Dear Friend,

As I’ve been navigating a poignant year, my relationship to writing and sharing on Substack has changed. I’m in the midst of a deeply personal journey which has required a healthy pulling back in many areas of my life.

There is some comfort here. I’ve grown quieter inside, a benefit of a passage like this. Seasons of quietening give us essential rest, deepening and clarifying who we are. My brain and body have long needed this rest.

Subscribe now

You’ve Been By My Side

Many of you are personal friends, people who have walked with me through major losses and grief, through times when my body was injured, and when my brain was struggling to process and unscramble traumatic experiences. You’ve helped me remember my worth. You’ve shown me healing empathy and respect. You’ve invited me in and made me laugh. You’ve been real with me. Some of you have coached and mentored me. And I love you for it all.

I’ve come to appreciate how my mind is beautifully constructed, with deep artistic perception, complexity and sensitivity. I’ve also come to understand how the shadow side of my neurological wiring has wrought periods of heavy, even life-threatening depression. It requires regular, delicate unraveling and support.

I want to assure you all that I am not enduring anything life-threatening now. Profound grief before and after Ruby and Keefie’s deaths remain with me. But grief is not the same as serious depression.

As of late, though, caregiving fatigue plus an activity-restricting injury (both knees) have been pulling me down. The combination is taking its toll on my earth suit. Depression has become a factor.

For years, Excerpts from Wonderworld focused on hikes with Ruby, our adventures together, and walks in nature. Being unable to do this during Ruby’s cancer illness and now because of this injury has been affecting my mental wellbeing. I am working to rehabilitate these injuries in physical therapy, and I’m under doctor’s care to manage depression, but sometimes life kinda sucks.

Vulnerability vs. Shamed Silence

From the start, I’ve been committed to bringing authenticity here, to being candid and open with you about the raw experiences of human struggle. I refuse to let my real story be shamed into silent embarrassment. So, I’m not going to shrink back from being honest about feeling depressed lately. It’s the truth.

Depression is a normal life experience we dare not judge as weakness. It’s something we absolutely must feel safe talking about with each other. It’s not a flaw.

We are awesome when we are depressed just as much as when we are not. It’s part of life for everyone at times, even for those who seem to always have it together, to always be in control, “strong” and steady. There’s nothing wrong with you or me for having it.

Even My Dad

I remember my father’s experience with it. My dad was the steadiest human being I knew. He never seemed to struggle with internal or existential crises. In his seventies, after he had open heart surgery, he expressed shock—and even anger—at the heavy depression he was feeling as a side effect. The doctor hadn’t warned him. It was frightening and overwhelming to him.

I reassured him it would pass. Then I said this:

“Dad, this is giving you a taste of what some of your kids have been wrestling with our whole lives.”

He pondered that one. He had never expected to “be depressed.” His culture saw it as weakness. But in that moment, Dad knew empathy, because he was suffering the same hardship.

Let me say it again: depression is not weakness.

It’s biochemical. It’s situational. And it is a natural part of the human struggle. Especially if we do not have support, if our primary relationships or work environments are demeaning or abusive, if our home and wellbeing is being threatened, it is NORMAL.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is, I know I am not alone, and you are not alone.

To reassure you, my life is not in danger. I usually remember I am loved and not alone. I sometimes struggle to reach out. When I do, I feel supported by my trusted inner circle. For this, I’m immeasurably grateful.

Subscription Billing

With all of this in mind, I’ve decided to honor the quiet of this season of my life and its invitation to step back. Many of you have been generously paying for content from Excerpts from Wonderworld. My content has been sparse recently and I feel I’m shorting you. With respect, I’m pausing subscription billing for you, paid subscribers, until a later time.

I’m not disappearing in isolation—I’m still here in the background, but I am now honoring the rhythms of my life.

Leave a comment

Hope Simmers

Lady, my ten year-old angel rescue, is the greatest comfort to me, and such a dear friend. Definitely a sweet intervention.

Hope is staying with me. The vision of future adventures remains in my mind and spirit. I imagine myself sharing those adventures.

For now, I’m leaning into an increasingly peaceful acceptance of what life is for me in the now. I need to live right here, accepting life as it is in this very moment.

Accepting I can’t do many of the things that have defined me throughout my life is a hard pill to swallow. But, I really want these days to count in other ways, to be existentially transformative. To bring about something good, to make my life’s impact more effective. I want it to help me discover more truthfully who I’m meant to be in this lifetime.

How I show up will be different. I hope what I eventually bring will create more substantive connection with others, offering support, permission, freedom and fresh impetus.

Where to Find Me

For now, in the pause where my creative juices are in simmering mode, may this message assure you that even though I’ve gone a bit silent, I am thinking about you and care about you.

I will check in now and then. If you haven’t yet, please find the NOTES section of Excerpts from Wonderworld: lindajsack.substack.com/notes. There is less pressure there for me, and I do drop notes now and then, like pictures of my nephew, Jacque, on his recent visit with me. I hope you’ll continue to follow me in Notes. Please don’t be a stranger.

Until then, may I remind you this: a world of wonder is in you and around you. Look to the organic, living things. Develop your relationship with nature, with living things outside the confines of your to do lists, phone notifications and distractions. I will if you will.

We are all connected within this Wonderworld, and so you and I are never alone.

Keep in touch. Your comment below would be especially welcomed right now. And hit the like ❤️ button if you’ve enjoyed the company.

With love and wonder always,

Linda
and Lady

P.S. One last request: My little house has been on the market for oh so long, more than 200 days. We’ve done so much to make it sellable and the price is set low, very affordable. It’s new family must be just around the corner, but I would love it if you might dream, wish, manifest, pray with me for its sale soon. 🙏🏼

Here’s the link: Beaver Island Chalet

Dear Friend,

How are you faring through the summer storms and deadly heat waves? Some of you are across the pond where the situation has been grim. I’m concerned to hear of people suffering terribly. In the States, we generally have air conditioners, but in climates where they are typically unnecessary, these temperatures are suffocatingly deadly. Please look after for yourselves and your neighbors, especially the elderly ones.

Subscribe now

Slow Seasons

Our winter here in Michigan seemed unending, and consequently, spring was cut short. It is hard to believe it’s summer already!

It somehow still feels a bit wintery for me though. A certain quiet remains.

Here it is late June, and I feel like I’m in the still days of January, where it is so cold out you have to stay bundled up inside. That “forcing you to stay inside” sensation is what’s been lingering for me.

Spring’s life-force is, simultaneously, powerful. And so is this little angel, Lady, who takes me for walks morning, noon and evening. (I recommend a small dog for anyone who tends toward introversion!)

