Posted on by judibwriting

JUNE

Farmer’s Pond by author

I’ve been binge watching this series called Springtime at Kendal. I am hooked. A friend told me yesterday of an earlier episode in May that I missed at Button Bush Pond. Spoiler Alert: it was about reproduction as is most of the first half of the season. The one I missed was about two turtles slowly rolling about in the water, like choreographed wrestlers. Yes, they were mating, not wrestling.

Painted turtle, by author

In the first June episode I was coming back from Farmer’s Pond and heard two geese making a ruckus at BB Pond where they don’t usually hang out. I ramped up my mobility scooter and zipped down the road and over the wooden bridge, thunkity, thunkity as my wheels rolled along. I stopped on the observation deck of this swampy vernal pond and saw a drama up close.

The gander was in the water at the edge of the pond where it meets the woods. The Mother Goose was in the woods next to the water standing with one gosling at her feet. Both adults were loudly squonking and vigorously flapping their wings. I spied another gosling in the shallow water who was apparently stuck on a fallen branch that barely rose above the pond’s surface. It was like watching two people trying to move a vehicle stuck in the mud. The adults were encouraging the poor gosling from front and behind, back and forth, back and forth as best they could.

For a brief moment I jumped out of my scooter, hopped over the railing, splashed through the water and convinced the gander I was only saving his baby- no, of course, I didn’t. To everyone’s great relief the gosling was suddenly free and limped up on the shore to join his mom and sibling. The gander lined them up and marched them out of the woods and down the road. Though the one gosling was going slowly at first, the family waddled out of sight and was on their way to safer waters.

More episodes so far this month have been watching fledgling birds being refused by their mothers to feed them, and fawns walking out of the woods.

fawn safely crossing road by author

Every day, more beauty and more beauty blossoms as flowers, trees, our cactus garden, and bushes perfume our eyes and noses.

cactus garden by author

The program that is always on, is the one starring me, just as you are always engaged with the one featuring you. Stepping back to observe ourselves is a wonderful gift we human beings have. We may not always use it to the best advantage, but sometimes taking a moment can help us to breathe through a knee jerk reaction giving ourselves a chance to make a more thoughtful choice. When we lie down at night, we might use the time to review ourselves in the worst possible light. We chew on the, “should haves, could haves, and would haves,” as if by replaying moments gone by, we can fix the sense that we messed up somehow.

Knowing how much I delight in catching each springtime episode in the outdoors, I would rather bring the same open curiosity to myself. Each tiny moment of spring adds up to the entire season unfolding before my eyes. Spring will morph into summer at the end of the month while each tiny moment in my in my own life adds up to this day I am living through.

June features my husband’s birthday towards the end of the month. It is eight years since his death, and I do not plan on experiencing nostalgia or sorrow. Grief has its own pace and its bittersweet place when it shows up. I wouldn’t say that time heals all wounds, but time allows for reframing painful events within the larger picture of our lives.  I have also witnessed fallen nests, broken eggs, and well-fed snapping turtles as spring moves on. It is not all about amusing or cheerful successful baby beings. Taking time for each moment to be alive and touch our hearts is where I ask June to take me. All of it.

woodland garden whites by author

Posted on by judibwriting

MAY

Irises by author

This month was likely named after the Roman goddess Maia, goddess of spring and fertility. I just learned today that this month is also dedicated to Mary in the Christian tradition. Likely many songs and rituals were grafted onto earlier Pagan traditions which was a common practice as Christianity replaced the Old Ways. Songs in praise of Mary began to be written early on and are soaringly beautiful, including one I heard on the radio this morning, Ave Maris Stella, Hail Mary Queen of the Sea. Even patriarchal systems must recognize the feminine principle in this spring season of giving birth.

I was thinking of the game I played as a child called ‘Mother May I’. The Mother stood on one side of the designated area while a line of children (I suspect this was probably more of girl’s game, like skipping rope, or hopscotch, or jacks) stood opposite her. You asked permission to come closer and closer to her until you tagged her and became the new Mother. You could take Baby Steps, a Giant Step, an Umbrella Twirl Step or a Banana Slide. “Mother, may I take a (name a number of one of the four kinds of steps)?” She’d answer “yes, you may” or “no, you may not,” and eventually, someone would reach her. The aim was to cheat and make the steps as big as possible and also to wiggle forward bit by bit without Mother noticing or she could send you back to the beginning. Mother had such power in that game! The tension of it all was the fun part.

