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From Here...Where?

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Brevort Lake I’ve written about transitions before. I’ve had some rocky adjustments, as with anyone, they’re just included in living our lives.   This latest transition in our government shot up warning flags for me. Seeing this new president as a leader feels like a threat to my safety and to those I love. I ought to be pretty good at transitions. I taught first grade for over three decades. Every calendar year I had a new crew of children. Rarely was I able to pick a student to be in my class. There were new administrators, new school boards, new curriculums. I adjusted. It was a job I loved. Each event in my children’s lives brought transition practice. I had to succeed power to them as they grew and developed. It was a never-ending evolution in my thinking. It started day one. My ability to transition broadened. Well…until my husband, Harry died. This transition took years to navigate. No prior experience seemed to help me and at the time it was a huge stretch to trust others to h
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A Heart Inside Out

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Far into the northern woods, in near darkness, A sturdy log fire lends light to a lonesome, chilled quiet. She's found isolation for strength. In arrears of her need to face reality. She sits upright, by the fire.   Every muscles tense, They fight the evening chill. She’s on high alert, ready to bolt. She chose to walk away rather than toward love. Confused and terrified her heart falls into grief.   Pulsates unnaturally. And folds inside out in avoidance. She shivers by the hot fire,   And squeezes her eyes shut,   Unable to stop the tears. Her tired arms twist around her knees. She rocks first from her heels - then her toes, slowly. She remembers her mom’s hug. She allows gravity to lower her down on her side. Her arms sprawled. Her knees up to her heart. She dreams of Keweenaw.   Lake Superior has held her afloat before. She can feel the heat on her hands from the fire. The arc on each flame snaps as each tip reaches for oxygen.   She sleeps. When the fire is ashes, The cold wak
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Plop Off My High-Horse

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Clouds in View on Brevot Lake While driving back through Canada from visiting my daughter and her family last week, I discovered something about myself. The realization came from thoughts of Dad. I thought about summer and it’s inevitable ending. How much shorter it seems when the end days of August come along. I thought about my childhood summers raised by the water. We always had a sailboat and we all swam. We had summer jobs when we became an age to get one. After some reminiscing, I had thoughts of my dad’s summers, balancing work and play and realized I was picturing a story about him. My story. I watched him put much of his efforts and energies for nine or ten months of the year into planning for a few select days he and mom could sail in the summer. All the chart reading, knot tying and boat upkeep for the possibility of sailing in the short two months of summer (if that) up north. It might even be true sometimes to say two good days of sailing. Why was he so engrossed? He wasn’
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