With each brightening day this spring, our strolls around our sweet neighborhood have been met with increasingly vivid wonders, from daffodils to dogwoods, from baby robins to red-tailed hawks.

What is this Quiet?

The quiet I mentioned, like a blanket of snow over me, is the remaining sense of loss, a still lingering ache, lying at the bottom of my heart, surfacing now and then to remind me of my beloved Ruby and Keefie.*

Saturday marked one year since Ruby died.

I’ve dreaded this time marker, and when it arrived, I feared I’d just sob all day long. So, I tried to stay busy to avoid the feelings. But by dinner time, I got so tired, I just slumped to the sofa and tears fell out. I wept with longing for Ruby’s hugs, her eyes, her presence on hikes and road trips with me. But just for a few minutes.

Mostly, I just felt quiet.

Grief has a way of walking us into silent caverns where we never really wanted to go. In spite of our resistance, it makes us stay longer than we wish to. But there, we are mysteriously transformed.

I don’t find grief’s depths morose, nor scary. On the contrary, I am drawn in with curiosity, wondering what this soul-excavation and life-reorientation is making room for within me. Something about it is oddly comforting and weirdly hopeful.

Share

Compression

Many of you, like me, are caregivers of one kind or another, raising young children, looking after adult children with illness or special needs, or walking through ever-unpredictable days with parents whose bodies and minds are altering.

Learning to love and care for my mother in practical, daily ways, through both heart-wrenching and sweet moments, is one of the most important experiences of my life. These long years have let Mom and me develop a trusting adult friendship I never would have known otherwise.

Extended seasons of caregiving do, however, test everything in you. Some days, you feel you’re being squeezed and sucked dry. A deep exhaustion can set in. On hard mornings, I think, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Have you felt the same way? I’d love to know your experience. Please comment in the chat if you can relate at all.

Leave a comment

I understand that the compression I feel may not let up any time soon (and I don’t want it to so I have more time with Mom!) The reality of this current season of my earth travels involves trying to sort out conflicting emotions.

I do have hope that alchemy is at work in the pressure, bringing about gold I will see in time.

Softness

When the tunnel seems long or life’s spring seasons seem far away, I find myself gravitating toward softer things. I don’t mean weak or wimpy soft. I mean incredibly strong, gentle, and comforting.

This kind of softness graciously delivers beauty and relief to the world.

I experience it in lovely humans who have a way of taking pressure off of me (like my siblings have in recent visits with Mom.)

I taste it in beautifully filmed shows with brilliant, delightful characters, like The Other Bennet Sister, streaming on Britbox (have you seen it??? If not, you MUST! Mom and I just watched the last episode together.)

I’m especially grateful for a talented artist I discovered on YouTube, The Unexpected Gypsy, Wendy Robison. She has created a Patreon community where she offers drawing and painting tutorials. Wendy has such a personable, magical way of bringing softness to this frightfully hard world. She is helping me remember the childlike imagination that used to run free in me (but has been a bit dampened in recent years.) Wendy’s social media pages are chock full of ingenious reels, inspiring stories, YouTube videos, drawings and paintings. Her online community is gentle and welcoming to tender-hearted, complex artists. I’m finding it a wonderful place to be right now.

What do you think of the power of “softness?” Are you experiencing it anywhere in the world around you? Does it carry accusations of weakness or wimpiness for you?

Softness lets you melt and rest when life feels hard and depleting.

Art Fair Snow Cones

This little embodiment of softness wiggles across the room whenever I come in the door. She crawls in my lap when I’m writing to you. She snuggles by my shoulder when I sleep. She is absolutely an angel sent to me. No question. Lady, my ten-year old rescue pup, comforted me so attentively on Saturday.

On Ruby’s homegoing day, I took Lady to an art fair down the road. Young children—and old ones—stopped us every few steps, asking “can I pet your dog?” Lady was spoiled with attention. She got to taste her first snow cone, AND, she found a potato chip in the grass. 🎉

I hope you won’t find my posts too dreary with all these thoughts of grief. I try to write candidly about difficult human experiences in hopes that you might feel a sense of permission to open up to someone in your life. I hope you might feel more free to acknowledge and sort out the effects loss has had on you. In sharing each others’ stories, we dispel the shame that sometimes hangs around the expression of sadness and grief. It’s okay to talk about the effects of loss on your life. These normal human experiences bond us together.

Leave a comment

As I always say, keep your eyes and heart open for wonders in your world. They are all around you. You may need to get outside (or adopt a rescue dog,) but they are there. Let them comfort you and bring you delight, especially on the harder days.

Don’t miss them!

With loads of love,

Linda

and Lady

*If you’re new here, my first two dogs, Ruby (11) and Keefie (15 3/4,) died in the past year. See previous posts for their stories.

Dear Friend,

During a week of great international apprehension brought on by the erratic behavior of a mentally disturbed world leader, I decided it would be a good time so send you happy puppy news!

Right before my second dog, Keefie, died in early February, I had signed up with a small dog foster organization. By mid March, I welcomed home my first practice pup for 48 hours (see my March 14, 2026 post) and the next week, I picked up this dear little one, Lady. I introduced her in my last post, but here’s an update.

The first week she was with me, she could not keep food in. She had no interest in dry or wet dog food, so I shifted to boiled chicken and rice, which she ate. Now that my carpets have been cleaned, she’s keeping food in, thankfully.

Then she a dental treatment and had to have NINE teef extracted! Poor thing dropped two pounds in her first two weeks with me. But she’s stabilized now.

Lady has become more vocal since her March 12 arrival. When she’s waiting for me to cut up her chicken, she makes these hilarious gutteral noises and gremliny squeaks. Those noises are happening more and more as time passes, and I’ve yet to determine exactly what she hopes to elicit from me, except perhaps laughter. Well, and food. Like in this one, which happened after she ate and went for a walk.

Lady doesn’t know commands like sit or stay, and she will walk right across my path when on her leash. Definitely a trip hazard. I have to keep a close watch and tight leash on her until she learns to heel. But she loves her walks in my cute little neighborhood. And she’s such a good girl.

She’s a very special little dog, with intelligent eyes and the sweetest personality. I love her spotted ears and the shape of her dark eyes. This cuddly, soft little bunny just wants to be next to us.

Lady’s person was elderly, with dementia. Sadly, she went into hospice, and Lady was taken by a family member to the humane society. After a stay there, she came to our rescue organization. These separation experiences can be very traumatic for pets, which explains her intestinal distress.

She will make a wonderful pet for someone. Won’t she?

Share Excerpts from Wonderworld

Lady’s Future

In the early days of my years living in Nashville, I babysat for the darling children who lived next door. One day, as I was bidding farewell to the three little girls, one of them looked at me and said exuberantly, “I wish you keepted me!”

