Now I become myself. It's taken time, many years and places...

 - May Sarton


a love story in black and white

To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go. ~ Mary Oliver "In Blackwater Woods"

*this was written in December following the passing of our sweet Jazz

Daddy carried you inside from the sunny spot in the front yard grass

Where after a happy walk, you effortlessly made your graceful transition.

He gently placed you atop your soft blanket.

We lit sacred candles and thanked you for sharing your life with us,

Marveling with appreciation that you remained a puppy at 13 1/2.

He softly played the Tibetan singing bowl and

I anointed your dalmatian spots with lavender oil and warm teardrops.

We each honored you with a blessing.

Cradling your soft paws in our hands,

We sang you love songs.



a small getaway


 Flee to the wilderness. The one within, if you can find it.   ~ Utah Phillips

 Our weekend was spent camping oceanside in our '78 VW bus, Gypsy. I eagerly explored starfish laden tide pools, my navy blue converse wading through saltwater and sand. There was stargazing through giant sycamore trees, frog music, mosquito bite scratching and a vociferous rooster crowing in the distance; all the live long day. There was surfing for Bud, journal writing and Rilke for me and fluffy quilts and pillows from which Rave did not want to stir. My restless heart is full and satisfied.



words from hafiz


 Admit something:

Everyone you see, you say to them,

"Love me."

Of course you do not do this out loud;


Someone would call the cops.

Still though, think about this,

This great pull in us 

To connect.

Why not become the one

Who lives with a full moon in each eye

That is always saying,

With that sweet moon 


What every other eye in this world

Is dying to


*love rock from dancing mermaid


my song is a noble farewell

                                Les and Mae, 1946 


If these walls could talk

they would speak of vivid moments 

of drowned worries and over-leveraged resilience.

They met in England during World War II.

He, a dashing American soldier,

She, a vivacious redhead British bombshell.

She left her fiance, her family, her country and 

her wartime job in munitions earning more than her father,

to begin a life in California with the American equestrian.

She was afraid of horses.

The turning of the key would unlock

prescription-strength hopefulness

and unnameable overturned cathedrals

where childhood warriors came out to play.

They married in England in 1945

after an argument the night before:

She was certain the groomsman with the glass eye

would ruin their wedding pictures.

Her long white gown had been worn by four wartime brides before her

and was booked for its next gig mere hours later.


She packed the white silk blouses

lovingly sewn by her mother out of tattered parachutes.

Along with a few favorite piano songbooks

she boarded the basement of a ship 

for over a week of seasick anticipation.

Arriving first in New York

then traveling by bus to meet her new husband on the west coast.


Fresh polished photographs advertise adventure.

Pale fire born with sunlight.

In the kitchen lemon meringue slices of pure joy outlast time.


Though they had little money

He gifted her with a piano and

She bought him a Quarterhorse.

Soon with newlywed excitement they built the house they would live in forever.


Home movies show a long wished for baby,

adopted three days after his birth.

There were horses, dogs, cats, ducks and chickens.

A barn to build and fences to post.

A roaring fire in the winter mornings and at dusk, 

so blustering that at times the flames had to be stomped out of the carpet.

Piano music and her singsong voice.

Tea at four and rack of lamb for dinner.


True homes are a kaleidoscope of emotions,

loss reverberates through time

and the parameters of grief are wide and careless.


A car accident took their only child as a teenager.

She bravely felt that pain as it surfaced and resurfaced,

long after people expected her to move on.

She refused to pretend.

I think I loved this about her most of all.


Their marriage endured.

They traveled and laughed again and drank vodka tonics with dinner.

They experienced the difficulties that harshly accompany growing old.

They were a comfort to one another,

and I would imagine a pain in one another's ass sometimes too.

But I was there at the end,

I saw how they fell asleep, hands entwined, sixty four years later.

I noticed how they left this world only days apart.


Whistling echoes of the dented aluminum tea kettle

now belong to the archive of crowded remembrance.

The barn recounts its own story of

long passed youth and inexperience.

My eyes close to the fragrance of fading honeysuckle

and the threaded texture of decades past.

My song is a noble farewell.



gladness courtesy of kate spade

On the typewritten page:

this is the story of a charming girl

she laughs out loud, sings off key and believes in taking chances

she is quick and curious and playful and strong

she lets her imagination run away with her

she has never been one to stick to convention

she is fond of daydreams that take her places

she can order a cocktail in six different languages

she feels that understated is overrated