Tag: Inspiration

Canad-ahh

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Somewhere between Jasper and Banff–during the last week of July 2026 in Alberta, Canada, on a coach, on a trail, or in a hotel room–I lost my neon-yellow Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus cap.

But what I found with my husband in Canada’s astounding scenery and emerald waters is far greater, more meaningful, and certainly more lasting in the flipping pages of my memory.

Tom and I planned our Canada adventure months ago to commemorate thirty years of being together. (We met in the Chicago suburbs in August 1996.) Fresh Tracks, a Canadian tour group, helped us orchestrate our eight-day itinerary.

I told my husband, “I want to spend money in Canada in 2026.” I wanted to see the beauty above us on the map. I wanted to embrace the scenery and people, who are our northern neighbors.

I wanted them to know that many–probably most–Americans love and respect them. We admire their commitment to protect their natural resources.

Over the course of the next week, I was able to see that first-hand in the cleanliness of their national parks. No plastic bottles rattled around in rivers, lakes, or streams.

I have craved a visit to the coastline and mountains of Vancouver for years. So, we started there.

Fresh Tracks arranged an exquisite dinner for us at the Coal Harbour Cactus Club. We toasted each of with a glass of prosecco and watched the sun set over the bay. It painted a tranquil mood across a colorful canvas.

We expected to spend the following few days traveling via train on the Rocky Mountaineer through the Canadian Rockies. But fires in British Columbia limited the rail portion of our excursion to one day.

We made the best of it, traveling from Vancouver to Kamloops via coach with about thirty others. Two kind, upbeat Rocky Mountaineer staffers walked down the aisle handing out water and snacks–packages of chips, cookies, and candy.

Early on the morning of July 24, we climbed onto another coach that escorted us to the Rocky Mountaineer rail station in Kamloops a mere twenty minutes away.

Sifting through the smoke-tinged skies of Kamloops, we boarded the train and arrived on the top deck for a Gold Leaf view through a glass-encased dome.

We introduced ourselves to Mark and Kim, a fun-and-friendly couple from Abilene, Texas, who sat across the aisle. All four of us–and a train full of others–faced forward.

For the following ten hours, the welcoming, service-focused Rocky Mountaineer team entertained us with vivid stories of the landscape we would traverse together and the animals we might encounter.

At scheduled intervals, they invited us to the lower level of the train for a sumptuous, gourmet breakfast … I fell in love with the lemon cranberry bread topped with a decadent glaze.

Several hours later, we returned there for a delicious lunch/dinner, prepared magically by a team of chefs on board. The wine and drinks were free flowing.

We downed a glass of mimosa–and later pinot noir–as we traded stories with Mark and Kim and gasped at the steep river-laden mountains and canyons that brought us to Jasper … an easy-going ski-town still recovering and rebuilding after a devastating forest fire in 2024.

Along the way, eagles, elk, and big horn sheep guided us sparingly. They appeared unimpressed and unconcerned with our presence as we rode by, though we on our train cars and coaches lunged for our cameras and phones in pockets to bring home evidence that we had actually seen wildlife, unjaded and unaware of the news in any day.

Midway on our vacation, after leaving Jasper, we spent a night and morning frolicking at the iconic Chateau Lake Louise. We absorbed the privilege of simply being there and seized the moment by capturing photos of the breathtaking scenery … something Tom’s parents had done when they visited Lake Louise in 1988.

A highlight of our trip was journeying to the Columbia Icefield in Alberta. When we arrived there in our Sundog coach, we donned four layers each, including our easily packed windbreakers. They proved ideal as we ventured out to walk on a glacier.

The temperature on my phone said fifty degrees Fahrenheit. In the icy, pine-scented air it felt more like forty with a biting breeze. Of course, my blood is thinner now, living nearly all of my days in the Sonoran Desert.

By the time we arrived in Banff, it meant we were nearing the end of our Canada adventure. I did my best to “soak up the scenery” as my father said back in the 60s as we rode up and down hairpin turns in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina.

Well-appointed lodges and snazzy shops line the main streets in Banff. At times we felt the size of overflowing, late-July crowds and traffic there.

None of that deterred my fascination with the Bow River rapids–and ultimately its falls–that raced through town or the eight-minute gondola ride we took on our final Banff day beyond alpine heights to the top of Sulphur Mountain.

