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Dear Friends,

It is easy to recognize the gifts when you are exploring a place that is new to you, easy to witness them piling up, one after another after another, to barely keep up with the unwrapping, to know there is no way these gifts are going to fit into a backpack or a suitcase or a handbag, that you are going to have to leave some behind when you fly back to your home after two weeks of meandering around a foreign country by car and on foot.  That’s what we did, my friend, Mary O’ Donnell, and I; we rented a car, took off from Dublin, Mary behind the wheel, and we headed to Ireland’s west coast, first to Galway then north along the Wild Atlantic Way and over to Northern Ireland, to Derry and Belfast, and finally back to Dublin again.  Each day was spacious, and jam-packed, too, and the hikes were glorious, the connections with people life-changing, the synchronicities plentiful.  We tapped our feet to Irish music, listened to a storyteller in a pub’s cozy upstair’s room, bought ourselves more than one Donnegal wool sweater,  discovered brown bread and renewed our love for butter.  We ate fresh hake, walked miles of wild beach, and, at night, sometimes, or in the early morning, I wrote in my journal.  And now, I look at these entries and the e-mails I sent back home and I realize I can retrieve the gifts, at least some of them, in story form.  And so, it is the time to open them up, these vignettes from the trip, to remember and to savor them, and to share them with all of you.  Here is one that I just retrieved, and more will follow in blog posts in the coming weeks:


I have made a new friend.  Actually, in every stop-over place, as Mary skillfully and graciously has driven us around the whole of northern Ireland, from Dublin to Galway, across the northwest coast to Derry and now to Belfast on the east with the Irish Sea in sight, as we now make our way back to Dublin again, our starting point, we have connected with people, so many of them, a whole list with names like Marita and Shawn, Bernadette and Paeder.  And Seamus.  He is the friend I am talking about.  It’s not like I hadn’t heard of Seamus before.  I’ve known of him since my graduate school days in the early 90’s.  But he was a mere acquaintance back then, Seamus Heaney, the Irish poet, someone with a poem now and again in The New Yorker, someone whose work I might have found in an anthology, someone, a few years later, who won the Nobel Prize.  His poems were approachable, fun to read out loud, a window into life in Ireland, and that was the extent of it.  Until Dublin, that is.

It was nearly two weeks ago, within hours of landing in that charming city, on one of the first errands to buy road maps, in a store across the river from our hotel, that I spied a book, a new hardcover stacked by the check-out counter, 100 Poems by Seamus Heaney.  And I picked it up, this book, decided it would be my first purchase in Ireland, and the woman behind me in line saw what I was holding in my hand, started talking to Mary and me.  Her young granddaughter had read one of his poems in class the other day, she said, and had cried  — it touched her so.  “You must see his exhibit,” she added, “It’s wonderful.”  So, that’s how we spent our first afternoon in Ireland, at a retrospective exhibit of Seamus’ poetry and life.  Though Seamus Heaney died a few years ago, he was very much alive in this exhibit, his words, boldly beautifully, displayed across walls, his photos life-size, young Seamus, old Seamus, eyes twinkling.  He was writer and teacher, political activist and family man.  We were mesmerized, broken open by his words.  And we carried them with us in quotes and poems on our phones, read them to each other that first night and the next day as we drove west to Galway.  A friendship had been kindled.

But it was yesterday in potato-growing country that both Mary and I dug in deep, committed to this friendship.  From Derry, Mary drove us to Seamus’ hometown, a small farming village in Northern Ireland, to the brand-new modern structure on the village outskirts called Seamus Heaney HomePlace, to a many hour immersion through room after room of poems and photographs, and headsets for listening to Seamus read his own words, to a whole family, a whole town, a way of life illuminated through a poet’s words. I left the building wobbly-legged and busted-heart-open.  And this is what I want to tell you; it wasn’t just about Seamus.  This exhibit was extensive, a labor of love by all who created it, including his wife and his children.  And Seamus Heaney’s life and work were honored, for sure.  But through his writing and through his living, he bore witness and honored the others, his family who, for generations have lived close to the land, his home place village, the whole of Ireland.  In a land of storytellers, he became master storyteller, honoring us all who have lived and breathed.

Mary and I left the exhibit loaded with books and pamphlets, with cell phones filled with photos of photos, photos of words.  But the HomePlace and Seamus Heaney himself gifted us with so much more.  I can’t quite put it into words, this gift from the poet and the people who love him so.  Perhaps it is only in the language of poetry that we can explain it, or perhaps it is beyond words all together.  I just know I felt it, that our lives are exquisite; each one of us worthy of a HomePlace exhibit.  And I relish the details we share with one another, the stories we tell through action and word.  And I am ready and eager to pick up pen and share my own.






