelings of those we converse with. We can pay attention to those signs, verbal and non, that might be clues. We can open ourselves to walk in the rain with the target.

And when we are the target, we need to intentionally be kind to ourselves, whether that means letting the trigger know the harm their words inflicted, walking away, or finding someone safe to talk to. That someone who will take that walk with us and “feel the warm rain… and watch the skies open for all of us.”

National Dog Month - Companions for Life
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald August, 2023)

In the translation of his poem, “The Gift,” Hafiz wrote “Our union is like this: You feel cold, so I reach for a blanket to cover our shivering feet. A hunger comes into your body, so I run to my garden and start digging potatoes… You ache with loneliness one night so much you weep, and I say, ‘Here’s a rope, tie it around me, Hafiz will be your companion for life.’”

It’s like that with dogs too, isn’t it? We may keep them warm and feed them, but what they give us in return is unfathomably beautiful, and for life.

Like thunder, dogs storm into our lives. Expected or not, they arrive. They take over our homes, our lives, our thoughts and take permanent residence in our hearts. They look at us in that way they have, head tilted, eyes that peer through to our souls. And before we say it, they seem to nod, “I know.” And we know that our lives will never be the same.

It's amazing how a living being can be so pure. Any meanness of spirit only accrued because of the cruelty of others. Despite that cruelty, their capacity to love unconditionally is deeply seated and will shine through.

If you have shared your life with a dog, then you know of that which I write. And if you have not, then I am sad knowing that which you have missed.

Tears still frequent my thoughts and my heart as I long for another day with the dogs who have crossed the rainbow bridge. While their celestial spirits float around me, I long to cuddle them and feel their soft fur on my cheek.

The melancholia is diluted by the rebellious, joyful play of the next generation of rescues, Harry and Rusty, who now occupy our home. I strive to be in the moment, to enjoy today. But it is hard.

For quite a while, I have harbored concern about growing older. I fear the future state of my being. And I fear the inevitable day when I will “shuffle off this mortal coil” as William Shakespeare said.

But lately, new thoughts have started to permeate the dreading. I realize that God does not want me to grieve yesterday and fear tomorrow. I am to enjoy the playful ways of our new rescues today and know that even though one day, they too will cross the bridge, so will I. And when I do, the reunion will overflow with joy.

I’m not saying I am packed and ready, but I am saying that I am learning to lessen my fear of the final days through the knowing that the more time I spend here on earth, the more dogs I can share my mortal life with and so the bigger the family will be that I will spend my eternity with.

August is National Dog month. If you do not share your life with a dog, it’s the perfect time to start. And if you do, but you have room for more, it’s the perfect time to add a new family member. I see the ads in the Circleville Herald for DASH Animal Rescue and the Circle Area Humane Society, and I watch the posts of these two amazing organizations and of our Pickaway County Dog Shelter on Facebook. So many dogs just waiting for one of us to show up, leash in hand, and rather than rope, heartstrings, to formalize the tie and be “companions for life”, as Hafiz wrote.

Our Stories
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald August, 2023)

The days flitter by like the sunshine dancing through the trees casting elusive reflections of light and shadow upon the fresh cut grass below. On June 10 of this year, I passed my motorcycle knowledge test and purchased my bike. Forty-eight days later I surpassed 1,000 miles on my odometer, and on the 49th day I passed my skills test and became fully endorsed. My mode of commuting has changed since the inception of the Commuter Column, but the premise has not.

I have been honored to write to you since 2010, and it is a privilege I do not take lightly. I’ve skirted politics, which is not always easy for me. I have borne my soul, which is even harder – writing when the tears deny my eyes the vision of my keyboard. I’ve written of times when my heart was broken and when it was filled with joy. I’ve written nonsense and I’ve shared deep thoughts. And I’ve always stayed true to my purpose which has been to, at the very least, entertain you for a moment or two, and at the best provide words of comfort and hopefully close the distance between us and confirm that none of us is alone.

There is something soothing and healing that comes with knowing you are not alone – that another shares the same journey phase as you.

I sit in my favorite room in our quiet home, writing to you. I write to those of you readers who I have met, some I will never meet, some who I have shared dinner with and some I’ve shared hugs and tears with. As I write, outside my window the old maple tree stands strong defying any missing artifacts of its state of being before the tornado tore out its middle. We are resilient and our stories are ever unfolding.

There is a song by Ocie Elliot called “Miles are Wide,” that goes “…The miles are wide, but we’re not walking them alone. We’ll make our time, like we have nowhere else to roam and hold the line. But sometimes we may let it go. And we’ll define what we have always known. And the scenes here, that show started long ago. Like a story developing slow and the love just grows.”

And so, another issue of the Commuter Column lands in our beloved Circleville Herald. Another expression of thoughts and a moment to thank you for passing the time with me. May the summer ease things down a little for you, fill your heart with sunshine and may our stories develop slowly unlike the flittering reflections of the summer sun’s rays through the fully donned trees.

Not Even the "Skye" is the Limit
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald July, 2023)

Years ago, when my Dalmatian, Emily, passed away, I slumped into a grief-stricken stupor. In an effort to lift myself from the fog, I found myself on a motorcycle ride. I was a passenger then and I remember feeling nothing while we glided along with the wind – nothing until suddenly I felt Emily flying along beside me. Her presence was too intense to be denied and I felt her “telling” me that now she could always be with me, even on bike rides, because now she could fly. Her thoughts filled my heart with comfort that we would always love and be together, just in a different way now that she was in her new form.

The dream has recurred since its inception; however, a month or two ago it melded with another dream. The newer dream was of me looking through the motorcycle windshield as I could hear the motor humming and feel the wind sweep around me. I was keenly aware that flying alongside me were Emily and all the other amazing canine companions who have shared their lives with me.

I had been planning to fulfil a lifelong desire of getting my license and owning my own bike. And I was dreaming as though the bucket list had already received that checkmark. And in that dream, I knew that the name of my bike would be Skye, the Scottish name meaning light and breezy nature. The name seemed the perfect way to describe the feeling of having my dog angels flying around me. What I didn’t know was that the bike I dreamed of would be the bike I would buy, and that bike was already named Skye – formally Sea-to-Sky.

One Saturday last month, I took, and passed, the motorcycle knowledge test at the BMV. Immediately thereafter, my husband, Gary, and I made our way to Ask Powersports in Lancaster, Ohio. We were immediately greeted by someone who was not a motorcycle salesperson, but rather a filler of dreams. In my true fashion, I asked many questions about the Can-Am Spyder RT Limited to fill the gap left by the research I had performed online. Once all inquiries were addressed, a test ride ensued, financing was figured, and the bike became mine. And I will never forget that final moment when Gary and I were ready to take my bike home. The look on the faces of David and Ed who had helped us through the experience was not that of a successful sale being made, but rather genuine happiness that a dream had been met.

And so, since that day, Skye has been my mode of commuting. Any excuse for a ride, I am taking. Should you see us sailing by one day, I’m confident that, if you look closely, you just might also be able to make out the fluttering wings of all my heavenly, furry companions. Once you set your imagination and your dreams free, not even the “Skye” is the limit.

Be Still and Sip
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald July, 2023)

“The world’s just spinning a little too fast. If things don’t slow down soon, we might not last. So just for a moment, let’s be still.” The lyrics from “Let’s Be Still,” sung by The Head and the Heart have been weaving through my thoughts lately – the lyrics and the name of the band.

The connection between what we experience, and what we think and feel to how the body responds is mysterious, but it does not have to be elusive.

Two years ago, with no previous indicators, I had a heart attack at work. I later learned from my cardiologist that the cause was most likely stress. I had been practicing mindfulness and had all the stressors of my life neatly filed away in all the proper folders of my mind. The problem was that I had not wired my body to properly process the content of those folders. So, my heart went rogue.

I promised myself I would do a better job of practicing mindfulness, really focusing on the “full,” but as resolutions will go, my focus waned.

This past week, I had a wonderful conversation with my physical therapist at OSU who is helping me prepare for a semi-minor surgery this fall. She reminded me of the lesson I learned two years ago but added a layer to the learning. I’m having tension issues throughout my body which, in addition to PT, can be lessened with mindfulness. There it is again.

But how do we find time for mindfulness? I have been trying to set aside a specific schedule for practicing it, but I have now learned that you can also incorporate it into your daily routine through breaks or microbreaks.

I recently purchased a motorcycle and have been riding it to work. My new mode of commuting encourages me to take those long, deep breaths. I can feel the rest of my body respond with lessened muscle tension. When I get to work, I’m trying to stand up and walk around every hour or so and just relax.

The opportunities for short breaks are all around us. We can make them for ourselves, or we can even find places where they are made for us.

One local haven where they are made for us is Manchester Hill Winery located on Tarlton Road, Circleville. Years ago, I met Nicole McGrath, owner, and general manager of the winery. I was immediately impressed with her thoughtfulness, intelligence, and artfulness. But I had no idea that I would run into her again later and learn that among her areas of expertise is the art of wine making. I actually came upon this because Manchester Hill Winery is a key player in the wine tasting fundraisers held by Partners for Paws to support the Pickaway County Dog Shelter. We all know that dogs can be good for our hearts, but wine can be too.

There have been several articles published by the likes of Web MD, the Cleveland Clinic, the NIH National Library of Medicine and more that suggest that wine, consumed lightly to moderately, might be beneficial to the heart. When Gary and I visited Manchester Hill earlier this year, the delightful glass of wine, tasty nibblings, live music and getting to see Nicole again made for a perfect break. It was one evening, but that short break left me feeling like I had taken a mini vacation. I felt the tension leave my mind and my body. We plan to go again, step away from the spinning world, take in the ambience and “just be still.”

To learn more about Manchester Hill, visit them on Facebook or www.manchesterhill.com. Also good for the heart, you can learn more about Partners for Paws and the Pickaway County Dog Shelter on Facebook.

Sarah Strong
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald June, 2023)

Strength is an awesome and complicated thing. We recognize it in others and are sometimes surprised when they see it in us. It’s physical, but it’s also mental. It’s a voice that speaks to our core and a feeling that lives in our heart.

Recently Gary and I had dinner with a young woman, Sarah, and her lovely partner, Laura. It was a reunion for Gary, as Sarah and he had known each other years ago. During dinner, Sarah shared a little about her life since she and Gary had last seen each other. Her story is heartbreaking and inspiring all intertwined. It is also for another time perhaps. Except for to share something about Sarah’s strength. I heard it in her story that night, and I was witness to it over this past weekend.

Sarah participated in the PSKC Gauntlet XIII on June 17, and Gary and I traveled down to Portsmouth to watch her. Gary with his ever-present camera in hand, me with my wide-eyed expectation that I was about to be wowed. Neither of us were disappointed. The gauntlet is an event where teams of four endure a variety of seemingly impossible grueling physical challenges. Most of these were feats that I could not have done even one of, let alone complete a full set. But it wasn’t just the physical strength that blew me away, it was also the power and determination of the mind.

I saw the fatigue in Sarah’s face and occasionally heard the loud exhale as she performed yet another Herculean task. Over and over. The inner voice that encouraged her to keep going was matched by the undeniably powerful encouragement from her teammates, Ricky, Jen and Tom, and of course, from her adoring partner, Laura. And the magic in the air was wrapped in bursts of encouragement from members of other teams as well. A competition that, from where I stood, was like no other – not only because of its physical brutality, but in juxtaposition, because of the genuine camaraderie that stretched across teams.

Sarah is lean and mighty. She has had to be a fighter to survive. Her determination and mental fortitude, self-taught. Her physical mastery honed under the wing of PSKC CrossFit (https://pskcstrong.com/), whose owner, Dale, organized the Gauntlet. It was abundantly clear at the event that PSKC is not just a place to learn and practice the strategy of physical health and strength, but also to find quality of life – to thrive.

To travel from surviving to flourishing is something awesome indeed. I am in awe of Sarah’s fortitude, and those like her who keep on fighting, take one more step, and then another toward something better.

Maybe I don’t know what it is like to endure and rise from the battles Sarah has fought, and I’ll never be able to compete in the Gauntlet like she did, but by her sharing her story and inviting Gary and me to watch her compete, I have gained renewed hope and courage. Moving forward, I will navigate through my own version of a gauntlet with determination to be “Sarah Strong.”

June Nights
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald June, 2023)

These June nights, poplars, black walnuts, maple, and evergreen trees cast long moon shadows that stretch across our little piece of land. Off to the east and the west a conversation is exchanged between two Barred Owls. “Who, who, who cooks for you?” A few celestial bodies with the power to outshine the full moon, do. Crickets and treefrogs hidden in the woods sing my heart to rest. Off in the distance, the cry of the coyote.

Ever so quietly, so as to not disturb the magic, Gary and I gently rock in our chairs on the back deck and bear witness to the night. Enchanted by the occasional flickering choreography of lightning bugs, we whisper to each other “I love you.”

June marks the beginning of summer, and the nocturnal phenomena of warmer weather have wasted no time in appearing. Yes, the mornings are lovely, and sunny days are fulfilling, but it is the night that really speaks to me. The waxing and waning of the moon, the meteor displays, and the sounds of the night fill my heart – matched by the love I feel for Gary. And I realize that, even though we found each other late in life and have both traversed through many a difficult time, our challenges are nothing compared to those of others who found their forever love and were punished for doing so.

I was born a girl and I identify with being female. Gary was born a boy and identifies with being male. As a male and female who met, fell in love, and married, we did not face the difficulties that others face for the simple reason they are not living their lives the way some members of society believe they should.

While conflict dates much further back in history than 1969, it was on a June night that year that the police raid of the Stonewall Inn located in Manhattan New York resulted in a multi-day riot. That turbulent time is the catalyst for June becoming Pride month and a special time to celebrate the positive influence the LGBTQ+ community has on the world.

As we celebrate PRIDE month in June, I am hopeful that society will continue the movement toward inclusion and equity so that the magic of love, and the enchantment of a warm summer night can be more easily, and more freely, enjoyed by all of us, no matter who we identify as, or who we have fallen in love with.

Soldiers - The Rest of Their Stories
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald May, 2023)

Memorial Day is upon us. That beautiful, long weekend spent jovially with friends and family. The sound of laughter wafts through the air intermingling with the aroma of barbeque, the warmth of a sunny day matches the happiness in our hearts, and for those of us who spend the time more quietly, the peacefulness brings respite. But there is something else in our hearts and minds during this holiday. Blended with the cheerful moments spent with those who are with us are the bittersweet memories of those who are not.

We are the ones behind every soldier who is no longer here. And behind each of those soldiers are not only family and friends, but a way of life and a way of being that may or may not have had anything to do with serving.

My stepfather loved being a barber and making his customers laugh while he groomed them for whatever the days ahead would bring. My husband’s brother loved motorcycles. My cousin loved to craft model airplanes. My grandfather always had a transistor radio tucked in his pocket so he could listen to the game. And lately, I have been thinking of another veteran who was a painter - James Sargent.

I was not related to James. I met him when I was managing the ArtsaRound Gallery at Berger Hospital. I’m unsure whether the gallery still exists, but it was a magical part of my job. When I met James, I was impressed with his beautiful paintings and the story of how he designed the Pickaway County flag. And more than this, I was touched by his kindness.

During the month that James had his art on display at the Gallery, he gave me an oil painting, “Hay for Winter,” which has hung in my home ever since. I frequently gaze into the painting and get lost in the details of the hay, the wooden barn, the tall grass waving in the wind, and the clouded sky. And I remember the generosity of the painter and I think about all the things we don’t always know about soldiers.

James served in the National Guard, but he was also a husband, father, and grandfather. I will always regret that I didn’t take more time to look him up after his exhibit. I am sure that my life would have been richer if I had. At the same time I know it is too late to get to know him better because James has passed away, I also know that I will never stop feeling touched by this man who was a soldier, a family man and a painter.

This Memorial Day, I hope that you will enjoy rest and celebratory time with family and friends, and I also hope that you will see and appreciate the whole of the soldiers in your life. Remember, they not only bravely protected our country, they were also mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, barbers, bikers, sports fans, painters and more.

It's All Right
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald May, 2023)

There’s time during the quiet mornings as I sip my coffee when my thoughts drift through the kitchen, past the bedroom where Gary and our rescues, Harry and Rusty, sleep, and out the door to the road. A commute of a different sort commences as I visit memories and marvel at the time that has passed. How can it be today, today? What happened to yesterday and the day before? They passed swiftly. Each one having teased me with faux promises of time standing still. I believed the lie every day. With a swiftness difficult to comprehend, the sun sets, the moon rises, a new dawn arrives, and I find myself sipping my morning coffee pondering the passing of time again.

It’s not all right, all the hurtful things that have happened. And yet, the painful times make the pleasant ones all the sweeter. And so, with no other sound but the birds slowly waking outside and serenading the sun’s anticipated arrival, I whisper a prayer of gratitude.

The commute of life is filled with twists, turns, dead ends and collisions. But it is also filled with scenery that inspires the mind to imagine what could be and begs the poet to write of what once was. And the realization dawns on me that all that was not right back then not only makes the pleasant times sweeter, those challenging times have also taken me to this moment today where, although the wicked memories linger in the shadows, it’s still all right.

In his song, “And It’s Still Alright,” Nathaniel Rateliff sings, “They say you learn a lot out there, how to scorch and burn. Gonna have to bury your friends, then you’ll find it gets worse. Standing out on the ledge with no way to get down. You start praying for wings to grow.”

And it’s kind of like that, isn’t it? Somehow, as though with wings, we fly over and past the minutes, hours and days until another year has passed. We can rise above all that was not all right, the years spent scratching and clawing just to survive. The years drenched in fear and sadness. Rateliff sings “Say, the glass is clear, but all this fear starts a-leaving a mark.”

And so, in the quiet of the morning, I sip my coffee and I think, yes, I bear the mark of all that was not right. And with determined mindfulness, I whisper, “all those bumps, near misses and crashes on the commute of life were worth it. This destination is more than all right.”

The Commuter's Companions
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2023)

Scooting into the last few days of National Poetry month, I have decided to convert the Commuter Column to a poem format once more. I chose to write this one with a rhyme scheme comprised of AABB alternating with CDCD, EEFF, GHGH, and so on with each line having10 beats, or decasyllable. The poem was inspired by a place on my commute to work where, even when I am not thinking about them, my dogs who have passed on seem to surround me and fill me with love, bright light, a little heartbreak and hope.

The Commuter’s Companion

There are places beyond this narrow road,

Where my heart and mind are begging to go,

Past the fields, beyond the hills, to the trees,

To the place where your name floats on the breeze.

On the journey from here to there, the where

You now reside without me by your side

Seems unreal. I feel you here in the air.

You’re far away and yet I feel you nigh.

For the love of a dog is eternal,

And the joy and blessings are more than all

I could ever dream to know and to hold,

But too soon the years passed and you grew old.

Whatever the path ahead may lead to,

No matter how trivial it may seem,

Or how full of light or deep dark and blue,

It is the path toward you, I believe.

For the bond we share is one all too rare,

Except for the human and canine pair.

These days, when I feel I can take no more,

You float through my heart like you did before.

Whatever curve the road ahead might bring,

Be it stormy weather or a light rain,

My heart will be renewed just like in spring,

For your memories sing my heart’s refrains.

I would be remiss if I did not close the sentiments of this column by encouraging you to rescue a shelter dog should you have room for more love in your home. Yes, when a dog passes it can be overwhelming. But there is a strange relief in knowing that you do not need to try to make it okay, because it never will be. And there is also an awesome joy in knowing that it will get easier and that there is another special someone waiting for you.

The commute to the Wright-Poling Pickaway County Dog Shelter is short, but the love you will find there is eternal. You can find the shelter at 21253 Ringgold Southern Rd, Circleville, OH and call them at (740) 474-3741.

This issue of the column was written in honor of our rescues Rusty and Harry and in loving memory of Mosey, Jasmine, Sam, Woody, Sara, Jude, Emily and Molly.

For the Dogs of Pickaway County
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2023)

With April being National Poetry Month as well as when Partners for Paws holds its Pause for a Cause Wine Tasting Event to support the Wright-Poling Pickaway County Dog Shelter, I am dedicating this issue of the Commuter Column to both. For fun, I have decided to write a Viator. For those not familiar, this is a form of poetry where the first line becomes the second line in the next stanza, the third line in the third stanza and so on until that line is the last line of the poem. This means the number of lines in a stanza must equal the number of stanzas. It also means that first line has a pretty important job to do.

Other than the aforementioned rules, there are none about beats or even about a rhyming pattern. Because, like Partners for Paws and the Pickaway County Dog Shelter, I like a good challenge, I have given myself some rules to follow. I have chosen five stanzas, so five lines in each, each line with 10 beats except for the last line, and an alternating rhyming pattern.

For the Dogs of Pickaway County

Life is richer with a dog companion.

When your heart is drawn, quartered, left for dead,

And all happiness seems to have passed on,

Left you with nothing but darkness and dread,

By a dog’s side is the place you belong.

The clouds may come, bring stormy wind and rain.

Life is richer with a dog companion,

Who will share their rainbow, until the day,

With angel wings they take flight to heaven.

But the years spent with them are worth the pain,

Of the vacancy felt when they move on.

They gift us with love, with play, and laughter.

Life is richer with a dog companion.

A dog’s deep love lasts for ever after,

And brings us sun where before there was none.

In turn, for those of us who walk on two,

We are honored and graced with saving one,

Or if we can’t, then support those who do.

Life is richer with a dog companion,

And even sweeter when shared with a few.

For what does it mean to be a human,

If not to be kind to those with no voice,

Who were left scared, alone, and abandoned?

It wasn’t theirs to make, but is our choice,

Because life is richer with a dog companion.

AMVETS doors will open at 5:30pm on April 22 for the Pause for a Cause Wine Tasting Event to benefit the Wright-Poling Pickaway County Dog Shelter.

Said the Woman to the Cow
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2023)

“It's amazing how you can speak right to my heart. Without saying a word, you can light up the dark,” begins the song “When you Say Nothing at All.” The lyrics, written by Paul Overstreet and Don Schlitz and best known to me when sung by Alison Krauss, come to mind when my husband, Gary, and I talk about our relationships with animals and how they share much with us without even saying a word. The conversation could be construed as one-sided, but we all know that is not true. I have felt it, I have seen it and so I believe it – no further evidentiary criteria needed.

On a recent morning commute, one of the fields I passed was typical in the sense that the grass was mostly muted brown with subtle signs of spring green tufting through. What was different was the lonely cow. One lone cow. She suddenly stopped grazing and made her way, quite quickly from my perspective of how a cow moves, to the side of the pasture where fence paralleled narrow road. Simultaneously, a car turned up the road and drove up until the two met. The car window rolled down; the driver came in to view. I was far enough away I cannot claim for sure but have settled with comfort in the belief it was a woman. And I have no idea what she was saying, but the cow seemed happy to see her and I like to believe was nodding in agreement. When the conversation ended, the car headed up the road and the cow moved in like direction. Maybe words were one-sided, but the conversation clearly was not.

I’m reminded of the moments I have with our rescued dogs, Harry and Rusty. We are a fairly new pack, but the love is already strong. I tell them every day. They show it without saying a word, but rather a wag of the tail or a comforting snuggle. And I think of all the times, far too many, when I have shared the final moments with the dogs who have graced my life. Those last tears, those last words of love may have been one-sided, but the sentiment was clearly not. And the non-verbal love they gave me before their passing surrounds me still, no matter how many days, months or years may pass. Unlike the moon, it never wanes.

The song goes, “You say it best when you say nothing at all.” The power of words is one thing, but the power of no words is something altogether. “It’s Herculean and enduring,” I believe said the woman to the cow.

Women in History: From First to First
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2023)

When Elizabeth Blackwell (1821 – 1910) became the first woman in the United States to earn an MD degree in 1849, did she wonder what the future would hold for other women in medicine who would follow? One of those women would be Antonia Novello (1944 - ) who, in 1990, became the first woman to serve as the United States Surgeon General.

And what about Krystyna Chojnowska-Liskiewicz (1936 – 2021) when, in 1978, she became the first woman to sail solo around the world? How excited would she be to know that 44 years later, in 2022, Admiral Linda Fagan would take the helm of the United States Coast Guard and become the first woman to lead any branch of the U.S. Armed Forces?

When Victoria Woodhull (1838-1927) became the first woman to run for the office of the President of the United States in 1870, did she know that some 120 years later her dream would still be fighting strong and seeking fulfillment? Did she think “women’s rights” would still be a controversy? Maybe not. But as Alice Cary (1820-1871) wrote in her poem “Nobility,” “Through envy, through malice, through hating, / Against the world, early and late, / No jot of our courage abating – our part is work and to wait.”

And so, after almost a century and a quarter of working and waiting, in 2021, Kamala Harris became the first woman to be inaugurated as the Vice President of the United States.

And when Harriet Quimby (1875-1912) became the first woman in the United States to receive a pilot certificate in 1911, did she know that the following year, her dangerous dream would claim her, and she would perish doing that which she loved? Did she think about how many other women after her would courageously face the risks so they could soar through the air and beyond? Women like Sally Ride (1951-2012) who became the first American woman in space in 1983. Sally continued to follow her passion until she passed away in 2012, one-hundred years after Harriet Quimby flew her last flight.

And let’s not forget aviator Amelia Earhart (1897 -?) who was the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean in 1932. Earhart said, “Women should do for themselves what men have already done, occasionally what men have not done, thereby establishing themselves as persons and perhaps encouraging other women toward greater independence of thought and action.”

In March, as we celebrate women in history, Earhart’s words ring loud. So many women’s firsts have begat other women’s firsts and so on and so on. It is a dance of sorts, a choreography of the two steps forward one step back variety. Sometimes it may seem like the music has stopped playing, but the dance will never end. And one day the walls will tumble, the ceilings will shatter, “first” achievements will become daily celebrations and the conversation will change from who was the first woman, to who was the last and who is the current in an everlasting stream of dream achievements.

Where Lamb Meets Lion
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald February, 2023)

They say that March either comes in like a lamb and out like a lion or traverses in opposite pattern. Celebrating the anniversary of my birth in the first few days of the month, I would say that I am following the former path. My early years spent in lamb fashion were a necessity, as I imagine is the case for many children born into a home thick with alcoholism, neglect and abuse. I transferred my being into a stuffed animal, a lamb no less. Whenever bad things would happen, I would hold up my fuzzy friend and in a little girl’s attempt at ventriloquism I would say “but I’m just a lamb.” When I grew tall enough, I would then run outside to clumsily scramble up my favorite pear tree.

I’m not certain of the moment when the lion began seeping into my heart and mind. At some point the idea became a corpuscle that has surged through the veins of the commuter column for over a decade with occasional bursts through the derma. The notion is that we should always “be surprised” by the ill behaviors of others. As long as we are surprised, we have not come to identify the hostilities as acceptable.

Even though the “lamb” me has become the courageous “lion” me, I still hold that little girl close in my heart never wanting to stray too far away. That little girl who sought refuge in the prolific pear tree and huddled amid its branches dining on the sweet fruit away from the fiery fray of the house behind it is still in my heart.

