Tag: 2024

Safe Haven

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I don’t typically tackle social and political issues in my blog. I prefer to focus on the splendor of love, family, community, nature, and serendipity that runs through our lives.

But over the past weeks and months–years, really–I’ve been ruminating over what it feels like to live in the heaviness and post-Covid-social-upheaval of the United States in 2024.

Even though I am in good health and am fortunate to have the companionship of my husband and a cozy home, I often feel a gnawing, low-level anxiety.

I attribute this to worry. What will happen to disenfranchised members of our community–non-white immigrants, people of color, minority women, all women, all children, elderly people, trans people, gay people (like me), etc.–who would be especially vulnerable if our past president (the one just found guilty on thirty-four felony counts by a jury of his peers) should be elected in November?

I should tell you this blogpost isn’t intended to sway your opinion. I don’t think that is possible. I can’t imagine any American being undecided–not in this us-versus-them world exacerbated by lies and constant media attention.

Yes, I will vote for Joe Biden. It’s pretty simple for me. I’m not naive. Of course, he’s made mistakes, but he’s done a lot of good for our country economically and otherwise. I see him as a decent man–the only decent man whose name will appear on the 2024 Presidential ballot. I think he has the best interests of Americans in mind and sees the presidency as a job designed to serve the people, not his personal agendas.

If you feel differently, you are entitled to that. Just know that the democratic values and rule of law that generations of American men and women have fought for will be flushed down the toilet if enough people in swing states like Arizona vote for the other guy. I won’t include his name here.

Why did I choose to write about this today? Because I suddenly have greater clarity concerning all of the weight, which I’ve been carrying around concerning the potential loss of a safe haven–something all of us are entitled to.

The remarkable thing is my clarity came from an incident outside my front door on Sunday morning … an incident involving a feral animal Tom and I have come to love.

If you follow my blog, you know I’m talking about Poly. For the past three years, on many mornings she has appeared at our front door. Poly lives a reckless life, but at the very least is the beneficiary of food on the cool tile of our entryway (and probably others).

Her visits are a brief escape from the heat of the Sonoran Desert. Maybe her visits are also an escape for Tom and me to leave behind the worries of the world, which I’ve outlined above.

Recently, Poly has moved closer to us. Winding her way around our ankles. Sleeping in our wicker chairs. She has even decided to sleep outside on the gravel underneath our loveseat on occasion… before she moves on to explore other places, porches, and hideaways. Such is the life of a lovable, but forever-feral feline.

Anyway, on Sunday morning one of our neighbors (someone we care about who owns a sweet dog) happened to approach our front door at the same time Poly was eating with our door ajar. Normally, the dog is on a leash, but she wasn’t yesterday–though she should have been.

Poly (and I) were freaked. She ran out our door and down the sidewalk as the dog chased in hot pursuit. I feared for her safety and gave my neighbor an angry earful for not leashing her dog.

As I swam laps this morning in Scottsdale, I realized that my rightful (but intense) anger had roots. Metaphorically, in my mind and heart at least, Poly represented the plight of thousands of vulnerable Americans who might be on the run … whose lives might be in danger if we lose our democracy.

I say that knowing that some of my LGBTQ friends–particularly those in the trans community–are considering alternative plans of where to live if Biden doesn’t win the election. That’s a daunting thought and potential reality, which you may not be aware of if you don’t have gay friends.

One thing I am certain of. It doesn’t have to be Pride month for me to remain authentic and visible. I will continue to care about those less fortunate (humans and animals) … no matter what happens in November and beyond … because we all deserve respect and kindness … no matter who we love … no matter our identity.

Meanwhile, back in our Polynesian Paradise community, my neighbor and I have repaired our relationship and regained our equilibrium. (She apologized for not having her dog on leash and told me she hoped it wouldn’t deter Poly from returning.)

Late yesterday, Poly reappeared–safe and sound–outside our front door. This morning, she had her breakfast on the cool tile of our Sonoran entryway.

An hour later, I found her tucked underneath the loveseat in her safe haven. Peeking through the cacti containers and elephant food succulent on our patio, she allowed me to take this photo.

I am thankful Poly (and I) survived our Sunday scare. I hope our nation and democracy are as fortunate in November.

The Soldier on the Hill

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I last visited my father’s grave at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery in September 2021.

If there is such a thing as beauty to behold in a final resting place for those who served, it exists there just south of St. Louis on the banks of the Mississippi River–fourteen hundred miles east of where I live and write today.

On this Memorial Day, I remember Dad–and the thousands of fallen soldiers gathered around him–with twelve lines I wrote on August 27, 1996 … almost three years after he died.

This poem and forty-one others appear in my book A Path I Might Have Missed.

***

The Soldier on the Hill

I talked with the soldier on the hill today.

We sat, we cried, we laughed, we prayed.

The bells rang true, the trees stood free.

A breeze swept past to welcome me.

Shadows filled the landscape then.

Tempers rose without his pen.

Snowflakes fell, the grass turned green.

All without a change of scene.

Now the soldier rests with them,

Hand-in-hand–all blessed again.

They greet another trailing soul.

Who makes the journey past the knoll.

Before the Blossoms Fell

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What will happen, when our last

parade of Palo Verde petals

paint the blue sky yellow?

Beyond the frantic flight

of ever-fluttering pages,

who will pause to remember

what we did, what we saw,

what we knew, what we missed,

who we loved and carried forward,

who we–proud and bold–held,

before the blossoms fell?

