Category: Dreams

A Dad’s Dream

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Though nothing is predictable in 2026, the arc of every life includes mostly ordinary activities: going to work; shopping for groceries; filling up the gas tank; navigating small and large challenges that enter unannounced.

But it is the less frequent, extraordinary moments–the rites of passage–that outweigh the mundane tasks of life. Graduations. Weddings. Births. Deaths. They supersede in our psyches. They flicker forever in our memories.

On Saturday, August 29, one hundred and twenty of us gathered at the Firehouse Chicago (a decommissioned firehouse transformed into a wedding venue) in the Edgewater neighborhood of the Second City. We came to witness the marriage of Kirk and Jennifer, my younger son and daughter-in-law.

It is a dream come true for any parent to see their adult child find their own path. To be more specific, this dad survived a heart attack on his sixtieth birthday. So, living to see Kirk marry the one he loves–the one who loves him–is the proverbial cherry on top of a hot fudge sundae.

Jennifer’s and Kirk’s early-evening, outdoor wedding ceremony was a cultural tapestry. It melded elements from their collective Jewish and Catholic upbringing.

For instance, they were married under a chuppah, a rectangular wooden structure laden with flowers. In the Jewish faith, it symbolizes the home they will build together.

After they shared their vows, a proud gay couple (my husband Tom and I) read the couple’s loving intentions for their marriage, for their families, for those who have gone before them, for their community, for the world at large in need of a hefty infusion of love, hope, humanity, equality. In every instance, the response from the congregation came in return: “Hear Our Prayer.”

A brief, unexpected shower in the middle of the ceremony–ushered in by rolling gusts of wind and the steady thrum of chirping cicadas–never dampened our spirits. It only added to the texture of the day.

As I write this, Tom and I are back home in Scottsdale, Arizona. I am fighting off the remnants of a cold. We have unpacked our bags from Chicago but haven’t yet unpacked every indelible moment from this whirlwind family wedding.

I do know in my heart that this was more than a joyous wedding. It was a healing experience to mend fences with my ex. To conjure the spirits of family members gone but still loved. To stand tall beside my husband for all the world to see. To feel true love, palpable and present, beaming between my son and his bride.

All of it gave me hope.

Today and Tomorrow

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Uncertainty exists in every day, in every life. I try not to dwell on it, but on this day–the 250th anniversary of the United States adopting our Declaration of Independence–uncertainty is our next-door neighbor.

I certainly remember our 200th anniversary, our bi-centennial celebration, in 1976. I was a bright-eyed, long-haired, eighteen-year-old, idealistic American.

Living in suburban St. Louis, I recall seeing the tall ships grace New York Harbor on our console TV on July 4, 1976.

That summer I worked at Six Flags Over Mid-America near St. Louis. As a tribute to the bicentennial, the Screamin’ Eagle rollercoaster roared across the sky. It was the newest, tallest, fastest ride in the park. Teens rode it again and again just for the thrill of it.

Even though the corruption of Watergate and the devastation of the Vietnam War were still fresh in the American psyche, in 1976 it felt like all Americans lived under and abided by one set of rules. That we aspired to one vision.

That the United States of America–the collective red, white and blue–was one nation and indivisible. A beacon of hope and freedom. That we believed, honored, and protected the notion of life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and justice. For all.

Over the past several years, like a rollercoaster that has jumped the tracks, we have been derailed by a malicious force. I don’t need to–or want to–speak their names. They have fostered twenty-four-hour-a-day uncertainty and anxiety in this nation I still love.

What I choose to celebrate today are the American citizens who still hold fast to the principle our nation was founded under: freedom and justice for all Americans, no matter your skin color, ethnicity, religious beliefs, sexual orientation, gender, social or economic status.

That is the memory of the United States of America I am proud of.

That is the country my father and thousands of other true patriots have bravely fought for and defended.

That is the country I knew and lived in yesterday.

That is the country I still dream of and worry over.

That is the country I cling to and pray for on July 4, 2026.

That is the country I want to live in today and tomorrow.

Hope Is Never Silent

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Today–May 22–is Harvey Milk Day.

On what would have been his ninety-sixth birthday, I want to remind the world that Harvey Milk’s spirit of compassion, authenticity, equality, and hope still lives within each of us in the LGBTQ community … nearly fifty years after his assassination in November 1978.