On the Trail

Out beyond ideas of wrong doing and right doing, there is a field.  I’ll meet you there.  Rumi

There is something special about walking the same stretch of trail day after day throughout the whole of a season.  That’s what I did this past summer, June through August.  Nearly every day, usually in the morning, I donned flip flops, or running shoes and set off on the rural two-track a mile west of my home in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.  And there are gifts to behold in the comfortable familiarity of such a practice.  Most mornings, I could count on it, the heron that lit off, flapping its mighty wings over the first marsh on my left and the snowshoe rabbit who raced across the trail at rapid speed as I approached the one-mile mark.  There were the frogs basking in the sun and the ones hopping off into the thicket and the unfortunate ones squished by the occasional four-wheeler that shared the same trail.  Each day, I looked for the kingfisher perched on the bleached tree skeleton in the midst of a river bend and the plowed-down grasses where the beaver had dragged their branches to the water’s edge.  This trail became my comfortable friend, something to know intimately.

And there was the paradox, too.  Yes, there was the familiarity, the comfort in this daily ritual, but there also was the reminder that no day, no moment, no trail is ever the same.  The change is constant.  First, it was the dandelions blooming, and then the wild strawberries, and they gave way in July to the raspberries and blueberries. Blooms transformed into berries and daisies bowed down to Joe Pie Weed.  There were scorching sunny mornings and misty rains, gentle breezes and gale winds.  Twice a porcupine crossed my path and once a garter snake slithered in front of me.  There were warblers and woodpeckers, cedar waxwings and wood ducks.

And there were people too.  There were the occasional athletes flying by on fat-tire bikes and the young woman runner and the man my age with arm in a sling who walked at a rapid clip.  And there was the man with the mustache and the young spaniel who owned the pick-up truck.  Many mornings, I met him in passing.  And this is what I want to tell you; it has to do with the paradox and change and connection.  The first time I saw his pick-up, I flinched.  And I put him, even before setting eyes on his puppy and his face, into a box.  And I put myself into a box as well.  The bumper of his truck was plastered in stickers, messages that shouted out that we were on different teams, different sides of a country and world polarized.  I didn’t feel welcome in his bumper sticker world, and I admit that I don’t think I was welcoming him either into my morning walk of a meditation.  And then we met, for the first time, his puppy wet and mucky and eager to bound in my direction.  He held his dog tight and our hello felt curt.  Or perhaps it was my imagination because as the days and weeks flew by and June turned into July, our smiles became warmer as we passed each other on the trail.

One morning, a cloudy still day during blueberry season, I ran into him as I made my west and he was making his way back east.  For the first time, our hellos evolved into conversation, a conversation that he initiated.  He’d seen a bear, he said, up by the power lines where he had been blueberry picking.  His puppy had wanted to chase it.  The man with the mustache was lit up.  I was lit up too.  We were two people who weren’t afraid of seeing a bear, two people excited about the wild.  We were on common ground.  And this was the beginning of something special.  I found myself looking forward to our encounters, hoping I’d see him on my morning jaunts.  He flushed a covey of partridge.  I spied teal by the third bridge.  We shared our nature sitings.  We became friends, trail friends, out beyond the boxes that we so easily put ourselves into.  One of the last times that we passed each other, he’d done it again, seen three of them this time, a mother bear and two cubs, and he wanted me to know.  I was someone who would appreciate such excitement.  And he was someone who I could count on.  And I was someone who he could count on as well.  I felt it.  We would help each other out if need be.  We cared.  And isn’t that what it’s all about?!?

I haven’t seen my friend with the mustache lately.  I stopped my daily ritual in September, traveling instead to other places, other trails.  And I have to say I’m glad to be thinking of my summer practice again, and of him, the man with the mustache.  His smile is genuine.  His demeanor sincere.  And our friendship cordial.  I want to bring this cordiality, this sincerity into all my encounters.  It is easy to get caught up in the polarity, the vicious energy of tribal teams on opposite sides of what seems like an impossible cavern to cross.  But I’m here to tell you that the Persian poet Rumi is on to something.  There is a field or a trail or a workplace or a home where we can meet, out beyond ideas of wrong-doing or right-doing where there is indeed common ground.  My friend with the mustache and the puppy and I found it this past summer, and I am grateful.







On the Trail: Ishpeming, Michigan, Summer, 2018

September Harvest

(This blog post was originally written long-hand in Iron Mountain, Michigan while gathering with my writing sisters at one of our homes this past week.)