Rumi wrote “There is a path from me to you that I am constantly looking for, so I try to keep clear and still as water does with the moon.” The “lamb” me sprinted to the “lion” me and now I am trying to step back, just a little, to my former self. I’m looking to quiet the noise that swirls through my lion mind and inch back towards the stillness the “lamb” me embraced knowing that, with God’s grace, all will be well.

It's tricky, of course, finding that sweet spot where lamb meets lion, gentleness meets courage, acceptance meets repellence – that place in the middle where bullying is blocked, but with such quiet subtlety that the bully doesn’t really know what happened. They are oblivious to the fact that one can be both the innocent, mild-mannered lamb and the wise and courageous lion.

Poets in Black History
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2023)

When I opened my favorite collections of poetry today, I found that the Black poets I was looking for were not well represented in them. And I thought how it parallels life itself. I’ve earned bachelor’s, master’s and doctorate degrees and I’m still learning things I should have known for years. Things like how the color of your skin necessitates additional considerations before you go for a run besides what clothes match the weather and which shoes are best for the distance and terrain. You must also prepare for a possible encounter that might mean you never come home again. And just like there are hidden possible outcomes for a casual run, there can be hidden meanings in poetry.

Countee Cullen (1903 -1946) wrote “The Unknown Color” and it goes like this: “I’ve often heard my mother say, / When great winds blew across the day, / And, cuddled close and out of sight, / The young pigs squealed with sudden fright / Like something speared or javelined, / ‘Poor little pigs, they see the wind.” Chills traveled my spine when I read this thinking of all the horribly wretched things that wind carried with it.

Beyond the hidden meanings, there is a wealth of boldly direct works of Black poets, like Robert Hayden’s (1913-1980) poem “Frederick Douglas,” where Hayden wrote “When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful / and terrible thing, needful to man as air, / usable as earth; when it belongs at last to all, /when it is truly instinct, brain matter, diastole, systole, / reflex action; when it is finally won; when it is more / than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians: / this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro / beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world / where none is lonely, none hunted, alien, / this man, superb in love and logic, this man / shall be remembered. Oh, not with statues’ rhetoric, / not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone, / but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives / fleshing his dream of the beautiful, needful thing.”

That poem was written in 1947 about an abolitionist who lived from 1818 to 1895. Although the names, places and situations may have changed, there is too much of the fight that remains, too great a need for words bold like those of Hayden.

But there is hope and resilience. Lucille Clifton (1936-2010) wrote of these in her poem, “Won’t You Celebrate with Me”: “won't you celebrate with me / what I have shaped into / a kind of life? I had no model. / born in Babylon / both nonwhite and woman / what did i see to be except myself? / I made it up / here on this bridge between / starshine and clay, / my one hand holding tight / my other hand; come celebrate / with me that everyday / something has tried to kill me / and has failed.”

This experience of wanting to only share the work of Black poets with you today has inspired me to look more deeply for inclusivity in my explorations, to be open to the hidden meanings that might be revealed to me and to not lose hope, but rather remain resilient. And I will also remain awakened to look for, and act upon, opportunities that arise, no matter how small, like sharing this column with you, to support a movement toward a better world, a world where hidden meanings and worries are of the past.

A Sprig of Rosemary, a Drop of Rain – We are Never Truly Gone
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2023)

In ‘Breaking into the Backcountry,” Steve Edwards wrote, “I love these mornings. No alarm clock… just the slow and steady coming-to-consciousness brought on by an almost imperceptibly lightening sky… The day getting started. Possibilities. Down in the meadow a few deer browse in the long grass… From the surrounding forest comes a variety of birdsong…”

Like a petal in the wind, I am lost and without a sense of wholeness when I’ve not had time for the peace and quiet of nature. Time spent gazing at the woods where fantasies dance in the twinkling of the sun as it glances off the branches of maple, walnut, sycamore, and pine. I dream of Edward’s journey – a triad of writing, nature, and solitude which, coming full circle, was awarded to him when he won a writing contest. Seven months residing in the Oregon backcountry alone except for the trees, deer, bear, wind, and rain to serve as his muses.

When describing a hot afternoon river swim, Edward’s thoughts strayed to all the places that touched, and were touched by, that river and he closed his thoughts with “and at the same time to think of nothing at all. To just swim, enjoy the water and the sunlight.”

Edwards stated “… one of the paradoxes of being a writer: one’s desire to fully inhabit one’s life crashes like a wave against the desire to memorialize that life.”

For writers there’s a coveted, secret formula for balancing the mind’s presence in the moment with the hand’s simultaneous orchestration with pen on paper. We want to capture the moment, desperately seeking the proper colors and hues to paint an everlasting memory for ourselves and for others. Timeless tranquility, sweet surrender, and grace and gratitude found in the subtleties of our surroundings.

“Every day something beautiful and small,” Edward’s wrote. “The way the grooves of ponderosa pine smell like cream soda. The way rosemary… crushed between my fingers evokes eternity… If I am dead and you are reading this, pick a sprig of rosemary, crush it, stand alone under a rising moon. I am not gone.”

I’m reminded of the words from “The Highwayman” written by Jimmy Webb and sung by the Highwaymen, a group comprised of Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, and Willie Nelson. “…and when I reach the other side, I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can. Perhaps I may become a highwayman again, or I may simply be a single drop of rain. But I will remain. And I'll be back again.”

We go on, a drop of rain, a speck of dust in the wind, a sprig of rosemary, or perhaps inked thoughts housed on pages yellowing with time. We hear the words “appreciate every day as though our last,” and we think we are heeding the wisdom until one day someone or something is gone, and we realize we could have slowed down a little more before it was too late.

As Edward’s reclusive days in Oregon were coming to an end he reflected, “Like a bear devouring every last morsel in preparation for a long, cold winter, I take my nourishment from what will soon be gone, what I’ll remove myself from. I take it on faith that the richness of these days will sustain me in the world I’ll return to.”

May we all dine on the feast before us each day, the sun and moon, trees and streams, the fields and hills, and the moments spent with loved ones or alone with nature and our thoughts. And may the nourishment inspire us to leave something behind so we are never truly gone.

For Mosey: I Will Wait
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2023)

I will wait until we are together again. Days, weeks, months, and years will go by, as they do. The raw and biting pain in my heart will be smoothed by the passing of time, as will happen. And I will wait.

And during that waiting, I will learn to love again. One day I will laugh when I visit the memories we shared. Memories that flatten me now as I frantically fight to deny the reality that the day I knew would come has.

Moses came into my life on a warm and sunny September morning. Not quite 24 hours after my sweetheart husky, Sara, passed I heard her and God speaking to me and telling me to hurry out to my car and drive on a specific road here in Pickaway County. I have learned to listen to the messages that come to me this way and so I did. And there I found him. He was just a puppy.

Mosey was 13 ½ when he passed, and he was my companion for all but the first 6 weeks of his life. He taught me to be selective about who I love and that when I do give my heart, to give it completely. He taught me to sit perfectly still for long moments and gaze into the woods while listening to the wind in the trees and the trickling stream and to ponder the lessons they offered.

And he taught me how to hug, I mean really hug. Mosey’s hugs were so strong I can still feel his head deeply pressed into my belly and I can almost hear those accompanying puppy grunts he never grew too old to offer.

Mosey taught me that it isn’t about the object, the favored blue ball, but rather it is about all the joyful memories that the ball brings. Gifts so rich that at times one only need sit next to the toy and the warm memories will float outside the rubber padding and swirl around. How many times I found him sitting next to his ball. Today I do the same while reminiscing and I feel his presence as he cuddles my wounded heart.

Mosey’s passing is unbearable. The quiet and emptiness he leaves behind is overwhelming. But just like he suddenly showed up one sunny day to teach me how to love again, I know that I will love the next rescue who comes along. I whisper, “I will always love you, Moses.” And so, the wait ensues.

Written with gratitude to Dr. Crystal Hammond. Once again, she has seen us through the most difficult of times. Because of her compassionate, professional, and expert care, Moses lived a long and comfortable life.

Life, Love and Hope in A New Year
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2023)

We toasted in the new year outside in the dark wrapped in the stillness of the dense fog. The moon shone brightly through the bare branches of a tall maple and wrapped us in its grace. The maple’s strength evident through its scars - the branches severed in a random pattern from tornadoes and storms that failed to fell the tree. It doesn’t get any deeper than that.

Inside Mosey was resting and I was painfully aware this would be our last holiday season together. It doesn’t get any sadder than that.

The feeling of hope that the moon and the maple offered blended with the melancholia of the passing of another year and the recognition of the finalization of good-byes. I admit, I tried to find balance in sips of sweet champagne.

The new year will bring new things, some meant to drink in and others meant to test our survival skills and fortitude. Some people welcome this time of year as a fresh start. Hopeful new year resolutions please their hearts. I’ve never been much of an annual resolutioner, but rather more a daily one. Every day I try a little harder, grow a little smarter and love a little deeper. It’s that last one that will get you, right?

My husband, Gary, says that dogs cannot talk because they know too much, and we humans would not be able to handle what they could teach us. Still, they do teach us, don’t they? They teach us to embrace each day, play hard, to never lose hope and that, when the time comes, there will be peace with death because the ultimate destination is the greatest gift of all. But above all these, they teach us to love completely.

My daily resolution that came to me in that quiet moment while the new year dipped its toes in the foggy moonlit night was that I would forgive myself for all the times I have stepped away from people, who, unlike dogs, can be cruel; that I would come closer to peace with the knowledge that our dogs are never going to live long enough; have a stronger focus on hope like that which the moon and the maple offer, and embrace the days like my dogs have taught me to do. Because a life worth living is one filled with love; and a love worth having is one that is returned, and a hope worth holding is one for the best; and life, love and hope are all the richer because of the years we share with our dogs.

‘Tis the Season: What Love Can Do
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2022)

“It's coming on Christmas. They're cutting down trees. They're putting up reindeer and singing songs of joy and peace. Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on,” Joni Mitchell’s lyrics to her song, River,” permeate my mood one moment juxtaposed by John Coltrane’s romantic and hopeful “My Favorite Things” the next.

The Holiday season is like that, isn’t it? We are worn out and yet we find time to rest. We melancholically reminisce about those no longer with us while we joyfully laugh with those who remain. And we feel like we are still a kid at the same time the face in the mirror reveals the number of Christmases that have passed. The Holiday Seasons drift past our window like the snowflakes that dance in the winter wind, each one different from the last. Emotions twist, pull and push in a tornadic arrhythmia drowning us in laughter one moment and in tears the next.

The key to survival is love. Love is the key to unlock the door to the better place others seek, but also that place we are pining for ourselves.

In his song, “What Love Can Do,” Bruce Springsteen sings, “Darling we can't stop this train when it comes crashing through; but let me show you what love can do. Let me show you what love can do.”

During this time of year, and always, our love can do much. We can change the life of a dog at the Pickaway County Dog Shelter who longs for a home. We can donate our time or money to help feed the hungry, support finding cures for fatal illnesses, or share our love in many other ways. Showing love to others can not only change someone’s day but can also change the trajectory of someone’s life. It can even change our own.

There is happiness to be found by loving others and also by loving ourselves; although I think it is easier to do the former than the latter.

If we listen to our heart, it will tell us how to love ourselves. We can sip self-love in subtle ways like allowing ourselves a quiet moment with a good book and a hot cup of tea. We can put the hectic “To Do” list on pause and instead lay on the floor and cuddle dogs. And most importantly, we can rewrite our self-talk from harming words to healing ones.

In his poem, “A Beautiful Walk Inside You,” Rumi wrote “… love answers, the thorns are inside you. Be silent and pull what hurts out of your loving’s foot. Then you will see gardens and secluded rose bowers, and they will all be inside you.”

And so, Dear Readers, my Holiday wish is that this season and in the New Year, we will not only love others, but also ourselves. Together, let us give and feel the power of what love can do.

Christmastime - Old and New
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2022)

On my bedroom dresser sits an old Santa Boot. I’m unsure of Its construction; perhaps paper mache. Its delicate appearance is deceiving, and the truth is only revealed by the knowledge that it sat on my mother’s bedroom dresser when she was a little girl. Next to it sits Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in glossy china, equally fragile in appearance and equally old. These antiques might have some years on them, but every year they are new again as I pull them from our storage boxes so that they can add a vintage touch to today’s Holiday celebrations.

Everything old is new again takes on deeper meaning as I think about my mother and her mother. They instilled a love of music into my soul. Not just one genre, but really anything they could get a hold of, including Billie Holiday’s Gloomy Sunday, which had been banned from the radio. They had vinyl 45’s and 33’s, and then later cassettes by the hundreds and made compilations for me. Their love, even the world’s love of music, is nothing new, but what is fairly new is how, at the tip of our fingertips, there is an infinite library of music. At any moment I can think of a song I want to hear and pull it up on my hand-held device. I don’t need to turn on a big clunky machine and then rifle through my shelves for the desired music. Just a tap or two and then, like magic, Bing Crosby serenades me to tears with White Christmas and Johnny Mathis warms me with the Christmas Song. I can almost smell the chestnuts roasting on the open fire.

I wish my mother and grandmother could have experienced the omnipresence of music, especially during the Holidays. But then, they didn’t know they were missing anything because what they experienced as adults was much more modern and convenient than what they experienced as children.

It reminds me of one of my favorite movies for this time of year, Meet Me in St. Louis with Judy Garland. For me, watching the old classics is comfy like being tucked into my favorite big chair with a dog curled up with me, soaking in the aroma of toast and coffee wafting in the air, or like snuggling in a warm blanket while watching the snow fall outside my window. As I watch Meet Me in S. Louis, it strikes me how everything seemed so modern to the Smith family, but it was 1903 so what was modern and comfortable then would be anything but that now.

Love for music and the joy of family and the Holiday season are like classic movies. They have a rich history, yet they are like new. As we embark on the 2022 Holiday Season, I am wishing you, Dear Readers, weeks filled with heartwarming memories of Christmases old intertwined with the magical makings of new memories.

Thanksgiving - The Empty Seat at the Table
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, November, 2022)

I know that our home is not the only one where a bittersweet Thanksgiving will take place this year. Like many others, we will have an empty seat “at the table.”

As I am writing this, we are still raw with the sudden passing of our sweet little dog, Jasmine. Like many who have lost their furry companions, we are hurting the same as when we have lost a human family member or friend – one could argue even grieving more in some cases.

Jazzy was a fiery little girl. She was full of energy and really loved life. Gary rescued her 12 years ago from a raided puppy mill. Their bond was immeasurable, but we girls stuck together as we were outnumbered by the boys, Gary and our other two dogs Moses and Harry.

Jasmine taught me how to always be curious. She taught me how to watch television – I mean really stop doing other things and focus on the show at hand. She loved veterinarian, Dr. Pol and to watch true crime dramas.

She taught me how to love fiercely. She respected Mosey’s preference to have limited kisses and she doted on Harry. He rescued us only about a year ago, but from the first moment he arrived, she showed him powerful love. The two were inseparable and so this is hard on him too. She was madly in love with our Labrador, Sam, who we lost last year. So, when Jasmine had her unexpected heart attack or stroke only days before you are reading this, we prayed hard and loud that God would not let her suffer and that Sam would come for her.

We try to not take anything for granted, and we know that life is precious and fragile. I always believed that any day could be the last. And I certainly became keenly aware of this on a spring day last year when I nearly died. But as much as we know these things and sing our prayers of gratefulness, the realistic gravity of it all arrives as though a revelation when we witness the sudden and unexpected passing of someone we love. And there is a mysterious duality of things as we are grieving deeply while, at the same time, we are not able to fully comprehend that our grief is based on reality.

I am grateful her passing was quick. Jasmine was 12 going on 3. She never stopped her high energy love for life. Perhaps it is a blessing that she never had to deal with the challenges of aging for which, other than some grey hair, she never showed the signs of. This Thanksgiving, and always, we will say prayers of gratitude for the gift we were given to share our lives with a small creature who has, and always will, take up a large place in our hearts. We all have empty places at our Thanksgiving tables. May ours and yours be filled with sweet memories and healing thoughts of thanksgivings.

Written with deep gratitude for Dr. Crystal Hammond and her compassionate love and care not only for our furry companions, but also for us.

Gratitude for Veterans
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, November, 2022)

Whether by choice or not, they had a moment in their lives when they knew they were heading towards something they might not return from. Through the years, they have worn different uniforms and served in many different capacities in times of peace and of war. They were stationed on the front lines far from home, or they were based within miles of the place from whence they came. They were from all walks of life, but they had one thing in common – they served.

I have faced threatening moments more times than I care to remember. And I know what it is like to shake my fist at the face of death; but I will never know the courage that it takes to serve. And I will never be able to fully understand what bravery it takes to fight in a war. I only know that I can hardly bear the stories brought to me through my living room television.

I don’t know. I hope I never do.

And I’m not even brave enough to gracefully endure the waiting for a loved one to come home. While my cousin didn’t come home, my grandfather returned. My stepfather came home too, but eventually we lost him to Vietnam’s Agent Orange.

My husband, Gary, came home, but I did not know him when he served in the Coast Guard. I am grateful not only that he came home, but also that I did not know him when he served. I cannot imagine the years of sleepless nights I would have spent pining for the man who owns my heart.

There’s a day in the spring when we remember all who served and met their final call of duty. And there is day in the fall when we honor those who served and are still among us. They have stories to share, and some they never will. We have words to express our thankfulness, but the words will oftentimes fall short of conveying the deep intensity of their intended meaning.

So, with words that pale in expression but with heart that is full of compassion, I say to all who have served that I am immeasurably grateful for your bravery and your allegiance to, and protection of, our country, what it stands for, and all who call America home.

Halloween Tales
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2022)

It’s the season of Halloween. But the eerie things that frighten us are here all year long, aren’t they? And they come in various shapes and sizes. Some are hidden, and some are in plain sight. Some are known and some are unexplainable. Some are animal, some are human, and some are of another world. During this spooky time of year, I invite you to turn down the lights, snuggle up to a crackling fire, or cozy up to a candle or two while I share a few of my own eerie tales.

When I was a little girl, I remember visiting my friends at the house next to my grandparent’s home. Late one afternoon, my sister and I heard my grandfather’s Volkswagen pull up and park in the road in front of my grandparent’s house. We watched him make his way up to the front porch and then open the door to go inside. We loved my grandfather very much, and yet we did not run to greet him and welcome him home. Why? Because he had passed away several months before that day.

Later, as an adult, when I was living in my second apartment, I endured a short spell when I would wake up at 4:15 in the mornings to the sound of one of my music boxes in the living room. It was the one that played “Do You Know Where You’re Going To,” that my mother had given me for my high-school graduation. If you’ve ever owned a music box, you know that they can spontaneously play if they have not fully wound down. What was strange, though, was that I had about 50 music boxes and only that one was serenading me and always at 4:15am. And what was even more strange was that one morning at 4:15am, I was awakened by not only the music box, but also by my mother calling me on the phone.

“Would you stop doing that, please!” she begged.

“Doing what?” I asked.

“Playing that stupid music box at 4:15 a.m. every morning and waking me up.”

How did my mother hear the music box playing when she lived about 5 miles up the road?

Years later, when I was living in my second house in Columbus, I would oftentimes wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of the hall light switch clicking on and off causing the bright light to pierce through the shadows of my bedroom as I struggled to open my sleepy eyes. I could understand that the flipping switch would turn the light on and off, I just couldn’t explain who was doing it, given that I lived alone at the time.

And so, my dear friends, these are just a sampling of the things that have gone bump in the night, or day, that I am thinking of during this time of Halloween. I hope that you are only visited by spirits of those you love, that the music of the night does not awaken you, and that the light is always left on or off, whichever is your preference and not the desire of some ghostly presence.

Falling Leaves
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2022)

The trees are baring their souls, snowing leaves upon the ground. They dance in the cool autumn wind. Somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, the summer disappeared, flew south for the winter. Fall graces us with a transitional brown, gold, and red foliage choreography. There’s a song running in my head: Dave Childers’s, “Bells.”

There’s a dream floating in the air. A hope that time will slow, autumn will stay with us a while, and that my dogs will never grow old. Another fall, another year with them by my side. It all goes too fast.

I take a deep breath, then another. I will my heartbeat to slow. I will myself to be in the moment, to not only see the leaves fall, but to hear them and to smell them. I cast my prayers and wishes upon them and let the wind carry them to God’s ear.

I go unwillingly into each season, feet kicking and fingernails scraping the ground as I cling to what is passing. But somehow, despite my desperate rebelliousness, when I land in the inevitable season of things, I settle in, and it becomes my favorite.

The chilly fall days give way to star-filled skies. And then the full moon outshines the stars. The sky, like the trees, is baring its soul, fully illuminated in lunar ecstasy. I am drunk on the poetry it begs me to write.

There’s a call outside my window, a fox on the prowl, an owl on the hunt. Outside the back door I wander and stare at the shadows cast by the moon and listen to the crunching leaves as they disintegrate ‘neath the hooves of deer traversing the woods. I shiver and nest deeper into my old wool sweater too captivated by the night to go inside and find something warmer to wear.

Dave Childers is singing in my head, “I say now, honey, don’t start moving too soon. Wait a little longer.” And so, I stand there paralyzed and hypnotized by all I see and all I cannot. The call of the fall, the wild in the night, the chill in the wind. And I realize how many autumns have come and gone, how many times I have had a moment like this – more times, more years than I can believe. And there it is, I have joined the trees and the moon – baring my soul in their company.

Changes in Latitudes
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, September, 2022)

Since its inception in 2010, the commuter column has been, as the name implies, about the commute. The writings have been either directly about experiences on the road, or indirectly of my musings while the miles pass by. While this approach will most likely remain the same, the commute itself has had a change in latitude.

Two weeks ago, my commute reduced from 70 minutes to 20. My direction pivoted from north to south. And my destination flipped from a metropolitan hospital to a rural one. As Jimmy Buffet sings “It's these changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes - nothing remains quite the same.”

The change in plans was not a planned change. There is no doubt in my mind that this was the making of a divine intervention. As will happen when I drown out the noise and listen, the voice that called me to look for a new job was so specific about a few things I did not ignore it. As a result, a few short weeks ago I began a new position in Chillicothe. The job is of the stuff I love, the team I am on is already like family, and the hospital is phenomenal. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had no change in attitude about the place where I was previously employed in Columbus. They will always have a special place in my heart. And there are friends there I will never say good-bye to. So, the only change in attitude is a sense of renewed energy to complement the change in latitude.

While this change is wonderful, amazing and life-altering, change is not always easy. It can keep companion with fear and mystery and must be met with courage and faith. Not every change decision is guaranteed to be the best, but it’s better than making no decision at all. The juxtaposition of taking control while realizing that someone else is holding the reins is unsettling, freeing and awesome all in one. And change means that some things will never be the same. In some cases, like this one, the decision and resulting change are very good things.

Life begins anew. The road is wide open and welcoming. As Buffet sings, “Oh, yesterday's over my shoulder, so I can't look back for too long. There's just too much to see waiting in front of me and I know that I just can't go wrong. With these changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes, nothing remains quite the same.”

Listen to Your Heart
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, September, 2022)

Listening to the voice whispering in my heart, I knew something was wrong. Walking through my memories, I suddenly felt him near, M.G. We shared a space in time long since passed. Several years ago, he found me and reached out, perhaps wishing to find peace in his heart for the way we parted ways. I hoped then that I had found the right words to calm any worries he might have had, to assure him that my memories of him were filled with laughter and dancing that I was happy now in my life with my husband, Gary.

Recently, M.G. and I traded places and I found myself looking for him. In the back of my mind, I knew what I would find before evidence of the news was before my eyes. He had left this world too soon.

And while I was praying and silently saying a final farewell to someone from my past, I was filled with love and gratitude for who I share my life with today. Simple and pure love dances through the rooms of our little home as Gary and I share laughter, surrounded by the dogs who rescued us. Sweet are the moments spent together, the hours shared as the days pass much too quickly.

The paths that brought us here were long and sometimes quite painful. But worth all the tears shed, the scars and bruises because of all we are now enveloped by. And this is what I wished for M.G. – true love and happiness. And from what I have read by those who are sharing their grief and love for him, I believe he had found it.

There is a point in our lives where we have lived so long that we have said more hellos and good-byes than we could have once imagined. But wouldn’t it be lovely, wouldn’t it be good, if all relationships began with a loving hello and ended with an equally loving good-bye - wishing only good things for those who once shared their lives with us? The voice that whispers in our hearts telling us to be kind is one that can be denied, sure, but why should we when even a life lived long can also be one too short.

Dearest Esmerelda: A Tribute to My Bike
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, September, 2022)

“Dearest Esmeralda, in another age antiques would be modern, we would be the rage,” the song Dearest Esmerelda sung by John Denver has been dancing around in my head so much lately that I found myself naming my new bicycle Esmerelda. She’s a Hudson Jamis with some refinements. To me, she is the rage.

“Dearest Esmeralda, you are magic. I close my eyes and you make love appear,” the song continues later. And she does make love appear.

This past weekend, Esme and I went on a solo 16-mile ride along the Paint Creek Recreational Trail. The sun was hot, but we spent much time in the cool shade offered by the trees that lined the path. They rustled in the breeze and occasionally snowed cocoa-colored leaves that crackled as the tires rolled over them. Black-eyed Susans, Wingstem, Ironweed and other flora dipped color onto the lush green foliage that lined the path.

Above the sound of leaves crunching beneath my tires, were the cacophonous sounds that took me back to the summers of my youth. They were so familiar they felt like home, and so I was surprised when I realized that I could only identify a few of the members of the choir. How interesting that what can feel familiar can also be unknown. Maybe that is because there was a time when someone else knew these things for me.

And so I felt my grandmother’s presence and remembered how she could name every bird, every tree, and every flower. With both brilliant intelligence and humor, you were never really certain if she was providing you with factual or fictional information. As I pedaled along, I also felt my dear friend Lou with me. When he left us too soon, he also left us with the legacy of his love and advocacy for nature.

“Dancing in the shimmer of a crystal chandelier. Shadows singin' so low only we could hear. Moving to the glimmer, shaking to the storm.” I could hear John Denver sing in my mind. Shadows danced along the path as the sun filtered in and out of the trees. It was a different kind of storm. It was a storm of singing birds, crickets and katydids. And it was a storm of colors as wildflowers swayed too and fro in the warm breeze.

“Cause somewhere in the cloudy skies of Paris, we were part of some artist's design. Dearest Esmeralda, you are magic. In the gray around me how you shine,” the song ends. And I felt like a kid again. The date on my driver’s license a made-up story like that my grandmother would tell. And I knew I would ride for miles as though work would not beckon me in the morning. I felt a new, magical reality where my grandmother and Lou were still here. And together we were laughing. And I knew that Esme was indeed the rage and with my eyes wide open she “made love appear.”

Something For You at the Circleville Arts and Crafts Fair
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August, 2022)

Among the mindfulness-rich views from our humble abode are those found on our walls. I think of the local artists every day as I find peace in the offerings of their gifts.

I begin and end each day with Dixie Walker’s beautiful “Seaside” photograph near my bedside. Two chairs setting on a wooden deck in partial sun overlooking azure ocean waves. I can almost hear them crash to shore and feel the gentle morning breeze blow through my hair.

In the room where I write, and the room where we cook, are paintings by Jesse Patterson. One a still life, or rather a collection of my favorite still lifes – a basket of grapes and peaches, a vase of cattails and flowers share a space with a portrait of sunflowers gloriously hanging on the wall behind them. The other painting is a covered bridge with sunlight casting long shadows from the nearby trees.

