Memoirous

I’ve been feeling very stressed lately—but, to be honest, I’m always feeling stressed. It’s my go-to reaction to pretty much everything. A physical second guessing. The cataract thing hasn’t helped. One, it presents as an old-person problem and I’m not old. At least I don’t feel old. Nevertheless, it came on quick and are fast-growing. I had an eye evaluation scheduled end of last September and things were fine. They noted my distance vision had worsened, but there was nothing said it was because cataracts were clouding my vision. Then, fast forward to December: And I’;m having trouble driving and at work I keep saying it looks like snow. To be fair, it did snow a lot—just not inside the building. I went back to the eye doc and asked about glasses. I got a pair in February and was told it might take some getting used to. March and April and I’m not seeing any better. So I go back to talk things over. That’s when I’m given an appointment to meet with an ophthalmologist. The process...

Here in Kalamazoo Does anyone else get Glenn Miller déjà vu when they hear Kalamazoo? I got a gal (in Kalamazoo) Don't wanna boast, but I know she's the toast Of Kalamazoo-zoo-zoo-zoo-zoo-zoo Years have gone by (my, my how she grew) I liked her looks when I carried her books In Kalamazoo-zoo-zoo-zoo-zoo I'm gonna send a wire, hoppin' on a flyer (Leavin' today) So, today I hopped a train to Kalamazoo—not exactly by choice. As mentioned in my last post: I recently found out I have cataracts. Not a little, but a lot. I was told not to drive and I knew I had a presentation in Kalamazoo in less than a week. Nothing upsets me more than to think I’ll disappoint someone. So, with the little agency I still possessed. I booked a morning train to the city/town and figured something would work out. It did. First off: the train was only $9, less money than I was planning to give to someone to drive me. Second, my husband was here visiting and was going back ...

Stink Bugs I was emptying a box the other day to get ready for a reading I was doing. Hopefully. Things these days feel very tenuous. Finding out I have cataracts and trying to schedule a procedure also has something to do with my mental makeup. Everything is cloudy and on hold. Anyway, in a corner of the box was a dead stink bug. Who knows how long it’s been there! It’s not like I was unpacking the Dead Sea Scrolls but, yes, it was back stock of my books. It’d been a minute. A Chicago minute. (I’ve been in Michigan now for about 4 years, time flies.) The last time I saw some of these books was packing them up to leave Chicago and wondering if my writing life was going to continue. Inventory is always about how much do you think you’ll need/want. It was hard to imagine going through so many copies of Orphan Girl and some of the other titles, but I packed them all into a U-Haul and trucked them to Okemos, Michigan where who knew what was next!? So, this was a Chicago stink bug? ...

Graduation Day Sheet Cake   Here’s to all the graduates Sheet cake Thick plastic icing Rosettes mounded, impermeable We wish you the best but Not the very best, not A bundt, or bakery 3-tier The world is your oyster Here today, gone Tomorrow, like the sheet cake Congratulations!

 So on the way up to Grand Rapids for a writing conference while on the bus, I saw that I got an acceptance. Great! It was for a flash I'd written awhile back and then largely forgot about. Then while out running, I remembered it at exactly the same place in the run that I was inspired to write it. That's how I think or rather remember. If I forget something, I'll remember it again if I go back and stand in the same place where I remembered it. So I was running and remembered the piece and that I'd forgotten about it. I pulled it up on my computer and decided to add another line, then sent it to my critique group, who liked it except for the line I added. "You don't need it; it sounds like you added it." Yup, okay. And I sent it off.  A week later an acceptance. But now I have to figure out how to bring up my submission grid/tracker and update it and inform the other places I sent it to that it is no longer available. I did this the next day after picking ...

  The sky is a seashell Alabaster-pink luster mauve-fringed clouds wavering baby blue the luminous moon a pearl

 Yesterday, in my sunny courtyard it snowed the gauge read 77℉ and we had our shoes off and pants rolled up, arms out to the sun, while all around white petals drifted speckling the deck   A few weeks ago, we had actual snowflakes and the backyard was covered in grey sooty white the daffodils were brave to poke their head out   Today, I track the crushed petals inside, sweep them up like parade confetti and toss them outside to join the other reminders of spring

In the Low Honest Prayers for Dark Seasons by Justin McRoberts and Scott Erickson There’s always surprises at the Festival, small delights and big discoveries around books and authors I’m not acquainted with—same goes for this year. I’ve often wondered: does timing matter? The algorithm is all over the place. Upon first arriving, the energy is there, while on Saturday the last day, the emotional levels are depleted. Am I more open to the universe at the beginning or end? Just like the Michigan spring—there’s no predicting. I picked up my name badge at registration and sat down to scan the beautifully designed program. Then I visited the Exhibit Room where there were very few literary journals represented. Hmmm, why? Time remaining before the noon plenary, I wandered over to the art space at Calvin, where Scott Erikson a Festival speaker had an exhibit. I wasn’t familiar with his work. Apparently, he is big on social media; his Instagram is wildly popular. The bio on the wall at th...