It is like the seed put in the soil — the more one sows, the greater the harvest.  Orison Swett Marden

The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest.  William Blake

Though no pumpkin sits on our doorstep, and our garden, the one in our side yard that used to grow chard and kale, cherry and heirloom tomatoes, snap peas and crisp beans, the garden we used to care for with mulch and compost, is now thick with mint gone wild and bunnies raising family after family, though we now buy our vegetables at the farmer’s market from someone else’s garden, I still feel it, my personal bounty in this season of harvest.  I feel it as I sit here in my writing sister’s country home nestled in a hardwood and pine forest atop a bluff with a garden down below, a garden that would be the envy of any serious farmer.  There is a part of me that breathes deeper surrounded by all this earthiness, all this domesticity, with squash piled high on the back porch steps and kale still growing strong in tidy well-weeded rows.  I loved the garden we once kept, the pea-plucking and squash-pulling, the tomatoes ripe on the early autumn vines, but that has not been my harvest this year.  I instead pluck what is mine to pluck, place it all in my metaphoric basket, my bounty abundant, my heart sumptuously soft as any sun-soaked tomato.

You see, I have been traveling on my traveling feet this past September, flying high over this country’s ripened fields, first westward over plains and mountains and a huge span of the South Pacific for a Labor Day weekend in Hawaii, then, days later, eastward to the coast of Maine, then westward again over soybeans and sunflowers to sunny Idaho and snowy Montana, to Red Lodge and a family wedding in this gateway town to Yellowstone National Park.  But this isn’t what I want to tell you, that I’ve uprooted myself three times in the past four-and-a-half weeks to travel far and wide.  Not at all.  I could not possibly squeeze this arial view from a plane’s window into a market bag, a metaphoric basket.  It is the details I want to share, the savory ripe grounded close-ups that I pick from the vine and place lovingly, carefully into a place where I can taste the goodness as I reminisce.

There is the hike along cliffs overlooking a bay, a rambling hike on a sunny Sunday afternoon, the first ever with my younger brother and his wife who have recently moved back to our birth town in Maine.  Their adult daughter, who was visiting, also joined us, and the water, the water was green that day, the color of emerald stones.  I place that color in my basket, and the fairy houses of sticks and moss and shells that we passed along the rooted way.  There was the sweetness of it all, connecting with a brother and his family.   And, that evening, singing Irish ballads in an Irish pub in our coastal town with the locals, some of whom are really Irish — I place that evening with family and friends in my basket, and the sand beneath my feet the next morning, the wide expanse of beach, the whole of the sea washing in, splashing over my capris, salt-soaking my skin.  It is a harvest that I relish, a relish of a relish.  I tasted Maine on this particular trip east in mid-September and I will store it, the taste of it all, in my memory’s root cellar and I will feast on it again and again.

And Hawaii.  The ridiculousness of executing such an endeavor, a weekend trip over Labor Day to the South Pacific with a honey of a spouse — that truly is a honey of a thing, something that every market basket should include.  And ridiculous can be quite tasty.  Just ask a cucumber that has grown askew like a twisted-up long skinny carnival balloon — and our ridiculously wonderful two-and-a-half days of Pacific blue, hibiscus red, of swaying palms, a full ripe moon and windy and wavy, I can wrap my arms around the whole of it, carry it easily, add it to the cornucopia of my harvest.  My harvest is magnificent and I am savoring it now, tasting it with the utmost of satisfaction.

God is in the details, the gestures that might seem insignificant — a tiny cherry tomato of a gesture might make all the difference to a grandson or granddaughter, might make all the difference to a grandmother, as well.  And that is how I topped off my September of bounty, with what seems like a million tiny gestures and moments on the third trip, the one back out west to Idaho and then to Montana for a family wedding.  I wish that you could see my grandkids.  They are the pumpkins in a pumpkin patch and I just dwell among them and bask in the brilliant orange of autumn.  And orange is the color of creativity, of fire, of zest and zip, and I am brave and I am zesty and zippy when I am with these little ones.  Yes, my harvest contains the oceans, Pacific and Atlantic, the wide western sky, but it also contains the sheer fun, the bust-me-wide-open exultation of being with grandkids.  So what can I place in my basket, what sweet fruit of a detail from each of them?

Here is a nugget for you, a fruit that I will share.  I stood on the sideline and witnessed my six-year-old grandson lined up in the front row of an afternoon karate class, his eyes locked to his teacher’s eyes, his hands clenched in soft fists, his stance strong and grounded ready for his teacher to issue the command.  I am placing my grandson’s sincerity, his gentle-strong sincerity into my basket and I’m going to eat of this fruit.  And his three-year-old cousin calls me Grandmama and is unleashed around me and I around her.  I place our skidaddles, our dilly-dallies, our nonsense talk into my basket, the reminder that silly is wise and pleasure is a food I want at my table.  And the six-year-old’s sister, who toddles and juts out her jaw and shows off her bottom snaggleteeth and scrunches her shoulders and is as cute as cute can be when she runs to me — how can this not be included in a basket of bounty?  And the youngest of them all, eleven-month-old brother to three-year old skidaddler, is as sweet as any harvest peach and pats me on the shoulder when I pick him up and trusts me with his everything and adores my spouse, his grandpa, and their specialness, I’m hoarding it and it’s going into my basket.