Our home is also host to the works of Mark Dawson. In my writing office sits a photograph of a bicycle covered in snow, leaning on a bridge somewhere in Holland. I can hear that crisp quiet that only comes with a winter snowy day when I look at that photo. And every day I take a few moments to stare into the horizon of a photograph of Mark’s that appears to have been taken directly over water looking out toward the early morning light, the shores dotted with windmills and homes, some with softly lit windows. I swear I can smell the morning coffee being brewed and hear the quiet start of day stirrings in those homes.

And there is the sweet work of Shannon Bryant. On the wall near where I tend to sit to read is the “Tuscan Sun.” When I gaze upon this piece, I always imagine myself living in some vineyard cottage where I while away the days writing essays and novels, and the evenings sipping wine while writing poetry. The composition of a fine red pairs well with metrical compositions. I also have a painting of Shannon’s that takes me back to my younger days when I traveled to the Mediterranean Sea with my grandmother. I remember Shannon telling me the beach umbrellas made her happy when she painted them. And for years now, they have made me happy too.

I remember the first time I saw Dave Liggett’s “Steamboat Prow” photograph. I knew I needed to spend my life with it, and so I am. The black and white scene is dramatic and powerful. There is something about this photograph. It fills me with love for God, for land and for sky, and gives me a feeling of being so deeply immersed in loneliness that I am not alone at all.

And finally, there is the photograph/painting from an artist I met at the Downtown Arts and Crafts Fair years ago. The piece looks like a painting, but I believe the artist said it was a photograph that she manipulated. The picture is of a cluster of long-stemmed tulips. The perspective is from the ground up. Dwarfed by these majestic blooms, I feel like I am staring up to magical creatures who will grant me forever happiness if I promise to follow their ways.

I’m not sure if this artist, or any of the others I have mentioned, will be at the Downtown Arts and Crafts Fair this year, but I feel confident it will be a wonderful occasion. The event takes place Saturday September 3rd from 10am to 4pm along the streets of downtown, Circleville. Among the arts and crafts are books offered for sale by their authors in the “Author Alley.” I’m looking forward to being among them selling my books and getting to spend time chatting with other writers and maybe with you, Dear Reader.

Whether you are interested in books, crafts or arts, chances are if you go to this event, you will have a fine time. While I have no idea which artists, craftspeople and writers will be there, I believe that no matter who you meet, you just might go home with some object of mindfulness to treasure like mine that I have shared with you today.

Note - I am also the proud owner of "Girl with Braids" by awesome artist and teacher, Robert Carroll. I adore this painting and I cannot help but to smile every time I gaze upon it. I'm not sure how I failed to mention it in the published article given that I look at it every day.

August
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August, 2022)

And just like that, she arrives. August. How is it that we are so far into the summer when only yesterday, it seems, there was a dusting of snow across the fields and a wintry chill in the air? Spring teased us with a glimpse of warmth and green and then suddenly the trees were full while their nests were empty – hatchlings learned the art of flight and were off into the wind before we had a chance to comprehend what was happening. My favorite first sign of summer, the first sighting of lightning bug choreography was just the other day, and yet so long ago.

August. She brings more hot, summer days. More long days, sure, but with the skill of a thief she will ever so slowly steal minutes. In tiny increments, she will edge us closer to fall and the shorter days. August is the temptress of summer. She gives us the illusion of everlasting summer days, vacations, warm sun, laughter, Queen Anne’s lace, and watermelon. But her promises are empty, for all too soon she, along with all her trappings, will be gone.

What if we could slow time? What if we could converse with August and ask her to not come so soon and, once here, to not leave so quickly? What if we could convince her to relinquish her plans to diminish our days?

But “what ifs” are play things – wishes cast upon the shooting stars with no real knowing if they will be heard, let alone answered. So, for now, for this moment in time, after the commute is over and I am home, I will spend the evenings watching the sun lay to rest and the moon and stars rise, be serenaded by the crickets and tree frogs and entertained by those elusive lightning bugs in their asynchronized dance. My heart will be filled with the sound of my husband’s laughter and our dogs already snoring – worn from a day of barking at motorcycles and farm equipment that passed by the house while I was away.

Rather than prematurely reminisce of the August that has just begun, I will strive to be mindful of every moment, every sight and every sound that she gifts us. For today, I will quietly breathe in August as she does as she pleases with my heart so that tomorrow, when she is gone, I will be filled with sweet memories and not with “what ifs.”

Rescues: Love Will Help Them Find Their Forever Homes
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, July, 2022)

“I was standing all alone against the world outside. You were searching for a place to hide,” begins the song “Love Will Keep Us Alive” written by Jim Capaldi, Paul Carrack and Peter Vale and popularly sung by the Eagles.

I’ve been skipping over it when its turn to play surfaces on my playlist. The commute is not a good place to cry. Tonight, as I am writing this to you, I am listening to it over and over again. And yes, I am crying. The memories woven through the notes of this song are bittersweet. Years ago, when our rescued Labrador, Sam, was a little over two years old, I found Moses, a 7-week-old puppy on one of the back roads in southern Pickaway County. I always told Moses that the song was dedicated to him from Sam and me.

“Don't you worry. Sometimes you've just gotta let it ride. The world is changing right before your eyes,” the song continues. And the world is changing – has changed – and while right before my eyes, my mind and heart are lacking in acceptance. Sam left us last year. This year, Moses turns 13. He is still my “puppy,” but his arthritic hips would beg to differ.

God has graced us with the power of 3. Every time one of our pack rises to heaven, another rescue shows up. The distraction and unconditional love they offer help to ease the unbearable grieving. And the joy of their playfulness and excitement about the littlest of things serve to remind me to focus less on what life is, or will be, without them and more on the amazing life with them. And there are plenty of “them” to go around. The Pickaway Dog Shelter has dogs who are looking for us, for their forever homes. Love has kept them alive despite whatever hidden pasts lead them to seek safety and care at the shelter.

“Now I've found you, there's no more emptiness inside. When we're hungry, love will keep us alive,” the song goes on.

If you are not blessed with a dog, the Pickaway Dog Shelter, located at 21253 Ringgold Southern Rd Circleville, OH 43113 is open for visitation, adoption and licensing from 10am to 4pm. They are closed on Sundays and Tuesdays. Their phone number is (740) 474-3741 and you can find them on Facebook where you might also see the photo of your companion-to-be.

When you rescue a dog, what you receive in return is immeasurable. One way you can strive to balance the scales is to support our local organization, Partners for Paws, which raises funds to support the homeless dogs in the shelter. Like the shelter, you can find Partners for Paws on Facebook, or call 740-420-6277 to learn more details about them and their Welcome Back Wine Tasting Fundraiser, which will take place on Saturday, July 23rd at AMVETS located at 818 Tarlton Road in Circleville starting at 6:00pm. The event is always a great deal of fun, and you will be helping those who, when they are hungry for a home, the love of the shelter and those who support it are not only working to keep them alive, but to give them the forever homes they crave.

Distractions
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, July, 2022)

Oftentimes when I am approaching the commuter column there is an idea stirring in the back of my mind that doesn’t quite fully reveal itself until my fingers touch the keyboard. Sometimes I am mulling something around and already have some inclination of what I might weave that idea around. Other times, I just ask Gary.

When I asked my husband what I should write about this time, Gary said that there is so much going on now that it would be nice to hear something that was not about any of the horrible current events. So much of the news for a while now has been hope diminishing and tear filling, so for a brief, comforting pause, this issue of the commuter column is offered as a distraction.

This exercise of not thinking about the news reminds me of the mindfulness I have been working on. My mantra has been to “Be in the moment and in God’s grace.” Sounds simple and easy, but I have to remind myself constantly. When I get it right, it’s beautiful. Like the moment I sat down on the deck to write to you and paused to take in nature just in time to watch a grey heron silently fly over me.

Amidst all the clamoring chaos and crime, there is beauty too if we can just take a moment to allow ourselves to see it. The smile on a napping dog, the serenade of goldfinches just outside the window, and the sound of the wind through the trees can all permeate our being and bring calmness. It’s in the morning commute when the sunrise just crests over the fields and through the treetops of the bordering woods. And it’s in the drive home which is still fully sunlit these days of summer.

Ah, summer. My favorite part is the end of the day when the lightning bugs show off their asynchronized flickering offbeat to the songs of the tree frogs and crickets. The road becomes quiet, and the only sounds are these and the beating of my heart. The days are long now and, with the season barely started, there are plenty of nights left to spend this way.

And although the summer days can be humid and hot, after spending all day working inside in the air condition, the first feel of the heat and the sun on my face as I walk to my car is energizing and relieving all in one. And on the weekends, there are hikes in the cool woods and bicycling on the trails shaded by trees where I can escape adulthood to be a kid again “flying” on wheels.

Juneteenth Dream: Just a Walk
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, June, 2022)

This past weekend, Gary and I took a motorcycle ride up to the Columbus area to visit the gravesites of my stepfather and Gary’s brother and sister. It wOftentimes when I am approaching the commuter column there is an idea stirring in the back of my mind that doesn’t quite fully reveal itself until my fingers touch the keyboard. Sometimes I am mulling something around and already have some inclination of what I might weave that idea around. Other times, I just ask Gary.

I hope that sharing these thoughts brought a nice distraction to you. And I hope that you find your own list of “go-tos” to bring peace and calmness to your mind – or you can keep mine. It’s there for the taking. There is plenty to go around and we need it to balance comfort with the harsh realities.as a bittersweet day. We enjoyed having time together on the bike and at the cemeteries we shared stories about our loved ones that brought laughter and sadness. Needing to go for “just a walk” afterwards, we ended our day exploring a park where we got turned around and asked a passerby for some guidance. The gentleman was walking his beautiful, and playful, English bulldog. We had a pleasant conversation with the man and a fun, few minutes of play with his dog. Later, I was reminded of comments I have heard both in person and in social media about how difficult it can be to just go for a walk with your dog when you are Black. And I thought of our encounter at the park and my heart grew heavy thinking that lovely gentleman and his beautiful dog were putting themselves at risk when they were on “just a walk.”

It's hard to believe that this is today’s reality as we celebrated Juneteenth at the beginning of this week. On June 19, 1865, over two years past the Emancipation Proclamation, federal troops marched into Galveston, Texas to secure freedom for slaves. And this week, as we celebrated Juneteenth, nearly 160 years past the reason for the day, freedom still does not ring with the song that it promises.

Black Lives Matter today, they mattered back in 1865, and they mattered before the Emancipation Proclamation had been even one drop of ink on the paper upon which it was written. We celebrate the freedom granted in the 1860’s, and yet, how do you celebrate the becoming of something that should have always been, and something that is proclaimed to be, but is yet to be fully realized?

In her poem, “Gated,” Amanda Gorman wrote “To be kept to the edges of existence is the inheritance of the marginalized.”

Criminal hate, health inequity, discrimination, racism – did not end in 1865; they are omnipresent still today.

Gorman closes her poem, “If we remember anything, / Let it be to remember. /A road forward/ We shall have / If we keep / Walking.” Gorman footnotes that she is referring to the facts that drivers are less likely to stop for African Americans in crosswalks, and that when walking, African Americans are more likely to yield way to whites.

Juneteenth is just one day to celebrate the movement toward emancipation and equality. And if on that day, and the 364 other days of the year, the world fully embraces Black Lives Matter, one day a walk can be “just a walk.”

Before Their Time
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, June, 2022)

In her poem, “Perseids” published in the collection “I Thought I Heard a Cardinal Sing – Ohio’s Appalachian Voices,” edited by Ohio Poet Laureate, Kari Gunter-Seymour, Bonnie Proudfoot beautifully describes watching meteors with her son. Caught up in all the sweet gifts of the night, her son, while in Bonnie’s arms, watches the magic in the sky while she observes a bat in flight, and the “top of the ridge, medium gray, / the black cutout shapes of trees, // silver mist on the hilltop soft / as smoke…” And when her son sees yet another meteor, Bonnie writes “but a whip-poor-will calls and calls. / I have been waiting all my life to rise.”

Just before the Memorial Day weekend, I read on the EarthSky.org website about the Tau Herculid meteor storm that was hoped to be an intense, albeit brief, display in time for the holiday. The article stated that the shower was the result of a comet that split in 1995, but also that the celestial object left behind a stream of icy particles in 1897 and 1892.

I missed the recent shower but understood from a follow-up EarthSky article that there wasn’t much to see. Still, I am fascinated by the idea that this object in the sky has left visible evidence, it’s story in trails of shooting lights, for years upon years. And, like Bonnie Proudfoot describes in her poem, so many of us are compelled to spend evenings with loved ones watching the sky for remarkable and fleeting moments of beauty as they blaze above us.

As I am thinking about these meteors that appear ephemeral even though they can be over one hundred years old, I cannot help but to think, and to mourn, for the young stars who have shone their final bright lights. I am grieving for the children lost at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde County, Texas. And I am mourning those who lost their lives only days before in Buffalo, New York and so many more – so many, many more. My heart is broken for all those who lost their lives while going for a walk or run, grocery shopping, resting at home, going to school, worshipping in church, dancing with friends or some other activity that should be anything but dangerous.

There are arguments about the right to bear arms and even the legal purchase of an AR rifle by everyday citizens. And while I try to not express political opinions in the Commuter Column, I cannot help but to say that we all deserve to live in a country where we can walk our neighborhoods, go to the store, and send our kids to school without worry that the decision to do those everyday things might mean that we never see our loved ones again. We should all be able to share our lives with the stars that brighten and fill our hearts and know that the ones who shine here on earth will not ascend to heaven before their time.

Duty. Honor. Country
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, May, 2022)

“So, the letters came from an army camp in California then Vietnam. And he told her of his heart. It might be love and all of the things he was so scared of. He said when it's getting kinda rough over here I think of that day sittin' down at the pier and I close my eyes and see your pretty smile. Don't worry but I won't be able to write for a while” The Dixie Chicks sweetly sing Bruce Robison’s lyrics to me as I wind down 674 on the commute home wiping the tears from my eyes. Not sure why I didn’t skip to the next song when “Travelin’ Soldier” started to play. I usually do because my heart just can’t take it. But maybe this time I was compelled to listen because Memorial Day is upon us, and I have been touched by the commitment of: Duty. Honor. Country.

And while the song flattens me every time I hear it, I am also filled with gratitude for those who have served and sacrificed. Soon I would be home and joyfully welcomed by my own “travelin’ soldier” whose serving days are long past. He came home, like so many others who served who, this coming weekend, will be remembering and celebrating those who did not.

It’s a strange mix of gleefully picnicking on grilled burgers and beans and enjoying the company of others while somberly honoring those who are missing from the celebrations. We celebrate them and celebrate the reason they served – freedom.

I realize that “Travelin’ Soldier” is considered an anti-war song. I talked to my favorite veteran, my husband, Gary, about this and about Memorial Day. What is it like for those who have served to celebrate those who died serving? He said something that really struck a chord with me. He said that, for him, Memorial Day can be a sad day when remembering those he lost, but it is also a happy day because we are celebrating the freedom that we enjoy because of them. He said Memorial Day is not about politics, it is just about honoring, remembering, and celebrating.

“Waitin' for the love of a travelin' soldier. Our love will never end. Waitin' for the soldier to come back again. Never more to be alone when the letter says a soldier's coming home,” the song finishes. She gave him the memory of her smile - something for him to hold onto when he was under fire. He gave her the hope for love and that she would never be lonely again. They both sacrificed. And so, while I am celebrating and honoring those who served this Memorial Day weekend, I will also be thinking of those who loved the ones who made the ultimate sacrifice. Duty. Honor. Country. And I would add love.

Beating the Odds Boost
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, May, 2022)

To celebrate the one-year anniversary of nearly losing my life, I willingly made myself sick this past weekend. Yes, I did it on purpose. And if I had it to do all over again, and I am confident I will have that opportunity in perhaps another six months, I will do it again. Not the nearly dying thing, but rather the feel like I’m dying so I can keep living thing.

One year ago, with no predeterminants and against the odds, I had a heart attack at work. I beat the odds in how well I came out of that fateful event, though. This issue of the Commuter Column is not about that day last year, but rather about how I chose to celebrate this year. I knew it would be hard on me, so I completed the celebratory task on Friday after work, planned to be unproductive all weekend, and then scheduled my “work-from-home” day for Monday.

Am I talking about a night on the town in Circleville – perhaps a fine dinner at Watt Street Tavern and then a round of music at Tootles followed by a nice fire in the pit out back when we return home? No, not quite. I’m talking about a quick detour on the commute home for a fast prick in the arm that would leave me sick in bed all weekend. I’m talking about the 2nd COVID booster.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), vaccines help our bodies develop immunity by introducing an imitation infection into our bodies. We have memory lymphocytes that remember the infection and how to react to it should the body encounter it again later. But that immunity can have a certain shelf life, if you will, and so, as the CDC has recommended, I willingly went for this 2nd booster. The other 3 shots made me ill, so I was prepared for that. As a non-clinical person, I cannot help but to think, though, that as sick as I am after each shot, my experience pales in comparison to what it would be like to have the real thing. It breaks my heart knowing that those of you who read this column may have had COVID, or had a loved one experience COVID, or worse, lost someone to this horrible virus. And I think of those who once read this column who are no longer with us due to this monstrous sickness.

The CDC has stated that people who received the booster vaccine were “21 times less likely to die from COVID-19 compared to those who were unvaccinated, and 7-times less likely to be hospitalized.” I’ve already beaten the odds once a year ago, but that was unexpected. COVID is a known and omnipresent thing. The statistics of positive cases, hospitalizations and deaths are staggering. I don’t want to be one of those numbers, and I don’t want you to be one either. If you haven’t done so already, I encourage you to contact your local pharmacy or doctor to get more information and to schedule your vaccine or booster so that together we can beat the odds.

Commuter’s Paradelle
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April, 2022)

In honor of National Poetry Month, I decided to write my first paradelle for you. According to Robert Lee Brewer, in the October 2015 issue of Writer’s Digest, a paradelle consists of four stanzas, each with six lines. In the first three stanzas, lines one and two are the same, as are lines three and four. Lines five and six are a mix of each of the words found in lines one through four - only those words and not in the order they were used before. The final stanza is a mix of each of the words used in the previous stanzas, and only those words, written in different order than how the words were used earlier in the poem.

Morning is dark. Tree frogs singing. Dogs still sleeping.

Sunrise drive. Through Foggy fields, I spot a Mule deer.

Dark morning drive is still sleeping. Sunrise tree singing.

Foggy dogs spot frogs through field mule deer.

Arrive in time for meeting, after meeting after meeting

Arrive in time for meeting after meeting after meeting

Email explosion and deadlines fill the space between

Meeting after deadlines, meeting after explosion, meeting space,

Arrive between email fill time

Moonlit winding roads carry me home

Soft light spills across the porch, a warm embrace waits

Winding, soft, warm light embrace home roads

Moonlit porch waits, carry, and spills across me

Soft sunrise warms, lights across morning drive

Meeting mule deer between trees, fields

After deadlines, email, meeting, time, space,

Dark roads winding home meeting moonlit explosion

Foggy porch dog waits after sleeping still

Spots, singing, embraces, carries, fill and spills me

Disposable
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April, 2022)

With 2 hours a day spent in my car commuting, I have plenty of time to think about things. Lately I have been thinking about how much of my life I have spent as though disposable. The thought saddens my heart, but even more so knowing that many of you who are reading this know all too well of that which I speak. The disposers shuffle us off like a discarded candy wrapper. They gobble up the sweet and delightful morsel and then wad and toss the covering.

But we are not disposable, are we? That is their “error in thinking,” as my husband, Gary, says. As advocates for ourselves, we must find ways to survive and to heal. It’s a revolving evolution, especially when we are unable to remove ourselves from the reach of the perpetrators.

What does your healing look like? I find mine in varied ways. When I am completely flattened and find a quiet place to sit, I find healing in the unexpected tears that fall. The teardrops are a release of sorts and a reminder that what is happening is not right, so it is okay that it hurts.

There is also solace in the nature that surrounds us. I find it in the beautiful sunrises I witness on the commute as I wind my way up Route 159 or 674 on the way to work. And I see it in the rising moon at the end of the very long days. My heart finds healing as I witness the graceful flight of geese and hear their honks of encouragement. It’s in the trees beginning to bud with the treasures of spring. It’s in the serenade of the tree frogs and barred owl when the day is done. And it is in the scent and sound of a soft rain that cleanses the day’s wicked offerings from memory and nurtures the kind ones.

Hafiz wrote, “Your love should never be offered to the mouth of a stranger / only to someone who has the valor and daring to cut pieces of their soul off with a knife / then weave them into a blanket to protect you. / There are different wells within us. Some fill with each good rain, / others are far, far too deep for that.”

And so there it is. We are not disposable. We are far, far too deep for that.

Liberation
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April, 2022)

It’s been a while since I wrote about being surprised. I’m not talking about the lovely and sweet surprises like the ones we find this time of year when a jonquil suddenly blooms in a forgotten garden, or you realize there is a robin’s nest near enough to your front porch that you will be privileged to witness from your rocking chair the journey from eggs hatching to learning to fly. I’m talking about the unpleasant surprises like an unintentional, unkind word, or even worse, purposeful bullying.

In his poem, “A Hopeful Ending,” r.h. Sin wrote “all the time you’ve invested / all the energy you’ve wasted / you fought for it / you cried over it / / you lose sleep / you lose yourself / you want love / but the hatred is hard to ignore…”

Bullies can lurk in the shadows of any facet of our lives – school, neighborhood, home, work. And when they are omnipresent, we have a relationship of sorts with them. Whether by choice or not, they are melded into our days and our thoughts.

There is also a relationship between surprise and hope. I believe that, as long as we are surprised when the bullies come hunting, that means we have not become like them, or come to believe that their ways are acceptable. And while I am prepared for the inevitable surprises, I still hope that they will not come. I hope and hope and hope until one day, surprisingly, the hope is gone.

Absence of hope brings a strange vacancy. It’s one to grief and yet also one to celebrate. It’s sad to lose hope that the bullying will stop, but the realization that we no longer need to hope for the power, because we actually have the power to separate ourselves from the bully, be it physically or mentally, is liberating.

In the poem, “The Dream,” written by Pablo Neruda, and translated by Donald Walsh, Neruda wrote, “… and I, sinking and coming out, / decided that you should come out / of me, that you were weighing me down / like a cutting stone, / and I worked out your loss / step by step: / to cut off your roots, / to release you alone into the wind.”

Both Neruda and Sin wrote of the reward that follows the liberation. Neruda wrote, “…Afterwards / my decision encountered your dream, / and from the rupture / that was breaking our hearts / we came forth clean again…”

Sin wrote “find rest in the mourning / of what had to die… understand that you’re not missing / anything / but the bullet that was meant / to destroy you emotionally…”

If you are a target of bullying, be surprised to the extent that it acknowledges your unacceptance of bullying ways. Know that you are not alone and you don’t have to hope for the power, but rather that you have the power to achieve liberation. Find someone to talk to and a way to keep yourself safe and well. Some resources for help include the Workplace Bullying Institute at https://workplacebullying.org/, the On Our Sleeves movement at https://www.onoursleeves.org/ and the government site https://www.stopbullying.gov/.

Celebrating Women in History
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, March, 2022)

It is interesting that during the month of March, we celebrate women in history, given the countless times women have “marched” for equal rights. And the ways that heroines who have fought, and those who continue to fight, for women’s rights are varied and inspiring. Here are just a few of their stories.

Sarah Catherine Ragle Weddington had a long and successful career as a writer, educator, and speaker, but was perhaps best known for her role as an attorney, and specifically for representing Roe in Roe v. Wade. From what I understand, Sarah and her co-counsel, Linda Coffee, represented two of the only 5 women to graduate in their class in law school. Together, in 1972, Sara and Linda successfully argued their class-action suit in front of the Supreme Court for all women to have the right to abort an unwanted pregnancy. They stood out as women who graduated from law school when that was an uncommon thing, and they took a stand for women to have the right to make decisions about their own bodies.

Kathryn Switzer did not take a stand for what she believed in, but rather ran for it. In 1967, when women were not permitted to run marathons, Kathryn registered under the name K.V. Switzer, to receive her official bib and run the Boston marathon. A race official tried to pull her off the course, but she broke through and completed the race in 4:20. The Amateur Athletic Union banned her, but later, in 1972, they lifted their ban on women running road races. When you think about it, that really wasn’t that long ago that women were graced with the right to run. I’ve been a runner most of my life. It’s not something I chose, but rather something that chose me. It’s in my core. I cannot imagine being told that, because I’m a girl, I could not have registered and ran in all those marathons and duathalons that I have participated in. I don’t know how I would have survived being told that I could not run in the races I trained for.

And when it comes to survival, how could I not mention Marie Curie. In 1903, Marie earned her doctorate degree in science. When you consider the ways of the world back then and flash forward to today when, according to the United States Census Bureau, less than 2% of the American population hold doctorate degrees, this accomplishment alone speaks volumes. Marie used her knowledge and determination to become the first woman to hold the position of Professor of General Physics in the Faculty of Sciences at Sorbonne University in Paris. In spite of battling perpetual gender discrimination, Marie advanced science with her research in radioactivity a monumental influence in the treatment of cancer.

The stories of Sarah, Linda, Kathryn and Marie are quite different, but there is a common thread. It is the thread of fighting for dreams, not only individual ones, but dreams of all women who want to have the right to live their lives as they want to. Marie Curie said, “We must believe that we are gifted for something, and that this thing must be attained.” May all women recognize and honor their gifts today for the Sarah’s, Linda’s, Kathryn’s, and Marie’s of tomorrow.

When Bullies Knock Down Your Door
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, March, 2022)

I know what it’s like to have someone beat down your door and come flying through with fists swinging. I know what it is like to have your hard-earned furniture overturned, broken and left in pieces. And I know the physical pain of being thrown around and left bloody and bruised as though your life means nothing.

Even though it’s been a very long time since that happened, I still relive that day – a vivid timestamp on my brain every time I must undergo medical treatments for the physical damage that remains.

As I am currently traveling my own journey of remembering, I cannot help but to think of how my situation pales in comparison to what is being experienced by the people of Ukraine.

In her poem, “Bethal Ridge Cemetery,” Kari Gunter-Seymour, Poet Laureate of Ohio, wrote, “It’s the body that feels pain, / but the brain delivers it. / To this day, sometimes driving / I see black wings flapping between / bare branches and overreact.”

I too still find myself jumping at unexpected sounds and presences.

And I understand from the book “The Body Keeps the Score” written by Bessel Van Der Kolk, MD, that one of the strings that tie together the body and the brain is post-traumatic stress disorder. From where I am sitting, the continual state of alert is a vow, a promise, to myself that what once happened never will again.

The last stanza of Gunter-Seymour’s poem reads “There must have been birds, / the noon-time smell of grass. / I can’t say. Feathered arias / and earthy balms are not meant for / a woman with a fist in each pocket.”

