On this Easter Sunday, it would be easy to pass by the emerging April blooms of a hidden succulent.
But I forced myself to stop, to welcome, to examine nature’s delicate offering outside my desert door.
Though barely visible beneath the eaves of loss and loud proclamations, it is anything but ordinary.
Red roses and pink orchids
Adorn our living room today.
It is a day to celebrate love.
Romantic love is the headliner.
I am thankful for my husband,
Our love, our mutual understanding.
We have been together nearly thirty years.
We were able to marry in 2014
On a bright September afternoon.
We continue to grow and love together.
We nurture each other’s passions.
We provide a warm haven
For each other as we age.
But love exists in many shapes and sizes.
Devoted friendship.
Brotherly and sisterly love.
Parental love. Neighborly love.
Love of nature and animals.
Love for the good of all humanity.
These forms of love are just as important.
We all need to feel loved to flourish,
To live with dignity. To survive.
Not just on Valentine’s Day. Every day.
Certainly, there is love in our country.
But the malignancy of hate abounds.
Endless, unbridled love is the antidote.
When love coalesces with truth and justice,
We will reemerge from the darkness,
Holding an abundance of red roses and pink orchids.
As dusk descends, confused trees whisper,
“How did it become later than ever?”
They pause and ache for lingering leaves,
Heroic January lives that fell too soon,
Brilliant ones yet to fade and fall,
On unforgiving February concrete,
Certain militant Marches,
Angry Aprils, unimaginable Mays,
To come and go without reason.
They stand and wonder when and if,
More sensible seasons, brighter days,
Truer hearts, freer minds,
Will return and reign supreme.
It is inevitable that we will lose some of those we love along life’s journey. But all is not lost.
When seminal I’ll-Be-Seeing-You moments, birthdays, anniversaries, songs reappear, we can’t help but acknowledge them.
Over the years, I have chosen to pay tribute to those I love in my memoirs in significant ways. None more than my mother.
These three sentences appear in my first book, From Fertile Ground, which I wrote and published in 2016.
“She died in the wees hours of January 26, 2013, at age eighty-nine and a half. The air was arctic cold and the moon was full. Every time I see a full moon now or experience the change in seasons, I’m reminded of my mother’s undaunted spirit.”
On this — the thirteenth anniversary of her passing — I pause.
I give thanks for Helen Matilda Ferrell Johnson.
I remember her unconditional love, her letters, her wisdom, her level-headedness, her resiliency, her love of nature.
And I do my best to carry on.
I keep writing.
While we box up our flickering, ever-tangled holiday lights, compartmentalize them with our fading democracy, shove them into insanity’s dusty attic beside our president’s latest lawless actions streaming 24/7, we also attempt to climb above and beyond accumulating ominous clouds, by feeding old-year bread to new-year geese, by examining each piece of life’s puzzle with bleary-but-thoughtful eyes, by loving ourselves, each other, and all animals, by emulating kind lives under fleeting desert candlelight, by resuming our daily quest for survivorship and unflappable wisdom, even as every institution, every once-reliable media conglomerate or teetering motherboard (like the dying one on Tom’s old phone) signals the end is near and must be replaced. So, we replace it. We move on. We give thanks. We cherish every labor of love and every hidden oasis. We welcome every petite, heartful bouquet. We marvel at one rare, exquisite, night-blooming cereus, paint-plus-provenance. It is the perfect gift on canvas from a dear friend.
The downstream darkness of January is real, but in our upstream hearts, in the serenity of nature (and now framed in splendor on our living room wall thanks to Dougal) there is a profound, constant, but private reminder: there is always beauty and hope, even when there is darkness.
As a one-man-book-writing-and-selling band, I find myself switching hats from creative storyteller to active listener to self-promoter on a daily basis.
Today, in the waning moments of November, self-promotion is taking precedence. After all, if I don’t believe in the viability of my storytelling capability, who will?
Happily, I’ve begun to receive early reviews of my latest book, Sixty-Something Days … posted online, sent via text, and offered enthusiastically in person.
Feedback in any form is better than silence. But it is especially meaningful when it is specific … when it is unsolicited … when it is affirming.
As this Thanksgiving weekend winds down, I give thanks for these three readers who–in recent days–took time out of their busy lives to tell me what they think of Sixty-Something Days.