I about died with cuteness overload. What a dear thing to express to someone!

Well, I’m sure it’s no surprise to you, but…

I couldn’t give Lady away! On April 2I, officially adopted Lady.

I KEEPTED HER!

When a foster volunteer can’t give up a dog, they call it a foster fail. But to me, keeping Lady is nothing but a success! I will foster other dogs in the future, but this sweet one is meant to be with me.

From the very start, my mom also took to her. Lady brings us life, laughter, comfort, personality and such great companionship. We are so happy she came to us.

Leave a comment

Morning Bird Therapy

We’re finally getting real spring weather here in greater Detroit. Yesterday’s temperature was so warm in the morning—the birds were so happily chirping away.

Lady and I sat and listened for a while with the help of my Merlin bird app (Cornell Labs of Ornithology.) Thirteen different species popped up on my app, identified by their songs and calls. Maybe you can identify the Canada geese, if not the sharp squeak of house and goldfinches.

If you haven’t yet downloaded the app on your phone, it’s free. Especially if you like to sit outside, it will bring you so much delight. It’s thrilling to have a new or rare bird pop up on your screen, like the Savannah sparrow yesterday. More wonders to marvel at.

In what seems like an insane time in our country’s history, marveling at natural wonders is critical to maintaining sanity and staying hopeful. These birds, this pup, that glorious morning sky and temperate air, they all ground me and lift me.

May you find relief in nature’s medicinal intrusions today and in the days ahead.

With love and wonder,

Linda

and Lady

Leave a comment

Dear Friend,

Are the birds filling your mornings with song where you are? This fine feathered friend, a male house finch, joined me on my early walk today, along with a dozen other birds in full chorus. The Canada Geese are flying low overhead, announcing their return to Michigan with their trumpet call. THIS is one of the many things bringing me joy, lifting me out of a heavy winter.

There’s the weather, too—finally I don’t have to throw on snow boots, hat, scarf, gloves, heavy coat just to walk the dog. Oh, and the pup’s coat, and boots on icy days. Today’s temperature will reach a perfect 72 degrees (22°C.) Early spring’s gentle sunshine seems hopeful. Crocuses are blooming, their purple hues dotting the ragged winter grass and earth.

We know that sunlight boosts our mood, triggering the brain to release serotonin, the neurotransmitter which lifts our spirits, helping us to feel calm and focused. When the sun alights upon our skin, it provides the vitamin D3 our bones and immune system need for better health.

I feel a sense of renewal. Connection with nature is easier without ice, snow and frigid temperatures. Flora and fauna are coming alive and emerging from hibernation. I’m getting more excited about outdoor activity opportunities.

There are, however, challenges to this seasonal transition. We don’t pay much attention to the nuances of the winter to spring change and how they affect everyone differently.

The back and forth between cold fronts and warming trends, icy frigid and then rainy warm, sends the barometric pressure up and down. Those with arthritis and autoimmune conditions feel the pain.

The oaks, elm, cedar and maple trees are in bloom here in southeast Michigan, along with grasses. Maple blossoms in vivid scarlet or creamy white cover our pathways now, their pollens adrift in the wind. Those of us with allergies begin experiencing delightful congestion and sinus pressure and it’s accompanying fatigue.

As much as I pretend I’m “not old” (because old is a state of mind, right?) I feel the pain. I know many of my readers are also “of a certain age,” and you feel it too.

Did you know springtime depression is a thing for many people? It may fluctuate, with the changing weather, but for some, it sticks around a bit. It helps to know that is a normal occurrence. Being aware helps us make sense of emotional and physical ups and downs. We can kick up certain self-care practices to help us through. This is a time for going gentle, not for pushing and then wondering “what’s wrong with me?”

In the last couple of weeks, I’ve found it helpful to really allow myself to keep it slow. To rest when my body is saying, “Hey! Hello? I’m here! And I’m sore and tired. Can we lay down for a bit?”

Another practice easing things up for me is looking at today one task at a time, starting the morning with a slow and spacious view of the day. Viewing “tasks” as quiet engagements, where I stay connected with myself and don’t get “out there” ahead of myself.

I don’t have to get it all done today. I can start with enjoying morning coffee. Then greet and feed the dog. Then savor a walk with her. Easy, not rushing nor pushing, which I tend to do so I can get all the things done. That mindset is really detrimental to me, separating me from my body, shifting me into mind-driven task orientation. It inevitably ends up depleting me.

Go easy, my friends, along with me. Transitions always come with challenges. Including the back and forth winter into spring shift. If you’re finding yourself tired and discouraged at your waffling moods, you’re right in step with the weather. It’s all okay.

And now for some good news!

I Won Something!

In January, a dear friend sent me a link to a writing institute which was offering fellowships to caregivers. Well, that’s me at present, so I got to writing content for the application. I had never submitted an application for any award or fellowship, so this felt like a brave move for me.

I pressed “submit” on my letter, Tired Caregiver Seeks Resurrection of Dreams, along with two chapters from The Chronicles of Maidenfern, the fantasy novel I sort of finished in 2023.

A couple of months went by, and honestly, I forgot about the fellowship. Late February, right before Keefie died, I received an email from the Martha’s Vineyard Institute for Creative Writing director. In a generously supportive letter, he informed me that while I didn’t win the first or second prize fellowship covering the conference cost one of the writers weeks, I was awarded the MVICW Poet & Author Fellowship!

I’ll share a few of the words he sent me.

“Your poeticism within the detail and narration is simply excellent. This novel is clearly on its way toward publication! As well, your letter was deeply compelling….When you write about not giving up on your dreams and seeking refreshment, impetus, and guidance for your book—I literally yelled out “Don’t Give Up!”

What encouragement this has been for me! I had wondered if it was too late, if my book was dying on the vine. Evidently, there’s still life in it.

Praise like this from an expert in the field is a cup of water in the proverbial desert for me. I really appreciated it.

Though I practically cannot attend the writers workshops presently, it doesn’t even matter. I won an award for my work! And that is huge for me.

Spring in Song

In a time of intense world war and violence, beauty still exists. Music has a way of reaching deep into our souls, evoking the best of emotions and memories. On this spring morning, I share a classical piece I love by English composer, Ralph Vaughan Williams.

The Lark Ascending lifts me far above the harshness of this world. Since its completion in 1914, on the eve of the First World War, its soaring melodies have transported listeners into spring’s joie de vivre.

Viola player and writer Philip Borg-Wheeler finds it to be “imbued with a profound sense of communion with nature.” I agree.

I hope you will enjoy it — it is one of my favorites.

