Stories Are For Eternity

Fraudulent, or just busy?

This past August I became interested in making junk journals. They appealed to me aesthetically, I liked the idea of repurposing materials, and it was a huge challenge for me as I’ve never been an artsy-craftsy individual.

That isn’t to say I’ve never created anything, it’s just come to me later in life. As an adult I learned to crochet in a very basic fashion. But I was able to make a large afghan that is still going strong despite being 35 years old. A little later, I was taught to do counted cross-stitch. A challenge for a lefty who is somewhat ambidextrous, I can stitch with either hand but learned that mixing hands in a project results in an uneven finish for the stitches thus affecting the overall aesthetic of the project. Yet, my home contains several of my framed cross-stitch projects.

I feel I’ve engaged in these activities mainly to prove I could do them. Much of my life was a creative wasteland. Most of my energy went toward my students and my teaching. It was decades before my true creativity emerged.

I write. I love to write. I must write. While it is very therapeutic for me to write, it is not what spurs me to write. If you’ve ever watched or read The Green Mile by Stephen King, the character of John Coffee has a unique ability. He is able to eradicate evil by inhaling it into his own body. He then releases it in a torrent which leaves him emotionally and physically spent, each episode weakening him further.

I write in torrents, or bursts. Why? I have no idea but I’ve written in this manner much of my life. Seldom do I outline my ideas or make lists. Things circulate through my mind for weeks before they erupt onto paper.

I’m a tactile writer. I write longhand. I need to feel the pen moving over the paper. It creates the accepting environment for the thoughts flowing out through the pen’s ink. I’m certain there is some psychological explanation for that, but who cares? As a science, psychological interpretation is largely subjective in my opinion.

So, why is the word ‘fraudulent’ in the title of this post? Though I create and encourage the use of journals, I’m not much of a journal writer. In truth, I suppose this blog serves that purpose for me. I do know it may be very helpful for individuals to learn to channel their self-expression onto paper.

The very process of writing is soothing. Pushing a writing instrument across the paper, creating images through words, is very satisfying. Being able to pair those words in a journal along with whatever other materials allow you to express yourself, may result in enrichment and satisfaction.

Each of us is unique. And isn’t that a grand concept? If one chooses to search for a creative outlet, one may be richly rewarded. It has worked that way for me. While it has taken decades, at least I’ve found a way to calm some of the turbulence in my soul.

Am I a fraud to make and promote the use of journals as a creative outlet when I do not maintain one myself? I think not. My writing takes other forms, but I am very much aware of the benefits of self-expression through writing and other creative pursuits.

My advice? Don’t be afraid to learn. I’ve spent much of my life in fear, fear of failure primary among those fears. It profoundly influenced my adult life, choices I made, and how I lived. I’ve managed to break free from much of this self-imposed mind control. It was used for survival. And I’m glad many of you will not be able to comprehend that previous statement. Consider yourselves lucky. For those of you who are able to embrace and feel my words, give your inner self a chance to breathe and live.

Though I am experiencing a creative writing standstill, I am actively finding other ways to channel the swirling thoughts and ideas contained within me. And, finally, I’m doing it for my benefit…for myself, for my satisfaction, for my own needs.

Along the way I’ve gained acceptance of “what was and will never be.” With that comes humility and grace. There is no shame in refocusing one’s efforts. It’s not a reinvention, it’s a discovery and an embrace of new facets of one’s being.

In the words of Rachel Platten, “I’ll play my fight song/And I really don’t care if nobody else believes/‘Cause I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me.”

Reasons for thankfulness…

It’s difficult for me at times to drum up reasons to be thankful and/or grateful. Though my life hasn’t turned out the way I would have liked, who even knows if my anticipated path would have been good? Like many, I’ve been through the wringer. But, I’ve survived, and thrived and am thankful above all for that.

The old holiday traditions continue to change. This year, instead of preparing the epic meal, polishing silver, watching the parade, and football, I will visit with my mom in her memory care facility. She may or may not be in a good mood, she may or may not remember some things. She may or may not like me being there because it takes time away from her gentleman friend. So why am I grateful? Because she still remembers me and never fails to tell me how much she loves me.

I’m also thankful for friends who never hesitate to include me. I have invitations to join others for dinner. Though it would be good for me to be around others, I prefer to go home and decompress. As a highly sensitive individual, watching my mother’s decline is heart wrenching. It just knocks the stuffing out of me, no pun intended. She’s my last family member alive and I’m thankful that a part of her is still here.

