Friday, November 14, 2014


Pick a color and express your grief. Only you can choose for you. How about Red Hot Red or Red Pepper Sizzle? (Note the absence of blue.) The shade of your grief reflects inside out. Maybe Incognito in Sausalito or Black Cherry Chutney? Say something about your specific sadness with your choice. Each reveals differences of your personal shade of grief. For example, Road House Blues takes a lane quite apart from Life Can't Copacabana. One fuels you to ride wild in the wind. The other sinks you into sand up to the ankles. That's Berry Daring gives permission to cry in public. Black Glows Red seals the letter for a future date (or maybe never ever to send or open). Pick a color and express your grief. Only you can choose for you.

Thursday, October 16, 2014


don't let it goof up your happiness. 

you're finding it. 

just smile and say that you have a great life. 

make it an ally. 

the important thing in life is people. 

changing your attitude is the hardest. 

you don't like it and you're becoming super aware of it. 

if you fight it, you're dead meat.

Thursday, September 25, 2014


A food line wraps around a patio. Busy season at the fish shack by the falls. An arm wraps around a book. My arm. My book. I hear a voice in my left ear. "What are you reading?" a woman asks. A memoir about a woman adopted as a child, an infant, really, by a family, a woman, really, who wanted her own children, really. (The word really eases the explanation.) The author is British, I tell her. She's well known, I say, and pass the book to the curious, kind woman wondering about a book wrapped in an arm in a line for fish. Others have a hand circling a pint (I should too, I think). Curious, kind woman points to titles listed inside the book. "I've read this and this. And this one was very good," she says. I know only the one back wrapped in my arm. The author and I have a thing in common, I say. Both of us were adopted by women who really really really wanted their own children. The woman's husband (he has a pint) looks me in the eyes. His appear moist. She really said that? You really know that? Yes, she did. Yes, I do. People who really really really want their own children should probably not adopt, I say. He appears worried. It's all right, I tell him. I graduated from therapy, I say, and glance at a menu posted on the patio. I would really like to order something different this time I tell curious, kind woman and worried husband. You? We'll get what we always get, bay scallop tacos. Really? Me too. They're the best.