Thank you for reading Excerpts from Wonderworld today! It is the wonders in our world that keep us afloat. Would you mind clicking the little like heart and writing a word or two in the comments? Every response affects the Substack algorithm, bringing Excerpts from Wonderworld before more readers.

Leave a comment

Here I go closing with a teaser. I hope it will entice you to return for our next newsletter. More soon!

May I remind you to keep your eyes open for small wonders in your world. They are everywhere when we lift our eyes and open our ears. Don’t miss them!

With lots of love,

Linda
and….?????

Share Excerpts from Wonderworld

Dear Friend,

Though for many of you, spring is springing and you’re uncovering snowdrops and crocus blooms, here in Michigan, ice and snow will have us bundled up into April. Blue skies and warmer days do poke through the snow here and there, though, which keeps us going.

Before I tell you stories about three dogs,
here’s a poem by Mary Oliver.

Keefie

I must deliver some difficult news now.

One month ago, I escaped the bleak midwinter for a much needed long weekend break with my dear nephew and niece-in-law in Naples, Florida. I luxuriated in walks on the beach, Teri’s delicious breakfasts crepes and meals, Tony’s brilliant idea to visit the Audubon Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary for a magical nature immersion with alligators, baby raccoons, snowy egrets, wood storks, noisy anhingas, woodpeckers, dreamy ferns and 500 year old bald cypress trees.

Thank heavens I had that time with my beautiful, vibrant, generous friends to refresh and strengthen me.

I returned to Detroit late in the evening. The following morning, I received an urgent phone call from the pet resort where Keefie, my beloved senior rescue, was staying. I threw my coat on over my pajamas and raced to get him. When they carried him out to my car and laid him on the seat, he was struggling to breathe. What I didn’t understand is that his legs were paralyzed and he was in absolute agony. I rushed him to the veterinary hospital where they promptly administered oxygen and fluids. A full body ex-ray showed his spine had been injured. He had previously been diagnosed with Intervetebral Disc Disease (IVDD) so I knew his spine was fragile, but intact. Until that day.

Keefie was given intravenous pain meds and was able to rest a bit easier until the end of the day, but there was a terrible reality I had to face. Terrible.

I had to let him go that night.

Those of you who have faced a tragic sudden loss of a loved one know what this is like. It’s pure shock. You are so helpless to stop this train crash and save your loved one. It is too sudden to have to make major decisions. And yet you must.

One Perfect Gift

Keefie was my prince, my grief counselor after losing Ruby last summer, our angel of consolation. My mother and he had become dear “old” friends. Both in their golden years, they bonded in a sweet, quiet companionship. Keefie, who was not generally a snuggler, often lay right next to her on her bed. When she was up, he took his place right on top of her piles of books on the bed.

He must have been a literary fellow in a former life.

Keefie came to us after his person died. He would have celebrated his 16th birthday in May. We adopted him last July hoping we could give him love, safety, a forever family and gentle walks in his retirement. The seven month stay he had with us was a pure and delightful gift for all of us.

I cannot tell you how profoundly stabilizing his presence was for me. Losing Ruby would have been intolerable without him. I thought we would slowly walk him into the sunset, but he had other ideas.

Grief after a sudden loss like this is fraught with complexity and troubling. Yet, when they go, you can’t make it any other way—Keefie suffered terribly in his last day; I wasn’t able to offer him the safety and sweetness of a peaceful end of life; I didn’t have the privilege of prescience nor time to prepare. His body just gave out and then he was gone. Poof.

Grief compounded upon grief weighs heavy on the mind and body. When it happens, and it seems to happen to most of us at some time in our lives, we need interventions.

My intervention came in the form of a soft, wild, playful thing.

Wild and Playful Interventions

Before I left for Florida, I had applied to be a foster parent volunteer with a local rescue agency. I thought Keefie might like friends, and I’d have experiences with small breeds. Down the line, I would want to adopt again. One of the seasoned foster volunteers screened me to be sure I would be a good foster mom for the pups.

“When would you be ready to take on a foster?” she asked.

“I’ll be out of town for a few days, but after I return, I’ll be ready.”

But then, of course, I wasn’t.

Three weeks later, while I was in the throes of sadness, seasonal blues, and shock that the U.S. started another war in the tinder box that is the Middle East, I was tagged in a post on the rescue group’s facebook page. A puppy was coming in from the Virgin Islands. His foster volunteer was already lined up, but she would be out of town until two days after the pup landed at Detroit Metro Airport, and someone was needed to fill in the gap.

Mr. Gibbs (Jack Sparrow’s first mate in the Pirates of the Caribbean film series) intervened in the heaviness of midwinter grief.

This sweet boy, so velvety soft with his Caribbean summery coat, arrived on a Saturday night. Tired, but wrapping his baby shark teef around anything within biting’s reach, he chewed my hand, my feet, his blanket and every toy I waved in front of him. Through the night he chewed my hair, my arms, my nose…and then he fell asleep next to me. Such a sweet baby. The next day was full of play. By that second evening, he seemed to be decompressing. He slept peacefully the whole night through, snuggled under my arm.

Wild street dogs on St. Thomas Island are called coconut retrievers. Mr. Gibbs is the classic Coconut mix. His eyes are very intelligent. And good news: of early this week, Mr. Gibbs has been adopted by a family with a teenaged boy! He will be loved.

Mr. Gibbs brought laughter, play, sweetness and cheer to me and to my also-grieving mother. The perfect entree into the foster experience for me, his visit helped dispel some of the heaviness upon me and prepare me for my first official foster.

Lady

I have not lived in an empty house since early 2014, twelve years ago. As a writer and musician who enjoys my home, I am comfortable with solitude and often love it. But I am certain of this: I prefer being in solitude with a canine or feline companion.

When I saw a new lot of puppies and older dogs come into the care of our rescue group, I spotted an older female Chihuahua in the mix and knew I was ready for my first official foster dog.

I picked up Lady Thursday night from one of our rescue volunteers. She had been with Animal Control after being surrendered by a family member when her elderly mama took ill. She is a dear one and her name suits her. A ten year old little lady, she is as sweet as can be, with the softest white fur, faint black spots dotting her ears.

I will “vet her” (get her to our group’s veterinarian for dental and neutering) and help get her ready for adoption. I’m not sure how this all plays out (and at this moment, I’m not sure I want to let her go!) but I’m taking it one day at a time.

Subscribe now

Excerpts from Wonderworld

Interventions like Gibbs and Lady remind me that even when my mind feels gloomy and I feel unable to move from my stuck place, outside of my door—both in nature and with good people—I can find life-giving, energy-boosting medicine. If you’ve been with me for long, you know I see these medicinal interventions as part of what I call Wonderworld.

It’s a world distinct from the shitty stuff going on. A world that exists bravely among dark forces and bad actors, those who would inflict violence, “casualties” and tragedy on the people of earth.

