I am a current resident at Kendal, a senior living facility. I am a recent widow, a spiritual seeker, a writer, poet, mother, living with secondary progressive multiple sclerosis. I was a dancer, singer/songwriter, psychotherapist, interfaith minister, and home steader for many years.
It is cold and colder around here in Northeast Ohio, with snow and freezing rain-must be December. On Thanksgiving and the day after at my daughter’s home not far from Lake Erie, there was plenty of snow for the first snowman of the year. My grandsons were thrilled. I don’t drive anymore, so after my son-in-law drove me home away from the white stuff that day, when it snows again where I live, I am free to admire its beauty.
There is the anticipation of continuing holidays in the air. For me, there is a touch of nostalgia from my own childhood to that of our family when my daughters were young. Above, is a photo of my holiday shelf, minus the tiny menorah soon to join the lights. We acknowledge the cosmic approach of the solstice, and we have lighted candles against the dark since ancient times. May we all invest in the hope that the New Year will start bringing us closer to returning light to the darkness of our world. There is no timeline on achieving this, unfortunately. But I cannot afford despair and wish to contribute lightness within my own small circle of family, friends, and neighbors.
I wrote this poem in February of 2025, already foreshadowing the contrast of the beauty of the world outside my window to the ugliness of what was to come.
Predictably Unpredictable Weather 2/16/25
Today the snow fell as temperatures dropped
without yesterday’s warm permission.
It is pretty.
It is soft.
It is quiet.
It draws birds back to my feeder.
Bluebirds return to fallen seeds below.
Everywhere the ground reflects light dimmed
by clouds releasing their crystalline burdens
onto black branches underlining every snow-capped twig.
We are another month closer to the new year which may have a sliver more positive anticipation after the recent elections. “Count your blessings,” is surely an overused and saccharine phrase these days. But if you are reading these words, it is likely that you are fed, warm and dry, and are using your computer in relative comfort. I daily do give thanks for these things that I do not take for granted.
Sure, living in a retirement home that has been undergoing major kitchen renovations of our former 30-year-old equipment and poor set up, now gives rise to food complaints as we endure months of food prepared in 5 huge FEMA style trailers that we have rented for the duration. Lack of dishwashers has meant eating from paper plates, buffet style serving, and endless repetitive menus due to the poor storage and freezer space available.
The entire restoration project is supposed to culminate in a grand Thanksgiving Day opening meal- but we shall see. We are still so fortunate. Most of us buffer our complaints with that understanding and we are very involved in supporting local food banks and services to support those in our area that continue to struggle as our national/state support systems continue to decline. It is horrifying that this occurs in America even as millions all over the world are starving who are also affected by the brutal decisions of our supposedly wealthy country.
Tragedies strike close to home with friends whose daughters and sons have lost their government jobs, their grants, their SNAP benefits, and their livelihoods. We are all affected by their lives as fellow human beings. Counting your blessings is one way to focus on the good and the hopeful during the avalanche of desperate news. It is only a moment of your time and has repeatedly been said by wiser and heartful beings, moments are all we really have. Make each one count as best you can on the positive side of the equation. As I titled this blog long ago, we are: shining light into dark places.
No sooner did I wax poetic about the crisp fall weather last month than the afternoon temperatures rose into the 80’s every day. We are back in drought territory. It is a lovely time to be a walking, appreciative human being and a stressful time to be a tree. Trees are shedding early with little vibrant color so far. I am enjoying the last slowly vine ripening tomatoes that were also given a final boost. As I sit by the shrinking ponds and the sinking lily pads, I look and hear and smell fall progressing.
Gone to seed
Pods and pinecones
Berries and burrs
Nuts and tufts of wispy
fluff – the urgency of spring
no less the urgency of fall
The laze of summer
The slumber of winter
Love itself has no season
and at the end
all I hope to leave behind.
This fall seems almost unendurably poignant as so many of our valued beliefs and systems have been prematurely forced to go to seed. Living as I do in a continuing care retirement home, dear friends and neighbors are passing in their time. These personal losses on top of global decimation are a lot for my witnessing heart to bear. I am grateful for those in my community both here and outside of Kendal that share their strength of heart with me. Going it alone is not an option.