May Day

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May casts a quiet spell of desert sensibility.

Brief morning showers spawn feline revelry.

Lonely pomegranates hang ready to ripen.

Roses, hibiscus, and bougainvillea vie nearby.

Shiny lizards adorn loveseats and walkways.

Still waters wait for summer waves to come.

In a Blur

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Reflecting and writing meld in my brain. They often occur — in a blur — before I touch my keyboard.

Yesterday, I witnessed a graduation celebration, one table over in an outdoor cafe in Tempe, Arizona.

Today, it has morphed and merged with a blurry family photo, a 1979 memory in Columbia, Missouri.

Graduation day is just the beginning, the departure leading to unknown learnings and destinations.

We can’t really know where we will land, who we will love, or what we will do, until we make our way.

It is less about what we do, more about how we do it and the contributions we make along our journey.

That’s what determines who we become, what we recount decades later miles from where we began.

In May 1979, my extended family joined me in Columbia in front of the University of Missouri columns to celebrate my graduation from the school of journalism.

Blogging … or Something

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I heard him tell the other one that this is his sixth anniversary of blogging … or something.

I don’t really know what “anniversary” or “blogging” means, but they seem nice enough.

I don’t really care about any of that, as long as they keep feeding me.

I heard him tell the other one–again–that he is going to blog … or something.

It must be important to him, even though he doesn’t know what to say.

Oh, well, I guess it’s time for me to leave now.

I don’t really know when I’ll be back, but I’ll be on my way.

Inhale the Magic

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9:10 a.m. yoga mantra:

“When in doubt,

exhale it out.”

Without our breath,

and our ability

to let go of the negativity

in the world,

we have nothing.

6:56 p.m. sunset capture:

“Inhale the magic,

exhale the tragic.”

Without our compass,

and our agility

to embrace the possibilities

on the horizon,

we have lost all hope.

To enjoy more of my poetry, buy A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.

Five Hundred

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Numbers–like true stories that capture a moment on a page–are meaningful.

They aren’t merely markers on the shore of life waiting to be washed away with the next high tide.

They measure our progress. They tell us how far we’ve gone; how much we’ve achieved; how many we’ve accumulated.

My dad loved numbers, especially twin digits. On his fifty-second birthday–December 4, 1965–he wrote a poem about their significance in his life as a twin.

I published Unity 66 and the Twin Digits in the context of my first book. It belongs there, embedded alongside and intertwined with the writings of my grandfather, mother, and me. In its purest form, From Fertile Ground is an immersion into our family’s writing DNA.

Despite Dad’s volatility, he could be an exuberant, charming man. He believed in celebrating life’s mundane and magnificent moments as they happened.

On the road of our family vacations in the late 1960s (from his position behind the wheel of our white, four-door, 1965 Chevy Biscayne sedan), he announced to my mother (in front) and my sister and I (in back) when the odometer of our car was about to reach a milestone.

“Hey kids … we’re about to reach 50,000 miles.”

That was our cue to sing with him like circus clowns dancing to a calliope from the backseat.

“Da da da da … da da da da … da da da, da da … da da … da da da!”

Earlier this week–on April 7, 2024, to be precise–I hit the five hundred books sold mark since February 2016 when I first became a published author.

(If you are one of those who have supported my creative writing pursuits, thank you! I’ll bet there are a five hundred more who’ve read my books free through libraries and Goodreads giveaways I’ve sponsored.)

How do I know? First, I keep track of all my book sales on a spreadsheet I update monthly. Second, my Amazon sales dashboard tells me that someone in the United States bought number 500, my book of poetry, that day.

Of course, these aren’t best-selling numbers. Not even close. I’d need to add a few more zeroes to play with the big leaguers. However, numbers–while important–aren’t necessarily equivalent to quality or creative impact. (If you’ve seen the movie American Fiction, you know what I mean.)

At any rate, for an independent writer operating with a paltry budget, my book sales numbers aren’t too shabby.

Somewhere, on the highway of life and in the universe of creative possibilities, I imagine my father smiling at me from the front seat through the rearview mirror with the wind buffeting his combed-back hair.

He’s gripping the wheel with his left hand, while waving an imaginary conductor’s wand with his right. He’s singing along with the crazy circus music from our 60s family vacations.

Like my husband Tom–last night sitting on the fold out couch in our cozy Arizona den–my father Walter–if he were still alive–would be telling me to keep writing about the things I enjoy.

Because writing, telling, and sharing serendipitous stories is what I was meant to do. No matter what the numbers say.

April in Scottsdale

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My title doesn’t quite have the ring, rhythm and dreamy sway of April in Paris (the 1932 song composed by Vernon Duke with lyrics by Yip Harburg).

But then the Sonoran Desert, which we in Scottsdale inhabit in the Valley of the Sun, is nothing like the iconic French city (or so I’ve heard).

Late March rains and chillier-than-normal temperatures have produced a green early April in central Arizona. Perhaps the greenest I can recall, since Tom and I moved here in 2017. We hope this is a trend and precursor to a cooler, wetter summer.

As snowbirds fly (or drive) east and north to return to their predominant nests, we full-time desert dwellers are left with more space to roam and the promise of new life that will sustain us.

Even in the desert, April colors and possibilities burst forth from cacti, succulents, and containers. But most notably from the earth where newly planted trees such as our Red Push Pistache–those we’ve only just begun to know–prepare to dip the tips of their leaves in ink and write their own stories.