Another reason to be grateful is for medical advances that are available. So even if I might think to rail about having macular edema in both eyes, I’m thankful there is treatment and that my health insurance pays for it. I don’t enjoy having injections in my eyes, but if it helps my vision I will keep doing it.

So even though all gray clouds may not have silver linings, I always think of the brilliant sunshine above all of the clouds. As long as I’m able to picture that, I’m able to put one foot in front of the other.

“All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I’ve loved them all”. “In My Life”. Lennon/McCartney

The Winds of November…

Others used to tell me frequently that autumn was their favorite season. I’d smile and nod. Summer was my favorite and it was bittersweet for me when autumn came to visit. The start of a new school year rendered me zombie-esque until after Columbus Day. Lots of outdoor house chores to be done in addition to everything else. The only time I had to take a good look at the changing season was my early morning drive to school and the initial view through the expansive windows in my classroom.

But this fall, this fall…it was indescribably beautiful. And I reached an understanding of the widespread affinity with autumn. The months of September and October were divine this year. Temperatures averaged higher, the sun shone constantly, and it was glorious. I’m usually mourning the loss of ability to swim outdoors. Thankfully this year I was able to push that aside to focus on other benefits of the seasonal change.

November is a changeable time of year. It brings us Election Day, Veterans Day, and my personal favorite, Thanksgiving. My birthday is also in November, always around Election Day. The year I turned 18, my birthday was two days after Election Day and it was a Presidential Election year. Frustration.

No matter what, my memories flit back to my early childhood in Burlington. The weather turned cool and crisp. As a family we went apple picking and watched cider being made. My mother made homemade applesauce and apple crisp. We popped corn in a basket in the living room fireplace and washed it down with warm, mulled cider. Casseroles appeared in the dinner rotation. I love them to this day.

The westerlies begin to howl during November. They bring the storms and colder air in from Canada. It’s always a guess as to when snow will appear. As a kid, there was usually a fair amount of snow on the ground by Thanksgiving. Now, due to global warming, it’s not guaranteed. Honestly, as I age I’m pretty happy if the footing is good on Thanksgiving.

My main chore on Thanksgiving was to polish the silver for dinner. My paternal grandparents came to Vermont to spend the holiday with us. It was expected that we’d trot out the finery and help our mom to make sure things were practically perfect. Mom’s China and silver were used. The big silver water pitcher had to be polished and washed. Tablecloth and napkins were freed from their plastic wrapping from the dry cleaner’s.

Our dining room table was oval. The extra leaf needed to be added to the table. My dad and brother handled that task. Once the silver was polished, it was then my job to set the table. I made a game of it by doing it in assembly-line fashion, doing laps on the oval braided rug that our oval dining room table sat on.

Despite my dislike of polishing the silver, I rather enjoyed dressing up the table. I loved handling the treasured pieces that were used…the cranberry dish, the small tray that held the celery and olives, the water goblets. I retain ownership of some of these items. What I lack is a family to share it with.

My hope is to begin a tradition in the New Year that will include a return to cooking and hosting one small dinner party a month. My culinary skills are rusty but that can be fixed. I’d like to pull my personal treasures out of hiding and use them. At the very least, it will warm my heart to make them useful once more.

“O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being.” I enjoyed this poem so much, even though I’m not a huge Shelley fan, I vowed to name a horse West Wind if ever I owned a horse. What a stupid name. I’m more of a Keats or C.S. Lewis fan. Lewis told us, “You find the strength of a wind by trying to walk against it, not by lying down.”

Face the wind and don’t retreat. It may wash away troubles and bring fresh opportunities. We just don’t know.

Junk journal? What’s that?

Trying to teach myself new things. I’m learning that paper crafting is enjoyable and relaxing for me. What I will do with it in the long term remains to be seen. Right now I’m watching YouTube videos and learning different concepts and techniques. Those ideas wash through my head and acquire my influences. It’s a work in progress.

I suppose the truest form of a junk journal is the intent to create an original and handmade journal using mostly “throwaway” items. Think recyclables. Since there are no hard and fast rules to junk journaling, one is unlimited in scope. And they may be created to serve a variety of purposes: artistic, memoir, travel, tribute, etc.

Some people like to write in their journals, but, again, there are no hard and fast rules. There are journals featuring lined paper and there are journals that include small spaces for writing. Any spot is fair game for writing. And there are as many junk journal styles as there are individuals making them.