Wonderworld embodies generative, soul-renewing forces, like nature’s vitality and powerful human kindness.

Wonderworld is fueled by Love’s power.

I try, in my letters to you, to bring Wonderworld’s refreshment to you in excerpts. I hope to remind you (and me) of this: the world is ALIVE with regenerative growth and transformative love.

During these odd and dangerous times in which we hear really bad news every day, during an epoch in which our own (U.S.) government twists reality all over the place, calling evil good and good evil, we need infusions of hope on a steady drip. Especially right now, as U.S. residents are assaulted and killed (more than 30) by poorly managed, out-of-control ICE agents, we need constant Wonderworld interventions.

If you are trying to keep your head out of the sand (and I know many of you are,) doing your best to wisely stay informed about the war the U.S. administration has started and the 17 countries now drawn into it, it is crucial to open yourself to spirit-lifting resources. The balance needs to weigh heavier on Wonderworld experiences than it does on dreadful news.

How do we do this?

Puppies, Audubon sanctuary visits with good people, meals shared…these are excerpts from my Wonderworld.

What would you say your excerpts are today? Small joys count!

I’ll close with this

I learned a new way to turn the tide of morning depression. Immediately upon awaking, before you pick up your phone or say a word to anyone, lay in bed and think of something you love.

“I love the smell of coffee in the morning.”

“I love the way shafts of sunlight make patterns on the bedroom wall.”

“I love my cozy blanket.”

Evidently, beginning the day in this mindset shifts your mood so distinctly that your energy “vibration” levels rise significantly.

I love this idea! ❤️

Off you go to sleep, to your day, back to work, wherever your journey takes you. As ever, keep attuned to what feels like wonderworld to you.

Leave a comment

Stay in touch. Comment below. Please take one second to touch the little like heart. (It makes a world of difference to us writers and it alters the algorithm so my work reaches more people!)

With loads of love,

Linda

and the pups

Share Excerpts from Wonderworld

December 4, 2025

Dear Friend,

At this last full moon of the year, known as the “Cold Moon,” I’ve been thinking about transition stages. Life is so full of them, and they are MESSY.

When you’re young, you think the hard parts will be in earlier years of life only. You expect there is smooth sailing ahead. Stability will come. The hard stuff will be over and only the good stuff will remain.

But the cycles never stop, do they?

Spring. Summer. Fall.

Winter always comes.

And it can be so dreary at times.

For a few years in Nashville, I dated a man who dreaded winters. The gradual diminishing of daylight through October and November foreboded danger ahead. “I hate winter,” he bemoaned. “Just the thought of the nights getting longer makes me depressed.”

I’ve never felt that way about winter. I’ve always loved it because in Michigan, it meant spectacular frost patterns growing on my bedroom window panes, lit up by the electric candle Dad put in the window. It meant the strains of old carols I adore played in the background through the holidays, our favorite family records spinning on the turntable. The flavors and scents of Christmas always made my eyes sparkle— gingerbread and iced, decorated sugar cookies, the smell of fir trees, cloves and oranges.

When we were small, my sisters and I carved caves inside the big piles Dad built shoveling snow, and we crawled into them. I got so excited to go ice skating on the Galantowicz’ back yard rink. My siblings and I hauled sleds down the back yard hill, across the frozen creek and up the big hill, squealing at the thrill of sliding down. We built countless snow men in the front yard. After a freezing rain storm, our willow tree’s trailing tendrils, dipped in ice, shone spectacularly in the sun the next day.

Never did I ever despise a snow storm. It was pure heaven for me from inside our living room window. We excitedly bundled up in heavy knitted hats, scarves, mittens, snow pants, snow boots, the whole regalia. I have vivid memories of catching snowflakes on my tongue. Of coming in from playing with bright pink cheeks, piles of snow matted into my hat and mittens, thighs red and itching from the cold, crying in pain. Only to go back out there again later.

It all seemed magical to me.

Even now, I can’t get enough of the wonders of falling snow. Even the smell of snow excites me.

Our nearby trails wind through magical 100 year-old Norway spruce, hemlock and pine plantations. The forests call to me, reminding me of the Narnia-esque wonderland and profound peace I’ll find there.

Last week, however, I seemed to have forgotten all of that.

I recalled my boyfriend’s sentiments and found myself echoing them. “Oh, no. Winter is going to take us into darkness, and into depression.”

Dread tries to scare, rearing its head ominously. As if we will just succumb, believing its heavy version of our impending hibernal season. As if we’ll accept the unfortunate story it projects onto our imagination.

Will we?

Preparing for the darker seasons requires the remembrance of our inborn agency.

We have the capacity to transform our experiences.
Winter is not destined to be depressing.

In Nordic countries, days can be just a few hours long. In polar regions, the “polar night” (the sun never rises) lasts for days or months! How do these people manage through the darkness?

When I’m afraid of the stories I’m imagining, I find power in reframing them. The long, dark winter season needs a good, solid reframe right from the start when dread tries to creep in. The same applies for “winter” seasons in life, those stretches of hard times which seem darker, more confining and unending. Holding up a different lens can keep us from sinking into depression.

I walk twice daily with my little old man, Keefe, in my neighborhood.

Through the autumn days, I observed the gradual fading of leaf colors and thought often about how life just floats off the trees and falls to the ground, crumbling into the earth. There, dead in the ground, it begins its alchemical process. The once glorious leaves disintegrate to then be recycled back into the soil by subterranean insects and microorganisms.

The trees’ faded castaways ultimately become humus, a nutrient-rich organic component of soil. Their “wintering” process boosts the soil’s fertility so the next season’s plant babies can thrive. Their detritus becomes a food source for other organisms. Their breakdown becomes life giving. And then, through that magic, they inhabit the roots, the stems, leaves and flowers of new plants.

This is the trees’ version of metamorphosis.

The caterpillar transforms into a butterfly through metamorphosis, a word that often conjures empowered, glorious images. The caterpillar spins itself into a silky cocoon or molts into a shiny chrysalis to protect itself during its pupa stage. The pupa stage itself is actually a messy, rather gruesome process. The chrysalis is the tomb where the caterpillar goes to die, digesting itself, releasing enzymes that dissolve its own tissues.

Ewww.

Its body liquifies and, over the course of weeks, months and up to two years, reorganizes itself, growing butterfly parts from this protein-rich caterpillar soup. Some hibernate and then continue the metamorphosis process in the spring.

From that oozy mess, something magnificent eventually emerges.

The oozy mess stage is the caterpillar’s wintering phase of life. Wrapping itself in a concealing blanket begins the undoing of itself. Pulling in to an enclosed tomb of sorts, it melts the old version of itself and reorganizes.