Through it all — as I paused to “soak up” breathtaking scenery in the form of still photos and even a few videos of waterfalls and vast mountain ranges stretching far beyond my senses — I realized the most important thing of all: I was blessed to witness the wonder of western Canada in July 2026 and to see all of it with the man I love.

The Language of the Desert

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I live in the Sonoran Desert and the Sonoran Desert lives in me. That’s been the case for nine years. My most prolific ones as a writer.

The language of the desert–like grains of sand that blow in through the door–is now part of my creative being.

Shimmering sunsets. Slithering lizards. Skittish quail. Stray cats. Spiky cacti and succulents. Scattering snowbirds. And those are just a sample from the letter “s”.

When I served as a “Writer in Residence” at the Scottsdale Public Library last spring, I prompted the writers in my workshop to explore the role setting plays in the stories of their lives.

I asked them to consider a place in their lives that is or was prominent and how that place might be considered a character in what they have to say. In the stories they want to show and tell.

The places I have lived or frequented have certainly provided texture to my existence and informed my perspective. The orange earth of the Carolinas. The rolling hills of Missouri. The flatlands of Illinois. The rugged buttes of the Arizona desert.

They represent distinct periods in my life, and–in hindsight–I now understand better why they each deserve their proximity across my body of literary work, six books … a lifetime of stories.

The heat here in July is intense. But it is bearable because the Sonoran Desert–even in its most torrid state–is otherworldly.

At times it feels as if I am living on the moon. The astonishing natural beauty and stately saguaros–sentinels that stand tall in valleys and on hillsides here–have led me to a creative destination outside the orbit of my midwestern sensibilities.

One where I “write on” … as I just celebrated my sixty-ninth birthday and begin this final lap in my sixties. Learning and growing. Teaching and influencing.

Standing tall as a gay man, a husband, a father, a writer. Proud as a saguaro despite my visits to the cardiologist and dermatologist to manage my personal frailties. Rooted to this vivid place, the Valley of the Sun, that is my home.

***

Note to those of you who live in the Phoenix metropolitan area: On Thursday, July 16, from 5 to 7 p.m., I will be signing and selling copies of my latest book, Sixty-Something Days, at Grounds on 2nd in Old Town Scottsdale, located at 3703 N. 69th St.

This charming neighborhood place (coffee and wine bar) is one of my favorite spots in our Scottsdale, Arizona, community. It truly is an inclusive, creative space my husband Tom and I frequent to write, read, and chill with friends. In fact, I wrote and edited a considerable portion of my latest book there.

If you are in the area, stop by to sell hello, grab a book and a glass of wine. I also will have a few copies of my other five books–memoirs, poetry, and short fiction–on hand in case you are looking for options to add to your summer reading list.

In April 2026, friends at the Scottsdale Public Library gave me this shirt after I completed my “Writer in Residence” stint there.

Hope Is Never Silent

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Photo by RDNE Stock project on Pexels.com

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

Anything But Ordinary

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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.

Looking Over My Shoulder

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Back and forth from one end of the pool to the other on this hotter-than-average, magnificent March morning. March 24, 2026, from 9:00 to 9:30 a.m. to be precise. Thirty lengths in the deep end of Eldorado Pool in Scottsdale, Arizona.

Somehow, I wrangled my own lane today. I don’t mind sharing but always feel freer on unobstructed Tuesdays and Thursdays. There are fewer swim-class participants to contend with on those days and–now that the Cactus League baseball games have ended–some of the snowbirds have begun to flock home.

Breathing every eight or ten strokes, looking over my right shoulder, swimming south to north, I spy the blazing sun that threatens my sensitive skin and the wispy-white contrail of a commercial plane flying high above.

Serendipitously, the repetitive swimming motion reminds me what I want to write about today. It is the tenth anniversary of publishing my first book: From Fertile Ground.

On March 24, 2016, Barack Obama was president. I didn’t imagine the waves of what was to come: the growing political insanity, the dismantling of once-reliable American institutions, the general implosion of our democracy in one decade. Who could?

Back then, Tom and I were snowbirds–splitting time between our homes in Mount Prospect, Illinois, and Scottsdale, Arizona.

I wrote most of my inaugural book–a three-generation writer’s mosaic about love and loss in my family–from the suburban flatness of northern Illinois.