Yom Kippur was honored with a lovely service enhanced by two Oberlin Conservatory students playing a heart-rending version of the Kol Nidre. I shed tears to share the burden of being human for so many atrocities that we commit as a species. To find atonement- or I as I see it, at-one-ment with the whole of my being, means asking for mercy and forgiveness every step of my path and not just once a year. We each have a role to play in standing for truth, compassion, and justice.
In Catholicism, prayers may be offered many specific times of the day, as in Islam. Compline is the last one before retiring.
The fall weather in NE Ohio began a couple of weeks ago, much to my delight. It is a treasure of deep blue sky (a poet friend wrote of “Dresden blue”) with interwoven sun and shade as the clouds drift and stretch like we do at the end of summer. I do not pay much attention to my birthdays as they inevitably pile up but it is a time to see visiting relatives which is a treat I look forward to.
The state of country and world affairs seem to keep pushing us towards a crisis, and as my chiropractor suggested today, perhaps it could be “a small catastrophe”. May it be enough to make real changes, yet not enough to totally derail human infrastructures. It will not be easy to weather nor to repair, whatever forms it will take.
Our personal dramas unfold against the polarizing tensions and the world keeps turning and our lives go on. My five and a half-year-old grandson started pubic school kindergarten and so far, he loves it. His younger brother continues on in his local small Montessori school and so they are getting in on the best ground floor of education that their community has to offer, even as the future of education is under reconstruction from AI to our national governmental deconstruction. The boys are a source of joy with which I am blessed.
I wrote this poem after my Dutch friend, Johan Kos died. He was a principal dancer in our small dance company in the 1970’s and I will never forget the duet that he and my husband choreographed for themselves. To see very strong men move together with grace and power stays with me today.
Misericordia is from the Latin “misericors,” meaning “merciful,” –“misereri” (to pity) and “cor” (heart)- the act of extending one’s heart to another’s suffering.”
Misericordia
The planet turns.
The sun appears to rise.
Branches bowed with rain touch the ground.
The day lies down before me.
Birds shimmer the dawn.
Yesterday, my friend of 50 years suddenly died.
Last night, more bombs were dropped and, I cried.
What losses we inflict. What pain we suffer.
The cat rolls over, asking for love.
The day is belly up and my fingers touch innocence and peace.
Yesterday was my 55th wedding anniversary, the eighth one without Richard. I no longer anticipate sorrow or nostalgia on this day but remain open to whatever arises. Last week this poem came to me in remembrance of my newly widowed days.
Holding Hands- a True Story
I moved here as a widow where nobody knew who you were, who we were, or who we had been during even one of our almost fifty years together.
I began life all over as just me, by myself.
A year or so after you died, I lay in bed one night crying softly in a sudden lament,
“But I’ll never… get to hold your hand… again!”
The next day I sat on an observation deck overlooking a swampy pond. A sparkling blue dragonfly alighted on my hand. His multifaceted eyes took me in. His translucent wings rested quietly on his back.
We sat there, he and I, holding hands for a long time.
I have returned to that pond, Button Bush Pond, many times and never again has a swooping hungry dragonfly come near me. It was a lovely recollection, a healing gift from Nature’s bounty. We are all held every day by Gaia.
On the days predicted to be hot, I get outside as early as I can on my mobility scooter. Just before dawn, it is so quiet on this campus with hundreds of residents and staff. Even the noisy geese are inhabiting other ponds in the area. Only the croak of one resident duck couple and a few bullfrogs sounds me out as I roll by five of our other ponds. It has felt like the end of August already, with chilly dew-drenched mornings and hot swimming temperatures by afternoon. In the middle of last month, I saw my first monarch butterfly and heard the first evening cricket and buzzing night insects in the trees. The weather patterns have changed course as any times as our President’s erratic pronouncements.
As I keep reiterating here, I work to keep my heart open as a grounded witness to this rapidly evolving transformation of my country and the world.
The above fountain of light seems fitting for the burst of a watery display in lieu of fireworks for me this year. On July 4th I could hear the distant crumps of town fireworks and local backyard Pop! Pops!. The best sparkles in the nighttime sky for me were fireflies. There are only a few bobbing around my lawn compared to a magical field full of them from my childhood. But they sufficed to light my sky.