I also learned this month that Mother’s Day was originally started as Mothers’ Day. (Thank you to my friend Bonnie Gintis.) A civil war mother, having lost her son, started it in recognition of standing for peace, not war. America is awfully good at reducing serious holidays to candy, flowers and cards. As a mother, I have nothing against receiving any of those items. But also consider it inappropriate to say, “Happy Mother’s Day” to all women for obvious reasons. It’s like saying, “Thank you for your service,” to all former servicemen and women who may not want to be thanked for losing limbs, minds, and friends in whatever war they fought. They get no candy, flowers or cards except for remembrance from relatives and friends on the graves of those who died.

Mother's Day art by 6 year-old- grandson Max, gifted to Grandma Judi photo by author.

Still, it is spring. Chilly as it has remained here in Northeast Ohio, greenery and flowers keep opening to the sun as we bend closer in our hemisphere. We have had only a few days of ‘no jacket weather’ to remind us of what is sure to come. One day soon I suspect we’ll all be complaining about how hot and dry it is as we are still alternating between some frosty nights and gray, wet days. May we all take time to appreciate the feminine principles of giving birth to, and nurturing, all life no matter your gender.

sign photo by author

Posted on by judibwriting

April

Magnolia tree by author

April

April showers commenced torrentially overnight. The small lawn outside my window borders a paved road for a firetruck to access this wing of our facility. Beside it is a ditch leading to a stone filled catchment area with a diverting culvert pipe. But it rained steadily all the next day, and the ditch was overflowing my lawn and the road until the water ran inches deep. The water table is high everywhere at Kendal as our one-hundred-and-fifty-acre campus was created from digging out wetlands to create seven ponds. Long time staff would say they had been here ‘since mud” because it was a long time before drainage occurred, the grass was planted, and the foundations were secured.

On the next day, there remained only manageable puddles. The passing egrets, hooded merganser, ring neck ducks and the local geese and mallards are happy. Today it is sunny and in the seventies, so now people are happy, too. I keep writing the paradox of darkness, war, madness, and the unflinching procession of spring. I write to integrate my deep sorrow, to ground myself in thoughts and words to create spacious healthy boundaries, to refuse despair with news being in my face the minute I dip in enough to keep myself informed. My friends all have their own ways to play, to share the best of friendships, families, and brave, uplifting human stories we hear of to celebrate.

Humans do not like paradox. We would rather our path forward was always clear, safe and unchanging. That is never the whole picture of life considering that death is also our partner from the moment we are born. The older we get the more mortality is evident in the losses of an eldering body. Losses may be gradual until one day sudden and perhaps cascading health situations arise forever changing the trajectory of day to day living. Resilience and willingness to adapt will serve us better than railing against this reality.

Adapting to external crisis is harder to bear as we know we have less agency to make the changes we desire. Finding resilience to hold both life and death, sorrow and joy, patience and frustration, is always part of being human. Much is asked of us today, just as ancient civilizations have also had to witness to violent upheavals as a means of change in their own time.

Spring rituals and traditions of all religions and cultures provide a way to acknowledge that we share one precious planet. May we each find our own way to celebrate that Oneness.

This first poem counters the fear that is in in the air these days.

Early Spring Music

Thunder growls as spring jerks

back and forth from sun, warm rain,

to snow in the morning.

She dances to every kind of music.

Tangos, waltzes, minuets, sultry jazz riffs,

hard tock and brass fanfares

from one day to the next as the light increases.

Green creeps in its petty pace from day to day.

Daffodils, pansies, crocuses, forsythias

bide no excuses to halt unfolding,

so why should I?

This next stream of consciousness poem repeats the refrain of spring weather on the first night of Passover, ironically celebrating the freedom of the Jews’ escape from the oppression of the Egyptian pharaoh. Whose freedom today?

April 1st    2026

Last night boom black

shards of lightning

rain rattled my window

like gusts of gravel hitting the glass

today quietly soaking the lawn into a lake






Sunshine-yellow overtakes olive





molting finches dart about





feeding ignoring the steady rain





our raincoats shedding umbrellas shaken





boots off come on in have a seat.