How did I become interested in this? I’ve never considered myself to be artistically inclined. As a left-handed individual, I’ve experienced loads of problems when wielding tools of any type. This includes scissors which can be an integral part of junk journaling. Today’s technology features scissors that may be used by all folks and are not defined by which hand is used to cut.

Most of my life was spent in avoidance of art activities due to my inability to use scissors effectively. I convinced myself that I had no artistic inclinations. Now, in my older and wiser stage of life, I know I was wrong. I was a coward and didn’t want to “fail.” At this stage of life, I’ve decided failing is no longer an excuse. It’s not a damn competition. It’s about enjoyment and enrichment.

What piqued my interest in this particular craft was the firm idea that there are no rules. One may junk journal as one wishes. That took away the concept of failure. I’ve long been a proponent of writing as a method to ease one’s internal pain. Or to express joy found in everyday things. Or to tell a story. Writing is soothing, though one may wade through some turbulent waters in order to arrive at the optimal cool pool of water. And that’s the point. Not all pleasures arrive without some work involved.

Why did I begin? Honestly, I was embroiled in a grief process. A few years ago, I lost someone very important to me. It was difficult for me to grieve his loss because I think I felt by grieving I was letting him go and he would truly be gone forever. Making his journal was transformative for me. I learned a great deal more about myself and about our relationship. And I did it my way, a far more meaningful process.

Sorry for the truly amateur video. Another subject where I need to learn a great deal. But you get the idea. Practicing my new hobby has temporarily put my fiction writing on hold. I’ve been rethinking my original plot lines and feeling stale. I may have to begin anew. I just don’t know. I will think about it as I continue to experiment with journal making.

“Our song” runs throughout the journal. I did a load of writing though it’s mostly hidden by pockets and tucks. Deeply personal.

Historical Events…

Each day on Word Press there is a prompt for writers. I usually have my own ideas but I wanted to respond to this prompt today. As a baby boomer, I’ve been blessed to experience many historical events. In addition to events, I’ve witnessed ways of life that have disappeared and I’ve experienced wonders the likes of which I never imagined.

I could jot a list here. Nice but not meaningful. I began kindergarten in September 1963, in Burlington, VT. Not long after the school year began we stood in line to receive a sugar cube nestled in one of those white paper pill cups. The sugar cube contained a vaccine destined to eradicate polio. Just that summer I became very ill while staying at my grandparent’s camp. My fever was high and I was ill enough that I was brought into a nearby city to be examined. It was Coxsackie Virus. My parents were grateful it wasn’t polio as they’d feared.

On July 20, 1969, I was so excited that my usual bedtime was suspended. We went to our next door neighbor’s house to watch the moon landing. They had a color tv though much of the footage was in black and white anyway. Looking at the moon took on a new meaning after that night. I didn’t understand the importance of racing into space back then and, honestly, I still don’t.

Also jammed into the decade of the 1960s was a tremendous amount of death. Vietnam, Kent State, JFK, MLK, RFK, Malcolm X, Medgar Evers. Was it all worth it? Not judging by today’s society. We lost 58,220 young men and women during Vietnam alone. I became a news junkie during this time period. Watergate occurred and all of the hearings related to it. I was back in Burlington visiting friends as “Tricky Dick” took his last ride on Marine One, still flashing his peace signs. Two points on your average if a voice in your head just said, “I am not a crook.”

Some wonderful stuff I experienced was new types of television programming like “Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In,” “All in the Family,” “Monty Python’s Flying Circus (there’s a penguin on the telly),” “The Fugitive (in re-runs).” So many more wonderful and groundbreaking shows.

The AIDS epidemic captured most everyone’s attention. There is still no cure but the diagnosis is no longer an automatic death sentence. So many families were affected by the loss of friends and loved ones, mine included. My lone sibling is forever 40 in my memory.

There have been phenomenal medical advancements. I’ve certainly benefitted from several.

9/11. I will never, ever forget watching the first tower fall as a classroom of students behind me kept right on chit-chatting like we were watching a movie. Another teacher and I held hands over our mouths in shock and horror. I was speechless.

The silence of the night sky on 9/11 as all flights were grounded.

The Greatest Generation. What they did to preserve our futures was incredible. We will never see the likes of them again.

I’m not even going to tackle COVID and the current US political situation. I’m all too aware of the amount of graft, corruption, and propaganda that folks are willing to believe so that a small percentage can prosper while a high percentage of our fellow citizens struggle to make ends meet, put healthy food on the table, and have basic health care.