I pray that, one day, I will unclench my fists so that I can pluck the blade of grass that lays at my feet, and make it whistle in the wind like I did when I was a kid. A whistle so sweet, clear and persevering that it carries my fears away so that I can forget that fateful day. And I pray that this will be true for the Ukranians as well. I pray that one day, they can live in peace again and with unclenched fists gather bouquets of their beloved sunflowers to help carry away their fears and forget these horrific days.

Black History, Black Tomorrow
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2022)

They say that we learn from our past. As I am thinking of this month, February, the month that we celebrate Black history, I am aware of how much we should have, but have not, learned.

In his poem, “Harlem,” Langston Hughes wrote, “What happens to a dream deferred? / Does it dry up / like a raisin in the sun?” And I think of the words of Toni Morrison, in her novel “Beloved.” She brought me, a modern-day girl who could not have been further removed from understanding slavery, to weep as though the main character, Sethe, was my own sister. Although she achieved her dream of freedom, a dream not deferred, it lost its ripe luster, “dried up” as Hughes described because Sethe would forever be haunted by the horrific days when she was a slave.

We should be further away from the past than we are. Why, in 2022, are we still battling racism, discrimination, health inequities and more? It matters not that the people are different and the actions of a more modern twist, the stories of the past are relived in some manner every day. They are not my stories. I am only an empathetic witness, trying to play a role, no matter how small, in making a difference.

But just when I begin to feel overwhelmed and defeated, I hear the voices of those who speak today, and I realize that the light of hope shines bright.

Our first African-American president, Barak Obama, said “One voice can change a room, and if one voice can change a room, then it can change a city, and if it can change a city, it can change a state, and if it can change a state, it can change a nation, and if it can change a nation, it can change the world. Your voice can change the world.”

n her poem, “In This Place” Amanda Gorman, American poet and activist, wrote “There’s a poem in this place / a poem in America / a poet in every American / who rewrites this nation, who tells / a story worthy of being told on this minnow of an earth / to breathe hope into a palimpsest of time…” And, just as Gorman concludes her poem, I realize that we are writing “an American lyric we are just beginning to tell.”

The stories of our past are still unfolding. And we are still learning from them. The lessons are all around us if we actively listen. And if we use our voice, if only to change a room at first, our recognition of the stories of Black history can bring change to Black tomorrow.

Words
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2022)

Words can strike you down or lift you up. Words harm and they heal. They are gifts that we can keep to ourselves or that we can share with others. They can be spoken out loud or never uttered at all.

And words are mysterious and mischievous. Sometimes we have no idea what someone means when they share their words with us. Other times we think we know, but we have completely misunderstood. Words can be slings of unfortunate misery and they can be blankets of warmth and comfort.

Words shared one moment can be forgotten the next. But some words sprout wings and fly deep into our being and nestle in for the long haul. In her poem, “A Word,” Emily Dickinson wrote “A word is dead / When it is said, / Some say. / I say it just / Begins to live / That day.”

The thing is, it seems no matter how hard I try, I cannot choose which words will earn eternal life in my mind and heart and which ones will be quickly forgotten. Would that I could, I, of course, would forget the wicked words and remember only those that placed me in a kind and nurturing light. Unfortunately, the horrible words are usually the ones that come to mind first, and it is a laborious task to remember the positive words.

If I am ever able to achieve the skill of remembering the kind words gifted to me over the harmful ones, I would still hope to harbor a keen awareness of the power of words. A dear friend of mine, who is a brilliant writer, once told me that when you write, you should always tell the truth, no matter how hard it might be. Our conversation was not about the difference between honesty and falsehoods, but rather about being brave enough to call something what it is and not skirt around the issue. He’s right, but of course, I have spent the years since that conversation crafting the skill of skirting. There is an art to deciphering when to tell or when to yell the truth. Perhaps we should indeed speak words in never-ending truth, but we should do so quietly at times. Sometimes whispers speak louder than roars.

Infinite Hope
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2022)

There is something about snow. I fell in love with it when I was still a child. Growing up in northern, Ohio, my appendages became not just arms and legs, but also poles and skis. These days, I rarely get to ski, but my love for the sport and for the snow is just as strong as it ever was.

But there is something else about snow. It’s so much more than a canvas for skis to paint tracks of time and joy upon. There is the scent of snow. It’s clean and crisp. And the sound of the snow – a silence unlike any other quiet can be. And when you stand alone in a field, the pure white ground spread out before you and the large flakes dancing before your eyes, you feel as though God is giving you a fresh start. Gone is the muddy, dirty ground. The bare trees are clothed in white with branches twinkling in icicles divine. Everything is snow-fresh new.

How apropos that this week, the week that we celebrate the life of Martin Luther King, Jr., we should get this beautiful snow. “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that,” King said.

He fought for equality - rights that no human being should have to fight for. With the history of America full of inequality and cruelty, he offered hope. Just as the snow hides the muddy dirt that fall leaves behind and gives us a world pure and fresh, if we would follow the dream of King, so too could we start afresh. The blood is still rooted in the soil; nothing can, or should, erase history; but the dream, like the snow, offers hope. King said, “We are not the makers of history. We are made by history.”

The quiet of the snow begs us to listen more closely. Listen for that which has been in a cyclic rhythm of heard and unheard. We need to listen not just to the words, but the beating of the hearts. We need to see not just the pure and pristine snow, but also the full array of colors that are the dream, the hope.

Along with the tragedies the COVID pandemic has brought us are blessings too. It brought things into the stark light so that those who had not been fully aware could come to know. The learning has been heartbreaking, and disappointment fails to describe how horrified we feel. But with infinite hope we can learn from the snow that has visited us this week and from the man who also stayed with us for far too short a time.

Where Math Meets Emotion
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2022)

Emotion is a powerful thing. It can rule a moment and it can also command the helm to steer you down your life’s path. It seems like a subjective thing, but I believe there is also something objective about it – mathematical, if you will.

On the eve of welcoming the new year, math and emotion were entangled in dance. The math of the calendar count progressing to the next year was in step with the heartbreak so many of us felt for the losses and challenges of the year we were leaving behind. Goodbyes moved deeper into the officiality of things and the full realization of the challenges survived hit with a blow that weakened knees. The calendar math does not lie about the days and months that have passed, but the heart does not want to believe it’s true.

The math of the new year also adds up the resolutions made but unmet in years past. The writing is on the wall, but the hopeful heart denies the odds and once again lays the same resolutions out for all to see.

And every new year means another birthday. There is no denying the formula that the original birth date subtracted from today’s birth day will equal the actual age of someone. I know I am not alone, though, when I say the fact is one hard to believe. Where did the years go and why does the person in my mind not match the face I see in the mirror? Surviving a heart attack in 2021 does not make me feel older. The recovery and getting back into running – when I am putting one foot in front of the other in that long-time familiar rhythm – that makes me feel like the person I’ve always been. No aging here.

They say age is just a number. Is that an admission that emotion can indeed weigh heavier and truer than math? I’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you? I realize our mindset cannot overcome all things, but maybe it can make some things easier to bear. There are some things we simply cannot deny, but maybe, just maybe, there is some wiggle room for the others.

So, I choose to believe that I am only as old as I feel, and that 2022 will not be a mathematical summation of calendar days but rather a journey of emotional healing from the past year and a movement toward feeling good and knowing happiness.

Howlidays
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2021)

We all have different Holiday traditions, even if for some it is to have no traditions at all. And whatever those traditions may be, they will morph in some way or another over time or fade away. Whatever the fate of today’s tradition might be, there is always another tradition in the wings, patiently waiting for its moment to fly in and become a part of our past, our present, and our future – a bookmark for our memories in Charles Dicken’s fashion.

One tradition that flew into my life a couple decades ago when I began this cycle of sharing my life with 3 rescue dogs, was to wrap Christmas presents for the pack to unwrap. Something hard for chewing, something soft for cuddling, and shredding if I’m being honest, and something for tugging.

The pack has changed over the years as some members have earned their angel wings and new members have appeared. But the tradition of tails wagging while teeth and paws tear open loosely wrapped presents has remained the same. The joyful romping in the scraps of Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer wrapping paper fills my heart with happiness. Watching my furry ones decide who owns what toy is pure entertainment. And then there is always our wild Moses who goes rogue and begins carrying the new toys outside. One by one they are lined up under his favorite tree. There are still some teddy bears out there from last year. From time to time, one of us, be it human or canine, will bring a few back into the house, but they always wind up back under the tree.

My love for dogs and my traditions that embrace them are nothing new. I remember when I was a little girl, my mother would take my sister and me north to Mansfield for the huge family get-togethers we would have. I would always press her to try to get us home by midnight. I had heard the legend that animals talk at the stroke of twelve on Christmas Eve and I didn’t want to miss it. Of course, I never heard them speak – at least not with words in English, but the magic of the Holidays and treasuring the gift of living with animals has stayed with me ever since.

It breaks my heart to know many animals will spend the Holidays without a family and many families will be lonely without pets. While it is significantly important to know that pets are not just for the Holidays, but for all the other days of the year as well; it certainly is as good a time as any to adopt someone into your family. I see their photos in the ads in the Circleville Herald and I wonder who will soon have a home. If you are looking to begin new traditions and new memories into your “Howlidays”, I highly suggest you check out the Pickaway County Dog Shelter (21253 Ringgold Southern Rd, Circleville / (740) 474-3741), the Circle Area Humane Society (185 Island Drive, Circleville, by appointment / (740) 474-8690) or DASH Rescue (13525 Hoover Road, Ashville, call for details / (614) 655-1007). You can also find all three on Facebook.

Seasonal Glue
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2021)

The Holidays are both happy and hard. Amid strings of lights, Christmas carols, decorated trees, sugar-sprinkled cookies, presents, and laughter there are melancholy moments and tearful times. On top of it all, this will be our second Holiday season in the pandemic period. Remember the days when the health worries were about adding pumpkin pie pounds, or catching the common cold or the familiar flu – the seasonal flu?

In addition to all the preventative measures we know to help us keep physically healthy, what Holiday hacks might there be to preserve our mental health? Instead of avoiding seasonal flu, embracing seasonal glue, if you will.

Because my Holiday happiness is intermingling with melancholy moments, I decided to pull together a list of seasonal glues to help me keep it together. And because I know I am not alone in matters like these, I thought I would share my list with you.

#1 I selectively choose my Holiday playlist. Some days I need to avoid those slower, nostalgic Christmas songs. For example, if I’m feeling a little low, I need to listen to songs like “You Make it Feel Like Christmas,” by Gwen Stefani and Blake Shelton. On those days, I need to avoid “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” sung by Judy Garland in the movie “Meet me in St. Louis,” which brings me to movies.

#2 While the movie in #1 might be one of my favorites, I pay attention to how I am feeling before I choose to watch it. Some days are “National Lampoon Christmas Vacation” days and some are “Meet Me in St. Louis” days.

#3 The Holiday season can completely flip our schedules and habits. In spite of this, I try to maintain a certain level of routine. I still exercise, drink lots of water, rise at the same time of morning, and stick with other habits like those.

#4 I’m still working on this one. It’s mindfulness. I found a free app for my smart phone called the “Soothing Pod” that offers an array of guided meditation sessions, stories, music, and sounds to help me relax and go to sleep. Sleeping is a major challenge for me so….

#5 I decided to do something about my insomnia and constant fatigue. I participated in a sleep study and am awaiting the results. I would add that #5 is about any wellness actions we can take for our physical and mental wellbeing, be it to schedule a doctor’s appointment, take vitamins, exercise, get some peaceful rest– whatever you have not been doing that you know you should be.

#6 I let myself feel whatever I am feeling. The Holidays are an emotional time. Sometimes I might feel happy, some days not happy at all. The important thing is to not feel guilty for how we feel and to recognize when we might need some help. If you are uncomfortably sad, don’t feel guilty about that but I would suggest that you do talk to someone you trust - your doctor, minister, friend, or family member.

#7 I choose whether I want to be alone or with others. This is tricky in the era of the pandemic, but by now we have figured out safe ways for in-person meetings and a variety of technologies to help us join others virtually. If you are alone, and want to be, that is cool; but if you are alone and don’t want to be alone; do a little research and find a safe way you can be with others. Maybe it is to volunteer at a soup kitchen or other charity.

#8 Say no. Two words. Super easy to write. Not so easy to do, so this is a big one – a heavy ingredient in my seasonal glue. Remember the Holidays are ours to enjoy too, so if you are getting asked to do something because it will make someone else’s Holiday nice for them, it’s okay to weigh the ask before you make your decision. Sometimes saying yes can be fulfilling – it is joyful to do for others. But sometimes saying yes might mean making a bigger sacrifice on your part than what you really are up to making.

#9 Say yes. Like #8 these two words are super easy to write; but sometimes it is hard to actually say yes to yourself. I give myself permission to have that Holiday cookie, despite my weight worries. I give myself permission to take a break – take a few days off work, take a nap, stop and drink the hot cup of cocoa in my Santa mug.

#10 Be in the moment. It’s so easy to get lost in thoughts of those who are no longer here or the sad and difficult things endured since the last Holiday Season. The past is a part of the present, for sure, but I try to make the focus on the now. It’s empowering and lessens the potential for future regrets that I did not stop and smell the Christmas tree this year.

I hope my little list was helpful to you. If nothing else, I hope it entertained you. But I would be remiss if I did not mention that there are so many of us who suffer during this season – I mean really suffer. If you are one of those people, please know that you are not alone and that there are others who truly want to help. Some resources include: https://ohiocares.ohio.gov/Resource-Map/Pickaway-County, the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 800-273-8255 or https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/ And here is a link to some great information from Nationwide Children’s Hospital: https://www.onoursleeves.org/mental-wellness-tools-guides/mental-health-holidays

Where Thanksgivings Are
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, November, 2021)

The dark and peaceful night. The three sweet dogs who slumber nearby. Gary softly dreaming by my side. The comfort of the furnace warming our cozy little home. The wind chimes serenading us from the front porch. The only other sound is the beating of my heart.

My heart. The keeper of my life. I love it in a way today I never knew I would. For there is nothing more powerful than having that which you never questioned to be – to stop being, to stop beating. The rhythm of life not to be denied, I survived for another day.

Soft days, hard days, days that swept by too quickly, and others too slowly – all have passed since the day I nearly joined those who have left me too soon.

And here we are at the time of Thanksgiving. And I think, isn’t every day?

Thankful for being warm, for having loved and having been loved, for the taste of spring rain on my tongue, the feel of the hot summer sun on my face, the vision of autumn leaves dancing in the air, and the absence of sound when winter brings with it the crisp silence of snow. The gratefulness I once thought I knew is a stranger to me now, replaced by a thankfulness I had never fathomed before.

It’s in the peacefulness of our little home when I sip my coffee. It’s the silent dark as I pull out the drive for the morning commute. It’s the quiet thoughts that will not be denied despite the frenzy of deadlines and projects during the day. It settles in the back of my mind. I’m covered in its soft warmth like a down blanket on a cold winter’s night.

It’s in the light streaming from the living room window when I make it home at the end of a long day. It’s in Gary’s warm embrace when I walk through the door and the soft kisses and wagging tales of our dogs Moses, Jasmine, and Harry. And it is in the awareness that those now ethereal have never really left, for their love and memories still linger.

Wishing you and yours, Dear Readers, that you too are where the thanksgivings are, not only for this holiday, but for always.

Veterans
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, November, 2021)

Once there was a time when they ran through the woods, fields, or down the sidewalks. Skipping stones, kicking cans, scabbing knees, and grinning with popsicles dripping grape stains down their chins. Dressed up dolls or dark green plastic army men filled their minds with energy and fantasy. Childhood days filled with endless play and nights spent burning marshmallows on long sticks dipped in the flames of small campfires.

As fast as the fluttering wings of a hummingbird, the years flew by. Childhood things were put away. And with the dream of a better life, a career, protecting home, and a plethora of other reasons why, the decision was made to enlist. For some, there was no option because the choice was made for them.

They served on land, sea, or sky. They served on foreign land or here in America.

Serving for the act of serving, no matter where or how, is in and of itself a dangerous thing. It requires a courage I cannot quite fathom.

And so, serving, the days, weeks, months, and years went by - sometimes too quickly, sometimes not quickly enough. Friendships were formed and strangers became kin. Things were seen and done. Some never to be forgotten, some to only visit in the dreams or nightmares that come in the dark of night, and some were stricken from memory.

After serving, the view of the American flag gently waving in the wind carries a deeper meaning. The sound of Taps will forever be etched in hearts. And powerful is the joy of being home, wherever home might be, and being surrounded by loved ones, or peacefully solo if so desired.

There is honor in having served. And there is an unmeasurable gratitude for those who served. And that is every hour, every day, every week, not just this week, the week of Veteran’s Day.

It’s a difficult thing, for sure, to find the words to express my respect and indebtedness to our veterans. My heart is overwhelmed as I think of the veteran who I share my life with. And while I wish I had known him all my life, I am thankful that I did not know Gary when he served. I never had to face the worry of harm finding him when he was out to sea. I always have been filled with pride and awe for him. And so, while the words pale in comparison to what is felt in my heart, I say “Thank you” to my very own veteran, Gary, and to all those who served.

After the Tornado
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2021)

“Let me sleep in the slumber of the morning. There’s nowhere I need to be and my dreams are still calling,” begins the song “Silver Joy,” written and sung by Damien Jurado. And so, also began, a recent early morning just before we were startled awake and thrust into chaos.

When the tornado whipped through our little area in the wee hours of the morning of Saturday October 16, 2021, Gary and I were cuddling our three dogs in the safest place our home provides, the master bathroom closet. We have no basement. We did have a warning though.

I had awakened to the tornado warning siren screaming from Tarlton and to the weather alert squawking on my phone. I saw that rotation had been identified on radar headed from Kingston to Tarlton and I knew that it was coming… just like it had before. I’m not a meteorologist. I cannot begin to understand why this is a favored path for tornadoes. I just know that it is. Just like I know that sound when it comes for a visit. The cacophony of turbulent wind tossing trees and wreaking havoc becomes one mass of sound – no way to really identify the individual sounds of the tree hitting the house, or the branches scraping roof shingles on their way to land in the driveway, or the sounds of some 25 other trees felled or severely wounded, some traveling from our land to our neighbors. And no way to pick out the other sounds of demolition from the few neighbors we have around us.

“Lay your troubles on the ground. No need to worry about them now.” Damien sings. It is true that when you are in the middle of a traumatic moment, all other worries become null. When you hear the sound of your home holding fast against an undeniable enemy, and you, in turn, are holding the ones you love as you bunker down in a tiny, dark room, you are forced to be in that moment. There is no need to worry about other things then. It’s not even really possible to consider them.

“Daylight shaking through the trees,” Damien continues. Only it wasn’t daylight that was shaking the trees. It was something dark and sinister.

“Keep me with you on the ground. All of my worries behind me now.” The song winds down. And with unspoken words I prayed that we would stay on the ground. This was my fourth tornado -the third time I was in my home when one came for a visit. The first time, as a young girl, I was out in a field and the winds swept me off my feet and flew me into a concrete structure. Barely bruised but wickedly shaken, I realized that as evil as tornadoes can be, they can sometimes also bring blessings. Our blessings are that we are safe and well. We have repairs to make and clean-up to do, but we are together, and we are okay. And as much as my cup runs over with thankfulness for our blessings, so too does it run over with prayers for the others who were also in harm’s way on that fateful morning. And I wish for us all that soon the dust will settle, the tornado will become a dimming memory, and that we can once again “Sleep in the slumber of the morning” and lay our troubles on the ground.

The Call of the Wind
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2021)

I have not written about him in quite some time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think of him every day. Truthfully, he’s not really a “him,” but rather an “it,” a horrible life-changing and oftentimes also life-ending it. It’s the thing that creeps through the shadows of night yet boldly rampages through the countries, cities, streets, and our homes during the day. And when it strikeThe wind has been calling us. Through the noise of hectic days at work and nights filled with business of life matters, we could still hear the summoning. With gradual crescendo, the quiet became whispers which grew to soft voices, until they became so loud, they would not be ignored. And so, on the two days between commutes to work, Gary and I checked off our chore list with rapid fire. Boots laced, helmets donned, and we were off to ride in the wind.

We have plenty of lovely places to hike in Pickaway County, but this was not a day for a short ride. This was a day when the motorcycle ride selection on the menu was the entrée, and the hike would be the dessert. And so, off we rode to the historic Clifton Mill in Clifton, Ohio. The magical time to visit is late November through the end of the year when every possible inch of the mill is cloaked in Christmas lights and yuletide cheer. But sometimes it is fun to visit a place during the times it would be less popular to do so, like the Outer Banks in December or downtown Circleville every other week except Pumpkin Show week.

After an amazing lunch of chicken salad dressed up with red grapes and almonds on rye bread, we walked around the area and then got back on the Gold Wing. Our next destination was John Bryan State Park. Because of our late start, we were only able to hike for a little over an hour, but it was lovely from the moment we first stepped onto the trail through the entire time we stepped over roots and rocks winding our way deeper into the woods. And the wind spoke to us through the dancing leaves in the trees – the sound so loud it begged us to stop, take a deep breath and really just “be.”

Finally, as sunset was drawing near, we climbed back onto the bike and began the trek home. The sky was dramatically filled with hues of red and orange. There is something about riding a motorcycle – a conflict of pairings. You are carefree while on alert for anything that could cross your path and wreak havoc. The wind beating at your helmet is crashing loud and yet you feel like you are flying in silence. And there was a chill in the wind. It was cool and crisp and yet warm and inviting. It sang of the ending of summer and the coming of fall. Tucked behind Gary, I was energized and at peace.

Yes, the wind had been calling. I’m so glad it was relentless and that we finally answered, even if only for a part of a day.

COVID-19+ War: We Cannot Give Up the Fight
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2021)

When we first began this shrouded era of the pandemic, there were many who scoffed at it, labeled it a story of conspiracy designed to cause fear and disruption. They were right about what it would cause, but that list falls short. They were completely wrong about the fictional foundation of the virus. It is real. It is here. And it is undeniably and powerfully persistent.

The Centers for Disease Control (CDC) predicts that by October 16, 2021, we will have lost 736,000 husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, and children to COVID 19. Far too many homes have cats and dogs waiting by the door for their companions to return, empty chairs at dinner tables, thoughts left unshared, messages unsent, hugs unreturned. The pain and suffering felt by those who succumbed to COVID-19+ is matched by the devastated hearts and homes of those left behind.

But deep in the dark and gloomy shadows of COVID there is a light of hope. It might seem faint, it might appear to flicker, not yet full of energy and support, but the light is here all the same. And that light is made stronger by prayers and science. If we follow the light, follow the guidance offered by those who legitimately know the answers, then one day, I believe, we can step into a new world without masks, hand sanitizer and social distancing. Those things will become less prevalent because of the power and protection of vaccinations and boosters. The inoculations are a small price to pay for the rewards that can be earned by getting them.

We are all tired, I know, but this COVID monster is relentless. We cannot give up the fight. If you have not been vaccinated, please consider doing so if you can. If you have any questions, there is a wealth of information out there. You can make an appointment with your doctor or a local health care provider, call or visit your local pharmacy, and also visit www.cdc.gov. We cannot give up the fight.

Are You Looking for Harry?
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September 2021

A long time ago, a pattern was set – a pattern over which I have held no power. The pattern is of the three-dog variety. I adopted a rescue dog some 20 years ago and shortly thereafter two more rescue dogs landed in my life. Ever since then, whenever one of my sweet companions has risen into the arms of God, another rescue dog has miraculously shown up.

As I am writing this to you, I have had to use the dictating function that Microsoft Word offers because in my arms I am holding a slumbering Chihuahua. I am yet to know for sure if he is part of the three-dog pattern or just a temporary guest.

On Thursday September 9th around 5:00pm, my husband, Gary, witnessed a near miss tragedy. Running down the middle of Tarlton Rd not far from the town of Tarlton was this little black Chihuahua. He was dodging cars as they were swerving to miss him. Gary managed to coax the small dog to come to him and he has been staying with us ever since.

We have reported this little dog to the area dog shelters. We have had him scanned to look for a chip. We have put up posters. We have knocked on doors. We have reported him and published postings with a variety of dog lost and found channels. And while we have searched for his owners, we simultaneously attempted to not fall in love with him.

Recently, my husband and I watched a movie titled “I’m Your Woman.” The lead character was a young woman who was married to a gangster. One day, he brought home a baby and she named him Harry just because she liked the name. There was never an explanation for where the baby came from. He just showed up. I tried to avoid naming our little guest, but now we are calling him Harry. Just like the baby in the movie, he came here from an unknown where.

So far we have failed. We have failed to find Harry’s owners. And we have failed to avoid falling in love with him. I’m still wondering if he is my new number three. I'm learning how to write without my hands on the keyboard because they are otherwise occupied cuddling a sleeping dog. And I’m wondering which joy will be greater, the joy of finding his owner or the joy of reaching the day when the search ends and he will be surrendered to us. According to the Pickaway County Dog Shelter when we filed our report with them, we will be the legal owners of Harry 10 days from the day we found him.

Are you looking for Harry? If so, please email me at amyj.author@gmail.com. If you are not missing Harry or another Harry of some kind and all your doggies are safe at home, I implore you to get a license, a chip, and to put a tag on their collar with your name and phone number. You never know when they might run away and get lost.

And if you don't have a Harry or a Harriette, there are plenty of dogs at the Pickaway County Dog Shelter (740) 474-3741, D.A.S.H Animal Rescue (614) 655-1007 and cats at the Circle Area Humane Society (740) 474-8690. All three organizations also have pages on Facebook you can visit and place ads with the Circleville Herald with photos of those who are looking for their “furever” homes. Once the pattern of adopting starts, your world will never be the same.

Truth in the Calm World
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September 2021

I’ve been working some long hours lately, so the commutes home have been much later in the day than I would like. But they have been beautiful all the same. Hot, but beautiful. I’m grateful for the air-conditioning and the conversation with my husband, Gary, both which cool my mind from the fevered leavings of the challenging days.

In his poem, “The House was Quiet and the World was Calm,” Wallace Stevens wrote with repetitive strokes of words in a manner that kidnaps my attention and takes me on a ride, much like the drive home. His words calm my soul, much like the conversations I have with Gary do as I traverse the roads home. Working remotely these days, Gary no longer travels in the car with me in the physical sense, but our phone conversations as I drive home make me feel him close by my side.

More than look forward to, I crave those conversations and how I know they will bring me peacefulness. The talks help me pack up the baggage of the day and stow the luggage in my trunk when I arrive home instead of carrying the load inside. The evenings at home are then filled with the mix of busyness preparing for the next day, the laughter at dinner, and the cuddles with dogs until it is time to lay the day to rest.

But sleep does not always come. And when it doesn’t, I tiptoe into the living room and snuggle up with a good book to let the voices in the story quiet the voices in my head that have begun to stir again. And as the noise in my mind hushes, I become keenly aware of the quiet of the night, the quiet of our little home.

Stevens wrote, “The summer night is like a perfection of thought. / The house was quiet because it had to be. / The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind: The access of perfection to the page. / And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world, / In which there is no other meaning, itself / Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself / Is the reader leaning late and reading there.”

Amid the clutter of thoughts and the frenzy of the days, there is calmness. It might evade me until the end of day, but it is there all the same. It is tucked away in the conversations with Gary while on the commute and in the quiet of our home when the long drive and day are over. And I find truth in that calm world.