***
J wrote the following review on Amazon … “I thoroughly enjoyed this book. The author, Mark Johnson, shares with us his intimate life story of personal growth, overcoming challenges, and being true to those around him, and most importantly, to himself, even under difficult circumstances. Told in the style of a memoir, with essays, poems, and fiction, Sixty-Something Days, shows us all what it takes to be better friends and spouses, members of our communities, and citizens. This world would be a better place if we were all more like Mark Johnson. Highly recommended.”
N sent me this message via text … Good morning! I am just sitting down to read your Sixty-Something Days, and the first pages have me feeling happy! Sixty-five Thoughts (the name of one of the early essays) are right on and I will share some of them as I move thru life. Thanks for writing this book and I look forward to reading the rest!
D greeted me in person with a smile at a recent event … “I have to tell you I’m just loving your book. The stories are brief but meaningful. Strung together, they produce something much greater. I’m about to begin 2025 (the book is organized by years) and I don’t want your book to end!”
***
Perhaps I have sufficiently enticed you to read my latest book. If so, click the link below.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FZM2724S?ref_=ast_author_dp&th=1&psc=1
This is a momentous day for me. My sixth book just went live on Amazon.
Sixty-Something Days is the story of my post-65 quest to stay relevant creatively. It is a collection of my best essays, poems, and short fiction from 2022 to 2025.
The book is an artistic tapestry of my writing, singing, teaching, learning, growing, and surviving journey … with family and chosen family … connecting one leg of my life (my midwestern past) with another (my western present) during this period of tremendous upheaval in our country.
In my heart, I know this book will resonate with many of you–my loyal followers–who like me continue to strive to nurture and protect the artists, educators, animals and nature, and diverse disenfranchised people in our communities.
I hope you’ll take a few minutes to click the link below and be among the first to buy a copy. Thank you for your support of my creative pursuits!
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FZM2724S?ref_=ast_author_dp&th=1&psc=1
The middle of October is upon us, and I am addicted to the pumpkin spice lattes at Grounds on 2nd, our favorite haunt in Old Town Scottsdale.
More important, I am delighted to report I have completed the manuscript for another book. It’s called Sixty-Something Days.
Book six is a memoir tapestry that first entered my consciousness around my sixty-fifth birthday in July 2022. I began to closely consider what it means to stay creative and relevant in our later years … especially in our divisive culture enamored with youth but often dismissive of wisdom.
This book explores that idea in episodic ways. It features sixty-five essays, poems, and flashes of fiction, which I first published here over the past three years. Now, I am stitching them together.
With time–and the encouragement of friends and readers–I began to see a thread of truth running through them: that as human beings (lovers of music and nature) we must remember the poignant arc-of-life moments (past and present) while striving to stay involved, influence others through our compassion, and share our hard-earned wisdom.
Those themes appear in my other books, but this one feels more urgent. More emphatic. I feel an obligation to share what I have learned, find beauty and hope wherever we can in our lives, and raise a banner that is a call to action to survive this period of tremendous upheaval in our country.
Currently, I am working closely with Sam, graphic designer extraordinaire, to create a cover and develop the interior format. Sam has partnered with me on all of my books.
Yesterday, he sent me the first galleys for review. I can see book six taking shape. I feel my enthusiasm swelling. If all goes well, I will publish Sixty-Something Days sometime in November.
Stay tuned!
I understand why you feel betrayed,
why you can’t stay any longer,
why you don’t feel safe
in a country ravaged by hate.
It has fallen far beneath the one
you and I once believed was true,
the one you and I thought we knew.
As you fly away to begin anew,
to begin a new adventure,
to begin in a new life in a new country,
those of us who love you,
those of us you leave behind,
hold this gift of friendship high,
as we also hold our breaths.
We wonder what you will learn,
what you will discover in your new land,
what tomorrow will bring
for those of us,
who stay behind
to live each day
in this familiar zone
of divisive uncertainty,
in a country we still love,
as our forefathers
and foremothers did,
all of us that much
closer to midnight.
For my friend, who is beginning a new life today. He will remain nameless.
Wednesday night–in this July–actual raindrops fell from the Arizona sky. They pinged–hypnotic, soothing, and steady–on the roof of our metal carport.
Our mini monsoon was enough to wash away the dust and scrub the air, but not Thursday’s dastardly news of puffy politicians selling unfortunate souls down the river.
Away from the madness, Poly found a dry patch of concrete beyond the storm and platitudes. She rolled side to side, then flicked her tail, as if to say:
“I may be a stray, but I’m not stupid. I know how to get by. I know when to stop by your door. When to come in out the heat. Stick with me. You and I are survivors in this and every July.”
Mark Johnson Stories 