I look forward to the historical event that heralds the end to our current nightmare and ensures Democracy will live forever in the US.

“We shall overcome,/We shall overcome,/We shall overcome, some day.” Song originates from “I’ll Overcome Someday,” by Charles Albert Tindley (1901). First symbolic of the Labor Movement before becoming representative of the Civil Rights Movement.

Demolition of the East Wing of the People’s House 10/23/25

The priceless worth of friends…

Was invited to a local reunion event to hawk my book, a non-fiction look at the first fifty years of our local school district. Large social gatherings make me edgy but it was all about the book. I know my book in and out. No reason for social discomfort.

As it turns out, it was the best book event I’ve had so far. I sold far more than I expected. I’m thankful for the opportunity to be there. The reunion was a 50th high school event. Mine is next year. So I knew some of these folks from over the years. And I met many more wonderful folks the other night.

Here’s the deal. Back in the day, I was pleasing to the eye. Though I’m still attractive, there is waaaay more of me to love. Decades of mental and physical health issues have robbed me of my once bright spark. Or so I thought.

I love being on the periphery at these events. To watch the joy emerge on the faces of the attendees as they reunite with old friends. To have attained enough maturity to say the meaningful things to one another. To comprehend the beauty of the memories. As an individual who feels emotions deeply, it’s as moving as it is entertaining. And I think it is because I’m allowed to be an onlooker.

A couple of special moments elapsed as I greeted a couple of longtime friends. One had dated my best friend for years and the other I worked a summer job with for several years. They have been long gone from our town, are very successful, and have large and loving families. But they were humble enough to spend some time with me. And it was quality time

These two guys accepted me for me. Somehow they saw past the self-deprecating humor. It’s hard for me to explain at this moment how our conversations conveyed so much meaning in such a short time. I’ve been enveloped in a euphoric fog that turned bittersweet yesterday when I happened to think, “Is that the last time I will see either of them?”

It’s a legitimate question. Life is not guaranteed. Being able to speak to each of those men was an unbelievable gift. If I didn’t convey it at the time, each of them should know how much their kindness has always meant to me and how thankful I am to know them. Though I hope we meet again in this life, I know we will meet again eventually.

Some of my “old self” was with me at this event. The part of me that laughed spontaneously, the part of me that felt joy, the part of me that felt respected came out to play, even if only briefly. In the wise words of Lady Gaga, “Whether life’s disabilities/Left you outcast, bullied, or teased/Rejoice and love yourself today/,Cause baby, you were born this way.”

Thanks guys, it meant more than you know.

Secrets?! Do tell…

“Listen/Do you want to know a secret?/Do you promise not to tell?”

Now picture two little kids, ages 5 & 9, dancing on a bed and singing into pretend microphones. This is how I learned at age 5 that singing would not be one of my career choices.

So, here’s a secret. I’m not a big fan of the Beatles. There, I’ve said it. Some may find my utterance to be sacrilegious. I’m just not crazy about them. Their talent is undeniable as is their influence on the music industry. That said, my favorite Beatle was George and I loved that he formed the Traveling Wilburys.

The real secret I came to tell today is that I’ve never been one for journaling and/or keeping a diary. The earth just shook a bit. What?! I, the one who encourages people to write their feelings out on paper, don’t maintain a journal? Nope, never have. I will say my various blogs have served that function for the last fifteen years. I’ve written many, many things on sheets of paper and stashed them or tossed them.

Here’s what I know. For me, the physical act of using a pen to make words on paper brings me the satisfaction of an athlete having a good workout. So maybe I’ve achieved a new status – The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Writer. (Someone will recognize what I did there.)

Seriously, though. The pen gliding across the paper is a calming feeling. It boggles my mind that I’m the one creating the words on the paper. Though I’m never able to keep up with the lightning speed of my thoughts, I’m usually able to capture their essence. I will say that I do not give myself permission to unleash my thoughts fully. I still practice careful writing. someday the hounds will be released.

Is it hypocritical for me to make journals and encourage the use of them for writing? No. I’ve done the research. It’s beneficial for any individual to put thoughts on paper. And achieving this goal by handwriting these thoughts sharpens cognitive skills, helps the mind to be disciplined and organized, and enhances learning. Hey, who knew it could be good for you? Well, I knew.

