Last night’s happiness and gratitude have lingered into today. Honestly, a cooler of beer and water is all this crew really needs. But my two brothers’ significant others created something much more. A beautiful backyard beneath the shade of old, tall trees. Fresh flowers from the garden on every table. Great music that made it easy to get up and dance without missing a beat of conversation. Homemade onion dip (soooo good!) and homemade potato chips. Slow-cooked barbecue chi

The farmhouse is about forty minutes away. For a few years now, I’ve gone there to give the owner a massage. About a month ago, she asked if I still knew any housekeepers, and I began texting her a few names. Before I could send the message, another text came through. “It’s really just cleaning the kitchen, vacuuming, and doing laundry.” I smiled. Well, gee, I can do that. Those are all things I genuinely enjoy. But what really appealed to me wasn’t the work itself. It was on

I spotted Queen Anne’s lace this week beside an old shed and stopped to take a picture. Years ago, I would have picked a bunch.

Right now, the orange and yellow lilies are blooming. They’ve taken center stage, commanding the garden, impossible to ignore. Yesterday, while weeding, I decided to cut back the peonies. Their beautiful, big-blossom movement had ended a week or so ago. Their leaves were crowding the plants already playing their part around them. As I trimmed away the spent blossoms and heavy stems, I realized I wasn’t simply tidying the flower bed. I was lowering one section of the orchestra

March 20, 2023 My friend’s mom has begun transitioning from this life—her life on earth—to the next. As I write the word life, I imagine it as something you could click on– A link that would open into everything that made her, her— who she loved, who loved her, the stories, the colors, the wealth of laughter, the quiet moments no one else saw. All of it. Her transition from here to there—where loved ones are waiting for her on the other side— is allowing me to see this time,

For the past few mornings, I’ve been walking up the small hill to my friend’s house. She lives here on the property with her nineteen-month-old daughter. Lately, she has needed an extra pair of eyes, ears, and arms while she showers and gets ready for the day. I’ve made this walk many times before, but now it feels different. Walking back down the hill, I noticed the grass is especially beautiful this year, tracing gentle curves through the driveway, around the parking area,

From my corner of Maine, I found myself watching Boston this week. Not because of politics. Not because of breaking news. But because, for a few remarkable days, nearly fifty thousand Scottish soccer fans filled the streets of Boston. They’re called the Tartan Army. Until a few days ago, I couldn’t have told you that. Truth be told, I don’t know much about soccer. I couldn’t explain offsides if you paid me. For my son, Alex, his excitement for soccer began with Maine’s new pr

Ahhhh. Rainy mornings in summer. If there’s nowhere to rush to, these are scrumptious mornings. An excuse to get cozy under a throw blanket just a little bit longer, while sipping that first hot cup of coffee, before the energy of the house has switched on for the day. Just me and my sleepy dog, neither of us in any hurry for the morning to begin. Rainy Days and Mondays hums on repeat in the background of my mind. Which makes me think of another title. Tuesdays with Morrie. M

With Father’s Day approaching, I’ve been thinking about dads. They seem to be described as either present and wonderful or absent, with varying degrees of disappointment. My dad was one of the wonderful ones. When I was little, I had a best friend named Kathy who lived next door. Not next door, the way we think of it here in rural Maine. This was on Long Island, New York, where the houses lined a long street, separated by driveways. Backyards and the street were where we pla

I jolted awake from that familiar nightmare. Back at school, already late, utterly unprepared. A backpack hangs from my shoulder, but when I unzip it, it’s empty. I don’t know where my classrooms are. The hallways twist into unfamiliar corridors, everyone else seeming to know exactly where they belong while I stand there exposed and lost. Sometimes I can figure out what a dream means, and sometimes it remains unresolved. Last night’s dream needed no interpreting. In the middl

There was a time—not all that long ago—when I lived mostly alone. Before sharing my home with a partner. Before his teenage son. Before my son’s tiny house on my property—and the belongings that don’t quite fit in it. Before the baby. Before the steady rhythm of left-behind cups, shoes, tools, jackets, toys, mysterious piles, and clutter that seems invisible to everyone but me. I adore these people. That feels important to say. But the messes left in their wakes are wearing o

This Saturday, friends and family will gather at a park in Holden, Massachusetts, at a bench that honors my late friend, Andrew Abrams. This morning, while flipping through an old writing journal, I stumbled upon something I had started writing about him. The timing felt just like Andy. A gentle nudge. Don’t forget. You started writing this. Andy and I met several years ago in an online memoir writing class. We were both working on our books, and this writing group became dee

I recently watched “The Four Seasons” and found myself unexpectedly identifying with the woman who had become, perhaps, a little fixated on a toddler. Which led me to an uncomfortable question: Am I baby crazy?

The large box of my memoir arrived yesterday. I was on my way out to see a client when it was delivered. And while this is the third attempt at the grand opening of my self-published book, this time I know the curtain is rising on the real thing. The next morning, the box still sits on my coffee table, unopened. Like a birthday present waiting for the real day. Waiting until I can be fully present for what feels like the true first shipment. The one I can feel proud of. The o

Forsythia. I love the name. I love saying it. Forsythia. It almost sings when you say it out loud–like “Maria” in the West Side Story song. 🎶Forsy–thia…and suddenly the name will never be the same to me.🎶 Right now, in Down East Maine, the forsythia are in their full expression. What followed was greener grass that just yesterday seemed patchy brown. Today, the buds on the trees outside my window have popped rusty reds. Lime greens will peak soon-those trees still hold ti

It’s 4 a.m. I’m standing in front of the internal light of the microwave, holding Ri, gently swaying to keep her asleep while my coffee mug heats, the one hot dark roast will be dripping into in just a couple of seconds. Her mama told me she is teething again, so the last few nights have been interrupted by pain. Standing, swaying, waiting, mindful of her rhythm, I’m remembering why thirty-something years ago, Liz and Andrew asked me to be Jake’s godmother. “You’re good with

As I rose at my regular 4 a.m. hour (it was actually more like 3:40 🙄), in the bathroom mirror I caught a glimpse of myself. My hair has gotten longer—like my adult daughter’s hair. Last night, before bed, in front of this same mirror, I was able to put my hair up high in a messy bun, the way she’s done with her hair forever. Her beautiful blonde hair, with natural lowlights, has not been short since the fifth or sixth grade (which was also just as beautiful on her). So she

This morning, I handed her another teddy bear graham cracker. It dances a wobbly performance in her sweet little fingers—then it’s popped into her mouth, crunched up by her back teeth, she’s just discovered. Later, I was listening to an interview with Jon Stewart and Graham Plattner, who is running for the Maine State Senate. Somewhere between the two, the graham cracker and the interview, my brain made one of those connections that don’t really matter, except that it does. W

My friend, who is more than a friend, is my chosen neighbor. My chosen family. A driveway and a small hill sit between us. An easy ninety-second walk. She was supposed to turn a large shed into an office for her counseling practice. That was the plan. We had it placed on my land during a time when plans still felt like something you could count on. But life moved faster than that. The pandemic shifted everything. She skipped right past the office and built herself a home. Jus

Every morning, my early-rising friend texts me. Or I text her. We don’t plan it. We just both know one of us is awake before most normal people. If I had to be up at 4 a.m. to catch an early flight, I’d think that was so incredibly early—like most people do. I remember a seventh-grade history teacher—hauntingly tall, with overapplied makeup that made her look like a clown, the unsettling kind. She told us she got up at 4 a.m.—that just made her seem even weirder And now— My p