In 1977, Harvey Milk was the first openly gay man to be elected to public office in California as a member of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. Despite his short political career, he quickly became an icon in San Francisco and a galvanizing force and inspiration for the LGBTQ community for his unbridled commitment to civil rights.

We will never know what Harvey Milk might have said if he had lived to see the dream of national marriage equality become a reality in the United States in 2015 and now–eleven years later on the other end of the spectrum–to witness the rapid, daily decay of American democracy, American institutions, and American civil liberties.

But I’m a hopeful person and so was Harvey.

He believed “hope is never silent.” He also believed in visibility, whether it means two men holding hands while roller-skating under the palms or standing in protest … raising our voices in solidarity … and living openly on days that aren’t nearly as sunny.

In these frightening times, the impulse for some might be to take a step or two back into the closet. But Harvey would have encouraged all of us–gay and straight–to do the opposite. To step forward with conviction.

Take a moment to read some of Harvey’s encouraging words.

Harvey’s hope and memory is a salve for all of us–gay and straight–who believe in truth and decency.

Though Harvey is long gone, his legacy of authenticity and hope still lives.

***

“I know you can’t live on hope alone; but without hope, life is not worth living. So you, and you and you: you got to give them hope; you got to give them hope.” Harvey Milk

“Every gay person must come out. As difficult as it is, you must tell your immediate family. You must tell your relatives. You must tell your friends if indeed they are your friends. You must tell the people you work with. You must tell the people in the stores you shop in. Once they realize that we are indeed their children, that we are indeed everywhere, every myth, every lie, every innuendo will be destroyed once and for all. And once you do, you will feel so much better.” Harvey Milk

The Alcove

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This week, I began my two-month writer-in-residence stint at the Scottsdale Public Library.

This magnificent moment never appeared on my personal viewfinder when I stepped away from my communication consulting career twelve years ago. (I was mired in grief after my mother’s death.) But maybe it should have.

I had spent thirty-four years writing for small, medium, and large-sized companies. Helping them tell their stories. So, I had spent a good deal of time honing my writing craft. But it was never personal.

Finally, in February 2014, I began to tell my stories. That led to my first book, From Fertile Ground.

It is a memoir, which I published in 2016. Now, five books and a decade later, I’m coaching aspiring writers, sharing what I have learned along the way.

On Monday afternoons in February and March, I’ll be meeting one-on-one here in The Alcove, a triangular-shaped office at the Scottsdale Public Library, with other storytellers.

(I also will lead a three-part, memoir-writing workshop for a group of sixteen writers in February and March in a space around the corner from The Alcove.)

It will be my pleasure–my honor really–to help guide young and old participants on their creative journeys. No doubt, I will learn a few important things from them, too.

More than anything, if I can help others by unlocking or fine-tuning their writing prowess and passion, then I will have done my job.

We must continue to record and share our personal truths, our fears, our dreams, our memories with others without fear of repercussions.

I believe that is especially significant at this moment in American history.

Inside The Alcove or outside in the everyday world, let’s all vow to keep writing in 2026.

Because art–and that certainly includes good writing– informs, engages, entertains, inspires, and spurs the heart, mind, and spirit. It helps us develop greater compassion for one another and reach new heights.

I believe we can do all that and more by telling our stories.

Home

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On June 2, 2025–as Tom and I returned to Arizona on an American Airlines flight after a blissful five days with family in the Chicago area–I closed my eyes in the semi-comfort of my aisle seat.

I leaned into my husband and said, “It feels good to be heading home.” I was referring to Scottsdale, Arizona. That is where we live … in a kitschy, mid-century condo community. It has been our home now for nearly eight years.

I’m not sure this is the life I dreamed of as a youngster in St. Louis. Or a middle-aged-man in the Chicago suburbs, who earned a good wage, raised two sons, and was fortunate enough to meet a man I would love and one day marry.

Let’s just say it is a warmer, lighter, literary life, which I had hoped for but didn’t imagine I would realize.

***

On June 30, 2017, we had just sold our three-bedroom home in Mount Prospect, Illinois. Handed over the keys to a pleasant couple and their young son.