This has become a thing—for almost 12 years. I believe my first ride home from the Festival of Faith and Writing in the always unpredictable month of April—the weather, that is. I’ve had snow, sleet, rain (of course!) and sometimes too much heat. Heading home to Chicago, the ride took 4 days. It’s much more manageable going back to Okemos. Once again, I took Indian Trails up, prepped bike and took off for my host’s house—fabulously only 3 streets over from Calvin University, making getting back and forth during the Festival easy peasy. There’s always surprises at the Festival, small delights and big discoveries around books and authors I’m not acquainted with—same goes for this year. I’ve often wondered: does timing matter? The algorithm is all over the place. Upon first arriving, the energy is there, while on Saturday the last day, the emotional levels are depleted. Am I more open to the universe at the beginning or end? Just like the Michigan spring—there’s no predicting. The b...

I knew you before Smartphones in analog time for over 40 years we are witnesses to change. Incarnation. In the basement of The Rock (youth hangout at First Baptist Church) Kool-Aid, Cornerstone, rock music Our hearts burned, Praise Him! I knew you before marriage, children before heartbreak, despair in the 70s, last century on bikes and junker cars cross country runs when our bodies moved— flown open to the Holy Spirit. Let’s forget and remember who we were, used to be friends . . . see you next time.  

Not sure how much I’ll be blogging this week. The Festival of Faith and Writing starts Thursday and I leave Wednesday by bus to get up to Grand Rapids. The big news: Spring is coming. After the historic rainfall—4 inches in 24 hours—and intense backyard flooding, we’re down to a 4 foot in diameter puddle that the sump pump is slowly trickling down. We can’t seem to keep the 2-year-old out of it. There are multiple clothing changes throughout the day. But the tilt of the earth has shifted, we’re over some kind of hump. I believe. Today I noticed magnolia trees about to burst forth. The forsythia bushes are leafed out. The tree outside my door has hard little buds on it. I took a little over 2-hour bike ride this a.m. It was 43 degrees when I started out 70 by the time I walked into our courtyard at home. I needed to get some miles in as I’m hoping to ride home from Grand Rapids next Sunday. I write hoping because every time I try to train it’s either snowing, raining, or hailing. ...

In the winter I’d come home from work, fix food, and go to bed. These days I stay up later. I’ll have a tea and take a walk in the yard or around the block—depending on the moonlight. The blood flows faster. The senses sense. Spring. I cup the cup of hot tea and listen—wind ruffling the top of the pines. The ground is still cold, mossy wet but there’s something there—a hidden green.

New Work Out Chariot of the Gods combines a childhood memory of a neighbor girl falling out of a tree and me volunteering to run to her house to get her mom and my son-in-law’s father who I refer to as my father-in-law. Removed. Anyway, their house is the fun one. The center of the universe for the family. When there, there’s always a story unthreading taking us through the night. None of the story is true, only true-ish. Find it here at Wild Greens : https://www.wildgreensmagazine.com/archive/april-2026-vi-vi#h.z2znarx3yh0i

Friday night to Saturday morning—apparently it rained. I was up under the eaves fast asleep. I awoke early to write and found the world weirdly silent. I opened the door and even without the drip drip of rain sensed wetness, the smell of water. I grabbed a headlamp which did nothing to penetrate the darkness, but I knew: the backyard was flooded as happens in the spring. Vernal ponding because of the amount of clay underground. We’re also in a little bit of a bowl. The last owners left us with a sump pump—for good reason. We’ve needed it in the spring and after large rain events. This time we had both. When the sun came up, dreary and bleak weak, I was able to see the edge of the pond licking the fire pit only feet from my Tiny House. At just that moment my daughter called to say there was water in the basement. They have a sump pump but it must’ve failed—just as we have a sump pump in the backyard and at the moment it too must’ve failed. I texted our neighbor to say we were bailing ...