It’s all going into my basket, bounty overflowing and me greedy in my gratitude, grateful beyond measure and eager for more.







September Harvest, 2018


The Sailor

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky,  And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by . . .  John Masefield, from the poem, Sea Fever


We met him on a Friday night under a sky filled with stars.

The tiki lights had illuminated our way as we followed the stone path that wove through the resort and led us to the beach, Waikiki Beach, where we were staying this past Labor Day Weekend.  People, hundreds of them, were spreading towels and setting up portable chairs on the sand, and the wall that separated resort from beach was packed with people sitting squished together as well.  It was my husband Cam who found the two of us a spot on the wall, right next to him, this tall lithe man wearing khaki pants and a porkpie hat.  His face crinkled into a smile as he scooted over, making room for us to sit.  It was the waiting game we were all playing, waiting for a display of fireworks that was promised to be spectacular.  And at first, we said little to our next door neighbor, just small talk about the luck of having a seat and the size of the crowd.  But as Cam and I watched the people stroll by, families with small children, couples, old and young, some holding hands, I kept glancing in the direction of our new friend on the wall.  His face beamed as he looked out at the scene unfolding in front of us.  There was a peace about him and a sincere delight with it all.

I’m not sure how the three of us made the transition from the shallow waters of small talk to the depths of true connection, but, once it happened, we found ourselves plunging in with heart and soul.  Cam and I had just shared that we lived in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and our new friend had replied that he had grown up in Wisconsin, knew the U.P., loved the wildness of its land and the Great Lakes, and we learned that he now lived in California, in a small town south of Santa Barbara.  We then confessed our secret, that we were feeling a bit naughty, hadn’t told anybody — he was the first — that we had flown here to Oahu for the weekend, a few short days of exploring the island before heading back home.   It would have seemed natural to have asked him, “What about you?!?  How was your flight?!?  How long are you staying on Oahu?!?”  I think that’s what we did.  And that’s when everything turned topsy-turvy and sea-wavy.  That’s when we learned his story.

Our new friend’s name was Steve, and Steve hadn’t flown to Hawaii at all.  And it was no whirlwind trip for him.  He had been here several weeks, in Honolulu, playing his own waiting game, waiting for a boom to be shipped to the island from the mainland, waiting for the seas to settle into a pleasing pattern after Hurricane Lane, waiting for the perfect moment to head back home to Santa Barbara.  You see, while Cam and I had hopped on two Delta flights and sailed our way through the skyways over the continent and South Pacific, arriving the very afternoon we had taken off, Steve had set sail from California, in a twenty-eight foot Cape Dory boat, and, after four weeks at sea, had landed at the marina next to this resort, with a broken boom, a ripped sail, a happy heart and an ocean of enthusiasm for his adventure.  Cam and I began bombarding him with questions.  We learned that he had been a sailor for years, loved his sturdy boat, that this trip had been on his bucket list, a post-retirement dream.

Honestly, if he had told us that he had climbed Everest or had meditated for a month in a cave in southern France or had ultra-run his way across the continent of Africa, I don’t think I would have been as mesmerized.  I am inspired and impressed, amazed to the max, by these extra-ordinary feats, but, somehow, I can wrap my mind around them.  But this story — I just couldn’t fathom it!  Cam and I were trying our hardest to envision it, the sea with its constant waves and wind, and the sky, the wide open sky, for days, and weeks, just the sea and the sky — and Steve in his twenty-eight foot boat.  No, Steve didn’t see many other vessels at all.  And sea life?  Flying fish, large flying fish and small flying fish were his companions, but no dolphins, and occasional sea birds, skimming close to the water, catching the fish, usually one bird sighting at a time, but then, at night, a pair of them together as they too settled into the darkness.  And the darkness!  The darkness wasn’t dark at all.  Steve was lit up, his whole body animated, as he shared with us about nighttime in the middle of the South Pacific.  He pointed up above the palm trees to the red-glowing planet that hung in the sky over our piece of the beach.  “In the middle of the sea, mars is so bright and red and luminous.  You wouldn’t believe it.  It lights up the world.”

