Reading a book recently about a grief-stricken young boy who goes searching for his dead mother, halfway through it I found myself feeling positively giddy.
She talked to corn plants growing in the field. And the corn talked back.
A decade ago, orbs began to show up in my photos—my all-time favorite, this one above of preschooler Ryder and a “friend.”
An enthusiastic veteran of a Gateway Voyage recently dubbed the magical place where she’d had one unforgettable adventure after another—“Hogwarts for adults.”
“Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it” says Joan Didion, a writer who suddenly became a widow and decided to pull no punches about the grieving process.
The days after my mother’s passing were solemn ones which is why the lighthearted reunion with dearly departed relatives shortly before her transition was such a balm for the soul.
In hospice, at the close of her life here, my mother told me repeatedly that she was not afraid to die. That said, she was in no hurry to do so either.
In 1971, holding the premier issue of “Ms.” magazine in my hands, I can recall the added thrill of discovering that a fellow-guest editor at Mademoiselle had illustrated its now historic cover.
Barely out of college—even skipping the usual graduation hoopla—I flew for the first time to New York City, having arranged “to hitch my wagon to a star.”
In the past couple of weeks, in a flurry of texts and conversations, I’ve had a front row seat to the marvels of angels at work in my daughter Liv’s life.