This year it was challenging for many of us to happily celebrate America as it is today and where it it is rapidly heading. Kendal has a master organizer who for 20 years has created an annual event in our auditorium recapping the history of the founding of our nation. This year he pointed to the many, many struggles, resistances, marches, and deadly rebellions, led by individuals and organizations to right the wrongs of our laws since the very beginning of this experiment in democracy. It was clear that the time is upon us to to rise up once again in peaceful, purposeful demonstration of our rights against this attempt to roll back the many gains that have been achieved in the past, ensuring a more just future.
It was a stirring and hopeful hour as residents participated in reading quotes from Harriet Tubman, suffragettes, gay rights activists, Martin Luther King, Gloria Steinhem, to president Obama and many more, speaking for the oppressed and underserved. I do have hope and refuse to feel helpless. We are ripples of light in a dark pond.
In 2013, Erica Chenowith came up with this political science statistic: If 3.5% of a population under authoritarian rule rises up, a regime change can be accomplished. In America that would amount to 12 million people. The No Kings marches included 6 million people. If everyone who marched found one more person to join in protests, write postcards, make phone calls and door to door contacts, the effect would be enough to turn the tide. And yes, even peaceful protests may result in loss of life, just as civil rights protestors, union organizers and others have selflessly lost their lives in the past. Time to do what you can where you can locally and trust that every one of us counts.
I include some poems to hold as July unfolds with ever more disturbing news. I write to keep me centered in these difficult times.
Interdependence Day- What You Desire 7/4/25
Blessed with a huge landscape-
‘sea to shining sea’-
full of diverse resources to be gobbled up
by those with greater numbers,
more effective weapons
inflated entitlement, greed and power
as it has always been with our species,
enacts the willingness to obliterate anyone or anything
standing or living in their way
to claim and defend even
to the death, (of) the land itself,
thinking they prevent their own demise.
Here we are today.
An experiment in self-governance gone
awry with plenty of mistakes and course corrections,
some benefitting the few, some, the many
trying to rewind to benefit the few again
with so many more left behind than ever before,
imagining they will rule forever.
They won’t, of course.
Interdependence is reality.
No way around it if living, not possessing,
is what you desire.
Birds of a *Molting Feather
Photo by author: *The word molting is based on the Latin mutare, meaning ‘to change’.
It has only occasionally felt like summer for a day or so before spring weather returns, wet and chilly. Flowers have taken their time, but are blooming, nonetheless. Lettuces overflowing from a friend’s garden have found their way into my salad bowl. Above is a picture of our magnificent cactus garden and surroundings that is a breathtaking glory every year.
Who knew that northeast Ohio would support such a display? But the biologist who planted and maintains this garden knows his cacti. We are blessed to have such diverse garden designed to bring health and calming nourishment to our Care Center where it is located. But this courtyard garden also draws the whole community of residents who live farther out in their cottages and apartments. Every year people ask- are they blooming yet? and scurry over to the garden for the brief glory of vibrant color with thorns that glisten in the sun.
June is my husband’s birthday month. He would have been 75 this year. That is still relatively young for this community. I don’t plan on feeling sorrow or dwelling in the past when his birth and death dates arrive, but inevitably I am triggered by a memory from one source or another. I honor the tinge of sorrow or loneliness that arises. It is a doorway to acknowledging the love and life we shared for almost 50 years. I am aware of how fulfilling our relationship was for both of us in terms of healing our own childhood wounds and the fact that we understood from the very beginning that we were also spiritual partners.
Having worked with many folks as a therapist and spiritual counselor, I understand how challenging and infrequent that kind of relationship can be. I am deeply fortunate in feeling that Richard and I did everything we needed to do together in our lifetime. That leaves a lot of grateful love behind. He and I were not saints! Far from it, but we learned together as we went along with as many challenges as all young people face while we matured since the beginning of our teenaged partnership. What do teenagers know about loving themselves or another person? Not much- and the growing pains were evident in propelling us towards deeper understanding of our own issues and the longing to pursue a Greater Love we both knew was possible.
The fact that we now have two grandsons Richard will not meet is a fact that is buffered by seeing them grow and change with a little bit of their ancestors shining through their own young selves. Perhaps it is a projection, but certain looks and behaviors cannot help but ring a bell of familiarity. They are a joy and lend a welcome reminder that we are all a product of our ancestors reaching back into unfathomable histories. I give thanks for those unknown predecessors. Whatever this turbulent world will be like when our grandsons are adults, I know that they will have had deep loving support to fulfill their own contributions, whatever they may be.