The Final Commute
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August 2021)

She held a variety of different jobs that were very important to her. Almost as important as the cottony sheep that lined her bedroom bookshelves. Unable to drive, her commutes to work during those years would have been as a passenger. It is her final escorted commute that I am thinking of as I write this – for that was only a few days ago.

The other day, in an intimate convoy lead by a shiny black hearse and escorted by an old police motorcycle, sweet Rachel rode her last commute. In Heaven by then, I’m sure she looked down upon us and marveled at the skilled motorcyclist and how the cars kept together from backroads to highway to city streets until we came to rest at the cemetery where she was laid next to her older brother. Her younger brother, my husband, Gary, served as a pall-bearer, carrying her pink and white coffin to the place where it would be surrendered to the earth.

Rachel was diagnosed at birth with MRDD, but one would be mistaken to think she didn’t understand things like how to love and what fairness meant. And she remembered things sometimes better than those less challenged would remember. She loved her family, sheep, 70’s music and to shop. A big fan of The Ohio State Buckeyes and lover of anything construction related, Rachel found ways to make life interesting for herself. I am not a psychologist – I cannot begin to understand what went on in her mind; but I know those wheels were turning.

During those last days when we would walk in her room, Rachel would raise her eyebrows and a little smile would form as Gary would talk to her of things from their childhood. She had become unable to speak, and yet, we could hear her then and over this last week since her passing, I have continued to hear her voice in my mind…in my heart. And I am reminded of how powerful the mind can be, even one that is challenged, and how enduring love is.

Rachel may have traveled her final commute, but the love she shared and the lessons we learned from her, and can learn from others like her, are never-ending.

When You Say Nothing at All
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald August 2021)

Despite the pain that consumed me, I had a moment of clarity as my care team rushed me from the ER to surgery. I knew two things: 1) I could be living my final minutes and 2) I really wanted to pray but could find no words. Before the thoughts could bring me to panic, a sense of calmness overcame me. I felt the presence of my beautiful Labrador, Sam, who I lost earlier this year. And I also felt the presence of God. He filled me with the understanding that I didn’t need the right words for my prayer – that He was with me and knew my feelings and thoughts. No words were needed.

t’s been a few months since that day and the words still elude me. My night prayers which were quite lengthy before that day are now just “Thank You.” Two simple words that carry the weight of an insurmountable mountain of gratitude and love.

There are really no words to describe my thankfulness to God just like there are really no words to describe my love for Gary, my husband, my companion, my everything. I may have been the one physically on the gurney that day and the one who is still working hard to recover; but truthfully, we are on this journey together.

How do you find the words to thank someone for loving you unconditionally, no matter how sick or tired you might be? What word can describe how fulfilling it is to have someone you believe in, believe in you? How can you articulate the bundle of emotions ranging from like to love to need to can’t live without? There is no omni or meta word to take you there. I have come upon a puzzle that cannot be solved. There are just no words.

Gary always says that dogs cannot speak because they know too much, and we would not be able to handle what they could share. But without words, they do share, don’t they? They run to greet you, they lean into you and hug you. And when they do, they fill your heart. The love, humor, joy and all the other gifts they lay at our feet come with no words.

In the song “When You Say Nothing at All,” written by Don Schiltz and Paul Overstreet, the first stanza goes, “It's amazing how you can speak right to my heart. / Without saying a word, you can light up the dark. / Try as I may I can never explain / what I hear when you don't say a thing.”

So perhaps I should rest from this weary search for the right words to express how I feel about the man who fills my being, not only because there really are no words, but because even if there were the right words, they would not be needed.

To Sleep…

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald July 2021)

“To sleep, perchance to dream…” William Shakespeare whispers to me in the dark as I lay awake once more. One more night of waking to the quiet that so deeply permeates our little home it feels palpable. The peacefulness that surrounds me completely contradicts the noises and voices whirling in my head.

I’m reminded of my early teen years sitting on the red shag rug in our living room rifling through the records that begged for a chance to spin on the turntable. Was it a premonition of some kind that a favorite to play was my mom’s 45rpm “Sleep Walk,” by Santo and Johnny? The story goes that they arose from bed around 2am one morning with the idea for the song. The story bears evidence that I keep fine company.

Somewhere in our little neck of woods others are awake, but they are nocturnal and wild by nature, so the morning sun and the venture to be intelligent at a place of employment is of no concern to them. But there are other creatures who sleeplessly shuffle through the night who are more like me. Perhaps you are one of them?

Sleeplessness can be more than annoying. It can be dangerous. According to the National Heart Lung and Blood Institute (NIH), insomnia is a dangerous thing. When chronic, it can raise your risk of cancer, diabetes, high blood pressure and coronary heart disease. Knowing this, I have been working to address my non-slumberous nights.

There is a plethora of tips and tricks I’ve tried to bring me to sleep. Our bedroom is kept dark. I have tried wearing one of those sleep masks that makes me appear a sibling to the ring-tailed raccoons who visit our porch at night when they think we are not watching. I’ve tried meditating before I go to sleep. I have risen from bed for the prescribed minutes to do something else, like reading, to cause my brain to become drowsy. All to no avail.

In her poem, “Poetry of the Night,” translated by Tess O’ Dwyer, Giannina Braschi closes with “And poetry of the night and the witness in shadow, in dust, in nothing.”

The dark of night implies there is nothing there. Nothing to steal my sleep. Perhaps, if I would just lay as quiet as the shadows, as vacant as the dark, maybe, just maybe I could bring to reality that wish of William Shakespeare, “To sleep, perchance to dream.”

If you have insomnia, please do not suffer alone. There are many resources out there to help like the NIH. You can visit them on the web at: https://www.nhlbi.nih.gov/health-topics/insomnia. But I would also suggest having a conversation with your health care provider.

Making Peace With It

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald July 2021)

As I am writing this, I am looking out over our little spot of land and watching the trees sway in the summer breeze. Their heavy cloaks of leaves brush against each other. If you close your eyes, you can imagine you are hearing the ocean’s waves. The only other sound is the serenade from a bouquet of birds calling to each other and greeting the morning sun.

Tomorrow morning will be nothing like this. Tomorrow, I will pack my things and commute up to Columbus to work in person. Like most people, I have been working hybrid since the pandemic stole so many of our liberties. But perhaps a little rarer is the reason why I have been only working from home this last month. I’m not quite ready to tell you the full reason why here in this column. I have yet to make peace with it.

“I lost the silver lining in a wasteland / Everybody told me to be stronger / On the day I can’t hold on any longer,” Garrison Starr sings in her beautiful song, “Make Peace With It.”

One morning, in early May of this year, I almost lost my life. I awoke the next day to the joy of being alive diluted by the painful realization that my life would never be the same. The silver lining was there, it was just a bit blurred.

Garrison sings on, “I gotta make peace with it / Try to see the grace in it / Be a little more patient.”

Opening my eyes and my mind to the gift of grace, I am working to practice patience in the healing process and the seeking of peace.

My struggle to make peace stems deeper than the incident in May and has been brewing much, much longer, since I was quite young to be truthful. Unfortunately, “not being good enough,” is not a lesson that I alone was taught, it is a miseducational theme that spans across the globe.

So many of us are too hard on ourselves. And we have all faced challenges. But far better it would be to take on those challenges when we are at peace with ourselves and have calmed the voices in our head and the crashing memories of the people and events that have tossed us into the stormy seas. It starts with showing kindness – not just to others, but to ourselves as well. “Grow some kindness / Be a light in the darkness / If I’m ever gonna live this life / Gotta make peace with it,” sings Garrison.

It’s hard… very hard to grab ahold of that peace. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there for us to take. The peace is waiting for me, for you, for all of us. We just have to recognize that it is ours for the having – to grow the kindness to ourselves and be our light in the darkness.

Celebrating Pride Month…Every Day

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald)

I know me like the leaves know the trees. But just like stormy weather can shake those leaves from the branches they call home, I have let the words of others rattle my beliefs in me.

When I was a little girl, I enjoyed dolls and tea sets. I also enjoyed climbing trees and getting dirty crawling around outside with our pet ducks, Mother and Sigh. But it was the inside time, putting pretty dresses on my dolls while hosting pretend tea parties that set the stage that I really liked being a girl. This was a source of great disappointment for one of my parents. Determined that I should be a boy, the long hair I preferred was always cut above my ears. As to my “looks,” I was introduced at gatherings as the one who had a fire in my face that was put out with a rake.

When my parents divorced, I was still fairly young, and no one really paid attention anymore, so I let my hair grow long. I have never cut it short since. I love wearing dresses and I’m in love with an amazing and handsome man.

I was born a girl in body and mind. I was born straight. So even though I had a hard time at home, society viewed me as “normal.”

Imagine knowing who you are and how you feel and needing to hide it to avoid being mocked, bullied, discriminated against, harmed or even murdered because others think you should be or feel or want something other than what you do.

In his proclamation recognizing June as LGBTQ+ Pride month, President Biden stated that this is the time “… we recognize the resilience and determination of the many individuals who are fighting to live freely and authentically.”

I pray for a time when that fight is no longer needed.

While June is Pride month, every other month, week, and day of the year is also a time to celebrate diversity and to work toward equality, fairness and justice.

President Biden also stated in his proclamation “I call upon the people of the United States to recognize the achievements of the LGBTQ+ community, to celebrate the great diversity of the American people, and to wave their flags of pride high.”

The pride flag is a lovely flag – a rainbow to represent the beauty in diversity, and the importance that all people be equal and free to shine, to be the people they know they are.

The Pleasure of Paintings

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald June 2021)

A cool summer breeze fills the sails as the boat glides in through the small bay encircled by forested land. The leaves of the trees are basking in the last rays of the sun as the sky is painted in hues of orange, red, and lavender. I never tire of watching that boat come in at the end of the day. I always get lost in thoughts and dreams as I watch the scene play over and over day after day. Where is this sweet place of solace you might wonder? It is in the place that I call home – a painting on my wall.

I have loved art all of my life. My mother was an artist, so perhaps it began with her. Sadly, I only have a few pieces my mother painted. One of her paintings has lived on only in my memory until I found a work of art on Etsy that was so similar to it that I almost cried. I, of course, purchased the painting and now, every day, it is there to keep me company. It takes me to that place where I learned how to sail and it brings me peace.

Art is like that – something special, something different for everyone. Gary and I have filled our walls with paintings and photographs. Some of the photography is Gary’s own work. And no matter how long those art pieces have hung on our walls, I still get lost in them.

There is a long, horizontal photograph on my bedroom wall that takes you amid a forest of aspens. I purchased the piece years ago when I had traveled to Colorado. During the trip, I had the pleasure of going on a half-day horseback ride through fields, woods and mountains. The tranquility of the day is a memory I rely on to help me through difficult times. Having that photograph to help my mind drift into the memory of that serene day I spent with a guide, a horse, and wonderous nature means everything to me.

Perhaps you have a favorite piece of art on your wall. Perhaps you have space for one more, or for your first. If you don’t already, I highly recommend you follow ArtsaRound on Facebook to see what they are currently featuring in their gallery in downtown Circleville. I cannot tell you how excited I was to read in the Circleville Herald that Jesse Patterson is displaying his work for sale in June. I own two of his paintings and can tell you his work is varied and beautiful and definitely of that which you can get lost in. You would benefit greatly by owning one of his paintings. If you are not in the mood to buy art, I encourage you to visit his exhibit anyway. It will cost you nothing to do so, but in return you just may find yourself lost in one of his paintings, finding a memory or creating a new one.

Memorial Day: Two of the 58,000

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald May 2021)

Many years have passed since he was killed in action, and yet I still think of him all the time. At the top of my bookshelves in my office at home sets an etching. I remember how hard I cried when I tried to transfer the letters of his name from the Vietnam War Memorial Wall to a piece of paper I could carry with me as though the paper would keep him closer to my heart.

In his poem “Facing It,” Yusef Komunyakaa wrote of the Vietnam War Memorial Wall, “I turn this way—the stone lets me go. I turn that way—I'm inside.”

More than 58,000 names are engraved on the Wall. Each name, each life, a branch of a tree of family and friends. They are the names of those whose lives ended too soon, lives that touched other lives - stories upon stories welcoming us inside.

My cousin, Jeff Hamilton, was always kind to me. Fourteen years my senior and clearly a young man among men, he did not tease me for my girlish affinity for dolls and tea sets. Rather he invited me into his world just as I was. I couldn’t comprehend it then, but looking back now, I can understand how he was compelled to enlist to serve his country, eventually being promoted to First Lieutenant. I looked up to him and can certainly see why others did too.

While in Vietnam, Jeff met another young man who would become his best friend. Jim was the radioman, so the two were joined closely not only by friendship but also by necessity. When the two met, they quickly discovered that they had grown up only a matter of blocks away from each other in Mansfield, Ohio. Strangers back at home became brothers on foreign soil.

Stationed near Hue city, on March 22, 1968, their company was charged with securing the area. While on the quest, a sniper’s aim took down my cousin, Jeff. Trying to save his friend, Jim was also hit. And so, two young men who never met when neighbors in Ohio died side by side as best friends in Vietnam. Two stories joined as one. Two lives ended before they had really begun, Jim age 20 and Jeff age 21.

Komunyakaa’s poem ends, “In the black mirror, a woman's trying to erase names. / No, she's brushing a boy's hair.”

More than 58,000 stories are on the Vietnam War Memorial; and yet that is only one memorial for one war – one breaker on the ocean of waves of those who are remembered every day for their service and honored on Memorial Day. May hearts soar like the American flag when we spend this long holiday weekend remembering those we have lost and may hearts be blessed and heal as we honor their sacrifices.

For more information about Jeff and Jim’s story, read “How Mansfield made a difference in the Vietnam War: 1968,” written by Timothy Brian McKee and published March 17, 2018 www.richlandsource.com)

The Season of Hope

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald May 2021)

Oftentimes I wake somewhere in the night, sometimes 2:00 sometimes 4am. The invader of my slumber could be anything. Something someone said, a memory of someone I lost, a jumbling of deadlines, or the nagging pain from the constant migraine or headache that has tormented me for years. The waking is in those inconvenient hours between the commute - far after the last drive and too soon to arise and prepare for the next.

Knowing I won’t be at my best if I don’t find a way to sleep, even if just for interrupted naps, I turn to the Native American music station I favor, especially on nights like these. There is something about the rhythm of the drums and the wind song of the flutes. I settle into the magical sound and imagine I am flying over the dessert, across the lakes and above the forests. My thoughts transition into dreams as I fall to sleep once more. The flute inspires my flight as I find freedom from the things that cause me worry and sadness. I become lost in the night sky and overcome by a feeling of peace. Soon will be another day. The sun will rise again.

When I rise in the morning, although keenly aware of all my blessings, I am still uneasy and unable to recapture the feeling of flight, the belief from my dreams that I could take wing to soar above that which concerns me.

But now it is spring, the season of hope. The days, weeks, months have been fleeting and yet all too prolonged to get us to this point in time. The pandemic is older than we believed it could ever become. The transgressor still has its steely grip on our daily lives. We continue to mask up, remain socially distant, and try to find normalcy in days that are anything but normal. Hope blooms with vaccinations while the spread remains a challenging foe. Rumi wrote of “calm in the midst of lightning.” Just as I find calmness in Native American music, I find peace in knowing our Higher Power has a plan.

Tonight I will probably awaken again sometime between 2:00 and 4am. I will most likely turn to the Native American music that brings my mind and dreams to take wing and when I soar over the hills and streams I will find solace in the flight, in believing God has a plan, and knowing that the spring will always come.

Full Moon Commute - An Ae Freislighe

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald April 2021)

Among other things, April is National Poetry Month. One of the reasons I love poetry is because of all of the different forms there are. One form I recently learned about is ae freislighe, which is an Irish form that is framed in quatrain. In addition to the four-lined stanzas, the pattern also prescribes for rhyming with three-syllable words in lines one and three, and with two-syllable words in lines two and four. There should be seven syllables in each of all four lines. And for a little extra added fun, the beginning of the poem, be it a word, line or syllable, should be the same as at the end of the poem.

Having just learned of this form of poetry, I’ve never written an ae freislighe before. So this issue of the commuter column will be my first attempt and will be in honor of the early morning commute through the beautiful landscapes of Pickaway County.

Full Moon Commute

Moon at full is evidence,

It’s too early to commute,

But deadlines are eminent,

And not my place to dispute.

Southern hills seem mountainous,

Before dark skies are lighter.

Golden sunrise wonderous,

Flames the sky all the brighter.

In nearby woods stir wildlife,

Into the fields they emerge,

Doe and her fawn are childlike,

As they frolic and converge.

While I’m at my vocation,

They will quietly slumber.

Tonight in mid lunation,

Moon at full will sleep cumber.

The Highway is Still Going and the Hope is Still Growing

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April 2021)

Somewhere in the back of my mind a little girl climbs a pear tree and spends her time daydreaming about the future. The world is wide open before her. The possibilities endless. And hope abundant like a warm spring day when you realize that somehow, unbeknownst to you, the trees have been budding, the grass has been growing and the robins have returned to offer their serenades.

At the same time it felt like spring would never arrive, it’s hard to believe it is here. Time truly does fly. And that little girl in the pear tree is older now with very little time for daydreaming. But the hope is still there, always rejuvenating in spring, growing brighter in synchrony with the yellow returning to the wings of the goldfinches.

This past Monday, I pulled out the driveway for my morning commute when the dark sky was lit by the lamp of the moon. After a couple days at home, it felt strange to be on the road again. My shuffled song library began to play “Highway” sung by the Shook Twins. The beginning fiddle notes touched me to the core, as fiddle notes always do. “Don’t stop now. The highway is still going,” the song began.

Lately I’ve been at a crossroads between where I’ve been and where I want to be commuting to. Do I give up and sit back now for the rest of my working days, settled into an existence that wasn’t exactly as I planned, or do I keep moving towards my dream of doing more, tapping into what I have to offer to make a better difference than I am now?

The Shook Twins sing, “The wind is blowing this way because that’s where I’m going,” describing the feeling I often have of my Higher Power’s hand on my back gently pushing me in the direction He wants me to go. And I laughed for a moment realizing that the decision is really not mine to make.

The song winds down, “It’s your life. Live it up. Little darling live it up – it’s your life.”

It is my life, isn’t it, albeit all the sweeter when I’m tuned into and living according to, His plan. And I think again of that little girl, sitting in her pear tree who wondered what her future would be. And I know I won’t stop now because “the highway is still going” and the hope is still growing.

First Times & Never Agains

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, March 2021)

On any given commute, but especially when I am able to take the back roads throughout Pickaway County, I can be privy to any number of beautiful sights. While there may be similarities, no two experiences are ever exactly the same. The drives are filled with first times and never agains.

There was the first time I saw a mule deer on Marcy Road up near Slate Run Park. Unsure of what I had seen, I had to look it up later. It was my first time. Recently, I saw one in a field off of Route 23 and I knew that never again would I need to do some research to identify the glorious animal I had seen.

Then there was the first time I got lost trying to navigate new roads on the drive home. “That one looks pretty,” I thought and spontaneously pivoted direction to traverse unknown territory. The drive was indeed beautiful, but I got lost. Well, this isn’t a good example because never again doesn’t really apply here as I have gotten lost plenty of times since.

But what does apply with first times and never agains is to consider them occurrences of our every day – the spaces in between the commutes.

With the very recent passing of Sweet Sam, our 14 year-old magnificent Labrador, Gary and I are having many first times and never agains.

There was the first time we filled the dinner bowls for our other two furry companions, Moses and Jasmine. There was no third bowl needing filled, no meds to put in pill pockets, and no insulin syringe to prepare. And it really hit our hearts that never again would we be providing this special care for Sam.

Then there was the first time Jasmine got out Sam’s favorite blue ball to play with. When she was done, and not looking, I gently cupped the ball in my hands and placed it on the bed’s headboard so I would have it near me when I slept. For the first time I only see Sam playing with his treasured toy when I am dreaming. Never again will he romp through his yard gleefully holding that ball in his mouth.

As I am learning how to navigate the first times and the never agains, I am also thinking of all of the blessings they are wrapped up in. On the commute, there are the first time sightings of fox, heron, owls, hawks, and the beautiful sunrises and sunsets that fill the sky with a wide array of brilliant colors. I may never again encounter them exactly as I did the first time, but the blessings are that I was in the right place at the right time to see them once and that most assuredly, and with some new magical twist, I will one day see similar sights again. In my new life without Sam, I am wrapping the first times and never agains in the blessings of knowing that the first times make everlasting memories and that never again will I be the same, for I have been loved, for 14 years, by an amazing creature of God’s making.

Missing Sweet Sam

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald March 2021)

The first time I saw him was not the first time we met. He was the dog of my dreams, but before that, he was the dog I dreamed up. When I wrote my first book, “Wicked Dreams,” I imagined a yellow Labrador and I named him Sam. And then, years later, a rescued Sam bounded into my life. It was a reunion like no other. And a love story began that will never end.

As I am writing this to you, the pain of Sam’s passing away is still raw. It was only yesterday. I’m bouncing back and forth from sheer disbelief to utter flattening in the grieving.

Even though Sam had the worst of beginnings, he only showed love through to the end. And his love was a powerful thing. Is a powerful thing – for his spirit and love are sweeping all around me and my husband, Gary, even today.

After years of unmatchable energy, love for play and for hiking the trails of Hargus Lake, Sam had a sudden change in life a few years ago. Pancreatitis, diabetes, and sudden blindness wreaked havoc and left in its path a devastated Sam. That was the first time we thought we would lose him. But through the amazing skills, expertise, and compassion of Dr. Crystal Hammond, Sam survived. A plan of treatment and months of monitoring got Sam back on his feet and he underwent surgery which resulted in partial restoration of his sight. He was no longer depressed, but his world was different. After a few years of living as a happy elderly gentleman on a regimen of medications matched with a strict diet, his hips began to betray him. There were several more occasions where we thought we were losing him, but Dr. Hammond always found a new way to keep him comfortable, happy and with us. So, we had him in our hearts and home for days, weeks, months and then years – far longer than we believed would be the case. His care required much work, but Gary and I were honored to provide it for him. Sam was absolutely magnificent and the love he gave us was unbelievably powerful.

Sam taught me the art of wrapping grace around perseverance and patience. He showed me how to find joy even if only in moments of time that required rest afterwards. He filled my heart, my mind and my soul with the understanding of what it is like to be in the presence of a true angel. For I know that God whispered in Sam’s big, beautiful ears every day up to yesterday when he invited Sam to run again, right into His welcoming arms.

I am grateful and honored that Sam shared his time on Earth with us. I am blessed that Gary was so absolutely amazing with him and unselfishly gave all he had to Sam every day. I am blessed for the 14 years we had with Sam. I am blessed for knowing Dr. Hammond and her wonderful, caring staff. I am blessed that, through Dr. Hammond’s care, Sam was able to live with dignity and comfort and remain magnificent until his very last breath. And I am so very, very grateful that we escaped the horrible imminent event that would have ended his life in unimaginable pain.

Even when Sam was still here in the physical sense, I dreamed of him. Always the same dream. Sam running the trails at Hargus Lake, a grin across his face that launched joy into my heart. He is running again on the trails in Heaven. He is youthful like the day we first met. And once my heart is no longer raw with this unbearable pain, I know that I will find peace in the love that Sam still sends and the knowing that one day we will have our second reunion.

In Memory, and With Hope

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February 2021)

In the late quiet of the night the snowflakes gently descend from the deep and dark sky. The land still blanketed by the previous snow becomes buried deeper in that crisp silence that comes only with the winter. Full moon, half moon, or no moon, matters not, for the land is bright with the drifts on pristine frosted fields. But the beauty is difficult to enjoy when the heart is broken.

Somewhere a chair is empty and a lamp unlit. Pretty dresses hang never to be worn again. Jewelry, shoes, a tube of lipstick… all are like pages from a scrapbook, evidence of a pretty girl. The hall echoes with the memory of her laugh. And her absence is filled with the grieving of those left behind.

No matter how many times it pays a visit, grief still arrives as a strange and different thing. We grieve for the life lost, especially when far too soon – before 30 candles could brighten a cake, before the sober dream could come to light, and before the future could be told. We grieve for the beautiful smile no longer to be shared. And we are saddened by the thought of how hard she fought every day and for the joy she seemed to feel only intermittently.

And we grieve for the others who grieve. I watch my sweet husband, Gary, as he blankly stares out the living room window at the snowflakes dancing around the tree branches where a crimson cardinal has come to rest. Stunned by the news, his mind has gone somewhere I cannot travel to. And the realization hits me like an avalanche – the knowing that all the pain I feel pales compared to that of Gary and of his daughter’s siblings and other family members, some I am close to and some I have never really come to know due to my late arrival into Gary’s life.

But I am broken all the same.

While the ache seems impenetrable, I know that one day peace will find its way to the deep core of our hearts - a contentment wound tightly in the knowing that the fight is over and that Jamie can finally slumber in the warm comfort of the arms of our Higher Power.

Until that day when grief speaks with a softer voice, we will greet it in whichever manner it chooses to visit each hour, each day. We will greet a memory with a smile, a sad thought with a tear, and the moments of truth with a stunned silence. I pray for all those who Jamie left behind. And I pray for all those who, like Jamie did, battle addiction.

If you are suffering, please know that no one is ever truly alone. There is always someone to talk to – a family member, a friend, an acquaintance - even a stranger at the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA). You can call their 24-hour suicide prevention line at 1-800-273-8255 or their treatment help line at 1-800-662-4357, or visit https://www.samhsa.gov/find-treatment. Hope, unlike the beautiful wintry snow, is not a fleeting thing that melts with the warmth of the day’s sun. It is not like grief – a heartbreaking thing. But rather hope can be an everlasting thing and more than that, a saving grace.

This column is offered with special gratitude for Terri Clark and Dion Frazier for their generosity and thoughtfulness to honor the memory of Jamie.

Wolf Moon Reflections

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald February, 2021)

Recently on a day when my hybrid work plan dictated that I commute to Columbus, I was greeted by a pleasant surprise on the evening drive home. Because I worked late and also needed to run a couple quick errands, my timing for nearing home was perfect to witness the beautiful Wolf Moon.

I read somewhere that the full moon was named such by the Sioux to describe wolves running together. I like the story. And it feels fitting for the first full moon of the year. January can be such an interesting mix of things. It marks the beginning of a new year, but yet can feel like winter apocalyptic. It’s bitterly cold outside, but warm and cuddly inside. The days are long and yet the sun sets so early the days feel short. Running with the pack brings comfort during times of uncertainty and challenges.

Every glance I was able to take of the Wolf Moon on the drive home the other night filled me with a sense of magical oneness with the pack I run with. At home, my husband and our three rescued dogs were awaiting my return. I knew that when I would arrive we would greet each other with the kind of glee normally ascribed for months of separation, not one day. That is my pack. We rest and run better when we are together. We know it won’t always be this way. We know one day, far, far too soon, one of us will depart this earthly place. But even then, even if only in our dreams, we will still run together. Heart and soul memory being what it is, no pack is ever truly severed.

In “With that Moon Language,” Hafiz wrote “… Everyone you see, you say to them, / ‘Love me.’ / … think about this / This great pull in us to connect. / Why not become the one / Who lives with the full moon in each eye / That is always saying, / With that sweet moon / Language, / What every other eye in the world / Is dying to / Hear.”