It might have been then, at the moment of picturing a small sailing vessel and one sweet man alone with the whole of the sea and the whole of the nighttime sky, that I felt the shudder.  It was the hair-standing-on-end and crown-of-the-head tingle that arises within me when I’m in the midst of something big and profound and beyond my understanding.  And when I felt the shudder, I intuitively reached into my pocket and pulled out a small white wave-washed stone that I had picked up weeks earlier from the shore of Lake Superior at the Pictured Rocks National Park.  I handed it to Steve, and he rubbed his fingers over its surface, and I told him it was a talisman from Cam and me, that we would be thinking of him, sending him love and fair winds and safe passage.  He seemed appreciative, received it as a sacred gift, tucked it into his pocket, wanted to know all about the Pictured Rocks and the beach where the stone had been found.

It was shortly after moving to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, when the boys were toddlers, that Cam and I first camped at the Pictured Rocks.  We set up our tent in a spot nestled under white pines and beech trees above the cliff of dunes at the Twelve Mile Beach Campground, ate a dinner cooked over a fire, tucked our precious sons underneath blankets, and, together, from the top of the banking, watched as a scarlet sun dipped down behind the wide expanse of Lake Superior.  It was then, in the growing darkness, that I slipped down the dunes to the beach, brushed my teeth, then stood there transfixed.  I remember it still, the feeling I had that evening, something I had never experienced before.  It was the bigness of it all — the sound of the waves, and the white curls that somehow glimmered in the darkness, and the sky, so much sky, filled with stars, more stars than I could possibly imagine.  And me, alone on this twelve mile stretch of beach.  And I remember I felt God that night, whatever God might be, something bigger and grander than everything.  And I remember that I felt less significant than I had ever felt and more significant than I could ever imagine, that there were no words for what I was feeling that night so many decades ago.

Perhaps the memory was infused in the stone, polished by those Lake Superior waves, and picked up along the same stretch of shoreline this past summer, the stone that I gifted to Steve as we sat together on the wall.  Perhaps the memory is an ever-so-tiny taste of what it might be like to be in the middle of an ocean alone for weeks on end, just you and the sea and the sky.  I know that I discovered a depth in myself that night at the Pictured Rocks and an expansiveness, too.  And I can only imagine the depth and the expansiveness that one must feel when sailing across an ocean, alone.  We saw Steve again briefly the next evening.  He was sitting in the same place on the wall looking out at the South Pacific.  We told him that we were leaving the next morning, that we had thought about him all day, that it was the highlight of our trip to meet him and hear his story.  He replied that he had researched the Pictured Rocks, that the stone was tucked in a safe place, that it was a pleasure to meet us — and then, all lit up with the delight that seemed to be in his essence, he said that he, too, was leaving in the morning, that the winds and weather were favorable, that he was ready for this voyage that might take up to six weeks.  I gave him my e-mail and he promised he would let us know when he was once again on solid ground.  And the next morning, while walking along the beach before setting off for the airport and our one-day of travel home, we caught a glimpse on the horizon of a small boat motoring out to catch the wind, Steve’s twenty-eight foot Cape Dory.  “God Speed!” we hollered as we waved and wiped tears from our eyes, sensing that Steve and his boat rollicking in the waves and the wind were already on solid ground.


Fireworks over Waikiki Beach: September, 2018


The Pacific meeting the shoreline: Oahu, Hawaii, September, 2018


Steve taking off, a spec on the horizon: Honolulu, Hawaii, September 2, 2018



An Homage to Summer

August has tipped into September and the goldenrod is in full bloom in these northern woods.  Nights are cooler now and the maples leaves are showing a hint of scarlet.  In this in-between time, I am savoring the warm days and the hikes by the lake and am reflecting back on these past few months with a sense of gratitude for a rich and fully-lived summer.  Here are three poems that I wrote in U.P. poet laureate Marty Achatz’ monthly Joy Center poetry workshops:


Saturdays in July

It is Market Day and our larder is full.

Bunches of spinach and braising greens,

pea shoots and kales leaves, stalks of chard,

all these greens stuffed

into the fridge, and round red radishes the size of limes

and tiny peppers, paper bags of oyster mushrooms, shitakes,

the scallions, the shallots, the garlic scapes,

fresh strawberries in cardboard containers, sweet tiny beets —

There is so much to love on Saturdays!


After the market,

the afternoon hike, a dip in the lake,

we chop together,

the garlic, the scallions, the chard,

the greens,

and we heat the stove,

boil the water as the summer breeze wafts in

and we find our rhythm

the two of us.

He splashes the mushrooms with olive oil.

I sprinkle on the sea salt.

He grills; I saute.

The pasta boils itself

and we toss it all together,

add fresh parsley, some parmesan,

a dash of cayenne.

We are not young anymore

but what we cook up

is peppery and succulent

and it pleases us every time.



An afternoon hike: July 2018




A Summer Miracle

Tomorrow we will fly east

to the land

of my beginnings,

my husband and I,

and this time

we have a tag-along,

precious cargo,

our six-year-old grandson,

and I will show him things.