But working online–back and forth like a swimmer logging laps between my editor and book designer in Nashville, Tennessee, and me in Scottsdale–I made my final edits in the rugged western landscape of the Grand Canyon State.

I remember the pride of holding the first physical copy of my first book later that week. I know I cried. It was a release of joy and amazement. Most definitely, a seminal moment I shared with my husband.

Sadness crept in, too, because I had written the book to process my grief after my mother’s passing. In a physical sense, I wasn’t able to celebrate that literary moment with her.

But I also know that writing about her and her wisdom-filled letters, my father and his unrealized poetry, my grandfather and fifty-three years of diary entries, and the general sense of freedom I felt visiting my grandparents in the 1960s at their rambling North Carolina farm allowed me to create a healing path out of my grief.

It was–and still is–a story I was meant to write and publish. One I wanted to share with others navigating the devastation of grief.

In the past ten years since From Fertile Ground was born, writing has become that free, unbridled swimming lane that is purely mine. Welcome waves of water and creativity running from my mid-fifties to my late sixties.

Whenever I jump into my writing in the deep end of my emotions, I find a way back to the surface with a new story. Many of them have landed on the pages of my other five books: Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator in 2017; An Unobstructed View in 2018; I Think I’ll Prune the Lemon Tree in 2021; A Path I Might Have Missed in 2023; and Sixty-Something Days in 2025.

Of course, I take pride in that body of work and–more recently–find it tremendously gratifying to share what I have learned with other writers, who need an experienced coach … and a few practical ideas … to tell their own stories.

Today, I also pause and wonder–with a touch of sadness as I write this–how many more stories lie ahead for me. Though I still feel strong, capable, creative, and alive in these golden years swimming back and forth under the Arizona sun, I also feel more vulnerable.

Part of it is the process of aging. The other is the narrowing swim lanes of American society that constrain freedom and the expression of ideas.

Having said that, I choose to end this story on a positive note. Today, I choose to relish the goodness of my life with Tom in this rugged landscape. To give thanks for all the stories that have come from fertile ground over the past ten years … as well as those I have salvaged from the depths of the pool looking over my shoulder to beloved people and places that now live on the page.

All About Angels

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Photo by K ZHAO on Pexels.com

In the soundtrack of our lives–I believe one exists–sometimes a word or phrase from a conversation with a friend or acquaintance stops us in our tracks.

That happened for me recently while wearing my Writer in Residence hat at the Scottsdale Public Library in a one-on-one meeting with another writer. She looked at me with kindness and said with a warm smile:

“I’ll bet you’ve had lots of angels in your life.”

My response? “Yes, I have!”

I am not a religious person, but most definitely spiritual. So, I took her observation to mean there are unexplained positive forces at play … weaving in and out of my life with love.

I have definitely had my share of “guardian angels” in my sixty-eight years.

Some have appeared at my side for long stretches. Tom (my husband), Helen (my mother), and Valerie (my therapist years ago) have been visible angels in my life with lasting influence.

Others, like Rachel–a nurse at Barnes Jewish Hospital in St. Louis who floated in and out of my room in the middle of the night–helped keep me alive after I suffered a mild heart attack in 2017. She was mostly assuredly an angel.

Then there are the non-visible angels with wings that take flight in unusual ways. For instance, the serendipitous feelings of warmth and safety I feel when I am gardening, or singing, or swimming, or writing, or walking in nature.

Whenever this happens, I feel like angels are watching over me.

I’m a believer that whatever energy we spread in the universe in our everyday lives–good or bad–it eventually finds its way back to us in waves that envelope us.

As I get older, I find myself pondering these metaphysical or philosophical questions more closely. I’m more open to the idea of forces at play that don’t always add up mathematically or logically.

Certainly, at the end of the day–at the end of my life whenever that may be–I’d rather be held up by the wings of an angel for the love and goodness I’ve brought to the world than destroyed by the deleterious effects of a devil for the havoc I’ve caused.

Vivid Skies, Vivid Lives

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In mid-February, fourteen gathered around a long, rectangular table with me.

Now, as sunset approaches on this “Writer in Residence” version of my memoir-writing workshop, the group has winnowed to a tenacious, courageous ten. Eight women and two men intent upon writing and sharing stories from their vivid lives.