The magic of the full moon, and the Wolf Moon in particular, draws that feeling, that pull to connect, that love for, and desire to run with, our pack. And when the run is over, we will circle, as wolves will do, and cuddle up for a long winter’s nap. I wish that for all of us, that we sleep peacefully, that we rest in the connection and warmth of the love of our packs, those who are here in body and those here in spirit, for all the moonfull and moonless nights to come.

King’s Work Continues

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald January, 2021)

There have been fewer commuters on the road due to the pandemic, but even less were on the road Monday due to Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. The week filled with virtual and socially distant celebrations for the civil rights hero was also filled with warnings to avoid downtown Columbus. Abundance of caution taken due to the anticipation that the recent violent onslaught on the Capitol in Washington D.C. will spread throughout State Capitol buildings across the nation.

And so civil unrest continues.

King said that "The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."

And these indeed are times of challenge and controversy. I admire our heroes who peacefully advocate for justice. I learn from them every day.

King also said “The function of education is to teach one to think intensively and to think critically. Intelligence plus character – that is the goal of true education.”

I, too, believe in the importance of education. That is why I worked so hard over the last 6 years to earn my doctorate degree in education. But it is the days of pursuing my undergraduate degree that I have been thinking about lately. I remember taking a class that combined history with literature. Through lectures and reading books like “Beloved” by Toni Morrison, “Winter in the Blood” by James Welch, “The Women’s Room” by Marilyn French, “Red Azalea” by Anchee Min, and more, I learned some things about history and culture that I should have already known. How could I have made it that far into my adulthood without knowing these things? But the learning finally happened, and that was what was important.

And the learning continues.

I think about Martin Luther King Jr. and I wonder how different our world would be if he had not been stolen from us on that fateful spring day in 1968. And I think how odd that something as unbelievably terrible as the COVID-19 pandemic wreaking havoc and strewing tragedies everywhere could also come with blessings. One of those being more people paying attention to the news about racism, discrimination and health inequities. An opportunity, as it were, for those of us who were not fully informed to gain an education and an understanding so that we could better serve as advocates for those who have suffered so long simply because of the color of their skin. And with each of us doing our part, no matter how small it might seem to be, we will bring peace and justice to light.

"True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice," King said.

And so, the work and dream of Martin Luther King, Jr. continues.

A Better Us for a Better Year

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald January, 2021)

Gary and I took time off work during the Holidays. From Christmas weekend until the New Year weekend there was no commute to work; just a leisurely stroll to the Holiday decorated living room where we cuddled doggies, napped, read, and watched television. Between work and school we have not really had any time off this year and we were ready for the break.

I have stacks of books and magazines to read, so having the time to actually do so was thrilling for me. I selected “Becoming” by Michelle Obama as my book of the week. I had started the book previously but didn’t really have time to dive into it until now. It was beautifully and transparently written. I am so appreciative of Obama’s generosity in sharing her story. Like most wonderful reads, I was saddened when I turned the last page – not ready to say “good-bye” yet. And then I realized I would not have to. Michelle Obama closed her book with parting words that I believe will stay with me ever after.

“Let’s invite one another in. Maybe then we can begin to fear less, to make fewer wrong assumptions, to let go of biases and stereotypes that unnecessarily divide us. Maybe we can better embrace the ways we are the same… There’s power in allowing yourself to be known and heard, in owning your unique story, in using your authentic voice. And there’s grace in being willing to know and hear others. This, for me, is how we become,” wrote Obama.

These words are perfect for any time, but very much needed during these especially difficult days. The COVID-19 pandemic arrived with its own set of problems but also, I believe, helped to draw back the curtain that had been serving to some degree to cloak racism, discrimination, health inequities and so much more. Just as, with wide open arms, we invited 2021 in, so too should we invite each other in. Interestingly, during these times of social distancing, our closeness is something that cannot be denied. Virtual meetings, social media posts, videos, documentaries, books, periodicals and more have given us opportunities, to get to know others who we might not have otherwise had the pleasure of knowing. It’s okay to not fully understand what our fellow humans might have endured or are enduring because, as Obama wrote, the grace is in “being willing to know and hear others.” As she professes, this is how we “become.” I hope that 2021 will be the year we all become better listeners, friends, learners, advocates and more – in short, a better us for a better year.

New Year’s Wish – By Amy Randall-McSorley

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald December 2020)

Time rolls out in a rhythm asynchronous to that of my perception. Belief of my age is challenged by the undeniable evidence on my driver’s license and the calendar on my wall. And another year is passing by solidifying the inevitability of aging, yet the festive lights and music of the season make me feel like a child again. Like the famous “Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens, the me of my past, present, and future are visiting me all at the same time.

There is a box on my kitchen table – the annual Christmas gift of pears from my father. And I’m reminded of the days when, as a young girl, I would climb our pear tree with my sister. We would sit in the strong branches until our bellies ached from laughter and from dining on all the pears we could possibly reach.

Every New Year’s Eve brings volumes of memories of days past and plans for days of the future. I never have been much of a fan of new year resolutions. I guess that is because I am perpetually working on those things that would make the list if I actually created one. As much as I love the young girl of my past, I’m never content to leave her as is – let her spirit naturally ebb and flow with the changing of the seasons and the passing of the years.

I like to think that the past me would look at the present and future me’s and say, “They’re cool.” The present me is grateful for the past me and hopeful for the future me. And I hope that the future me will look back on the present and past me’s and say, “I could do it because they showed me the way.”

In his work, “David Copperfield,” Charles Dickens wrote: “My meaning simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest.”

It’s good to continuously try with all one’s heart to learn more and to be a better version of oneself. It is equally important to not forget who we were, enjoy who we are, and to believe in the person we are striving to become. But it is even more important to love all of these versions of ourselves. As we approach the end of 2020, I wish for you, Dear Readers, that the past you brings warm memories, the present you is safe and well, and the future you is filled with joy and peace.

We Need A Little Christmas Joy

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald December 2020)

While the reason for Christmas might not fit with everyone’s religious beliefs, the feel of the season is one that can warm us all. Every year is met with challenges, some unforeseen, but 2020 has been riddled with even more trials. And yet, in spite of the year of difficulties, all around the county I am seeing beautiful displays of Holiday lights, blow up Santas, snowmen, deer and penguins. My mother, who has been gone for 9 years now, was one who went gangbusters when it came to decorating for the season. The tree would be up as soon as the last Thanksgiving dinner plate was washed – not that you ever really knew for sure there was a tree under all of those colorful lights and ornaments. You just assumed, based on the size, shape, and pine sent of the brilliantly lit object which took residence across most of the living room, that it was a tree. It was so gaudy it crossed over to being classic and it certainly brought joy to our family.

The season can be filled with joy and laughter just as much as it can be filled with sadness and tears, especially this year when far too many presents will either never be bought or will never be unwrapped. Some homes are not only vacant of those who should be home, but also vacant of a paycheck for which to purchase items for the purpose of celebrating the season.

And it can be hard to not visit friends and family during this time of year traditionally chock-full with gatherings. Following the CDC guidelines to help reduce the spread of COVID-19 may shed darkness on what otherwise would be a shiny season, but worth the sacrifice for every life potentially saved. But the deprivation of things once tradition makes every little thing we do get to do all the sweeter. Random season greeting texts, sending cards through the mail, baking, watching favorite movies and listening to cherished carols – these things once thought of as “little” can bring great joy during a hard time.

Just as this year has been hard on families and individuals, it’s also been hard on businesses. We have so many lovely small businesses in Pickaway County. Some have closed, but some have managed to stay open making whatever adjustments possible to survive. I would suggest looking up your favorite local business on the web, on Facebook, or giving them a call, to learn what changes they made to adapt to the pandemic environment. Some might take appointments, some might offer online or personal shoppers, and some might offer curb-side pickup. You might be surprised to learn what safety measures are in place and what options are available. And when you continue to be a patron of these businesses, not only will you feel a little Christmas joy, so too will the business owner and their family.

Some of us might not have the resources for Holiday shopping. There is an array of services available to help with navigating through life’s challenges. For example, Pickaway County Community Action https://www.picca.info/ provides a wealth of resources and support. They accept donations too, as will the Emergency Clearinghouse. I recently read in the Circleville Herald that the annual Mound Street Churches food drive will be held from 9am to 1pm on December 19 to benefit The Emergency Clearinghouse.

Alternative to receiving services and donating to help provide them are other ways we can have a little Christmas joy. These include the wonderful books and other materials available to safely borrow from the Pickaway County Library https://pickawaylib.org/. And, if you are lonely, check out the Pickaway County Dog Shelter and the Circle Area Humane Society on Facebook to find your forever fur friend. There is a dog or cat out there who could use a little Christmas too and, in turn, they will make yours all the more joyful for this and many Christmases to come.

Thanksgivings

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald November 2020)

An eastern sky brilliantly painted with sunrise, a strata of fog hovering over a field, a hawk in a nearby tree – these are small blessings of a morning commute. A day without event, a deadline met, a conversation with a coworker – these are blessings of a good day at work. A mask string that does not break, an errand ran without a close encounter of less than 6 feet, hand sanitizer that does not burn my hands – these are daily life blessings that we would not have imagined just one year ago.

This week, traditional Thanksgiving will be anything but. Gatherings once large, will be small and limited to those who we have been sharing our homes with during this year of isolated living. Toasts from across the country will be held virtually over meeting technology we never envisioned we would become so intimate with and dependent upon. And in spite of these strange changes and limitations, there will still be blessings to celebrate.

In our home, Gary and I will say prayers of thanks that we are both still well, that we have one more Thanksgiving with our Lab, Sam, and that Moses and Jasmine, our other two doggies, are oblivious to the virus that storms around the globe. Every bite will be more delicious, every sound of laughter more musical, each hug warmer, and the celebration of our blessings all the sweeter.

Gary and I had become hermits of sorts before the pandemic necessitated such, so we will be in our element this Thanksgiving, but our hearts break and our prayers are sent to those families who are not able to spend the holiday together due to the restricting coronavirus considerations or worse due to the loss of loved ones. We pray that those who are lonely or grieving this time of year find solace in cherished memories and the knowledge that better days will indeed come again. And we pray for those who have known no loss that they never need suffer, and yet still appreciate the preciousness of every moment lived and our duty to play our part to stop the spread: wear our masks, keep our social distance, wash our hands frequently.

This Thanksgiving, and always, we are filled with gratitude for the beloved memories of days past and prayerful for the days to come – may those days be filled with magical memories and find you safe and well.

Veterans

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald November 2020)

Whether the day is one that involves commuting to Columbus or is one where I work from home, I end each day with my favorite person, my husband, Gary. Surrounded by our dogs, we talk about the day and settle into an evening filled with love, laughter and good conversation. Even though every day closes in this manner, I am overwhelmed with gratitude each and every evening and I think of those who are separated from the ones they love.

In November, we celebrate those who courageously separated from their families and friends as they embarked on their journeys serving in the military. Some returned home after months, some after years, and some never returned. Some families packed up and moved once, and some moved time and time again to stay together as much as could be possible during the years served.

I have had to be brave many times when my life has been threatened, but the incidents were random and I certainly never willingly signed up to put my life in danger. Our military members never know what peril they might face day after day, month after month and year after year, yet they volunteer to stand in the potential fray. And while I greatly appreciate the bravery of our military, I am not able to fully comprehend that level of courage.

I think about the years that Gary served in the Coast Guard, and I am proud, inspired and in awe of him. I am also very thankful that we were not sharing our lives together when he served. I don’t know how I would have made it through the days worrying and wondering where he was and what dangers he might have been facing from enemies manmade and of nature. I would not have been patient. I would not have kept a positive attitude. And I would not have been pleasant. To put it simply, I would not have been someone you would have wanted to invite over for a cup of coffee let alone for dinner.

So while I am thinking of veterans this November and extremely grateful for their bravery, I am also thinking of the circle of family and friends around each of those veterans. I am praying for happiness and wellness for our veterans and that they know how greatly appreciated they are. I hope that they are spending their days surrounded by loved ones and immersed in laughter and peace.

Halloween Escape

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald October 2020)

‘Tis the season of ghosts and goblins and other things that go bump in the night. There are plenty of scary things in our everyday lives, especially so in this year of 2020, but Halloween is the time for escapes frighteningly fun.

In my hybrid working approach this year, the days that I work in Columbus versus from home have had an extra eeriness lately. The early morning drives begin when the sun has yet to rise, and in those wee hours of the day to be, the one cup of coffee which I allow myself has been plenty to give me the jitters and awaken my imagination. Who knows what things lurk in the deep, dark woods I pass? What ill-meaning ghoulie awaits my rounding the corner? What devilish troll lies in wait under a bridge I traverse? And even more horrifying is the fog which becomes a living entity weaving in and out of the fields and trees hiding all things familiar.

These things that are imaginatively ominous make my heart and mind giddy with thoughts of what might be. The experiences remind me of when I was younger, way before my commuter days, when my grandmother gave me several boxes of old and tired hard bound Nancy Drew books. I was immediately enraptured by any semblance of mysteries yet to be solved and of heroines.

As I grew older, I fell in love with the work of Stephen King and how he tells stories that cause my heart to skip and my breathing to pause. He strings thoughts perfectly illustrative with just the right descriptive links missing so that my mind’s eye takes flight while filling in the blanks.

At Halloween, there is nothing better than a lonely jack-o’-lantern on an old and dark front porch beckoning us to look into its vacant eyes. There is nothing more chilling than a howl in the distance on a moonless night – not quite a coyote, but rather something shadowy and sinister that waits for us to climb into our beds and slip into sleep. And in that sleep the ghost stories come to life and dreams that are sweet on any other night are filled with Halloween frights. How lovely indeed to immerse ourselves in the imaginary frightening things this time of year and stray somewhat from thoughts of things more terrifying because they are real. An escape is an escape, right?

Keep Being You

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October 2020)

Bullies are everywhere. They run you off the road, they leap from the shadows at places of work, they haunt from the hallways of schools and they seek us out in cyberspace. I feel sad for bullies because clearly something has been missing from their lives or something has been present that never should have been.

It’s easy to fall target to bullies. All you really need to be is different from them. The differences can be gender identification, skin color, size, values, ethics, the list goes on.

I’ve been bullied plenty in my lifetime. The most recent times were last month and this month, October, which, coincidentally, is National Bully Prevention Month. And both of these times, I was just being me and doing the right thing.

In September, I was cyberbullied when I posted a comment on a social media channel about how proud I am of my place of employment for all of the work they do to support diversity, equity, inclusion, and anti-racism. I received several responses to the post, of which one resulted in me replying that “Black Lives Matter.” And then I received an onslaught of cyberbullying accusing me of being a white supremist. I was shocked and I was shaking. Obviously, there was a critical thinking deficit on the part of the bullies for responding to my post in that manner, but still I was hurt and rattled.

Fortunately, there are tools for dealing with cyber bullies. If you are ever in this situation, you can block posts and report bullies to the social media channel managers. I was able to stop the inundation of bullying remarks through these tactics. Did the encounters scare me? Yes. Will it stop me from being me? No.

The second recent bullying event took place this month when a stray dog landed on our porch. This sweet little guy is no stranger to us as he has been coming for visits for over 4 years. We have suggested to the family several times that they get a license and micro-chip for Buddy, as we have affectionately nicknamed him, provide him with monthly-preventative treatments, and make sure he is kept safe and well. The bad news is Buddy clearly has not been receiving monthly treatments and has no license. The good news is that, always prepared for a visit from him, we had kept the owner’s contact information handy.

We reached out to the owners and began the wait to hear back from them. We couldn’t go to their home for reasons it would be unfair for me to disclose here. We couldn’t bring Buddy into our house because we feared he might be contagious and would put our dogs at risk. We couldn’t leave him outside unattended either. So we found ourselves reaching out to the official experts with authority. Ultimately, we needed to reach out to more authorities for our own protection because of being bullied by a representative of the family.

There’s a song co-written and sung by Jill Scott called “Hate on Me” that has a line in it “No matter where I live, despite the things I give, you'll always be this way, so go ahead and hate on me hater now or later, 'cause I'm gonna do me.”

I’ll keep being me – taking a stand for what is right. And I know that means I will also keep being a target for bullying. But at the end of the day, I’ll feel good about me.

If you are being bullied, you are not alone, and there many ways you can get help and support. Please don’t suffer in silence. Talk to a family member, friend, someone at church, at school… someone. Among the many places you can find additional help is by visiting https://www.stopbullying.gov/resources/get-help-now. If your situation escalates and you fear for your safety, please call your local law enforcement. Bullies are everywhere, but so are those who can help their targets.

Determination – Checking off the List

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October 2020)

Whether the commute will be the long drive to Columbus or the few steps to my office to work from home, the morning always starts the same. Together, Gary and I begin the day helping our sweet Labrador, Sam, check all the things off his morning list. A while back, Sam’s medical needs grew to the point that we created a spreadsheet to make sure we didn’t miss anything. Sam eagerly eats his scooby snacks, which are his pills cleverly disguised in diabetic friendly treats, gets his eyedrops, insulin, breakfast, and takes care of other doggie business. These things are accomplished with tail wagging and ears up. Sam’s determination to greet every day, and to find his blue ball, even though playtime is remarkedly shorter than in his younger days, is a determination to be admired.

Determination is such a varied thing. We take life one year, one month, one day or one hour at a time depending upon our challenges. Those challenges can be within ourselves – hoping and wondering if we can reach our dreams instead of believing and pursuing them. The challenges can come from things we have no control over like how people treat us and other circumstances like a pandemic, discrimination and more. But challenges are meant to be met. Even if the challenges get the upper hand, we win simply through the fact that we fought them. This is true, but of course, a sweeter win is the one where you walk away with the cherished chalice, the awaited award, the pined-for prize.

As I am writing this to you, I am preparing for my final oral defense for my doctorate degree in education. When you read this, I will have already presented it - one of the last few milestones to meet before the treasured EdD can take permanent residence at the end of my name. When I first began this journey, there were those who scoffed at me, actually made fun of me. And I’ve had people minimize the long hours week after week, month after month and year after year that I have spent in pursuit of this dream. But there have been others who have checked in to see how things were going and to ask when they can call me “Doctor.” And while I have the fire and the drive within me to do this, those people have been the inspirational vitamins to keep me nurtured through this long battle. Foremost among those who have supported me is my husband, Gary. To call him wonderful and our relationship amazing is like saying that when a dog hugs you it feels just okay. There are no real words to describe the happiness, trust, love and energy we share.

Like Sam, I too have a list to check things off of. And my bucket list is about to be minus one “what if…”. While I have plans for putting this degree to work; like Sam, I also have plans to use the gift of time I will soon be awarded to play. It might not be with a blue ball, but with toys of a different sort. My running shoes, books, and more have been quietly awaiting this moment.

If you have a dream that you can’t stop thinking about, I encourage you to find a way to chase it down. And if you know someone who is on that journey, let them know you believe in them. Together, we can help each other check one more “what if” off our lists and replace it with a dream lifted to reality.

Our Dogs Quiet the Din

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September, 2020

There’s a noise that permeates the quietist of moments. It’s the sound of fear, death, discrimination and other nightmarish realities. The noise is cloaked in the persistence of the pandemic and wears the shroud as though it serves as a super villain cape, impenetrable by hope and victory. But the noise is mistaken. It is like white noise. It may come in many frequencies and with the same intensities, but it is not unconquerable. And the triumphs over the noise come in varying degrees and from a multitude of sources.

To be clear, I am not insinuating that these things of which I speak are minimal by calling them “noise.” On the contrary, I am describing them this way because noise is like air – it is everywhere. And the problems the noise channels are gravely critical.

There are warriors who battle the deep and vile noise. There are highly visible heroes and there are those who are unseen. Some of our heroes we might never really ever get to know personally and some are family members and friends. And some warriors do not appear to be fighters at all. They come in all shapes and sizes, are furry and walk on all fours. Gary and I are fortunate to share our home with three of this type of warrior.

At the end of a hard day, there is nothing like the love of a dog to bring peace to your heart and your mind. A wag of a tail says, “I love you.” A grunt in your ear is a whisper from God. Blood pressure drops after a few minutes of cuddling. Laughter at silly play quiets thoughts and steals the power the damaging noise holds on us.

The love of a dog can rejuvenate and heal us from the challenges we face every day. Love helps to divert us from succumbing to the will of the damaging noise. What greater weapon is there than love? It’s the thing that stands behind our daily battles. For love of safety, we fight fear. For love of life, we fight death. And with love for one another, we fight discrimination. This is but a small list of how love conquers all.

We fill ourselves with love so that we have love to give. And one way we do so is through accepting the love of a dog. Sure that love comes with obligations and responsibilities, but those pale in comparison to that which our dogs give us in return.

I cannot imagine my life without dogs. I tried that once, thinking that was the safest way to be. Your heart cannot be broken again by the passing of a dog if you never open your home and heart to one again. But I was wrong. The answer is to open your house to more than one – three in our case. Through the love of our pack, my cup runneth over. And while I realize the day will come when three will become two and the loss will be overwhelming, I also know that I will bear the weight of the sorrow more easily because of those who will remain.

The sources of the harmful noises are powerful and must be fought until they become less than a whisper. Until then, I will stand ground against the damaging din, and find healing and solace in the loving, joyful noises our dogs so generously and unconditionally give.

If you do not share your home with a dog, but would like to, you can visit the Pickaway County Dog Shelter on Facebook to see who might be looking for a forever home, and how you could be the one to provide it. You can also visit the Circle Area Humane Society on Facebook to find your forever cat or dog friend. They are not the answer to all the dark noises that fill our days, but they bring the light that can quiet our hearts in the evenings so that we may rest and be ready in the morning to rise and fight again.

Well Deserved Labor Day

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, September 2020)

Labor Day is upon us and the celebrations will be with a new and strange twist this year. COVID-19 has morphed many jobs and stolen others. And one could argue that those who have had their jobs taken away due to the pandemic are still working hard despite the removal of a regular paycheck.

Life is hard, even harder during a pandemic. A paycheck is precious, and even more so when there is a keener concern it may be your last for a while. Work can be difficult, but unusually challenging when you are navigating new communication channels, access to technology, social distancing, and so much more.

We work hard. This year we have worked even harder. We look forward to play. We deserve to enjoy the day designed to celebrate our hard work. Labor Day is synonymous with gatherings. Fire up the grill. Pile plates with hamburgers, baked beans and deviled eggs. Fill the air with music and laughter. Dance. Sing. Hug.

And Labor Day marks the end of summer. The waning of warm, sunny, long days. A time to prepare for the fall season ahead. Labor Day is that last hoo-ha before we need to dig our sweaters out from the back of the closet and try to remember where we stashed our forgotten snow boots.

While the meaning behind Labor Day has never changed, perhaps the tradition of the day has clouded the intention some. One thing that the pandemic has not squelched is appreciation. While always there, I believe, gratitude for each other has grown even stronger. It is important to also recognize ourselves. This Labor Day, while we might not be able to gather around the grill and celebrate in some of our other traditional ways, we can still strive to find a moment to rest and celebrate our labors and to show our appreciation of the work of others. The festivities of the day may be different due to COVID-19 concerns, but the meaning for the day will be stronger than ever. And while the laughter might be quieter and less hamburgers will be flipped on the grill, it can still be a day to celebrate – to honor the hard work that we all do.

Lifting the Fog of Implicit Bias

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August 2020)

There has been a change in my pattern of commute lately. I’m spending more days driving to Columbus versus traversing across the living room to my office at home. There were several morning commutes lately when the world was cloaked in fog. I love it when the dense mist occasionally gives way to the morning sun – a moment of clarity, if you will. It’s akin to the moments when you realize something you assumed to be true was not.

Assumptions are tricky things. Sometimes they come to us founded with analyzed data and critically considered findings. Other times we know not from whence they came. And those are the ones that can cause the most harm.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about a particular kind of assumption – implicit bias. Implicit bias is omnipresent. Without really being aware we are doing it; we see someone and make an assumption about them. That person is probably smart. That person is probably an artist or musician.

Implicit bias is a natural state of thinking that we all harbor. It sets up residence in our minds nurtured by things we experienced from childhood through today. You would think that since you have lived with your implicit biases all of your life, you would be well aware of them. But those assumptions are elusive and deceptive. And there is danger in letting them remain cloaked in a hazy fog. For when we are not aware of our biases, we might act on them – and without any intention we might hurt someone.

I’ve been following many Black Lives Matter conversations. And the stories shared drip heavy with implicit bias. Imagine if you just threw on some ugly jeans to run an errand. If you are White probably no big deal, but I’m reading stories of Black people having encounters where it’s assumed that they have ill intentions because of the way that they are dressed. Or try this on—let’s assume you’re at a celebration for an achievement. Perhaps you have just graduated from medical school, you just wrote a book, or you just got your pilot’s license. Whatever your dream may be – imagine you accomplished it. And at the gathering to celebrate, because of the color of your skin, someone approaches you assuming that you are a server. Now, don’t get me wrong here. I admire servers – very much. For a variety of reasons, this is a job I should never be hired to do because I would most certainly not do the job well. The point I am making here is that implicit bias drives people to make assumptions based on the color of someone’s skin. And even something that appears benign like mistakenly asking the graduating medical student who is the toast of the party to fetch you a drink, can forever cast a dark shadow on what should have been the night of a lifetime.

We have much, much Black Lives Matter work to do. Implicit bias is one piece of the puzzle. But if we each really take the time to consider our assumptions and what they are based on, we can move to changing our patterns of thinking. We can bring the fog to lift, the clarity to come, and thoughts and actions immersed in fairness to persevere.

A Place of Sweet Peace

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August 2020)

As I am writing this to you, Dear Readers, it’s 5 o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve finished my workday, but because my commute today was no further than home, I’m already in my favorite place. Lying at my feet is Sam, our big, sweet Labrador. Moses, our coon-husky-hound -I-have-no-idea-what-else mix is lying out in the yard beneath his favorite maple tree. He lifts his head for a moment while his thoughts transition from discerning what is running around in the woods to philosophizing about the meaning of life. Jasmine, our little Yorkie-poo is inside, no doubt watching a veterinarian show on television. Next to me, Gary is quietly rocking as he gazes out back waiting to spy a deer, bunny, or perhaps the rose-breasted grosbeak we had spotted earlier this year.

The days have been long and filled with work and school. My dissertation has grown to over 230 pages now and, as I much as I love it, I admit I pine for the days when I can spend more time here in my favorite place. I’m grateful to Gary for building us this beautiful deck where we can unwind at the end of the day. My continuous migraine has grown heavier and heavier and I have come to believe that if I could just add more deck time to the plethora of other interventions we are throwing at it, the time resting here with Gary would be the antidote to “stop this crazy thing,” as George Jetson would say.

I hope that you have a place like this. A spot on the porch, a favorite chair by a window, a field, a path in the woods – somewhere to leave your worries aside and just be. There have been times when, due to matters of mother nature like lightening, hail, or rotating winds, I could not sit out on the deck – not that I didn’t consider it. Sometimes, when that has been the case, I have found solace on YouTube through videos with calming music complemented by breathtaking scenes of nature.