As we circle Portland Harbor,

I will point out the plane window —

the white caps, the lobster boats,

the Cape Elizabeth Lighthouse.

I will feel it fresh within me,

how Maine is my Hawaii,

my sweet-spot place.

I will say to him

as we step out of the airport,

“Breathe it in —

it is the the ocean you smell,

the fishy salt-tanged sea”

and I will sing to him a sea-shanty song

and he will let me sing, I think,

as I drive us north on 295

through Falmouth and Yarmouth

and I will tell him

that I used to drive to Maine

with his dad, too,

when his dad was a little boy,

how sometimes in Yarmouth

we would be stuck in traffic

for a very long time

during the Clam Festival Parade

and I will ask my grandson,

“Do you know that clams live in the muddy sand

and when the tide is low

they breathe their bubbles up to the surface

and we can dig for them?”

I will not be able to stop myself;

I will keep on chattering

pointing to things

like the giant wooden Indian

that lives in front of the general store

on the outskirts of Freeport,

and then we will enter Bath,

my birth town,

and I will show him the giant crane

the ships being built,

the wide tidal river

and I will say,

“This is where your Grandma lived

right here

in this sea captain’s home.

That was my bedroom over in the corner.”

But I won’t stop, not yet–

I will drive on

because we’re not quite there.

We will cross the Winnegance Bridge,

follow the banks of the Kennebec

toward the sea

and I will roll down the window

and it is the balsam he will smell

and the mudflats and the fish

and the waves thrashing the shore

and a huge dose

of his Grandma’s happiness.



Grandson and Grandma on Sister Point; Phippsburg, Maine, July 2018


Popham Beach at sundown: Phippsburg, Maine, July 2018




Lake Superior

I want to write about Big Foot

and moths, giant moths,

maybe a cecropia,

about the Milky Way in July,

a meteor shower in August.

I want to write about the quiet

of a humid night,

how sometimes I sweat and stink.

I want to write about smooth granite

and prickly pine needles

and dirty feet,

about heat soaking into balsam and pine,

into skin and bones.

I want to write about a tangle of root

around rock, and, yes, there is the lake too

in front of me

but I don’t want to write about it —

because what could I possibly say?


I will keep on walking the rocky rooty path,

pine needles prickling my feet,

keep walking in Big Foot’s steps,

content with my sweat, my stink,

with the stars

above me

and the moths,

the big ones,

fluttering about.

I will keep walking along the shore

without saying a word

about the mightiest, the greatest of lakes.



On the shore: Marquette, Michigan, Summer 2018



Befriending Bigfoot: Summer 2018


Lake Superior: Summer 2018


A Duck Story

Dear friends,

(I want to share a story with you, one that touched my heart this past week.)

The secret of change is to focus all of your attention not on fighting the old, but on building the new.  Socrates

Change is the constant, the signal for rebirth, the egg of the phoenix.  Christina Baldwin.

It was on Saturday, a warm breezy August Saturday evening as we walked along Marquette’s lakeshore bike path, that my husband Cam blurted out, “You know what is going to be hard for me?  Letting the decoys go.”  It is on these walks that we catch up with each other, tackle the topics that are drawing us in at the moment, and, on this particular Saturday, we were envisioning a less rooted life, less grip on home and possessions, a good cleaning of the house where we have lived for thirty years.  And, of course, when we lighten our load, it will be the decoys that he will miss.

You see, it is ingrained in Cam, this love of birds, especially waterfowl — and, in his younger years, duck hunting used to be a part of this passion.  In fact, it colored our beginnings.  I met him in the autumn of my freshman year at the University of Maine.  I lived in Kennebec Hall, he in Aroostook and our meals were served across the street in York, and that’s where I first set eyes on him, in the dinner line on a balmy October evening.  He was with the Aroostook guys, I with the Kennebec gals, standing in a line that wound its way out of the cafeteria and into the hallway.  There was plenty of time to start a conversation as we crept forward.  And it wasn’t the red L.L.Bean chamois shirt he was wearing, the yellow CAT trucker hat, the faded jeans that caught my attention. It was the thing dangling around his neck that called me in.  “What’s that?” I asked pointing to the wooden whistle-type instrument he was wearing over the red chamois.  And that’s when he did it, drew it up to his lips, pursed, then blew into the mouth piece.  Granted, it wasn’t flute beautiful, the sound that quack quack quacked its way through the dinner line, but I felt the call, fluttered my wings and flew in a little closer.  So there you have it, a mallard duck-call brought us together, and the kiss that sealed the deal, a month later, was on a gray November afternoon on the coast of the north Atlantic, with the waves splashing the rocky shore and a black and white old squaw bobbing in the chop.  Ducks have always had a tender place in Cam’s heart and he brought me into the flock early on.

