“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.
“I loved America!” my grandma exclaimed not once, but twice, during a conversation about her arrival in this country*.
I made a deep dive into my journals last week looking for examples of experiences with loved ones in the nonphysical and quickly felt overwhelmed. There were way too many to count. How was I to share them and with whom?
For years, I kept the “woo woo” part of me under wraps…
When pigs fly—that’s the thought that came to me twenty-five years ago regarding the likelihood of ever growing any kind of garden.