It’s been a while. A struggle. But, there’s been a breakthrough. I’m not sure what happened— For so long I’ve felt like I was being dragged around by my hair, going from one thing to another without agency, like a monkey on my back. It wasn’t one thing but a million unnamed pressures. A sense of why bother. Fear and self-doubt. I didn’t know where to start. I cleared off my desk, I cleared out my head. I sorted through scraps of paper and opened a file on my computer meant to organize my thoughts. I started with making lists. In January I ordered a used copy of Art & Fear by co-authors David Bayles and Ted Orland. I once had this book but must have given it away or left it behind somewhere. I was reminded of it the end of 2025 and thought: the title alone is worth reading over and over. The fear doesn’t keep me away, I keep reaching, but the state of my soul is brittle. I needed to get beyond a certain paralysis. The result of reading this small book turned into a Su...

I was there in heart and spirit. It seems like every community held a gathering. I went online after I got home from work to see how things went in Minneapolis/St. Paul. It was a rally, a call for resistance=all the things you’d expect. But there was also a somber note, a reference to loss, saying names out loud. A reminder of this past long, hard winter. Calling forth spring, hope, change. When Tim Walz introduced Bruce Springsteen, he was dressed down in a flannel and wind ruffled his hair. He seemed so everyman. I know he’s taken a lot of grief these past few years after stepping into the political limelight. He’s taken a few punches. One has the feeling the job has worn him down. Then, when Bruce Springsteen took the stage, you could hear the crowd, but it didn’t feel like a rock concert. I sensed anticipation, like when a priest comes out, someone to say the words and hold up the cup, to lay it all out on the altar. What we need to hear—whether good or bad, something to take...

  Once again, I am prepping for a familiar trek: To Grand Rapids for the Festival of Faith and Writing. I did a search and so much of this blog is dedicated to that biennial event where so many of my favorite things collide. Reading Writing Meeting other readers Staying with Andy and Natalie Quick convo with Luci Shaw—sadly now, no more Riding my bike home Starting in 2014, the first time I attempted to ride my bike home (then it was Chicago and took 3 days), I would bring a bicycle and commute to the conference. Now in 2026 at age 67 I’ll, again, be bringing a bike. I can bring it on Indian Trails and unpack at the station and ride to my host’s house. I’ll stay again with Natalie—except this time they have moved east of the city, so on Saturday I’ll journey to their house and then go on from there on Sunday morning on side roads back to Lansing. Rereading past posts at this blog about the FFW, I’ve remembered authors I was introduced to through the festival and decided to add ...

Waiting for Blossoms, Spring Break Out Break out spring escape from your winter jail the confines of cold Break forth those cold buds hardened to freeze the onslaughts of this season’s fury Bend toward the vernal sun let the sap run no longer a prisoner, rejoice! Throw a party of color Time for a fling Let the rumpus begin

The other day it was 65℉ The other day I ran in capris The other day I sat outside with my tea and listened to the birds I heard a whooping crane The children stripped out of their clothes and played Today there is ice in their mud kitchen The water toys are frozen over Standing water left after the thunderstorm That ushered in the cold front The pond has turned to ice With a little pink plastic lawn mower on top

With the time change, it is completely dark when I get up these days. I’m trying to turn over a new leaf by getting up at 6 a.m. to write. It’s a bit aspirational as I don’t always get out of bed when the alarm goes off. But I am doing more butt in chair this week, at least. The problem was: Running out of time. You see the grandkids are much more mobile. The little one, especially, has figured out how to unlock the sliding door leading out to the cascade of decks and would randomly wander over. Sometimes with no diaper. I have to beat sunrise and the warmer temps before they are unleashed. So, for now, my plan is to arise early (enough) to get in a few undisturbed hours and then invite them over for a cracker or game or to just mess about. In other news, I got a random message from a fan of Woman of a Certain Age . It’s nice to know the story collection is resonating with readers. People ask where they can get a copy. It’s available everywhere—local bookstores can order it in ...

More False Starts—in more ways than one                        What to do With twisty story ideas                                                        Erase and try again Relationships                                                                       Say I’m sorry Last night’s dinner recipe                                                    Add more salt/spices Going wrong way on one way street (oops!)                      Bac...

Every once in a while, I get a brain burble, a brief flash of memory. I’m not sure what spurs this synapse. Maybe it is the season of Lent and the liturgy sent to me by the brothers of Assumption Abbey in Dickerson, ND where I stayed on my cross-country bike trip in 2020. Maybe it is from watching “Secrets of the Dead” on PBS as I work on a new cross-stitch project. As I work, moving my needle up and down, I listen to how civilizations rise and fall. People and places I’ve never heard of, pre-antiquity, before medieval Europe, before the spread of Christianity, people groups from places our current president might label “shit-hole countries” were building and crafting fabulous palaces using gold and silver and precious gems, living sustainably for hundreds of years—before . . . . Sometimes no one knows. Something stops. The people die-off, are assimilated, migrate away due to ? Again, we don’t know but perhaps climate change, invaders, disease, other disasters. Bardic tales are f...