No kidding April 1st





it is Spring unwinding





a vengeance of green





everywhere no stopping





this delicious insistence of life










Despite rites of freedom and renewal





refused decimated by winters





of Their discontent who pays





who wins who loses we hurt





yet she sings the busy birds,





“Listen, we rise again.










neighbor’s patio, by author

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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March
					


	

	

	

		






Christmas cactus by author





The month of March (also the Red Planet) is named after the Roman god of war, Martius or Mars. Our country has honored his name this month in a very visible way. Although there is likely a war always going on somewhere on the planet, this particular ‘war-not a war-a war’- is very visible with the potential for many dire unforeseen consequences. I don’t believe our leader is currently able to process logical systematic ideas. I think unelected advisors are filling his disorganized brain with what to do couched in terms he wants to hear and so he spouts what he is told in his own discombobulated manner. For the moment, this has proven acceptable for the machinery behind the throne. Who knows for how long this arrangement (derangement) will go on? Rashes and bruises aside, there may come a time when it no longer serves their purpose, and they will find a way to move forward with a new face promoting their agenda.





In concert with other powerful violent men, they continue to wreak further havoc on the world. We watch, we protest, we suffer in sympathy and keep working to find our own heartful sanity every day. It is difficult to endure but I am not the one dying from the devastation of daily bombs.





Enough said.





What else is happening in March? My Christmas cactus pictured above decided that the latest thaw that began last month, was the signal to send forth exuberant blossoms. I sat by one pond today and listened to the tree frogs peeping and chirring, so it must be spring, even though they do not read calendars. Down the road I can hear geese squownking loudly in the latest kerfuffle involving impressive water fights with powerful wings. Some paired geese have returned to their own nesting sites from past years and look away from such youthful bravado.





Aconite popped up last month in the first thaw we had, and today the daffodils are swelling with buds even though we know it could possibly snow once again. I am thinking that the old, ‘In like a lion and out like a lamb.‘ is no longer a reliable expectation. The weather is on its own trajectory. I saw mourning doves and heard new songbirds calling last week and I see iris, tulip and other leaves spearing up through the mulch in many beds around the campus. They are hardy as are we. We welcome each warmer day as it comes. I read somewhere online- sorry I can’t attribute it properly- that this is ,‘Wrong coat weather. No matter which coat you choose it will be the wrong one.” She is correct.





The week before last I created a silent retreat for myself. No computer or phone at all. It was nourishing and as I quipped, “It was just like real life only much quieter. All distractions were of my own making.” The following is a poem I wrote about the second to last day. My dear neighbor and friend across the street is Carol, to whom I dedicated the poem.





After the February Thaw





For Carol





Yesterday, whole trees wildly welcomed





an incoming gusty cold front.





Weather gods withdrew





their warm moist breath that melted





compacted snowplow mountains.










Across the road, the white canvas cover





of an outside patio chair





billowed up, puckered in, billowed up, puckered in.





I saw a bird, whose claws were caught in the seat





extending two brown wings flapping and flapping,





trying hard to escape the chair.





I keenly felt its struggle for freedom.










Today, the cold settled down to bite back





your every inhale, condensing around your exhales.





The potent breath of life that gave rise to a bird





made of worn-out cushion stuffing





is gone.










Life is like this sometimes-





we are sure we see things clearly before us-





that then turn out to be





products of our own illusion.










aconite through window by author

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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March through April
					


	

	

	

		






photo by author





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…

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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June
					


	

	

	

		






First berries in Courtyard Garden





Strawberries are here. A friend went picking them at a local farm and delivered me enough to bag and freeze for weeks to come and still more to cook down into a syrup that will enhance my morning oatmeal sundaes.





Spring is rapidly maturing into summer here in northeast Ohio. We had several days of 80+ degree (F) weather already, though the nights are still cool. Hot humid weather is difficult for me, as wet heat slows down neurological transmissions to muscles. MS already shuts down those connections, so I get out on my mobility scooter as early as I can before the sun has time to heat up my campus. I don’t complain- Emilia’s good friend is visiting the States with her son from Delhi, India. It is over 120 degrees (F) there.










Out for a family stroll





Many goslings are already gawky teenagers and smaller birds are on their second broods. Cedar waxwings have moved in around a nearby Juneberry tree defending the small red fruits from aggressive robins. Tiny rabbits, squirrels, and chipmunks are rapidly learning the ways of their kind.outside. 










Small squirrel silhouette on feeder seen between my blinds and plants





And of course, the diversity of flowering flora is an unending delight with daily discoveries. A former biology professor from Oberlin College (one of several) has taken over our most beautiful community Courtyard Garden. One of the most spectacular displays is the cactus garden (yes, a cactus garden in NE Ohio!) which also blooms in June. 










Hard to describe the intense contrast of thorns and luscious blossoms





He installed a small water feature that is home to painted turtles named  Brutus, Woody, (who may both be females, no one is sure), and a tiny new one as yet unnamed and hard to spot. Brutus comes up to investigate onlookers from time to time thinking he will be fed. I had no idea turtles could be conditioned that way.










