I long for snow today, but so far, we only have drizzle. There is something so peaceful about snow. And so beautiful. I have a book of Monet’s paintings of snow that, in lieu of snow, I’ll open and enjoy today. I also have a book of photographs of snowflakes. Meanwhile, I’ve got a fire, a cozy chair and Sweet and Spicy tea. It’s wonderful writing weather. I have a new job writing book reviews for Psychotherapy Networker. This month I am reviewing Dacher Keltner’s “Awe.” It’s an excellent January-in-Nebraska read. Happy New Year, dear friends.
A wonderful read, and a wonderful idea!![]()
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How an unconnected phone on a nature trail is bringing comfort to grieving people | CBC News
www.cbc.ca
Deer Lake's "wind phone" is helping people feel connected to loved ones they've lost.
Some time ago, I was invited to speak at the new Crete library. I no longer do public events and I turned down the kindly librarian. However, to my surprise, I kept thinking about Crete. Eventually, I asked the librarian if I could accept her offer.![]()
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In the mid-1950s, when my family lived in Dorchester, my mother had hospital privileges in Crete. I would wake early to ride along with her. Then, while she made rounds, I’d sit in the waiting room. Sometimes there’d be babies in a window that opened into the nursery. I’d watch those babies and wonder about their future. ![]()
Last Sunday I drove down to the library. It was a beautiful facility built on a hill. I spoke in a light-filled room with tables for the audience members. When the librarian introduced me, she mentioned that the new library was built on the site of the old hospital.![]()
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Suddenly I understood why I found myself in this place. I could see my mother with her white doctor’s jacket and a stethoscope looped around her neck. As she walked toward me, I could hear her high heels clack along the hospital’s linoleum corridor. I embraced her the only way I could. With my words.![]()
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In the great kaleidoscope of time, a doctor dies, a girl becomes an old woman, and a hospital becomes a library.
(With the caveat that I am NOT a poet...)![]()
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The season is turning.![]()
The last of the orioles and hummingbirds have flown south.![]()
The rabbits’ fur has thickened.![]()
The mums and the pumpkins sit on the porches.![]()
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And what about us?![]()
We dig out our heavy coats and find the windshield scrapers.![]()
We turn from walking trails to libraries,![]()
from salads to stews.![]()
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We return from our travels and ![]()
See the faces of our old friends. ![]()
They are our down comforters who will keep us warm ![]()
against even the harshest of winters.
Last night early, a creamy pink moon rose above our masthead tree. This morning a big red sun replaced it. The asters and goldenrod are in bloom. The cicadas sing out and the birds are clumping up for their long journeys south.![]()
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Yet, who can say anything new about September? Month of pears and apples, of hummingbirds and orioles, Of green-gold leaves and turquoise skies. And what more is there to add about its poignancy, its bittersweet nature? I can only say this.![]()
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With all its sparkling glory and foreboding splendor, it has never come sooner. And, as I approach my 75th birthday, I have never listened more closely to its message. “Impermanence, impermanence, and impermanence."