How do I know? Because it has helped me. Just as crafting is currently helping me explore a new facet of my personality, writing has been incredibly beneficial. When I began making journals in August, one of my first was dedicated to Jim. I hadn’t dealt with his loss properly and it was time. So, I did it in a manner familiar to me. I wrote.

I didn’t pen an epic tale. There are many snippets within his journal, along with other pages of writing. When I put the finishing touches on it, I was proud of my work and felt some peace about his passing. And most of the writing I did is on notebook paper. I’m a fan of lines. One doesn’t need fancy paper. I’ve written bits of poetry on paper bag scraps.

Never, ever, discount the worth of your words or thoughts. They’re priceless. The best part is there is no right or wrong for writing them down. You do you. I favor the use of a Pentel RSVP black fine point and some lined paper.

One more secret. Recently while the weather was gorgeous, I took myself on a picnic. While I’m a hopeless Romantic and would have liked to create and share a picnic with a special someone, there just isn’t one at this moment. I didn’t want to miss the opportunity, so I asked myself and I agreed.

It was a small picnic, just right for one. Some good cheese, a nice roll, a ripe pear, and a handful of nuts…all washed down with unsweetened homemade iced tea. The tea had mint from my patio herb pot. I chose to sit at a picnic table at Thacher Park. It was lovely. And after I ate, I sat and wrote. It was better than a fantasy, almost.

Enough secrets for today.

“So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,/So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.” Sonnet 18. Shakespeare

My crafty awakening…

I’m a firm believer in the benefits of writing. I’ve never been good at keeping a journal for any lengthy period of time, but blogging has been a good substitute for me. And it’s my philosophy that writing longhand is the way to go about it. As my pen glides over the paper, I feel some of the angst flow out with it.

If anyone had told me twenty years ago that I would call myself a writer, I would have laughed heartily. Me? No way! Now I can’t imagine a day without writing something. Words have meant so much to me since I can remember. I was a voracious reader in my youth. It opened new worlds to me and I’m so thankful.

As a left-handed individual (one of the 10%), I struggled with fine motor skills. Gross motor skills (think sports) came easily as I performed those right-handed. But eating, writing, and brushing my teeth could only be accomplished with my left hand. We already know of my nightmare with scissors which turned me into a hater of arts and crafts.

Yesterday I made a journal from “scratch.” I took a flattened cracker box, destined for recycling, and made it into this.

As soon as I saw the scrapbook papers, I knew I would make something out of them. Blue is, was, and always will be my favorite color. I know that some crafters make entire journals based on a color theme. I wasn’t ready to do that…yet. But I created the physical “foundation” for the journal, made the signatures (groups of papers that form the pages), and created a spine and binding into which I sewed the signatures. For me, this borders on miraculous. Seriously.

I’m a patient individual except when I am struggling to master a skill. I expect a lot from me. Too much. And I lose my temper. It’s ugly. My mother could tell you about a cooking mistake I made when I had her over for dinner at my first house. I ended up throwing the container of paprika against the wall. Can we say MESS?! I admit I’m a thrower. Maybe it was all of those years of teaching tennis. Thankfully my shoulders are shot and I can’t throw worth a damn. But, I can cuss.

I began putting things into the journal. There’s no deadline. It will proceed on its own. I don’t mind sharing the first two items. My skills are fair and the only way is up so I’m looking forward to that. I want to make and market journals that encourage people to write through their “stuff” while also discovering their inner craft personality.

Though I don’t create junk journals by their definition, I do embrace the tenet that junk journals have no rules. This allowed me not to seek perfection in my creations and, in turn, it released a spark within me that was undiscovered. I’m so grateful to have found this, though it may derail my fiction writing for a while. Be patient and I hope you might accompany me on this new journey.

Part of junk journaling is using unconventional papers for one’s writing.

Don’t look now…

It’s fall, y’all. It’s not in my usual lexicon to use the previous contraction, but sometimes the shoe fits. Well, the shoe seldom fits me. I mean that in the literal sense.

Almost two years ago at the end of September, I boarded Amtrak for a trip of a lifetime. I faced my anxiety and traveled solo to Spokane, WA from New York’s Capital District. Having watched North by Northwest a few too many times, I’d always wanted to do a train journey in my own private compartment. So, a few months shy of my 65th birthday, I set off for Spokane. I’ve talked about this journey ad nauseam so I won’t rehash any of that.