And six years later, after a wedding and a baby, while living one thousand miles inland in Ann Arbor, Michigan, it was the ducks that I believe saved my young husband from metaphorically drowning.  It was in his third year of dental school at University of Michigan that we moved into student housing, into a townhouse, complete with downstairs, upstairs, and a basement, a basement big enough for washer and dryer, a sewing space for me, and a workshop for Cam.  And it was there in the basement, in those precious moments where he wasn’t immersed in the rigorous beyond-stress-filled schedule of school, that Cam felt the pull to create something wild.  It started with a black duck decoy he ordered from L.L. Bean, one with a wooden head and a cork body, a template that he could use as he moved forward with his plan.  And then he set up shop with sheets of cork, and stacks of wood, and glass eyes and the broom handles he picked from the student housing dumpster.  And he worked like a fiend.  Mallards and golden eyes, bluebills and Canada geese, tiny black and white buffleheads, ducks on alert, ducks with bills tucked under their heads, ducks with butts perched high in the air.  Our basement became a raft, a raft of ducks that kept my guy afloat.  He lifted himself up, grew wings and flew himself through those last two tough years of school, then flew himself north, joined a dental practice in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.  And the ducks, they flew north too.  And duck hunt Cam did, duck-call dangling around his neck.  He built himself a layout boat, and, with duck-loving buddies, hunted the lakes and bays and shorelines of the far north of Michigan.  Until, he didn’t anymore.  Lives got busy, his and his friends, and the ducks, Cam’s ducks, were tucked away in huge mesh bags, stuffed up into the rafters of our garage, where they have sat for nearly thirty years, landlocked, silent and undemanding, without as much as a quack.  But then this past weekend, Cam, who must have been thinking about the garage filled with clutter, awakened the flock.  As we walked the bike path, as we mused about new possibilities, Cam was contemplating about the old, the old carved decoys.  “Who would ever appreciate them?” he wondered.  “Who could possible care?”

So, that was Saturday.  And then it was the next day, Sunday, Dinner and a Movie Night at Joy Center.  And I’m not sure why I brought it up.  It had nothing to do with the The Post, the movie we were about to watch, nothing to do with journalism or Pentagon Papers.  Perhaps it was Cam’s comment about decoys the day before still stuck in my mind that initiated my babble as I began quacking out the story of the college dinner line and the duck-call around Cam’s neck.  Perhaps it was because BG had just arrived, BG, who had never been to a Dinner and a Movie Night before, BG, who I’ve known for over thirty years, BG, who writes poetry and essays, novels and plays about the the Upper Peninsula, his family camp on a wild lake, his love for duck hunting.  Perhaps I was being a good hostess bringing ducks into the conversation.  But I swear to you; I was not being matchmaker and no synapse in my brain connected any dots.  I was as shocked as everyone else when Cam looked directly at BG and asked, “Do you want a raft of ducks?”, as shocked as everyone else when Cam then scooted home and returned with two decoys, a bluebill and a bufflehead, a token offering of a much larger gift, shocked as everyone else when BG said, “You all don’t understand; this is the best day of my life!”, shocked as everyone else when he added, “This is like being ten years old and going to an uncle’s house and not being told ahead of time that it is Christmas.”, as shocked as everyone else when the two ducks sat beside BG like his new best friends throughout the entire movie, shocked as everyone else that Cam’s raft of ducks had so easily and quickly found their way down from the rafters and into the arms of someone who was about to set them free.


Our toddler son playing with the ducks: Ann Arbor, Michigan, 1981.




Cam with his decoys: Ishpeming, Michigan, August 2018


BG and Cam, the letting go and receiving: Ishpeming, Michigan, August 2018


Mr. Rogers

Just being you is enough.  Fred Rogers

One of the greatest gifts you can give anybody is the gift of your honest self.  Fred Rogers

There’s no person in the whole world like you, and I like you just the way you are.  Fred Rogers

It was a daily ritual in our house on Pansy Street in the early to mid-eighties, the kids — our two pre-school boys and their toddler girl pal who lived next door — the three of them, planted on our bed, upright and attentive, facing the television that sat on the bureau nearby, transfixed by what they were watching.  And I admit, this late afternoon ritual was a reprieve for me, a thirty minute deep breath in the day of a young mother of two rambunctious little boys, a time to wash a few dishes and maybe my own face, straighten the living room, perhaps brush my hair or stretch my body.  I wasn’t as attentive as they were to the program that aired five afternoons a week on our public television channel.  But, as I scurried about my grown-up tasks, I caught glimpses, both of the sincerity on the kids’ faces as they absorbed what was coming through the airwaves in their direction, and the sincerity of the man inside that little box of a TV who seemed to be speaking directly to them.  I also admit, that from my detached space of mother-on-afternoon-retreat, I was a bit of a snob, grateful for sure, for this man who was taking over my parenting duties in such a loving respectful manner, but perplexed and amused that a show that was so low-budget, so simple, so dorky to my adult eyes, could hold the kids interest day after day after day.  But my reaction didn’t matter.  Whether I understood it or not, it was a fact; our kids loved him.  Mr. Rogers was their friend, and, each afternoon, they willingly eagerly took up his invite and brought their full selves into his neighborhood — and his neighborhood, it became their neighborhood.