In less than three weeks, this talented group has bonded over personal stories of deep reflection, relationships, transformation, and wonder. These are a collection of some of the images and settings I will remember from the pages of our storied moments together:

Recalling the lingering, indelible scent of a father’s shaving creme permeating a modest 1960’s back bathroom;

Uprooting a life to care for an aging parent only to discover new love and an unanticipated chapter in an unlikely land;

Finding the energy and conviction to finish that marathon that no one in her family thought she would complete decades ago;

Channeling every ounce of strength to leave an abusive relationship and find much-needed support;

Recounting an early-in-life adventure to Los Angeles to fulfill a California dream;

Forgiving a gang of grackles for their messy transgressions;

Revisiting and releasing decades of shame and blame for the loss of a cow and calf in the barn of one’s rural past;

Celebrating the sacred space of freedom and unbridled joy forged inside a first car; and

Trudging along a circuitous trail to discover a meadow of brilliant fireflies dancing on the crest of a hill.

My role has been to provide tools, encouragement, and a safe place for these and other creative odysseys to emerge, land on the page, gain traction, and marry with the proud and animated vocal cords of these ten inspiring individuals.

On March 6, the sun sets on our journey together. Before we depart, I will encourage my newest friends to keep writing.

Together, we also will give thanks for the creative talent that lies within each of us … and the collective magic we manufactured on three consecutive Fridays in an otherwise ordinary Civic Center conference room on the first floor of a remarkable community space: the Scottsdale Public Library.

Red Roses and Pink Orchids

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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.

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.

Eight Years and Four Books Ago

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Eight years and four books ago, it was January 20, 2018.

I hawked my first two books–From Fertile Ground and Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator–in the vestibule of the Civic Center location of the Scottsdale Public Library with dozens of other Arizona writers at a popular local author book fair.

It was a fun, exhilarating Saturday. I greeted book lovers, exchanged ideas with other creative writers, and even sold a half dozen books.

When Covid came along two years later, right after the February 2020 local author event, library management decided to nix the annual gathering permanently.

It was one of many personal losses in a world where we were all forced to retreat to save ourselves. We had to discover new ways (thank you, technology) of being together without really being together.

I can tell you this. I wasn’t sure Tom and I would survive the Covid ordeal. But, like you, we did … with the help of in-home creative strategies and life-saving vaccines.

I certainly didn’t imagine I would write and publish four more books between 2018 and 2026. But that happened, too.

Isn’t it remarkable, how life has a way of sending us a mix of ominous clouds and sunny skies? Often, we don’t know which will appear next on the horizon. Or in what form.

Case in point. Even now as the walls of democracy feel as if they are caving in upon us in the United States, the Scottsdale Public Library has asked me to be a Writer in Residence in February and March at the same location depicted in this photo.

Eight years ago, I didn’t have this moment on my Bingo card or expect it would become a new chapter in my life journey. But it will. My role will include two components:

I have developed and will lead a 2.0 version of my Memoir-Writing Workshop (which I facilitated four times in 2024 and 2025) on three consecutive Friday afternoons: February 20, February 27, and March 6. Up to sixteen writers will participate.

If you live in the area, you can register here https://calendar.scottsdalelibrary.org/scottsdaleaz_library/260120702?utm_source=bewith&utm_medium=calendar.

Separate from the workshop, I also will offer thirty-minute, one-on-one writing coaching sessions between 1 and 2 p.m. on Mondays in February and March (in an office near the workshop location).

This will give folks who aren’t able to make the workshop a chance to receive feedback on their writing. (The library is creating a process to register for the individual sessions in advance. I will ask writers to bring just a page or two of their writing to make the experience productive and manageable.)

At any rate, I am thrilled and honored to be a Writer in Residence at the Scottsdale Public Library. It is a creative haven I have come to love in the eight and a half years Tom and I have lived in Arizona … where my movie-loving husband has created quite a following with every one of his film series.

The next one (Movies That Matter: Hollywood Families 1970-1996) begins next Monday at 3 p.m. Tom will lead film discussions and screenings, beginning with a cultural primer on the American family on January 26. Then, for the following eight Monday afternoons, he will show these fabulous eight films: Moonstruck, I Never Sang for My Father, Breaking Away, Kramer vs. Kramer, Ordinary People, Terms of Endearment, The World According to Garp, and The Birdcage.

Hopefully, this story is giving you the impetus to rediscover the programs offered at your local library … no matter where you live.

Happy reading, writing, and viewing!