As Tom and I approached our sixtieth birthday, we were excited about the prospects of creating a new life in the Grand Canyon State. But Illinois still felt like home.

Looking back, I suppose I underestimated the significance of this change … the loss of familiarity even when it wasn’t necessarily positive and growth producing.

If you follow me, you know how difficult our shared sixtieth birthday would be. If not, you should read about our harrowing journey and personal detour in St. Louis. It was great fodder for my third book, An Unobstructed View.

Once we finally arrived in Scottsdale, Arizona, on July 12, 2017, we both needed time to recuperate.

Our two-bedroom condo (which had once been Tom’s grandparents’ home starting in the early 1970s) was comfortable enough … especially after our new air conditioning unit, windows, and exterior doors were installed.

But we decided not to make too many dramatic interior changes right away. That really wasn’t a conscious decision as much as a reasonable one.

Soon we made new friends in our community: through our yoga class in Scottsdale and my chorus connections in Phoenix. With time there were other creative ripples before, during and after Covid.

We each wrote and published books. I wrote three librettos for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus. Tom’s film classes materialized and compounded magically. Spurred by his passion for classic cinema and a library contact from our friend Glenn, that seed has grown into a legitimate, bountiful following.

Somewhere in that mix, we crossed over the tipping point of flux … knowing that we had truly found our new home. Feeling that we had become full-fledged, full-time Arizona residents and advocates.

And now–in June 2025, eight years after we said goodbye to our first home together and spent the past three months painting and remodeling–the interior of our Arizona home is finally a reflection of the color, comfort, and humanity we imagined.

It is–like we are–fully transformed. It is our desert lodge with a decent splash of soft apricot, western warmth, and comfy chairs.

It is our refuge with and without family and friends. It is our nesting place away from triple-digit heat and authoritarian regimes.

It is our home.

Seven

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I began this blogging odyssey seven years ago today. That’s longer than I stayed in all but one of my jobs during my communication career, and the most obvious measure I can think of to show and tell you how important this is to me.

The crux of it is this. I continue to write here and trade comments with you, because it is the best way I know to express my individual voice at a malignant time in our country. I don’t want our voices to be denied.

But, from a purely literary standpoint, I write and publish my thoughts at least once a week to keep me sharp and centered–despite the rust that has gathered around my edges.

Tom and I gave this angel to my mother many Mays ago when she lived in Winfield, Illinois. It anchored the container garden on her balcony patio.

I remember how much she loved it.

When we moved to Arizona in 2017–four years after she passed–I knew I had to bring it west with us. I knew it needed to adorn our patio in Scottsdale.

So, the angel and her companion bird rest there on this Sunday morning … blowing wishes into the universe and hoping for a better day tomorrow.

Thank you for being my companion on this long-and-winding road.

Destination Unknown

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I was about to embark on a journey. But not remotely ready. Nonetheless, I was expected to begin Day One of a new job, in uniform as a United Airlines flight attendant.

A crowd of other newbies gathered around me. We lined up to have our security photos taken by a young, rather handsome cameraman with a large head. He teetered on a tiny chair with his knees protruding beyond his elbows.

When it came to be my turn, the blond figure told me to stand on an X marked on the floor. Then, he stood to reveal his true height.

His elongated body stretched for nearly eight feet before he snapped my photograph and disappeared behind a funhouse mirror.

A primitive machine spit out my image, but I don’t remember receiving my security credentials.

About this time, my husband appeared on the other side of a window that contained a metal tray below. He told me he wanted to slide cash to me under the glass. He thought I might need it on my journey. He said he would meet me on the other side. I felt disoriented and dismayed.

Moments later, I found myself standing in front of a harried female administrative assistant. She sat behind an old desk with stacks of papers and files surrounding her. She worked for United. She told me I needed to board my first flight in about thirty minutes, but that my hair was unkempt.

As she handed me a boarding pass, she spieled off a list of complicated directions that would lead me to a trusted stylist in the terminal. She insisted there was time to accomplish this necessary task, though I would need to run to catch my flight.

I felt anxious. Unprepared for my journey. Unsure of the safety protocols. Disturbed that the length of my hair was causing me trouble. Lost in a once-familiar Chicago terminal that was now foreign to me.

That’s when I woke up.

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