Richard would be so proud of them, and our family celebrates his memory by eating ice cream. It was his favorite dessert throughout his life. Friends, former clients, and family members fondly recall that we served different ice creams for 300 people at his memorial. Spoons up, everyone!
My friend Len was concerned about me because I hadn’t written on my blog since February. What? I didn’t? Nope, I had to look for myself. Actually, there is nothing to be concerned about. I stopped writing on another website about that time as did a lot of other writers whose work I had appreciated there. The algorithms they were now using meant that a lot of us were no longer getting viewed or commented on. Something had changed and many switched to another site altogether. I decided I have enough writing on my plate just for Kendal- sometimes people are asking me if I would write something for their occasion and with my own projects, I am kept as busy as I need to be. Looking back, I see I just didn’t feel ready to get back online for a while.
That said, here I am, catching up from March to the end of May with a few poems.
The Plot at the End of March
Three weeks ago, the pond was covered in melting ice.
Today, bright green duckweed mats are melding.
Mated Canadian geese part them effortlessly
as they swim to the far end of the pond.
Their usual nesting spot is hidden beyond
a small forest of last year’s dried canes.
Some lie broken on the water creating a raft
for a sunbathing palm-sized turtle.
Around the perimeter of the pond
tiny frogs trill croaks of love and territory.
Tree frogs continuously chuckle soprano gulp
up in the balcony above my head.
I see hoof prints in the mud along the road.
A deer was here.
Pussy willows are purring,
early daffodils are almost blooming
and away from the frogs, more and more
distinct birdsong can be heard.
The field is full of winter-dead wildflowers.
Seeds are long gone but tasty insects are stirring.
I can almost hear new stems stretching beneath the ground.
Even in my room, I saw the first tiny ant
emerging from the baseboard where the plumbing chase
is a yearly highway for ants in my building,
reminding me that spring stirs everything
outside and inside of me and my home on this plot of earth.
None of us can ignore what is happening in our country and the world. I have written many poems to try and integrate the dismay we are all feeling. When I first saw how much money had initially fled my investments this poem arose.
Unlike Flocks of Starlings 4/8/25
Unlike a flock of black starlings flowing as one
graceful murmuration in the sky,
words and numbers etched in black ink
are flying away in frenzied chaos.
Disruptive change is healthy
for organisms creating new growth.
Organic destruction of dead matter is embedded
with intelligent patterns of renewal.
The ripple effects of panicked incoherence
destroyed what once was.
We long to know that our flock
will land in safety again.
This universe is based on expansion and contraction,
always reverting to balance,
when healthy order inevitably returns.
May our flock lift wings together with that surety.
Which brings us to April. I wrote this back in 2007 when a Shad (other names are Serviceberry and Juneberry) tree was blooming right outside my bedroom window when I spent many hours in bed from my MS exhaustion. There is an Ohio version of this tree right outside my window ripening into berries as I write.
The Shad Tree, ‘07
Every spring the Queen of Lace
holds court outside my window.
The royal decree is trilled aloud
by avian courtiers perched in her graceful branches.
“Build nests in field and forest and
by June shall our white blossoms become red berries,
a feast for you and your kin.”
Unlatching my window
I receive the royal summons
on the first warm sunny day.
She nods to me in the breeze.
I curtsy deeply
inhaling all that grows, crawls, flies,
and swims upon her earth.
This year of recovery
I match her abundance.
With a trilling cry of my own
she and I are become
this season of rebirth.
I will build a nest in her arms and learn to sing.
In fact, I am no longer able to sing my own songs that I have written since coming to Kendal. I have lost the ability to keep in pitch. I have made friends with a very talented musician, writer, pianist, singer, engineer in Oberlin- who kindly has transcribed 10 of my songs that I want to use as an album to give to Kendal marketing to use as they wish. I am distributing this collection of songs to musicians and singers, both residents and staff, who will record them with another resident who is also a sound engineer and singer himself. This project has also kept me very busy and by the end of the fall, I hope it will all be done and available to stream online somehow from Kendal’s website. The logistics I leave up to those who know what they are doing. I am very happy to know these songs won’t languish in my head but can be appreciated by others.