But this late afternoon is being kind to me. The temperature has cooled down to 76. And although sunset is hours away yet, the tree frogs and crickets have begun their chirps and trills as they impatiently wait for the finches, cardinals, robins, and blue jays to surrender the stage to them. In his poem, “A Clear Midnight,” Walt Whitman wrote, “This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, / Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,/ Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, / Night, sleep…and the stars.”

During these difficult and challenging times, I wish for you Dear Readers, a place of sweet peace where you can put away the “lessons of the day,” clear your mind, and think of the “themes thou lovest best.” Be safe and be well my friends.

Keeping Score

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, July 2020)

In the heat of a moment, a life can be ended or forever changed. The destruction can come from a sudden impact or from a series of intentional, cruel actions.

I recently read the book “The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma,” by Bessel van der Kolk, MD, following the recommendation from my primary physician. In our quest to end the daily migraines I suffer from, he told me nothing is off the table. I agree. And I try everything he recommends.

There are parts of the book that, as someone who is not clinically trained, I was not able to follow in perfect fashion, but the gist of that which I gained was fascinating and, in some ways, life changing. I learned there is an array of trauma that can bring one to Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. And I learned how the body, not just the mind, becomes wired differently when forced to endure unescapable trauma. I learned why I think the way I do and I gained a better understanding of how my body has kept the score, including my daily migraines.

The traumatic events I have endured did not all occur in individual heat of the moment incidents. Many took place over time - a long trail of varied assaults by multiple doers of harm. And I’m not sure what makes me sadder, the direct knowledge of how cruel people can be, or the awareness that many who read this column know exactly of that which I write.

As I have been listening to #BlackLivesMatter stories that have been so generously shared by Black people through personal conversations, the news, and social media including through the #BlackintheIvory conversation on Twitter, I’ve thought about Van der Kolk’s book. Racism occurs in both that heat of the moment sudden impact kind of event as well as in the long-lived trends of cruel words and actions. Van der Kolk wrote about how when we have experienced inescapable trauma, among the ways it changes us is that we become hyper-alert. I realize that I am still learning, but one of the things I am coming to understand from reading and hearing more about #BlackLivesMatter is that the hyper-alert state is a prevalent state of being for our Black brothers and sisters. When I say prevalent, I mean omni-prevalent. It not only plays a role in big decisions, but choices that are made every single day. These are choices like: what to wear when running a quick errand, what road to drive on, what road to go for a run on, what to say and do when assumptions are made based on the color of one’s skin, and more - the list is infinite.

As I mentioned, I’m still learning. As much as I’m grateful for the knowledge, I admit it brings my heart to weigh heavier and heavier every day. But I remain hopeful that as the conversations and changes continue, one day #BlackLivesMatter will be a given and no longer the source of trauma for which the body and mind must keep the score.

Until We Can, and Want to, Fly Away

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, July 2020)

Somewhere in the shadows of memories a little girl dances and twirls. Her yellow dress patterned with little canaries was sewn for her by her grandmother. She can’t quite reach the turntable of the old style record player and so she asks her mother to “Play it again…play it again, please.” The song that simultaneously brought her delight and sadness played once more - “Yellow Bird” by the Kingston Trio. “You can fly away, in the sky away. You’re more lucky than me,” the lyrics still bring me a mixture of laughter and tears. Yes, I was that little girl.

After all of these months of working remotely in my office at home and leaving my safe haven to run errands as infrequently as possible, you would think that I would still be envious of that yellow bird that could “fly away in the sky away,” but I’m not. You would think that as more and more places of business are opening back up after the COVID-19 shutdown, I would be excited and ready to stretch my wings and fly away, but I’m not. I know I am not alone when I say that being in public frightens me. More and more people are becoming severely ill and while many survive, sadly too many do not. Whether the numbers are growing because of lack of masking, social distancing and washing hands for 20 seconds or because of the increased testing matters not, for the result is the same – COVID-19 is not relinquishing its hold.

I’m not sure what scares me more about going out in the public, the omnipresence of the coronavirus or the absence of social distancing and masks. The deadly virus is real and it grows stronger every day while so many treat it with disregard, disinterest or denial. When I wear my mask, I am showing you that I value your life. I understand there are some situations where people are not able to wear a mask, but those who can, but choose not to, are telling the rest of us that our lives, and the lives of our family members, matter not to them. That’s a sad state of being. And also a negligent one. As human beings, we owe it to each other to listen to, and adhere to, the recommendations of the medical and scientific experts. If we all truly do this together, one day we can be free like that yellow bird - no masks, no social distancing needed, we will be able to stretch our wings and fly away.

I Wear My Mask for You

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, June 2020)

For three months now, my commutes to work have been a quick shuffle across the living room to the writing room where, with dogs sleeping at my feet, I log in and work online. I’ve only driven to Columbus once during this time for a meeting that could not occur virtually. Otherwise, I’m only firing up my Buick chariot once a week to travel to the big city for immunotherapy, and then there are the occasional local runs to the grocery store or pharmacy – always with mask on, and always reminding me of the song My Silver Lining by First Aid Kit.

“I don't want to wait anymore I'm tired of looking for answers. Take me some place where there's music and there's laughter. I don't know if I'm scared of dying, but I'm scared of living too fast, too slow,” the lyrics are hauntingly surreal.

I’m fortunate to work from home – breaking it down, I’m fortunate to have work and to have a home. I’m grateful to be alive. I may be far behind the scenes, but as a hospital employee, I carry the obligation of respectfully adhering to the guidelines provided by medical and science experts. I ache to go for hikes, to run on a path instead of on a treadmill, to go “where there’s music and there’s laughter.” Unlike the lyrics to the song, I do know that I’m scared of dying. Like the lyrics, I am scared of living too fast. And so I keep my distance. I wash my hands for 20 seconds. I take my temperature daily. And I wear my mask. I do these things to protect me, my loved ones, and you.

As careful as I have been, I could be like so many others who are asymptomatic and yet test positive for COVID-19. I hate wearing the masks. And I admit that they make me panic a little. Perhaps it is because, as an asthmatic, I’m a bit claustrophobic about fabric draped over my nose and mouth. But I would rather be uncomfortable when I run my errands than risk the chance that I could be part of the spread of Coronavirus.

It’s difficult when you go places where the workers are also masking up to protect others and are offering overhead announcements to encourage social distancing, but where many of the customers are unmasked and uncaring about keeping their distance. It’s true that masking is a choice in many establishments. And I get that there are plenty of folks who are unconcerned about the spreading of the life-threatening pandemic. But the facts about the virus are undeniably evident. And COVID-19 might be invisible, but it is a murderer all the same. So, like many others, I’ll keep following the guidelines. Until we can go where there is “music and laughter” and jubilantly hug each other without risking becoming severely ill or dying, I’ll work from home when I can, and when I need to be out and about, I’ll keep my distance. And I know that some may not care, but I’ll also wear my mask for you. (Photograph is of my sweet husband, Gary.)

#BlackLivesMatter

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, June 2020)

I never knew George Floyd, but I join the thousands upon thousands who mourn his death. And while I wish I could say that he probably did not awaken that fateful day thinking it would be his last day on earth, I really don’t fully believe that to be true because now I have a glimpse of an understanding of what it is like to be Black

I am white and I’m a girl. The former has not caused me much trouble, but the latter has made me a victim of discrimination and of violence. Like black skin, I cannot hide the gender I wear, but unlike black skin, my gender challenges are not a part of my every day… my every minute. As I am paying attention to the news and to testimonies, thoughts, and stories of Black people, I am becoming more aware of the magnitude of racism. The narratives are generously shared to help cultivate an understanding so that we can all work together to make a difference.

Actually, “difference” is an inapt word for the undoing we must make of cataclysmic, long-standing injustices, inequalities, and violent acts. It’s time to not just make a change, but rather to turn the world upside down whirling through space and spinning on its axis until it lands and takes root in a new orbit as something completely dissimilar and unrecognizable compared to the world we have known.

How do we revolutionize our world? George Floyd started that movement with his death. He shook everything up. His sweet little daughter, Gianna, even said her “Daddy changed the world.” How do people like me, people who are white, help to change the world? I believe there are hundreds of ways. We each have our own talents and tools. It can be as simple as carrying a cardboard sign with the words “Black Lives Matter” during a protest or planting a sign in our front yard. We can be advocates, teachers, messengers and more. And we can take a stand, or a kneel, to show our solidarity.

I am grateful that where I work, Nationwide Children’s Hospital, there is no tolerance for racism. And I was filled with gratitude and pride when I saw the photographs on Friday June 5 of the #WhiteCoatsForBlackLives event where doctors in their white coats knelt on the campus lawns at Nationwide Children’s and at The Ohio State University’s Wexner Medical Center to show solidarity. I was not surprised to learn the critical role that Dr. Ray Bignall, II, of Nationwide Children’s Hospital, played in orchestrating the event, partnering with Dr. James MacDonald. I have had the honor of knowing and working with Dr. Bignall for a few years now. Among the many hats he wears are those of a nephrologist, advocate, and educator. I was thrilled to work closely with him on an Underrepresented Minorities (URM) in Medicine initiative and through that work I came to realize how much I do not know about Black lives. I also came to realize that no matter how embarrassed I might be to ask questions, admitting my naivety, my questions will be welcomed. I still have so much more to learn, and as I am gaining an understanding, I am learning ways to help bring change. Some are small, but I’m hopeful they will add up.

I might not be seeing Dr. Bignall and Dr. MacDonald very often these days due to social distancing and working from home, but I’m still learning from them. I invite you to join me on Twitter to do the same. You can follow Dr. Bignall @DrRayMD and Dr. MacDonald @sportingjim. Through Dr. Bignall’s posts, I also began to follow the conversations #BlackLivesMatter and #BlackintheIvory to learn more about what life is like for Black people. Through knowledge and through united #BlackLivesMatter actions we can end the senseless cruelty of the past and of today to make the tomorrows better for George Floyd’s little daughter, Gianna, and all Black people who dream of, and are fighting for, better days.

Path to Empowerment

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, May 2020)

Working from my office at home these last couple months has allowed me the freedom to listen to music many more hours than the days offered me pre-pandemic. Lately, I’ve been gravitating to the song “Stand Like an Oak” by Rising Appalachia. “Stand like an oak / An aspen / An alder / It’s in you, don’t falter / And if so than I got you / Fake it, walk taller…” the song begins.

I know I am not alone when I share that this isn’t the first time that I’ve found a personal path to empowerment during a difficult period. My stories are many and are why I earned the nickname “Scrapper Girl” from my husband, Gary. We’ve all had to stand tall like an oak, and, like the song describes, there have been times when we have faltered and have found ourselves faking it and walking taller than what our minds would naturally allow us to do. Like fictional stories that morph into perceived truth when told over and over, “faking it” can give us the power to stand tall. The ploy can come in many forms. I have stood tall post trauma through planting a garden, moving every piece of furniture in my house, by running marathons, and more. These days, the media is filled with stories of people taking up baking – feeding more than just their bellies by creating something from scratch. Some people are taking up painting, playing an instrument, writing poetry. It matters not the approach. Sometimes the hardest part is recognizing that there are no wrong answers to finding personal empowerment to stand tall during difficult times. The noise around us can mislead us. Tune in to what you need and follow that path. What you choose might not make sense to you, but follow it all the same. Your empowerment path might lead to you feeling better or it might lead to you helping others —divine intervention as it were.

“Anything that / makes you feel smaller / Leave it by the angels of the water / Push ‘em up push ‘em up / Put away your cares / Fold them, fold them / Fold up your fears,” the song goes on. There is plenty to be rightfully fearful of these days. But we are fortunate to have the expert medical professionals and scientists to guide us to do all we can to help prevent the spread of COVID-19. It’s an evil, horrific, and invisible monster lurking in the shadows – true. So much so that beyond washing our hands, social distancing, masking and taking other precautions, there is time and space left over, a gap that needs filled. And that gap is your own personal blank canvas. Paint your own picture, literally or figuratively, of you standing tall and pressing through whatever path you pioneered. The journey can make the today’s survivable and the tomorrow’s unfaltering.

Cast Off Toward the Finish Line

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, May 2020)

“I wish I was a fisherman / Tumblin' on the seas / Far away from dry land / And it's bitter memories.” Fisherman’s Blues by the Waterboys tugs at my heart.

These days as I’ve been working from home at my desk near a window that looks out over our few acres with lush green carpet that sweeps up to meet the trees that are beginning to don their garb of like color. As lovely and calming as the scene is, it bears a small disappointment every time I gaze upon it. It is landlocked.

And I’m remembering the wind and the water of years ago. The wind was cool and stirred the branches of the trees on a nearby island to sway. It attempted to playfully bring the mainsail to dance, but the fabric held taut. The water was dark and deep hiding mysteries vast. And we skirted over its surface randomly taking flight as we would crest small waves.

It’s been a long time since I sailed. My stepfather taught me how to crew - things I can no longer remember. How to tie certain knots. How to read the wind and convince it to join us in a choreography designed to bring our little vessel across the finish line ahead of the others.

“Castin' out my sweet line / With abandonment and love,” the song plays on. And I’m amazed at how vivid the memories are. I can almost smell the water. And I swear I can hear it slapping against the hull and protesting the plans of the rudder.

I always dream of sailing, but perhaps a little more so now that I rarely leave the house. My days at home are filled with my day job, my writing, and picking away at my dissertation for my doctoral degree. There are still chores to do, doggies to care for, and far too many prayers to whisper. And every time I learn of someone else losing a loved one, my impulse grows to tell Gary how much I love him. The frequency of the utterances brings no dilution to the meaning.

“No ceiling bearin' down on me / Save the starry sky above / With light in my head / With you in my arms,” the Waterboys serenade me with their Scottish-Irish splendor. And I wonder when we will outpace the pandemic storm and rest peacefully gazing at the night sky. And when we do get on the other side of this, I know that it will matter not if this dream I have held all these years to sail again comes true. All that will really matter when the pandemic race is over is that Gary is still in my arms, our dogs are by our sides, and that those we love, and also those who are strangers, are safe and well.

Time, Space and Love

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April 2020)

The sunlight softly climbs through the slats of my window blinds and dances on the delicate petals of the lavender orchid with neck outstretched to greet the light. Loreena McKennitt’s romantic, celtic music drifts toward me from the living room stereo. Near my chair, our little dog, Jasmine, peacefully sleeps. I wonder at how rare it is to see her still and not running like a rabbit chasing her orange ball across the room, or barking enthusiastically at some television show. On the other side of my desk, our yellow Labrador, Sam, is stretched out sleep running. And I remember how he loved to run the trails at Hargus before his sight, hips, and diabetes stole those days from him. And I’m inspired by how he joyfully runs in his sleep and how, when awake, he still finds his blue ball in the toy basket and happily plays, albeit slower these days.

My eyes go back toward the window by my desk, past the orchid, past the blinds, to the lush green grass and trees. There under his favorite tree, Moses, our husky -coon-hound mix, lies poised as though philosophizing as he gazes out to the mysteries of the nearby woods.

These three are my office mates of late. It’s hard to believe that I have been working from home for about 6 weeks now. The hours are concentrated – dense with tasks leftover from the position I recently vacated and those of my new job in another department. So much more can be done when nothing steals your attention – nothing other than the soft snore of a dog, the beauty of an orchid, the blooming of the trees outside. Time commands a conundrum – how can the days be both short and long? Fast and slow?

Space also offers a conundrum. The ambience is serene and sweet in our humble abode, yet every minute is cloaked with keen awareness of the harrowing happenings of the omnipresent COVID-19.

We know that in the days and months ahead as the Coronavirus slowly eases its grip on every crevice of space and every moment of time, we will emerge never to be the same. For we have lost too many. Laughs never to be heard again. Smiling eyes never to be seen again. And in conflict with the deep void is the happiness found through friendships forged and relationships repaired during the time of crisis. And so the disease itself offers a conundrum – how can that which causes pain unimaginable also bring blessings?

Perhaps the solutions to the conundrums I have pondered here are not the ones I have suggested, but rather something from a different lane. Time is not short, long, slow or fast; but rather is precious. What makes space a haven is the awareness of the menacing threats from which the place protects you. And what makes the pain of losing loved ones worth the price are the bountiful memories and the knowing that your life was embraced by angels on earth.

Better Days

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April 2020)

It takes four years for the President of the United States to serve a term. In four years, a student can earn a traditional bachelor’s degree. And four years after being planted, a bamboo tree will finally break through the ground and then in accelerated fashion grow 80 or more feet in a matter of weeks. The president can change the future of the country. A graduate can use knowledge to make a difference. A tree can teach us that, in time, any one of us can change.

In one year, the earth can complete its orbit around the sun. The night-blooming cereus flower will bloom one time. And in one year, a researcher can find a cure. The earth’s journey gifts us with warmth of day and restful dark at night. The cereus flower helps us appreciate the beauty of nature, no matter how brief. A researcher transcends hope to reality.

It takes 27 days for the moon to orbit the earth. In one day, a human heart will beat about 100,000 times. And one day at a time, my daily devotional provides wise offerings. The moon orbiting the earth gives us the patience to take life one day at a time. Our beating hearts give us the compassion to care for others. And a daily devotional relieves worry, brings peace, and stirs souls to sing.

In “The New Rule,” Rumi wrote, “Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street. / I took it as a sign to start singing, / falling up into the bowl of sky. / The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere. / Nothing else to do.”

The pandemic fills our days with facts and fears and our nights with darkness and dread. But in so doing, the evil enemy is becoming slowly disrobed. Medical and scientific experts are dissecting, analyzing and identifying the strategy with which we will win this war. And they bring us blessings to sing about. Evidence of effective treatment. Stories of survival. And in the solitariness of social distancing, we are becoming closer together, united in the fight for all of our lives – the dream of better days.

In his song “Better Days,” Eddie Vedder sings “Fill my heart with discipline / Put there for the teaching / In my head see clouds of stairs / Help me as I'm reaching / The future's paved with better days.

Better days are coming. Lives are saved every day. In one year, or less, a cure and a vaccine may be found. In four years, COVID-19 will be a memory reduced to narrative in a classroom history book. And parting words of “Stay safe and well,” will wax with fictional familiarity to George Orwell’s “1984.” But for today, Dear Readers, they wax true as I share them with you. Please “Stay safe and well” for the better days are coming.

COVID-19 Dreams and Prayers

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April, 2020)

They take to the air, flying with our dreams tightly clutched in their hands. Our dreams are sacred. Our dreams are of one more chance to say I love you. One more walk around the park with our sweet dogs. Our dreams are of reunions with those long lost. We dream of sunrises on the beach. Sunsets across the fields and plains. One more day spent with the sun playfully dancing on our skin. One more night cozied up with the ones we love listening to the rain softly pitter-pattering on the roof of the shelter we seldom leave these days. We stay at home, while they go into the fire each and every day.

They are nurses, doctors, grocery store workers, and deliverers of items essential.

They are the Valkyries and Berserkers in flight gone rogue, for they fight for all to have life, not just a chosen number. Some circle and soar in hospitals saving lives. Others fill shelves and alleviate hunger. And others deliver those things that strengthen our comfort, weaken our fear, and protect us by reducing the necessity for us to leave our homes.

The fear is great, the destruction vast and unfinished, the enemy invisible. It is unimaginable how the words “positive for COVID-19” lands, hits, strikes, and sends someone and their loved ones to their knees. Solace can be found in reflecting on the high number of survivors.

I always thought that I took nothing for granted – and perhaps that was the case, but evermore so now as I cling to every moment. I pray for those who work from home, for those who have lost their jobs, and for those who brave each day outside their homes so that the rest of us can remain safely in ours. I pray for all of those who are battling the virus, and for their families and friends.

And I pray for those who courageously march into the fray to save those who have been diagnosed with this deadly virus. Some barely rest at all, but when they do sleep, I pray that we become the aviators – we hold them in their dreams, and soar with them through the night sky, over the clouds and among the stars. I pray that the warm glow of the moon restores their strength and that their hearts fill with the love and gratitude we feel for them.

We truly are all in this together. One day COVID-19 will be that evil thing only present in history books. And when that day comes, the world we dream of today will become our reality again – the day when hugging will be safe, hand-holding a given, and spaces will be shared.

Celebrating Women in History and Today

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald March 2020)

In her poem “Mapping the Confluence,” Carol Feiser Laque wrote, “I walk into water stalking / my million-footed self / whose steps test fathoms – gripping / sand, mud, shells, stones / tightly in my slippery toes.” On the commute when there are no cars traveling near, I slow down as I go over the bridges and gaze at the horizon limited by the bend in the creeks and streams below. In my mind I am a painter. I imagine replicating the scene and I know that any attempts to put oil to canvas would fail to adequately show the picture and to describe the myriad of words of poetry I feel. And I dream of shuffling off my shoes and wading through the shallow, cold water below. And I think about how extraordinary the ordinary experience can be. People who have inspired us and yet who we will never meet, have had those same dreams of wading through similar waters.

During March, we celebrate women in history. Women who were extraordinary, and yet who also did ordinary things, like wading in streams. I think of heroines like Florence Nightingale, Amelia Earhart and Grete Waitz. And I think of women of today who will become the women in history to be celebrated tomorrow. Jennifer Lopez inspires me to embrace not just one, but all the roles I want to fill. I can be a wife, dog mom, researcher, scholar, novelist, poet, bad fiddler and more. Oprah Winfrey inspires me to chase my dreams unfettered. And Hillary Clinton inspires me to break traditional barriers.

“I map oceans, rains, rivers - / rising, falling, surging in my heart / where Life and Death comingle. / I map the confluence, the rush / through my veins and arteries,” Laque continues. All the things we experience, all the paths of our life’s journey become a part of us. Memories in the making rush through us until they find a place to settle in the shadows of our mind. Vivid images of past experiences become perpetual companions and guide us along the future paths we wander. We will enjoy the lived days ahead just as we have enjoyed the lived days past. We will survive the losses too. And all of these become our stories.

Laque closes her poem with “My history, my watery map / yields a billion designs / and those patterns flow into / a cartographer’s pen keeping my stories never lost and never found.” It is true that our stories are never lost, but I think they are found. I’m thinking of the unsung heroines of today, some right here in Pickaway County. I am thinking of women like Dr. Lisa Dubos whose kindness and commitment as a dentist and migraine warrior are unmatched. And there is Dr. Crystal Hammond whose medical knowledge, compassion and intuition make her the finest of veterinarians and literally a life saver. And I think of JoEllen Jacobs whose dedication is also to dogs. Her work to support the Wright-Poling Pickaway County Dog Shelter is beyond inspiring. These are only 3 women in Pickaway County who are heroes – and the lives they have touched are immeasurable. The stories innumerable. They are proof that even a woman who dreams about ending migraines, a woman who dreams of ending animal diseases and injuries, and a woman who dreams of one day no dog shelter being needed - these women are to be celebrated today and tomorrow.

In Dog Years – March 3, 2020

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald March 2020)

Looking in his eyes no longer brightest of the brown. No longer with unparalleled vision. Perhaps in his near blindness he sees me better than all the years before. He cannot speak, but with his head turned to my face he seems to ask what has happened. I say, “I understand.” In my mind, I’m still running marathons, I’m still out dancing on Friday nights and, I’m still surrounded by an intimate group of 30 best friends.

In my dreams, I run the roads of the marathons. I know that they will greet me in reality when I complete my doctoral degree. On my deck, I still dance. No longer am I surrounded by a group of 30 best friends. More selective, the intimacy of friendship is more literal these days.

He too runs in his dreams. Feet skittering in his sleep I know he is flying along the paths at Hargus Lake, joyfully unrestrained – the absence of leash. He wakes and struggles to get up. He wanders to the basket near the wall. Somehow, amidst all of the other things of which to choose, he always finds that blue ball. Like him, it’s tired. Unable to fully see the treasure, he drops it and silently stands, tuned in to that thing which has brought him such happiness. He moves a foot, then another, and alas the ball is his again.

In dog years, he is over 90 years old. While I am far behind him on the path of life, like him, I am wondering what happened. Where have the years gone? In my head and heart, I am still that girl although I left her decades ago. I am asked what birthday I celebrate this March, and I hesitate. Is that right? Yes. The math adds up. The years silently and swiftly have swept by.

I watch him age with grace. The magnificence of Sam the beautiful Lab who stole my heart 13 years ago when he landed in my life, full of love in spite of the cruelty he had survived, is still so present, just a bit more quietly so. My constant companion. The holder of my heart, thoughts, tears, and laughter.

When my eyes grow dim, my pen no longer swiftly travels across the page, and my legs can no longer run, will I have the grace of Sam? Will the joy I find in the moments I spend with a favorite poetry book, my version of the blue ball, be enough to sustain me? Will the sustenance of dreams feed my spirit as they do his? I know not, but I promise to somehow hold on to time, somehow not let another year pass by losing the minutes, the hours and the days. I’ll walk across every minute. I’ll greet every day. I’ll breathe in the sunlight. I’ll kiss the wind. And I’ll earn my years with canine earnest and philosophy: seven for every one.

Celebrating Black History and Future - February 18, 2020

(As written for, and published by, the Circleville Herald February 2020)

In his poem, “Dreams,” Langston Hughes (1902-1967) wrote: “Hold fast to dreams / For if dreams die / Life is a broken-winged bird / That cannot fly. // Hold fast to dreams / For when dreams go / Life is a barren field / Frozen with snow.”

When I think of February being Black History month, I also think of dreams. For it was the dreams of African Americans in our history that launched the reality of civil rights, equality and freedom today. And while these things are a reality, they are still not fully realized today. And so, during February, the nation officially celebrates the African American dream chasers who became dream makers.

In the 1800’s, Harriet Tubman, among other courageous undertakings, was an Underground Railroad conductor. Two centuries later, our first African American president, Barack Obama, was elected to serve two terms. Much happened in the span of years between the two, much to celebrate. And there are more celebrations to come.

Langston Hughes prophesized in “I, Too, Sing America,” “I, too, sing America / I am the darker brother./ They send me to eat in the kitchen / When company comes, / But I laugh, / And eat well, / And grow strong. // Tomorrow, / I'll be at the table / When company comes. / Nobody'll dare / Say to me, / “Eat in the kitchen,” / Then. // Besides, / They'll see how beautiful I am / And be ashamed— // I, too, am America.”

There is a rendition of the song “This Land is Your Land” by Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings that I love to listen to from time to time on my commute on the days when I can take the slow and scenic way. Surrounded by fields, streams and woods, I hear the words, “As I was walkin', now they tried to stop me. They put up a sign that said, oh it said 'Private Property.' Well, on the back side, you know it said nothin.' So it must be, that side was made for you and me, yeah.”

This land was made for you and me. This life belongs to us all. A right not to be denied, but yet one to still be fought for. And so, in February we light the candle of dreams, we sing the celebrations of African Americans of our past, present and future and we pray that nothing will cause the flame to flicker or die out, and that no din will mute the words “I too am America.”

Heart Matters - February 4, 2020

(As written for and published by the Circleville Herald, February 2020)

February is the month of the heart both medically and romantically. For the medical version, we hear important messages about heart health and do our best to abide by the recommendations. As commuters, we try to eat right by, among other things, minimizing the times a hectic day might tempt us to stop at a drive-thru for dinner. We strategize our schedules so that we can find a way to partake of regular work-outs in spite of the long days we work and the hours of our commutes. And we become cowboys of sorts lassoing the wild monsters of stress so that we can miraculously tame them.