And this neighborhood that Mr. Rogers encouraged the little ones to enter, this space that bridged the television set with our own diverse rural and suburban and inner city neighborhoods, was a safe and welcome space for these pre-schoolers to dwell in.  And when I stopped now and then to check up on the kids, I too found my snobby-self tiptoeing into this world of Mr. Rogers, surprised by the way he and his puppets spoke freely of feelings, the way all feelings, both light and dark, seemed to be invited into the conversation, the way all guests and regulars, a diverse group of guys and gals and puppet friends, also were welcomed, surprised by the way that I, a reluctant adult who was judging Mr. Rogers as dorky, felt welcomed as well.

I remember one afternoon, peeking in just in time to catch Mr. Rogers in serious discourse with the three toddler kids on our bed.  Without a flicker of patronization, with his eyes locked into theirs, he was discussing fears, one fear in particular.  I can’t remember whether it was the toilet or the bathtub that was the focus of discussion.  Whichever it was, it struck a chord with the kids on the bed.  They were listening intently as he explained that it just couldn’t happen, that there was no way, that they were far too big to be sucked down the drain.  I’m not sure the toddler fear of being pulled into the pipes beneath our toilets and bathtubs even had been on my radar before — and there he was, the kids’ television friend, assuring them that they could relax, that they just needed some logical information presented in a loving respectful manner, that they were safe.  Each day, our kids were getting a huge dose of kindness and generosity, tolerance and respect, along with these substantive conversations.  Each day he was there for them.  He “got” them.  He had their backs.

And I, back then in the eighties took him for granted, took “it” for granted, the level of generosity and respect and tolerance that Mr. Rogers exuded to this television audience.  I see that now.  I hadn’t even thought about him in years, not until a trip to the movie theater a few weeks ago when I was reminded of his amazing ability to connect with the hearts and minds of the little people who revered him.  My husband Cam and I were settling into the theater’s tilt-back easy chairs, getting ourselves comfortable in anticipation of the romantic comedy we were about to see, when the previews began appearing on the screen.  And tucked between the action adventures and a comedy about dogs was a trailer for a documentary by an Oscar-winning filmmaker.  It took me aback, took me way back, this trailer espousing in the voiceover that, in these divisive times, we need Mr. Rogers.  We need his kindness, his authenticity, his ability to truly listen to people, little and big alike.  And then the trailer honed in on him, the man I hadn’t thought about in years, the man looking out at us with his kind eyes in the same way he had once-upon-a-time looked out at our kids, and, as he zipped up his familiar sweater, he began to sing his theme song.  That’s when I surprised myself.   I choked up. I was crying, real snot-and-tears crying.

During our Pansy Street years, Cam was a young dentist who worked a block-and-a-half away from our little ranch house.  Each morning, he would ride his bike, an old gold-colored Schwinn three-speed with chrome racks and a basket in front, to the dental center, his tie flapping in the bike’s breeze.  And, each late afternoon, he would ride it back home again, parking it beside the garage.  And then, with a burst of energy, he would barge into the house — we could count on it — marching himself right into the bedroom as those kids sat there watching Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.  And as he loosened, then whipped off his tie, he would start to sing it.  “It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor . . .”   With gusto, he would continue as he dropped the white button-down onto the floor and pulled on his comfortable t-shirt, and just like Mr. Rogers, he’d belt it out, “Would you be mine?  Could you be mine?  Won’t you please, won’t you please, please won’t you be my neighbor?”  And the kids, they would giggle, delighted with this ritual, delighted that their neighborhood was mingling with Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood, delighted that it was all one big inclusive neighborhood.  And I was delighted as well.

Mr. Rogers is getting his own documentary, “Won’t You Be My Neighbor” and I am eager to see it.  I am delighted he is back in our lives, back in our consciousness.  It feels good to to be in the presence of kindness and generosity and inclusivity.  I don’t care if he’s dorky.  I don’t even know what dorky means anymore.  Perhaps dorky is what we need right now in this world.  I just know I want to be a part of his welcoming-all neighborhood.  I just want to be his neighbor.  Thank you, Mr. Rogers!



It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood:  Autumn, 1984

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