Now onwards to June, which is just around the corner…
I have two pieces I’d like to share this month. One is a poem from today. I usually start out with an impulse, idea, or phrase that moves me to start writing a poem. I never know where it is heading until I come to what feels like an end. Sometimes I lose my way and sometimes I feel the ending isn’t right but I want to keep the beginning and see what happens if I shift a word or phrase until I realize I was headed somewhere in an entirely different direction. I learn what it is I really wanted to say. I have written a number of poems and phrases regarding our current political reality but this one started out with what is happening right outside my window. The sobering world entered in anyway.
February 1 2025
After weeks of a deep freeze
it is raining outside.
Brownish green grass reappears
beneath vanishing snow-
color TV after
so many black and white reruns.
We know it will snow again.
Outside my window
birds will flock back to their feeder,
the chipmunk will curl up under a new white blanket.
But for today we are reminded
seasons of the world keep changing, even
this darkening season of blighted
compassion, reason, and viable hope.
Some roots below will die and some will live on
insisting on life that waits
for the planet to rotate and tilt
towards and away from
our blazing star that dictates
how much light we harness
to grow and support
all that lives on this earth.
For the second piece, I was asked to contribute something for a Valentine’s Day program for our Kendal community. Again I had no idea of what I wanted to share as it is Richard’s (my husband’s) death day anniversary. What came was a complete surprise to me and it feels right, just as it is.
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT…
A Very Short History: From a Sexy Nude Dude with Washboard Abs to Naked Baby Angel Bottoms on Valentines Day.
The ancient Greeks started this god of love business. Their multiple gods and goddesses often enacted the worst of human traits demonstrating infanticidal rage, greed, jealousy, and yes, lust. Eros was a hunky, adult male deifying desire. It is not surprising that his parentage is a bit murky. He could have been the result of several different notable couplings. Eros was a very powerful figure and his ability to manifest whatever he wanted to happen, could be disastrous. He was both handsome and seductively dangerous.
Gradually, Eros physically evolved into a chubby youthful figure. Richard Martin, a professor at Stanford says, “If a woman controlled his every move {in this case his mother Aphrodite}, then mortals would have no reason to fear him. Eros was suddenly not so powerful anymore: He would act only on his mother’s wishes.”
In any event, when the Romans took on the Greek pantheon as their own, Eros slowly morphed into Cupid, an even chubbier youngster portrayed with wings and a bow and arrows. Roman Latin used the word ‘cupido’ to mean passion or desire. This god Cupid could only follow his mother’s wishes to make people fall in love. The word cupido may have been based on an ancient Sumerian word for love. Passionate love has always been recognized as a powerful human force.
Christians had several martyred monks named Valentine, and so, we celebrate Valentine’s Day on their feast day. Perhaps this day was superimposed on an early pagan celebration called Imbolc, honoring the ancient Celtic Goddess, Brigid. Originally held in early February, this day represented spring renewal, growth, and fertility, which went beyond the idea of romantic love. The celebration was devoted to the propagation of sustaining Life itself. And yes, blessed babies were born from this happy celebration.
By the 15th century, Western artists began to fixate on the idea of chubby little winged cherubs that dwelled amongst the host of Christian angels. Why anyone thought that endowing mischievous boy toddlers with wings and weapons was a good idea, I cannot imagine. My grandsons, having left the baby stage at the advanced ages of 3 and 5 do not inspire confidence as to having reliable angelic powers except for wringing pure love out of me when they are sound asleep. Then they are Hallmark card models, and you could skip the flowers and go straight for chocolates.
History aside, this is the day on which we have agreed to celebrate love. This is a bittersweet day for me because my husband died on February 14th, 2018. But, please note that my husband had a terrific sense of humor. I invite you to sing with me the chorus of a song I wrote some 40 years ago, the first verse of which was about him. The chorus is a short and sweet nod to love itself.
I originally wrote this hot chocolate piece last year when I spent New Year’s Eve and Day at home n my residential community, Kendal at Oberlin. This year I had a wonderful bittersweet visit with my daughter’s family at their home. My grandsons are now 3 and 5 years old and we played many games, sang many songs, ate well, and they definitely ran and jumped around (a lot) inside as it was too wet and cold to be outside. It was very sweet, if appropriately tiring for all adults involved. The bitter part came because the whole family is leaving in 5 days for Barcelona and returning in July.