Since that trip I’ve thought long and hard about what I saw, through the train window and in person. I experienced the prairie habitat, something I hadn’t really seen too much. It’s vast. I experienced the sight of snow-capped mountains. It’s imposing. I experienced the numerous bodies of water along the way (Whitefish Lake, Lake Coeur d’Alene, Lake Pend Oreille, to name a few) along with countless rivers and creeks (Mississippi, Flathead, Spokane, to name a few). It’s intoxicating.

I soaked in all that I was able to see. What I saw was remarkable. To be honest, it also cemented my preference for the Northeast. Why? I was struck by the vast open landscape. So much vast open land. As an individual living with generalized anxiety disorder, I didn’t want to think about living in the middle of nowhere. And I love solitude much more than most people. There’s solitude and there’s isolation. If my situation was different and I lived on a ranch or family compound where there were others I wouldn’t mind.

It is undeniably beautiful, in the same vein as the Southwest. But, the colors don’t work for me. They’re so harsh. Lots of grays and browns, lots of dust, lots of rock. Each of these retains its own beauty and I recognized the raw splendor of all I saw. I yearned for the green and soft landscape of my home. Maybe it’s because it’s what I’m used to seeing. I’m adaptable enough to acclimate. I don’t think I’d want to. Never say never.

Summer is wonderful in the Northeast. I live on the doorstep of the largest park in the US, larger than Yosemite, Yellowstone and Grand Canyon Parks combined. Though folks from the West laugh at our mountain ranges, they are mountains nonetheless…constructed through tectonic movements, glacier movement, etc. Some of our mountain ranges are classified as sub-ranges of the Appalachian Mountains. Some are classified as a massif. Some are considered an escarpment. They are somewhat small compared to those out West. It doesn’t mean they don’t have their own charm.

I’m lucky enough to live within easy driving distance of the Adirondacks (NY), Catskills (NY), Greens (VT), White Mtns (New Hampshire and western Maine). Mt Washington, the highest peak east of the Mississippi, just under 6300 ft, is part of the White Mtns in NH.

Regardless of what an individual prefers, there’s no mistake that fall in the Northeast is magical. Leaf peeping is an integral part of the area’s tourist industry. There’s a charm that exists in the Northeast that I haven’t found elsewhere in the US. Maybe I just haven’t found that other spot yet.

Agree to disagree. It’s subjective, but it’s all beautiful. Make sure you appreciate it.

Will it ever happen?

I have no idea. And I don’t even know what “it” is. I’ve hoped and waited for decades but I’m no closer to an answer. My adult life thus far feels as though there should be something right around the corner, but there rarely is.

It’s suggested we should make things happen to enrich our lives. While I concur with that idea to a point, I also know there are limitations. Things just aren’t always as easy as they sound. I’m tired of trying to hit the curve balls.

Right now I’m stuck in an existence that’s difficult to explain. I don’t go forward or backward, I just float. As I drift, I bounce off obstacles and just drift. It’s hard to put into words. It’s like I’m plodding along doing what I have to do. There’s no joy, no relief, no carrot out in front of me.

At least twice a week I visit with my mom. I never know what to expect when I visit. Today was a happy time, other days aren’t. I’ll take what I can get, but it drains the life out of me. Life drains the life out of me.

And yet, I keep waiting for “it.” Will there be a day when my mind isn’t rocketing along at the speed of sound? Will there be a day when my mind is able to focus instead of flitting from idea to idea? Will there be a day when I understand my purpose for being here?

The practical side of me thinks “it” will never appear. But the other part of me that dreams and yearns for inner peace and contentment is going to keep hoping. I feel I could have done so much more with my life although given what I’ve endured thus far, I’m proud of where I am. It did exact a terrible price.

I’m grateful for each day I’m able to get out of bed and function. But I miss the connection of friends and laughter, and the spontaneity of my youth. I think I shall be able to get back to my writing soon. I can’t force it. For now I’m enjoying this new artsy craftsy person I’m becoming.

Don’t read into this narrative too much. Sometimes I need to see my thoughts on paper in order to sort through them and better understand them. My two closest supporters are no longer available to me and I’m learning to navigate in new ways. I’m not ready to throw in any sort of towel. There’s too much beauty I haven’t experienced yet. And I have so much more to give.

“There were moments of gold/And there were flashes of light/There were things I’d never do again/But then they’d always seemed right/There were nights of endless pleasure/It was more than any laws allow…”. It’s All Coming Back to Me Now Celine Dion. Sometimes the grief just appears.