Stress tamed or untamed serves as a reminder that our heart is affected by things intangible. The strength of our hearts is evidenced by all that it does to keep our mind and bodies functioning. While strong, we know that both literally and figuratively a heart can break. According to sciencedaily.com, nearly half of all Americans have some form of cardiovascular disease. A staggering statistic to be sure. But I would add that the figurative heartbreak is far more prevalent. Does anyone ever live a full life and never have their heart broken? Alternatively, and more positively, does anyone ever live a full life and never fall in love?

Our hearts break when we are betrayed by a loved one or when a loved one leaves. Even acquaintances and strangers can have the power to fracture our hearts. And certainly animals can fill our hearts while they are here and leave our hearts desolate when they pass on.

Sometimes the thing we dread does not even have to pass, just the thought of it can cause the heart to cry. I try my best to not think of the day when I won’t be surrounded by our canine pack, but sometimes the nightmare weaves into my thoughts anyway. It momentarily distracts me from embracing the here and now. Unlike the song written by the Gibb brothers, I can see tomorrow and I do know about the sorrow.

In their song “How Do You Mend a Broken Heart,” the Bee Gees sing “How can you mend a broken heart? How can you stop the rain from falling down? How can you stop the sun from shining?” telling us that, sadly, we may never completely mend our broken hearts.

The beautiful thing about a broken heart, though, is that it had to have been full at one point or there would have been nothing to break. If your heart is full, enjoy every moment. If you are suffering from a broken heart, know that you are not alone. We can heal from the literal broken heart, so why not the figurative one as well? It will never be the same, sure. But it will get better. And if we need help getting better, there are plenty of people to help us.

This February, and always, there are medical experts to help heal the broken literal heart. There are friends, family, clergy, counselors, therapists and more to help heal the figuratively broken heart. And on Valentine’s Day, there is always the taste of chocolate, the scent of roses, and the sentimental card – even if you are sending these things to yourself. And that’s how we mend our broken hearts.

Be the Love that Drives Out the Hate - January 18, 2020

(Written for, and published by, The Circleville Herald, January 2020)

While there will be fewer commuters on the road on Monday January 20 because we will be celebrating the life and work of Martin Luther King Jr., the truth is that we celebrate him every other day of the year too. I oftentimes think about all that King would have accomplished had he not been taken away from us on that fateful day in 1968. I also think about all that he did achieve in spite of leaving us before he was 40 years old. At the same time it is beautiful that his message, his dream, still rings loudly today; it saddens me that we have so much more work to do.

It seems strange that civil rights are not as omnipresent as the air that we breathe. It’s difficult to fathom that in the year 2020 individuals still endure discrimination and hateful actions because of their race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, age, religion, or other attributes they identify with.

Every day we hear news of hate and discrimination, or we witness or experience them ourselves. The problem is not big. The problem is all-pervading. It’s overwhelming. It can feel like it’s just too much of an ugly giant to slay. But remember David? We can sling our stones each time we encounter a wrongdoing. More than that, we can also sling our stones at “non-doings,” and fill the gaps so we can proactively support the protection of rights and freedoms. We can serve as witnesses, serve on jury duty, support change at work and in our communities, and more. If each of us takes a stand to help one individual, improve one situation, our reach can be expansive.

Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” Powerful words in the 60’s and just as powerfully needed today. We can’t all be as magnificent as Martin Luther King Jr., but we can each make a difference somehow. If we all take a stance, a promise, that we will keep King’s dream alive and real, one action at a time, we can be the light that drives out the darkness and the love that drives out the hate.

Resilience - September 29. 2019

I recently wrote in my Commuter Column for the Circleville Herald (CirclevilleHerald.com) about what I term the 3 Rs: Resilience, Rest and Resurgence. Today, as I think about this cyclic turn of events and the importance of each component, my thoughts are focused on the resilience scheme of things. More, I think of my dog, Sam and how he has remained as magnificent as the first day I met him. Then he was a 10-month-old rescue. Now he is nearly 13.

When Sam burst into my life, he was a bundle of energized, ornery and playful love. It mattered not that in his short 10 months here on earth he had been neglected and abandoned, dumped in a ditch on the side of a country road. He stole the hearts of a kind family and they worked for months to find him a home. Because they had taken in so many others like Sam they did not have room for more. I wrote about Sam in a previous blog post and how amazing he is. I hope you will forgive me for doing so again, but he consumes my heart and mind and thus I have no control over the words I write.

Sam and I have a few things in common. I wasn’t really wanted for a good deal of my life. Like Sam, I have chronic medical conditions that require daily attention. And Sam and I are both getting older, and yet both are convinced that is not the case at all. Sam still digs through his basket finding his favorite toy, a stuffed zebra, or teddy bear now missing certain body parts, and then there is the blue ball. He loves a good ride in the car. I love to drive. And I still love to run. I’m not slower than I used to be – I’ve always been slow. I still like to laugh, dance and play.

In his song “Forever Young,” Bob Dylan wrote, “May your hands always be busy. May your feet always be swift. May you have a strong foundation when the winds of changes shift. May your heart always be joyful. May your song always be sung. And may you stay forever young.” That is what resilience is like, isn’t it? We keep moving forward and hold on to our values and commitments even when our worlds are turned upside down. We fight with a determination and gratitude for the blessings that are found even in the darkest of moments. We get dumped, we get flattened by life events, and still we search through our basket of joy for that proverbial blue ball and outside we go to play.

High School Reunion - July 30, 2019

Life can be hard, even harder when you’re a kid. In addition to the evolution of the body, life lessons are learned with a rapidity like that of the flittering wings of a bumble bee. Some lessons sting and some are honey sweet. You learn what you need to survive, but you are too young to do much about it. I began working when I was 15 and moved out on my own when I was 16. I worked at night and went to high school during the day, keeping my honor grades soaring in the turbulent wind of hospitalizations for chronic conditions that still haunt me today, decades later.

My love for school is illustrated through the years spent as a life learner, both informally and formally, as I am currently pursuing my doctoral degree in education. But my love for high school is deeper than this. High school was where I found sustenance for not only my mind, but also my heart. Within my school walls I found safety and kindness. I was never bullied and found friends in all the different cliques. I loved the hippies, who may have skipped classes, but never skipped on deep conversations and camaraderie. I loved the academic track kids as we challenged each other on tips for memorizing the classification of living things – Animalia, Chordata, Vertabrata, and so on. And I loved the athletes. High school was where I honed in on long-distance running. And high school was where my love for writing was cemented.

I recently had a high school reunion. We were a class of, I believe, over 450. A small fraction of us gathered in Ohio for the event. Some former classmates were unable to get away, some were uninterested, and some have already departed from this world. I know many of my classmates do not remember me. And I don’t remember all of them. But I love them all the same. They were my family in the safe place where I would walk 5 days a week to fill my brain with knowledge, my heart with friendships and my soul with hope. I cried when I saw people I’ve not seen in years and I cried when the list was read in memory of those who left us too soon. And later, I laughed at the sound of laughter echoing through the room. I was on an emotional roller coaster, hands in the air, grinning from ear to ear until all at once the ride jerked to an abrupt stop. Ride over. Room emptied. Reunion concluded.

My husband and I walked quietly out into the dark, our car parked just far enough away for the decompressing to begin taking residence in my heart. I know some of my classmates from those days of high school know how much I love them. I also know that some of them have no idea how important they are to me. They were more than classmates. I thought of them as family, because life can be hard, even harder when you’re a kid.

The Trip Not Taken – July 9, 2019

I started the morning a few days ago unpacking my suitcases from a trip I never took. After two days in the airport, my progressive itinerary never took flight. Weather stopped me from traveling half-way across the nation to visit my sister. She’s not been well, so the emotional thread woven through this weary would-be traveler’s heart and mind made the unjourney difficult to say the least.

We say there is a reason for everything. It’s cliché, but how better to explain the things that happen and those that do not? Simply put, no matter the great effort that went into orchestrating travel plans, work plans and school work so I could get to my sister’s side, I was never supposed to go. Maybe it was the fact that the trip had motivated me to get my MMR vaccine knowing I would be traveling through places where cases of measles have been reported. Maybe it was because staying home meant that I was more easily able to finalize and submit the next draft of my proposal for my doctoral dissertation. Maybe it was because, had I actually traveled when I was so worn out, I would not have been of much help to my sister. Or maybe it was because since I landed back home after the successive cancellations of flights, I have had the longest and sweetest reunion with my sister.

Not traveling to be my sister’s side sent her the message that it took tornadoes to stop me from being with her. The cancelled trip to Colorado was substituted with daily conversations by voice or by text. A constant way to remind her that no matter what has happened in our lives, I still remember when we were little girls. I remember the Tom Boy a couple years older than me who took on the bullies from school so that I could get home safe. A toughness that served her well years later when she battled cancer.

Today and every day, status post an untaken trip, from across the mountains, rivers, forests and state lines, I am calling or texting my sister to tell her I love her. I would like to believe I would be doing this even if I had been able to make that recent trip to her, but maybe the absence of the trip has made the presence of the virtual hugs and conversation all the sweeter. I’ll still try to make it out there, but I can’t help but to wonder if maybe the unpacking of the suitcases from a trip I never took allowed me to unpack more baggage than I would have had to claim had I actually gone.

See Something, Say Something - June 12, 2019

The days fly past with a rapidity matched by the beating of my heart when I listen to the daily news. I’m reminded of the days when going to school meant seeing friends and learning about subjects that filled my brain with answers and my spirit with longing to know more. English, algebra, biology, history and more. I had plenty to be afraid of then, but school was the safe place – the haven for my heart and head. When did this change? It’s been such a frequent occurrence that I cannot remember the first time I read about a school shooting. I am grateful that the news is still shocking – that I have not come to accept it as the way of things.

Even though many years have slipped by since my high school days, I find myself still a student. When I end the chase for my doctoral degree, I am certain I will continue to passionately chase wisdom and knowledge. Because I attend school online, one might surmise that my fear of shootings is not about school, but rather about the workplace. That would not be true. For I worry and pray for us all no matter where we may spend our days.

Kids should be able to pack their backpacks with books, pencils, iPads and more. The purpose of the backpack should be as a tote with a favorite cartoon twist – the purpose of the backpack should not be a shield to ward off damage from a bullet spray. Precautionary drills at school should concern inclement weather, not an invasion by a weapon carrying assailant. Adults should be able to go to the office perhaps dreading meetings and deadlines, but never fearing a close encounter with a rogue co-worker or customer who can’t take it anymore and lashes out in a homicidal automatic weapon fashion.

I know some politicians say that guns are not the problem. And I respect our right to bear arms. I’ve had my home broken into and was harmed by the perpetrator. But somewhere in the middle something is not lining up. And that misalignment is detrimental to our existence. I don’t have the answers. I’m not sure what I can do except this: I can be kind to others, and I can pay attention to the warning signs, not just so I know when I need to enact my escape plan, but perhaps so I can prevent the need for such plan.

Is every shooter a cry for help? Maybe not. But maybe so. When we see classmates, co-workers, friends or family who are struggling, we can reach out a hand. They might not take it, but still we may have made a difference. We can encourage them to get help and let our concern guide us to what we should do next. Maybe we need to make that call for help before a crisis ensues. See something, say something, the motto of the United States Homeland Security extends to all places we land and call home – our school, our workplace, library, church, all places. And it spans from saying something to the person who is causing you concern to the people who can help deter another heartbreaking headline from the news.

Staying Power Versus Sustaining Empowerment - May 22, 2019

I recently contracted the sloppy respiratory and stomach mess that is going around. Fortunately, I was able to work virtually while I was not feeling well enough to be amongst my co-workers. Our three rescue dogs are accustomed to me spending full days typing away in my writing room, but it was clear they found it strange when I did not leave the house for days on end.

In the morning before I crossed the living room to begin work in my home office, all three of our dogs lined up to wag their tails and offer warm, sloppy kisses as if to say they wished me the best on my day’s endeavors. Once I settled into work, their routine continued. Our sweet Lab, Sam, who is probably going on 13 now, has a pattern: select the perfect spot for a deep nap; slowly stand up after said nap and get a long, loud drink of water; wander outside to take care of things; and then come back into my office and up to my chair to say “Hello.” It's not a new pattern, but what changed while I was ill and working from home was that I was actually there in my chair to respond to his wagging tail and that hug that only dogs can do - tucking his head into my legs and remaining there until he was confident I understood that he truly loves me unconditionally.

Sam is a big guy, about 105 pounds; but he is small compared to his presence the year before last. We almost lost him several times due to diabetic crashes and related pancreatitis. Last year, diabetes-induced cataracts stole his vision. A surgery restored his sight, but only for a short time. He has lost sight again in his right eye. His left eye is doing the best it can to compensate through what vision remains, albeit limited to farsightedness. He handles his medicine and his eye drops like a trooper. He can still find his favorite zebra, giraffe and blue ball from the basket of dog toys. And he still navigates our home and yard like Mark Twain on the Mississippi River on moon-filled summer nights. And he always finds me no matter where I am, which was remarkable when I was recently ill and lost my voice. I could not call to him, but he found me all the same.

Sam’s undeniable and perpetual love for us and for life are testimony for how the spirit always finds a way to soar. He is an inspiration – someone I would truly like to emulate. I always thought of staying power to be about keeping a job where you are unhappy or staying in a relationship that makes you miserable, but now I see staying power from a different perspective. Whether we are in an unavoidable, uncomfortable situation or have found a place of contentment, it is not about enduring the stay but rather being fully aware of, and tapping into, the joy that even the smallest of things can bring. From these we take sustenance. The smallest of blessings build upon each other and the amplification becomes our purpose, our ultimate power – not a staying power that we ourselves must fuel so that we can endure every minute, but rather a sustaining empowerment so that we can thrive and savor our days.

The Pear - April 30, 2019

There’s nothing like poetry to soothe wounds and to start dreams. I’m a fan of free form and formulas. I have labeled my blog page with “potpourri” because, just like my desire to write within the constrictions of poetic forms or free without boundaries, I wanted the blog to allow the freedom to write about any subject and to do so in any manner, including poetry.

Nearly ten years ago, my life took a sudden change of direction and I found myself purposefully living a double life. I was working a hectic 60-hour week job in a busy city and commuting to a house in the country where I lived a life of solitude except for the company of my dogs. It was during this time that I had an epiphany. I was standing in the produce section of the grocery store in front of the pears and realized I had not bitten into this favored fruit of mine for years. I also became aware that it was time to move on, brush off the sadness and begin anew. As will happen, poetic words began swirling around in the back of my mind until, one day, the poem below flowed from my heart, to my pencil to a piece of paper.

The Pear

Running

Tall grass whipping

Bare legs

Scrambling up

Into her arms

Strong full branches hiding us

From the glass-paned eyes

Of the house

High above the ground

Sisters clinging to each other

And to the tree

Licking wounds

Drying tears

Tucked away in her beautiful limbs

As she held us

As she fed us

She fed our souls

With her green leaves of hope

She fed our bodies

With her sweet fruit

And she fed our minds with her aged wisdom

Circularly carved in her spine

Secrets between us

Only to be revealed

Upon her autopsy

Perhaps this is why some 40 years later

One year after

A 17- year failed marriage

I found sweet

Splendiferous solace

In a single Bartlett pear

Why I cried when

I saw it on the store shelf

Gently placed it in my cart

Let it sit for days on my warm

Kitchen counter

Until just the right moment

To mourn and rejoice

The taste

Of no more running

No more hiding

No more wounds

To lick

Only the savory sweet juice

Dripping from my lips

Bullies - April 13, 2019

In one of the Norway spruce trees near our back deck, a robin rests on her nest. While the scene appears peaceful, if you watch long enough, you will see her switch positions, always wary of what enemy may be lurking near. Once my husband saw her bravely defend her vulnerable wards-to-be from a predatory bird of another feather. Unfortunately, this scenario of defending against bullies plays out all too frequently in our daily lives.

If you have not been the target of bullies, then chances are you know someone who has been. And if you have been the target of bullies, sadly, chances are that it has happened more than once. As I am writing this, it is only mid-April, and yet I have been bullied twice this year – both times resulting in the ripping away of my dreams to do something that fulfilled my heart and mind. According to www.stopbullying.gov, nearly 71% of students have reported being bullied in schools, and www.workplacebullying.org reports that 19% of Americans reported being targets of workplace bullying with 37% having been affected by it. I’m not sure what bothers me the most, the depth of bullying incidences or the breadth of them.

Like the robin in our spruce tree, I have defended myself from bullies; but there have been times when I have also walked away. I would say in both situations, I came out the winner, even when the encounters cost me my dreams. I say that I am the winner not only because I have not become like them, but also because, in spite of my heightened coping skills, my tolerance for bullies has evolved into an allergy of sorts - there is no antihistamine in the world powerful enough to make me feel comfortable being in the same room as a bully. I win because when I end my day and wind up my daily conversation with my Higher Power, I can give thanks for surviving another attack and gratitude that through the confrontation, I remained me. Like the robin in our tree, my spirit can still take wing and fly away from bullies while I also stay grounded and surrounded by my values, morals, and ethics.

If you, or someone you know, is a target of bullying, you are not alone. There is help. The web sites mentioned above are only a small sampling of the support that is available online, let alone the support that I am sure exists at your school, place of work or wherever else you may be a target.

Perhaps Kelso is Looking for You - April 7, 2019

A lot can happen in four and a half years. As commuters, we might start the years in a car that barely makes the journey - strange sounds rumbling under the hood - and end the period in a car where the technology is so advanced you actually have to read the owner’s manual. In four and a half years we will have driven past countless fields, woods, and streams and sighted any number of deer, heron, coyote and owls on our way to the big city where the inventory morphs to orange barrels, buildings, and potholes. In four and a half years, we can finish a degree, or at least put a dent in one, we can lose weight, have children, learn a new language, become skilled in the culinary arts, and more.

Yes, in four and a half years a lot can happen. But for one, the world has stood still for the last four and a half years. In any moment that can change. Maybe you, Dear Reader, will be the one to make that change happen.

His name is Kelso. He is probably around five or six years old according to Sherri Rarey, Chief Dog Warden for Pickaway County, Ohio. You see, Kelso, a beautiful retriever Lab mix, has been a resident of the Wright Poling Dog Shelter since October 9, 2015 when he was picked up on 752 in Ashville. Much has happened at the shelter since Kelso’s arrival. Many meals have been served and many hours of care have been given – of these Kelso has benefitted greatly. In four and a half years many hearts have also been healed as countless dogs have been rescued and returned to their homes or found new ones – many hearts, except Kelso’s.

The only thing that has changed for Kelso is that he has grown from what must have been an adorable puppy into a strikingly handsome dog. Other than that, he remains playful and energized and ready to find his permanent home. I asked our fine chief dog warden if too much time had passed since Kelso became a tenant at the shelter. At this point, would it be difficult for him to make the transition to a forever home where the noise and the presence of other four-legged friends would be drastically reduced? Rarey said that was definitely not the case. Kelso is ready, and looking, for his forever home.

Kelso is loved by the caring folks at the shelter and by a generous donor who has already paid his adoption fees. But Kelso would like to be loved by someone more permanent. When Kelso lands with his permanent family, like all of us who have been through difficult times, adjustments will need to be made, healing will need to happen, and a learning curve will need to be appropriately applied to the new life ahead.

If you are curious about Kelso, I suggest you stop by the shelter. You can tell the fine folks there a little about you and they can share a little more about Kelso so you can decide if you might be a good fit for each other. I know what you are thinking - there’s a reason why Kelso has been at the shelter for four and a half years. And you are right. But the reason isn’t what you are thinking – that he isn’t a good fit for a forever home. The reason Kelso has been at the Wright Poling Dog Shelter in Pickaway County, Ohio for four and a half years is because if he had been at any number of other shelters, his time would have been up by now. The reason why this energized, playful and beautiful dog is still at the Wright Poling Dog Shelter is because he is destined to make a difference in someone’s life. He’s been waiting for four and a half years to make that difference for his forever family.

Perhaps he has been waiting for you.

You can visit the Pickaway County Wright Poling Dog Shelter in Pickaway County, Ohio on Facebook, or in person at 21253 Ringgold Southern Road in Circleville or call them at (740) 474-3741.

1/2 Dozen Quatrains for a Three-Wheel Motorbike (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2024)

Without Poetry, How Would We Understand These Things? (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2024)

Dogs: More than Memories (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2024)

Words Behind the Women (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2024)

Shout out and get a second, third or fourth opinion – A research gap, lag in care in women’s heart health (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2024)

The air is the only place free from prejudice" (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald February, 2024)

January Ride - "I felt my angel dogs flying alongside me" (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald February, 2024)

Name the Sky Our Own (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald January, 2024)

A New Year: Embracing the Past and Welcoming the Future (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald January, 2024)

Christmas Contentment (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald December, 2023)

Doggie Holiday Firsts and Lasts (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald December, 2023)

Thanksgiving and Getting (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald November, 2023)

Shine On! (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald November, 2023)

There's No Peace Like Home (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald October, 2023)

Adopt a Shelter Dog Month (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald October, 2023)

St. Augustine (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald September, 2023)

Missing (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald September, 2023)

Empathy (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald August, 2023)

National Dog Month - Companions for Life (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald August, 2023)

Our Stories (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald August, 2023)

Not Even the "Skye" is the Limit (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald July, 2023)

Be Still and Sip (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald July, 2023)

Sarah Strong (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald June, 2023)

June Nights (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald June, 2023)

Soldiers - The Rest of Their Stories (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald May, 2023)

It's All Right (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald May, 2023)

The Commuter's Companions (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2023)

For the Dogs of Pickaway County (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2023)

Said the Woman to the Cow (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2023)

Women in History: From First to First (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2023)

Where Lamb Meets Lion (As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald February, 2023)

Poets in Black History(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2023)

A Sprig of Rosemary, a Drop of Rain – We are Never Truly Gone(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2023)

For Mosey: I Will Wait(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2023)

Life, Love and Hope in A New Year (As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2023)

‘Tis the Season: What Love Can Do (As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2022)

Christmastime - Old and New(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2022)

Thanksgiving - The Empty Seat at the Table(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, November, 2022)

Gratitude for Veterans(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, November, 2022)

Halloween Tales(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2022)

Falling Leaves(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2022)

Changes in Latitudes(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, September, 2022)

Listen to Your Heart (As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, September, 2022)

Dearest Esmerelda: A Tribute to My Bike (As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, September, 2022)

Something For You at the Circleville Arts and Crafts Fair(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August, 2022)

August(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August, 2022)

Rescues: Love Will Help Them Find Their Forever Homes(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, July, 2022)

Distractions(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, July, 2022)

Juneteenth Dream: Just a Walk(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, June, 2022)

Before Their Time(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, June, 2022)

Duty. Honor. Country(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, May, 2022)

Beating the Odds Boost(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, May, 2022)

Commuter’s Paradelle(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April, 2022)

Disposable(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April, 2022)

Liberation(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April, 2022)

Celebrating Women in History(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, March, 2022)

When Bullies Knock Down Your Door(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, March, 2022)

Black History, Black Tomorrow(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2022)

Words(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2022)

Infinite Hope(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2022)

Where Math Meets Emotion(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2022)

Howlidays(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2021)

Seasonal Glue(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2021)

Where Thanksgivings Are(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, November, 2021)

Veterans(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, November, 2021)

After the Tornado(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2021)

The Call of the Wind(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2021)

COVID-19+ War: We Cannot Give Up the Fight(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2021)

Are Yo​u Looking for Harry?(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September 2021

Truth in the Calm World (As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September 2021

The Final Commute (As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August 2021)

When You Say Nothing at All(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald August 2021)

1/2 Dozen Quatrains for a Three-Wheel Motorbike
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2024)

Without Poetry, How Would We Understand These Things?
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2024)

Dogs: More than Memories
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2024)

Words Behind the Women
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2024)

Shout out and get a second, third or fourth opinion – A research gap, lag in care in women’s heart health
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2024)

The air is the only place free from prejudice"
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald February, 2024)

January Ride - "I felt my angel dogs flying alongside me"
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald February, 2024)

Name the Sky Our Own
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald January, 2024)

A New Year: Embracing the Past and Welcoming the Future
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald January, 2024)

Christmas Contentment
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald December, 2023)

Doggie Holiday Firsts and Lasts
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald December, 2023)

Thanksgiving and Getting
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald November, 2023)

Shine On!
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald November, 2023)

There's No Peace Like Home
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald October, 2023)

Adopt a Shelter Dog Month
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald October, 2023)

St. Augustine
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald September, 2023)

Missing
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald September, 2023)

Empathy
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald August, 2023)

National Dog Month - Companions for Life
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald August, 2023)

Our Stories
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald August, 2023)

Not Even the "Skye" is the Limit
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald July, 2023)

Be Still and Sip
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald July, 2023)

Sarah Strong
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald June, 2023)

June Nights
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald June, 2023)

Soldiers - The Rest of Their Stories
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald May, 2023)

It's All Right
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald May, 2023)

The Commuter's Companions
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2023)

For the Dogs of Pickaway County
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2023)

Said the Woman to the Cow
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2023)

Women in History: From First to First
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2023)

Where Lamb Meets Lion
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald February, 2023)

Poets in Black History
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2023)

A Sprig of Rosemary, a Drop of Rain – We are Never Truly Gone
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2023)

For Mosey: I Will Wait
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2023)

Life, Love and Hope in A New Year
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2023)

‘Tis the Season: What Love Can Do
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2022)

Christmastime - Old and New
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2022)

Thanksgiving - The Empty Seat at the Table
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, November, 2022)

Gratitude for Veterans
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, November, 2022)

Halloween Tales
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2022)

Falling Leaves
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2022)

Changes in Latitudes
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, September, 2022)

Listen to Your Heart
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, September, 2022)

Dearest Esmerelda: A Tribute to My Bike
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, September, 2022)

Something For You at the Circleville Arts and Crafts Fair
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August, 2022)

August
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August, 2022)

Rescues: Love Will Help Them Find Their Forever Homes
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, July, 2022)

Distractions
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, July, 2022)

Juneteenth Dream: Just a Walk
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, June, 2022)

Before Their Time
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, June, 2022)

Duty. Honor. Country
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, May, 2022)

Beating the Odds Boost
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, May, 2022)

Commuter’s Paradelle
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April, 2022)

Disposable
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April, 2022)

Liberation
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April, 2022)

Celebrating Women in History
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, March, 2022)

When Bullies Knock Down Your Door
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, March, 2022)

Black History, Black Tomorrow
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2022)

Words
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2022)

Infinite Hope
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2022)

Where Math Meets Emotion
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2022)

Howlidays
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2021)

Seasonal Glue
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2021)

Where Thanksgivings Are
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, November, 2021)

Veterans
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, November, 2021)

After the Tornado
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2021)

The Call of the Wind
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2021)

COVID-19+ War: We Cannot Give Up the Fight
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October, 2021)

Are You Looking for Harry?
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September 2021

Truth in the Calm World
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September 2021

The Final Commute
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August 2021)

When You Say Nothing at All
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald August 2021)