My daughter is taking the family to Spain while she does her academic research there. Her husband works remotely, and the boys are enrolled in a school in Barcelona that has students from many countries for as long as their parents remain in this very international city. My older grandson will be taught half in English and half in Spanish. The younger one will likely learn Spanish by osmosis with his age group in the schoolroom and on the playground as younger children often do.
When my son-in-law was preparing to drive me back home, the 5-year-old said goodbye , then added, “But grandma, you aren’t leaving forever.” I assured him I was just going back to my home and will be ready to greet him when they returned from Spain. The three-year-old apparently cried after I had I left because he hadn’t said goodbye to me. In fact, he had a 2-year-old moment and had refused to say goodbye as I wheeled away in my ever-fascinating wheelchair. Fortunately, FaceTime will remedy this omission and will keep us connected for the long haul over the next 6 months. I am so happy they are going on this grand adventure and I will miss them all like crazy.
Hot Chocolate 2024
As a kid, I wasn’t all that fixated on chocolate. Weird, I know, but unless there was chocolate in a rarely offered pastry like eclairs, napoleons, or croissants, I’d go for a piece of creamy or fruit filled pie every time. From a family box of chocolates, I’d gladly eat the ones filled with the good stuff- jellies or fruit fillings that nobody else wanted. S’mores were only part of outdoor fire events, and drinking hot chocolate was for outdoor winter playtime. With or without marshmallows or tiny peppermint candy canes, hot chocolate wasn’t chocolate to me, but something exotic and foamy and wonderful to drink as hot as my child tongue could take. Holding a steamy cup between snow-cold fingers after sledding and skating was a treasured ritual.
Hitting menopause changed my tastebuds. Dark chocolate suddenly acquired its proper place in my personal food pyramid. Because of living with MS, I never have been able to ingest lots of sugar or caffein without inducing an inflammatory immune response. To the outside observer, this dark chocolate desire is not evident. Once in a great while I can usually handle maybe one square of 95% cacao chocolate for dessert. It is deeply satisfying to me while others cannot believe I like something that is barely sweet to them. For me, the lack of sugar allows the essence of the chocolate flavor to linger and inform my senses with its tasty mystery.
Today, on New Year’s Eve, I remembered that I had a container of organic dark chocolate powder mix to make a cup of hot chocolate for myself. I opened a box of almond milk and microwaved some in my favorite cup. In went four decadent tablespoons of the mix. Stir vigorously, and voila! Hot chocolate. No marshmallows or candy canes were injured in the process of this experience.
I sipped and gazed out on the gray day. Some of my neighbors are away, and the paths are quiet. Even the sparrows and house finches are no show outside on my bird feeder right now. I slowly sip and nostalgia arises for my family. One daughter is home with two coughing little boys so there was no sleep for the family last night. Naps have ensued. The other checked in while streaming her favorite gamers after successfully selling off some furniture at the local secondhand store. All is well enough in their world, and I finish my drink with deep satisfaction and so much gratitude.
In my grandson’s Montessori preschool, each child’s birthday is marked by the birthday child circumambulating around a ‘sun’ to mark the passage of the year. A paper crown and, of course, cupcakes, follow. My just turned four-year old grandson knows it takes a long time for another year to pass before he will be ready to go the ‘big kid school’. We, too, have circled once more around the star of our planet. I will mark the event with my neighbors in some low-key gatherings, and now that I rediscovered the hot chocolate mix, I will greet the new year with one more cup even though this year there is no snow, no ice, and no crown, paper or otherwise. At my age, time is fluid in nature. A year seems forever to a youngster, and to me, it is more an arbitrary marker as seasons continue to confound us with unpredictable weather patterns due to our climate crisis.
Raise your cup to auld lang syne (old times’ sake), whatever your choice of beverage! May 2025 bring unforeseen opportunities for deeply healing changes to “Crown thy good with brother/sisterhood, from sea to shining sea”, and all the way around our deeply troubled world.
December raindrops on berries in Courtyard Garden pond
Judi B's Blog 