In the quiet of that chrysalis season, it clarifies its new incarnation, processing through old skins, unnecessary parts, yesterday’s goop.

One form endures an alchemical process to become a new form.

Transformation never comes without mess, without melting and dissolving some excess and impurities. In the end of what may be a long process, a purer substance, a newer life, emerges in full color.

Finding Purpose in Winter

We are fast approaching December 21, the winter solstice and first day of the winter season.

As we go into the darker days, it doesn’t actually have to be dreary, dreadful and depressing. We can change the feeling of our winter experience, seeing purpose within the season.

Longer nights and colder weather drive us inside and pull us inward. Our homes become cocoons. We follow the lead of nature and hibernate in our cozy spaces, wrapping ourselves in blankets.

We can pull in to our winter caves and live a more peaceful, simple existence, using Mother Nature’s seasonal “container” as our own personal reorganization space. It’s a beautiful time to let our excess go, letting unnecessary parts of ourselves melt away. Sinking into the quiet and allowing the reconstituting of ourselves clears our view. There, the remaining, crystallized bits of our souls alchemize a vision of a freer, more delightful life to come.

How would you feel about joining me in some chrysalis crystallizing this winter? We could journal together, apart but together, through our wintering process.

Get yourself a fresh new journal.

Pour a cup of comforting tea into your favorite mug.
Light a candle in honor of your most intimate pupa stage, where the deepest transformation is happening.
Sink into your favorite chair and wrap yourself in your softest blanket.
Then write.
Write of skins you are shedding.
Write of excesses you are leaving behind.
Write of yesterday’s goo melting away, leaving a purified you standing, reconstituted.
Write how the reorganization of your truest self feels.
Write of the quiet you find there.

Write about the bones of who you are, the simplified you.

Throughout this containing season, just let yourself take the time, through the full length of the season, to continue the metamorphosis process, until you feel clean, clarified in who you are, able to see your emerging beauty.

Return, and return again, to the journal.

The light has retreated and the darkness, cold, and winter storms are already pressing in. Let yourself view these forces as transforming agents in your life. Let them be a helpful impetus to your evolution from goop to butterfly.

It’s a different type of Wonderworld inside the Chrysalis. But it is our Wonderworld, the place where the magic happens.

I’ll be with you through the wondrous, colder seasons ahead. Stay tuned.

And, I’d love to hear from you in the comments below. I’d love to see your reflections on this post, on wintering, on the holidays in general. Honest comments about the struggle in this season are especially welcome.

Leave a comment

And I’d love if you might share Excerpts from Wonderworld, too.

Share

Three Gifts

If you’ve not yet read Katherine May’s seminal bestseller, Wintering, you must get your hands on it. It is so beautifully written. Katherine creates a companion to carry us through darker times. It’s a joy to read. Here’s a link through bookshop.org: Wintering by Katherine May.

Please consider shopping at your local bookshops or on sites like Bookshop.org rather than via sites like Amazon. We can keep small businesses afloat through these tough times by supporting them in the holiday season and through the year.

Another gem available to us this time of year is writer Beth Kempton’s The Calm Christmas Podcast. It is Britain’s top seasonal podcast, and to me, it feels like an escape to a sweeter time. Beth speaks and writes of a purer holiday experience, free from the exhausting, commercialized version of Christmas with all its pressures, overwhelm and excess. She takes us to her thatched cottage, decorated old-style with holly, ivy and evergreen, candles and botanicals. Hearing her tell her stories, sharing music, recipes, craft ideas, book recommendations and gathering opportunities, lifts my spirits when I’m struggling.

And finally, from days gone by when I lived in Nashville, here is a song I recorded in early days of singing with my mountain dulcimer. I uncovered the CD recently while sorting through old boxes, and decided I needed to cherish those days and my younger self by sharing it with you.

A wish from me to you

I wish you comfort in the cold, a reminder you are connected on a molecular level with LOVE and with the world around you.

May you know you are so valuable, so deeply important in this world, especially when you’re struggling to feel worth.

May you find even the smallest connection with a kind person on days you feel friendless.

And may this winter season bring you to a profoundly affirming reorganization of your deepest self.

With love,

Linda,
Keefie and Ruby

P.S. This recording comes complete with the siren sounds of ambulances and fire trucks on their way to the nearby hospital. If you listen carefully, you can also hear my neighbor’s husky, Bodie, howling along after the sirens.

Subscribe now

Dear Friend,

It’s the simple things in life that bring great joy. You might not think waiting for the opening of a rose bud is much to write about. But for this rose, it is!

One day, you, too might find yourself crawling out of a long, wintery season where life’s color has faded and enjoyment of life’s pleasures seems a distant dream.

Then, you’ll understand how the anticipated unfurling of one flower can profoundly touch you.

Each day’s new unfolding surprises me. This formerly red rosebud is now an indescribable pink, its outer petals faded to a pale blush. And it keeps opening and opening!

The anticipation was worth it. My first blossom’s fragrance is out of this world. Truly a wonder.

Enjoy this little video clip. And stop to smell the roses—or pick up an autumn leaf—near you!

xoxo

Linda

Leave a comment

October 14, 2025

You can read this episode for free, but paid Subscribers can access the recording of this letter, embedded below.

Dear Friend,

I’m so glad you’re here with me. Is the cold weather descending on your corner of the world too? Colors are changing and temperatures are dropping at night here.

But I’m still waiting for the very

first flower buds to open on a special plant outside my front door. Still hoping it will happen before the frost creeps in to steal them.

Two months ago, I discovered a show called Pamela’s Garden of Eden which transported me through a portal of inspiration for a few days. A return to the garden and reawakening of the senses, each episode let me escape to the lush rainforest along the shores of Vancouver Island, British Columbia.

I encountered the series one month after Ruby’s passing, a month that had tenderized me. Through each day of tears, I found myself held in the thin space. You know, where this world and the next world feel exceptionally close. In that month, teardrops watered the ground of our connection and, surprisingly, deepened our relationship after Ruby died. So when I stepped into the magical experience of witnessing Pamela Anderson bringing to life her Garden of Eden dream, I found myself spellbound. And profoundly inspired.

Over the course of two seasons, Anderson is genuinely transformed by “earthing.” I watched, transfixed, as she shed the pressure of a life lived in Los Angeles in the shadow of a critical public eye. She is releasing the narrative of her past, hands now in the dirt planting vegetables, filling her life with the fresh produce she harvests to prepare colorful, aromatic vegan meals for her family. She fiercely protects the tall, mature trees on her land from becoming casualties when her construction crew builds near them. As she designs the landscape around her centenarian cottage, she savors the arrangement of each element. Two generations later, Pamela Anderson revives the spirit of Arcady (which means an ideal, rustic paradise,) the community of cabins her grandmother built.