Soooo I wake up again to the United States bombing another country. This is becoming a thing. Not something I want. There are so many thoughts rattling around my brain—I’m wracked with guilt for just being alive and living in this country, guilty of trying to ignore what Washington is doing. For many people it is more than a disruption—it is shifting the very course of their life. On Sunday, a day after the initial bombings, I attended a little boy’s birthday party, where I was the only non-Iranian person there. I’m not sure I can convey historically how this felt. I took my shoes off at the door and kissed my host. I clutched her and said, “Khamenei is dead.” First: She corrected my pronunciation of his name, then, shook her head: “This is not what I wanted.” I said, “Me, too! But I’m hearing that some Iranian-Americans are very happy. Glad that the US has stepped in.” My friend acknowledged this. Everyone has their own opinion. But, a war . . . More people will die.—My ...

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Dawn Burns a great writer and someone I’d hoped to meet up with when I moved to Michigan—a person with similar sensibilities about art, literature, God!—is having a book launch in a few weeks in Lansing. It’s funny how the necklace of feminist writers all link together. One person brings another one into your life, and on and on. Anyway, I read Dawn’s short story collection, Evangelina Everyday , feeling as if she were writing about me when describing Evangelina’s small victories, how she walked through a mundane Indiana housewife life while still finding things to celebrate, such as a plastic bag caught in straw grass in a forgotten field. Her newest collection is also linked stories based upon visiting what amounts to “tourist traps.” As we all know, there is something very human and basic in the curiosity we show to outsiders, the different, the just plain odd. We are attracted and yet repelled; we want to know more—perhaps because we secretly harbor the knowledge that it is t...

This past weekend brought another visitor out from the city. And, another fresh batch of snow. I was a little conflicted when all the snow melted during our “Spring Break.” Nothing says cozy better than snowflakes the size of feathers falling all around, while holding a hot cup of coffee. Well, we got our chance when a Clipper came through unexpectedly and brought a fresh groundcover of white. Not so much that our boots sank up to the shin, and not so much that we shivered inside layers of coats. But just the right amount to make everything cozy again. We picked up coffee from Château and continued walking onto the River Trail recently extended from Grand River Ave. to Okemos Road. Readers of this blog (both of you) know I love this path, the tall trees, and the chance to escape from cars and traffic. My friend and I walked through the woods sipping coffee all the way to the movie theater where we checked in for a weekday matinee of Wuthering Heights. From the woods of snowy Mich...

It’s still snowing . . . and it’s still cold in the morning and the sky cotton candy pink—yet the sun is rising earlier.   Except—after the first hint of spring after being teased by shorts-wearing warmth after pulling out the lawn chairs after the kids got into the shed for the bubble machine— the chair is draped with snow and the toys are MIA beneath ground-covering white   So we return, to Winter. But even the birds and squirrels are saying “It won’t be long now!”

False Spring? I’ll take it. True or false. I can see bare ground beneath the trees. Whether real Or not The icicles are crashing to the earth. It’s not my imagination Not a mirage That square of white is shrinking. Teasing, kidding, Pulling my leg There are signs of life. The birds don’t care. The squirrels are scurrying. The blue sky spreads out overhead. Winter weary Soul crushing Long-enduring We wait with hope— Chick-a-dee-dee, soon soon soon  

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back dedicated to Keith Wasserman and Lynda Moody, two old college friends Is still going forward; I’m still moving. So there is bare ground starting to show outside. The temps have warmed up, a bit. I rode my bike 3x in one week. I ran twice. This is progress. The sun comes up earlier and sets later—after 6 these days. *Yet, last week I locked my keys in the car (one step back) but Chad from Okemos Marathon came in a jiffy and got things straight (one step forward). *I was cleaning my water reservoir and got too vigorous and broke a piece. No biggy—until a few days later I discovered a lake flooding my countertop. (One step back!) Yesterday I ordered a slim 27-cup Brita from Walmart and the online option said delivery was same-day and free. Altogether, it was much less than I thought it would be to replace. I went out and met the drivers in my driveway, a couple out on a nice day in their KIA making stops. I asked is this a side gig and they said, yeah. G...