Brutus, ever hopeful for a handout.





This month has an underlayment of nostalgia as it brings both Father’s Day and Richard’s birthday. Our family remembers him for his birth and death day by eating ice cream. ‘Tis the season for ‘frozen dairy delight’ as he used to call his favorite treat. May the sweetness of the season find smoother sailing with the bitter nature of our tumultuous world politics.










My neighbor getting his small craft ready for sailing.






	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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May
					


	

	

	

		






I was asked to write a poem for our latest Spring Fling community gathering.The theme this year was Pollinators. We had a scientific explanation from our well informed head of grounds here at Kendal as well as songs and dances and skits all celebrating spring and its pollinators. I added my piece which was used at the very end. It got chuckles and appreciation so now I pass it on to you, my family, friends and readers.





The Hummingbird, the Honeybee, and the Butterfly                      










One June morning, sitting on my front deck, eyelids closed against the strong sunshine, a buzzing sound annoyed my ear. As I opened my eyes to swat away an insect, a hummingbird had helicoptered over to check out my brightly colored blouse. I was all show and no sugar, so he zipped away to chase off the other guys vying for their drinks at the red and yellow feeder.





My cat came stalking back from adventures in the forest to show off the best way to sunbathe. As she languidly climbed the steps to join me, I noticed a honeybee in the grass. Not a big carpenter bee who drilled holes above my window frame, dusting my bureau with delicate sawdust, but a small earnest honeybee diligently visiting white clover after clover, imprinting his wiggle dance to map exact directions for the hive.





Over by the garage, a monarch butterfly landed on some few remaining milkweed plants. Their poisonous sap could harm our newborn lambs who delighted in escaping beneath the fence, though the mauve flowers the plants produced would seduce the nose of an angel. I watched the female fluttering upside down quickly depositing a single egg beneath one chosen leaf, and then another. Her larvae would ingest the toxins repulsing very hungry caterpillar eaters.





I called out,” Hola, Señora Mariposa!“ because she had just returned from Mexico to leave the next generation behind her.





These three pollinateers fly in and out of our landscapes every year. Seeking sweet nectar, they and their kin nurture beauty and carry the survival of our crops on their wings. In return, let’s pollinate the idea that we carry their survival in our grateful hands.
















	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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April
					


	

	

	

		

The Pipes of Pan: Before the Eclipse, 4/7/2024










The house finch dipped into powdered rouge





touching up his head and chest,





that sexy stripe between his folded wings.










The goldfinch leaves his nest





half-dressed, molting from olive to gold-





spring summons love for the ladies.










Geese zoom in for splash landings,





raucusing amongst themselves,





raising cane in joyful havoc.










The pipes of Pan haunt





in wild and mysterious keys.





Called out of darkness,





through all seasons,





ears attuned for Love,





we fly and make a joyful noise,





ascending from note to note,





to unlock the vault of the sun.















In 1968 Richard and I saw a partial eclipse of the sun when we were freshman at Emerson College in Boston. I no longer remember how we ‘saw’ the event but I do remember the awesome feeling of standing on the street with hundreds of strangers in a hushed moment. The city paused and held its breath as relative darkness washed over us in a primal revelation of how much we depend on the sun for light and warmth and life on Earth. How small we are in the cosmic alignment of star, moon, and planet.





Living where I do in Northeast Ohio, we are in the direct transit line of this current event. And, living in northeast Ohio as I do, it will likely be at least partly cloudy as the local forecast says. Nonetheless, our whole community has been issued viewing glasses and many families have reserved a local place to stay and to visit their loved ones at the same time. There is a real buzz of excitement that is catching and joyful in anticipation for the entire afternoon’s careful preparations for one and all.





Darkness and light, moon and sun, earth and all of its inhabitants, we breathe and live together invisibly connected through the stream of life. Spring erupts around us in myriad delightful ways. May we all be fortunate enough to be touched by the inevitability of growth and give thanks at least several times every day for the diverse gifts that abound.






	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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March
					


	

	

	

		






I am coining a new phrase- SDD or Seasonal Disorientation Disorder. Since February 1st it has felt like spring here in Northeast Ohio. If it had been March or April, you would expect the yo-yo extremes of warm sunny days coaxing out the early flowers and returning songbirds followed by freezing nights and a few inches of snow. But it seems we have added another whole month to springtime. Now that it is March, there are already robins, nest builders, returning geese couples, early booming plants and benches that beckon you to sit a while in the warm sun. It seems wrong to cut winter short (unlike in Alaska where they had record snowfalls) and yet delight in wearing only a light sweater or jacket to walk and jog along clear paths.