Anderson gushes over bouquets of huge pink blooms she gathers from her rose garden. Yves Piaget roses are her favorite, with their perfuse fragrance and cabbage-like blossoms.

She unapologetically champions a romantic lifestyle, the childlike enjoyment of nature in all of its sensuality. I found myself struck by this woman—who is about my age—surrounding herself with sensual bounty which she planted, tended, nurtured and gathered. I’m struck by her unstoppable determination to dream and to bring her vision to life just as she sees it, regardless of the naysayers. The filmmakers captured the evolution of her spirit and calming of her countenance as she gradually pushes aside obstacles and claims her own power. She’s a tireless and ballsy woman, fighting for what she wants and not succumbing to intimidation in the face of those who don’t take her seriously. She’s willing to be perceived as difficult, “to do whatever it takes to get this place finished” for her family’s upcoming gathering.

On my walks with my little old man dog, Keefie, I internalized the takeaways from my experience savoring the abundance and delights of this film series. I kept asking myself “why am I so impacted by Pamela’s process and creations?”

The answer is multifaceted, but it starts with inspiration. Pamela Anderson inspires me with her determination. Her grit. Her fight to bring about the specific details of her vision. She insisted the filmmakers showed her as a human being with insecurities and fears. As someone who bravely experiments and tries things, fails, and learns from her mistakes. She is more concerned about immersing herself in the vibrancy of living than she is about presenting perfection. And I love that. I think the world, especially women, needs “permission” to do the same, and somehow, she grants her witnesses that permission. She lets her awkward moments be included, her silliness be seen. There is much laughter throughout. She has tuned into nature and sees, hears, smells, tastes and feels its restorative power all around her. And she exuberantly gathers its bounty to enjoy in her home and gloriously share with family and friends.

In the end, Pamela’s Garden of Eden is a series about a woman’s fight to take back her power and write her own narrative. She overcomes self-doubt through the process. With the support of her two sons, she bares her soul, lets herself be known, and discovers the essence of who she is. Anderson throws off the “caricature” perpetuated for decades about her. It’s the beginning of a grounded, lush, empowered yet softer experience for her, and she comes alive. Her strength and her story have become gifts of hope for women like me who have dreams simmering on back burners, who know, like she did, this truth:

I do have dreams of an “Arcady” of my own. I envision a home with creating spaces and gathering places, built in harmony with nature, forests and rivers. It is a dream I think and write about as it slowly materializes in my mind’s eye. A dream for the future.

At present, I can’t up and leave greater Detroit for green pastures. But I CAN bring beauty into my own life right here.

In the midst of what feels like a winter of the soul, it is necessary to bestow gifts of hope to myself. And so, I made what seemed an extravagant investment, ordering a potted Yves Piaget rosebush.

In the tiny patch of earth off of my front porch, I prepared the soil and settled the root ball into rich, organic material. I water it regularly and I watch it grow. Within two months, it burst with greenery and produced six rosebuds.

For three weeks I’ve waited, coaxing those buds to mature each time I walk out the door, checking every day for growth. The sepals around the scarlet pink bud began to separate a few days ago. We are so close and my fingers are crossed she will bloom before the frost!

A most beautiful thing happened as I planted my Yves Piaget rose. I had been longing to create some kind of memorial for my recently deceased soul dog, Ruby. On the day Ruby died, I scattered scarlet pink rose petals over her body. A month later as I dug my hands in the dirt and nestled the plant into its new home, I realized this rosebush is my memorial to Ruby.

In days to come, I will be posting the unfurling of the Ruby rosebush’s blossoms on Substack’s NOTES pages. If you haven’t already, download the Substack app to your phone where you will see the Notes section and if you are subscribed to Excerpts from Wonderworld, my Notes will pop up.

Or you can see them here: https://lindajsack.substack.com/notes.

I don’t want you to miss the gorgeous blossoms to come!

Leave a comment

Thank you for enjoying this excerpt from our Wonderworld. It’s a privilege to be able to write, and even more, to be connecting in this community with you. I would love to read your comments below, and your “like” hearts DO make a difference by letting me know you value my offerings.

YOU are a wonder in this world. May you find inspiration in Pamela Anderson’s story, in the tale of this rose, and in the wonder of nature blooming in your own world.

Wonderworld is all around you. Don’t miss it!

With love,

Linda

and Keefie and Ruby

P.S. Click below to listen to this episode!

Read more

With a paid subscription, you now receive both audio and visual version of this post.

Read more

Dear Friend,

I hardly know how to start this letter to you. Except to just say it: Ruby died.

On Friday, June 27, I held my beloved soul dog for the last time. We scattered rose petals over her and wept. The grief of that physical separation swept me into fever dreams and tears through the night and heart anguish in the following days. And weeks. And now, months.

Grief does not exist without the intrusion of Wonderworld. It’s a strange thing. In the days after Ruby’s passing, I was driving down Thirteen Mile Road in Detroit suburbs, apprehensive about going into my empty condo. I cried in the car, telling Ruby I just wish she would come back. Or send me a message of some kind. If that was even an imaginable possibility.

I approached my apartment building, turning right onto my street, to find an eight point buck standing on the corner exactly next to where I always park.

This busy street is a half mile from Woodward Avenue (that’s Motor City’s Woodward Avenue.) I’ve never seen a deer, much less an eight point buck (and his little brother,) in my neighborhood. There are no woods nearby. But there they were, staring at me.

Last week while at Mom’s, I went out for a walk, feeling so lonesome for Ruby. Again, just wishing she could be with me somehow still. Mom’s neighborhood is surrounded by beautiful trees, and her neighbors have lovely hanging flower baskets. I’ve seen hummingbirds darting back and forth from trees to flowers a couple of times this year. But on this day, as I returned from my walk near the back door, a hummingbird soared over, circled gently around me, and stopped in mid-air right in front of me, just a few feet from my face. Just for a moment, looking right at me.

Then today, for the first time in months—since Ruby’s cancer-weary body could no longer walk with me, I drove out to Proud Lake, our favorite woodland escape from the noise of the city and suburbs. We hiked together on the Marsh Trail for years. In fact, Ruby and I started and led a Meetup Hiking Group, Hikes with Dogs, hiking there for two years before the pandemic hit. These trails were our sustenance, and the sweetest time together in our friendship.

Subscribe now

I walked with Ruby’s leash around my wrist, her collar draped over my shoulders. I expected it might be a tearful walk so I came tissue equipped. No one else was there as I wandered. I talked quietly with Ruby, trying to feel connected with her. The forest and trails were ours.

