Category: Seasons

Septembering

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Two days of much-needed rain, remnants of hurricane Polo, have scrubbed our Sonoran skies and revealed–on the last day of September–sunny-and-mild, early autumn.

This is our desert version of fall, which would be characterized as summer anywhere else. Comfortable mornings. Perfect for hiking and plenty warm to swim outside. I did both before noon.

With every stroke back and forth at Eldorado Pool in south Scottsdale, between 10:00 and 11:00 a.m. I found myself Septembering … a word I’ve crafted to represent six sweet September 2026 moments I choose to remember here.

***

On September 4, my parents would have celebrated their seventy-eighth anniversary. A friend and ex-colleague touched me by colorizing and retouching their wedding photo. Such a pleasant surprise!

On September 6, Tom and I celebrated our twelfth anniversary by treating ourselves to a fabulous matinee performance of Les Miserables at the Phoenix Theatre.

On September 17, my husband kicked off his eighth Movies That Matter film series at the Scottsdale Public Library. Since launching it in January 2023, his popular program has attracted cinephiles who crave absorbing the meaning of fabulous films and Tom’s fascinating insights in a fun-and-engaging community setting.

On September 25 (9/25 day for Dolly Parton lovers who grieve), I was one of ten members of the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus who sang back-up to Mamma Coal (host performer shown below) for a rendition of “I Will Always Love You” at a Celebration of Dolly at the Van Buren concert venue in Phoenix. A portion of the proceeds benefitted Dolly’s Imagination Library.

On September 26, my sister Diane celebrated her seventy-second birthday in the Chicago area. I remember how we teamed up beautifully during the last four years of our mother’s life (2009-2013) to care for her. For Diane’s special day, Tom and I bought her a gorgeous blue-green scarf, which she loves, in Vancouver’s Stanley Park during our Canada visit in late July.

On September 30, Tom and I enjoyed cooler temperatures and hiked along the Crosscut Canal near Papago Park in south Scottsdale. Though we’ve lived in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona for more than nine years, at times I still feel I am walking on the moon whenever I witness the stark beauty of the buttes and saguaros.

PS: For good measure, I’ve also included a September 2026 photo Tom took of me, not one of my sister. She prefers her privacy.

Screenshot

Oh, Hummingbird

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Lately, I feel like an anxious hummingbird, flitting about from one branch to another. Zooming in and out, searching for creative inspiration. Trying to find sweet nectar that will help me link one idea to the next.

Maybe it’s the late-summer desert doldrums. The intense Sonoran heat has worn me down. I don’t feel the impetus to write here as frequently as I once did.

Even so, I have experienced two moments of writing bliss in the past week. Both led me to draft deeply personal poems for members of my family–chosen and otherwise. At some point, I may decide to share them publicly, but not now.

Maybe this is simply what it feels like to be living in my “late sixties going on seventy” (sounds like a parody of a song from The Sound of Music) in a world gone mad.

All the while, I try to nourish myself.

I try to help others I love who have lost jobs or are battling cancer.

I play word games on my phone when I wake up each day.

I recall the stunning scenes and pine scents of western Canada.

I pack for my younger son’s wedding in Chicago this weekend.

I squeeze in another trip to the gym.

I watch the young-and-promising St. Louis Cardinals I root for self-destruct again in the late innings.

I download the music for my December choral concert and prepare for my next rehearsal.

I socialize with friends away from the heat produced in the Valley of the Sun.

I take afternoon naps to reboot my brain.

I prepare to lead another memoir writing workshop in October.

I recoup with my husband at home. We enjoy quieter moments in the confines of our Arizona abode.

Through it all, I wonder when or if I will rediscover the time and energy to complete another book.

Hello Yellow

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Hello Yellow, how good of you

to make an appearance before

Santa and his reindeer land.

I’ve missed you and your

colorful red and orange cousins,

your crunchy-yet-sunny

disposition, your earthly scent

as you hang, glide and tumble

to be collected by the magical

metallic click and swoosh of

yesterday’s backyard garden

rake. Didn’t we once gather

with your friends in a pile or

several for one last heavenly

autumnal celebration before

carols and flurries cascaded and

winter’s drifts and desolation

froze us in our tracks?

Now I remember us together,

surviving in a simpler, more

defined, orderly civilization.

You don’t need to worry.

As long as I am here, you

and your seasonal friends

will remain alive, constant,

distinguishable, and everlasting

… at least in my imagination.