We are fortunate that lovely weather is the result of climatic disruptions. Others around the country and the world watch droughts and floods and violent storms destroy their way of life, with the looming certainty that the usual order has forever been changed. I know I do my best to limit my climate unsustainable consumerism as an individual living in my community in America. But as an individual I don’t have much of an impact on the sweeping reforms necessary to ensure that my grandsons will have a safe planet to live on. But I can vote!





My spiritual practice stabilizes me in a big picture of humanity’s sojourn on Earth. There is nothing in the universe that does not expand and contract, passing through stasis points on either end. What remains constant is the source of creation itself, called by many names, accessed, and sought after by science and diverse paths, all leading to acknowledge our impermanence. I can live with that. I do live with that intimately as my body ages and declines in its own unique way.





Today I am grateful for mobility scooters and sunshine, friends and neighbors, nurses and physical therapists, and the joy of being alive to witness being one of eight billion people on earth. Consider that we are a very small percentage of the billions of beings that we share the planet with. Even the few tiny  ants that have begun to traverse the desert of my bathroom floor are part of my world each spring. Taking every moment that I have, just to be alive, is the joyful thing that I, as an individual, can do my best to inhabit every day.










Outside





I will go outside where pond-gazing is magnetic,





to spy on turtles rising from the mud of





gold and copper leaves tossed





like wishes into the autumn murk










caught frozen mid-decay










in ice mandalas sliding across the ballroom floor





released into black waters shimmering in





warm spring sunlight





rippled by today’s breeze,





by old thoughts dropped





into the dark brew.










The bounded certainty





of my room, weighted by shoulds,





maybes, papers, internet messages





hold a lingering whiff of





a delicious morning meditation





urging me out, get out, let go,





hand myself over





to the unseasonably early spring embrace.










Spacious skies invoke breathing,





geese preening, songbirds nesting,





stillness dissolving into silence.






	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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May
					


	

	

	

		

May





A parade of blooms and weather changes proceed along spring’s merry way. The red bud tree next door spreads pink petals like a flower girl at a wedding all over a patch of unplanted earth beneath my window. A Dawn Redwood tree shades this northwest corner of Kendal and although the resident chipmunk adores this quiet terrain, not many deliberate plantings take to the shady, acidic, clay soil around here. Almost five years ago I could still do a little gardening in that spot, but due to the lack of a hose attachment nearby and my fading strength it is now a small wild place that attracts a variety of low growing weeds. A chipmunk has dug many holes while building up a mound of dirt where he is a bit higher up to oversee his munkdom. It is close enough to the birdfeeder outside my other windows where he can safely scavenge the sunflower seeds dropped by sparrows and finches.





It is not the larger wildlife of regular bear, fox, cayote, deer, wild turkey and weasel sightings of my former home. But further away from my end of Kendal there are deer, cayote, and fox sightings. And Ponds. Lots of ponds where I spend time with frogs, turtles, and waterfowl. Spring commands attention everyday with trees filling out and floral smells providing olfactory pleasures. There are new tree species to greet in Ohio and just the sheer shades of green high and low are enough to fill me with joy, even during last week’s cold snap with snowflakes wafting among puffy dandelions gone to seed.





So much else in the larger world seems very unsettling and shaky and it is comforting to see flowers and bunnies and goslings still emerge. I don’t think I have had one conversation with a friend which hasn’t devolved to bemoaning yet another dire sign of conservative extremism in Ohio, our country, and indeed around the world. I keep saying it is a reaction to so much underlying fear of the rapid changes on the planet. Frayed political systems unable to handle these changes invoke hatred, rigidity, and violence in a desperate attempt to clamp down and control fearful people. My friends and I have to pause when we touch on the dire direction our thoughts can take us. We agree to invest in hope and not feed the fear with our own sorrow about the way things are going.





It is hard in the best of times to look beneath the surface and address underlying fear of loss. I face continuing loss of mobility and physical independence. It is my own personal cauldron bubbling with the unknown. We all have fears of losing My Life as I Know It. It is human. It is what calls us to do the digging to find a larger means of viewing and living in the world. It is a means of loving that which gives birth to flowers and bunnies and goslings and all of the suffering. Feeling separate from the ever-present consciousness that gives rise to every season- the abundance of spring into the barren revelation of winter- is the loneliest experience I know.





A verse from an old song of mine goes… “Oh, Lady Summer, I am still a child of Spring. Let me do as the swallows do- build a nest in your arms and learn to sing.”