“Where are you, Ruby?
I don’t see you. I don’t feel you,” I cried.

“I’m here in the breezes above you.”

The thought came to me like a message. I heard the whispering leaves swishing overhead in the trees. It calmed me.

Then, just ahead, through the brush that lines the lakeshore, I spotted the pure white graceful arch of a swan’s back. In the quiet of the afternoon, he floated, still, asleep under a hollow of branches. I stepped closer to the water’s edge on the mossy bank so I could peer through the trees and catch a photo. Beyond the hollow, EIGHT swans were sleeping!

Eight swans, their beaks and heads tucked into their snowy white feathers, necks curled snugly, napping on a perfect August day.

I’ve walked the Marsh Trail for years. Each Spring, I look for the pair of swans, awaiting the birth of their cygnets. Most years, I see just two, then none. So many little ones get snatched up by the herons, snowy egrets, other predators, and it is so sad to me to see the mother and father swans crossing the waters, bereft.

But this year, SIX cygnets survived! That alone is a wonder of nature!

Ruby and I always stopped to take a break on a deck built over the edge of the water, under tall trees. I would sit on the bench and watch the birds, swans and herons. I could hear Ruby’s body “thrump” down onto the deck even today, her collar tags clinking as she dropped her head to rest.

I watched as the swans slid across the reflections of clouds.

“I’m sending you love in the configuration of the swans along the surface of the water.”

My heart and senses are altered by this encounter. I walk further along the trail, marveling.

And then this great lump of love came waggling toward me.

“Can I pet your dog?” I asked the hiking man.

“You’ll see,” he said, as his friendly gorgeous golden retriever walked right up to me with this beautiful face, her eyes locked into mine.

Dogs don’t always look into your eyes. She did, lifting her front legs up, not jumping on me, just raising her head to my eye level.

In that gaze, I felt Love. Pure love.

Of course, I’m tearing up.

“This is my first visit to these trails since my beloved dog died. My first trip without her,” I told the man.

“I understand. I really do. How old was your dog?”

“Eleven,”

“We lost ours at eleven too. I really understand,” he said with a Slavonic accent.

We spoke of our beloved soul dogs and the magical language of canine companionship, sharing photos.

“Nice to meet you,” he said as we parted ways. “You know, you can find another dog. Maybe you could.”

I nodded. “Maybe. I’ll see you again.”

Excerpts from Wonderworld

When Excerpts from Wonderworld was conceived, the vision began with this description:

“Excerpts from Wonderworld: Inklings about my beloved natural world & hikes therein with Ruby.”

What do I do now? Where do I go from here?

Back to Wonderworld.

I know that Ruby will still be my companion in Wonderworld. In forests and mountains, through snowy trails and on sandy shores. I want her back may always be my response when I miss her and feel that catch in my throat, but the truth is, the same spirit in her is in the breeze, in the sleeping swans, in the golden retriever, in the hummingbird and in the eight point buck.

Share

Ruby’s Closing Message

My life is not that special. I’m just a person making my way through the loves and losses that make up life. But what is special is what Ruby has taught and continues to teach me: to listen, to watch, and to see.

It’s what I wish for you, because I know you, too, have experienced that anguish of heart. And in a walk outside or a drive home, you may have Wonderworld encounters. You may ask for a message from a loved one. Sometimes you just need a message from Love itself.

Listen, watch and see.

In closing, I want to share a song with you that sustained me through the nights I awoke in tears, through the days I couldn’t grasp her absence. Written by Jacob Collier, it is said his friend who lost her baby felt it was written for her. It is broader, with meanings deep and wide, and it has brought me incredible comfort. When I sing along, I sing “Little Roo,” to my Ruby.

If you have lost a loved one and you miss them terribly, please listen. More than once.

Wonderworld is not exclusive to me. It is all around you.

Don’t miss it.

With all our love,

Linda
and Ruby

P.S. In my next message to you, I will introduce you to someone special who has come into my life. ❤️ But for today, it’s all about Ruby.

Leave a comment

The audio recording of this post is available for paid subscribers.

Read more

Dear Friend,

On this day before my BIG birthday, I bring you poetry and gifts from nature. This is a post I would love comments on. Would you take a moment after you read to drop a note and click the heart? I think it will mean a lot to our featured writer today!

First, I offer a haiku I wrote, inspired by this ballerina of a tulip shell.

Then, I present poems offered by Alice Roe, an obscure writer whose compelling views “bring me pause.” When I read Alice’s words, I always quiet myself so I don’t miss the wonder in their “wanderings.”* I find myself expecting to be surprised.

And I always am.

I hope you will find a still space to savor Alice’s beautiful offerings. We are so lucky to have such thoughtful and clever young artists in our midst. Supporting them in their work guarantees we won’t lose our soul as a people.

Haiku

by Linda J Sack

the afterbloom

look, my faded form,

petal tips tinged with claret.

i dance as I go

Wandering Thoughts from Alice Roe

Tell me

What if I was never called for dinner,

That bell never rang?

Would I have continued

Playful wandering?

Would I have left

The trees

And pillows of moss?

Would I have ever made my way home

If that copper bell

Had not sounded?

Would I have been lost to the world forever?

Tell me

What if I was never called for dinner?

The Poem of August

You see,

I have a weakness for lovely things.

I would begin to pick flowers in the young days of May,

My hair full

My nose lost between petals.

By the time my eyes found the sky

The world was collecting

The last days of August.

And all I know of August

Is that flowers

And people

Die,

Claimed by the heat.

The death of summer.

About Reading Poetry

I (LJS) like to read poetry in increments, picking up the author’s book or manuscript now and then and just sitting with a few poems, then letting them set in me for a while. I need time to allow them to oxidize in my mind, until I find myself catching bits of meaning within them, fireflies of delight or understanding lighting up my dark room.

Here’s a brief, clever one from Alice that made me laugh:

Chapter 36

The creaking of floorboards,
The song of the insomniac.

With Alice’s work, I often find myself tasting, feeling, smelling the images, lost in the setting. I’m admiring of the raw courage with which they write. Possessing such insight at a young age comes at a high price. I’m hoping we will hear more from Alice, whose substance is artistic gold, produced through a fierce alchemical process.

Leave a comment

*Poetry by and photographs from Alice Roe are printed with permission.

Music from Wonderworld

Not everyone knows or likes classical music. I love sharing my favorites in hopes I can introduce you to composers and compositions that will surprise you and grow on you. Erik Satie provides a good soundtrack for me while I’m writing or needing a bit of quiet (punctuated by curiosity.) May this selection by Satie bring you comfort and inspiration.

And on that note….(pun intended)

Ruby and I send (belatedly) massive love to all of you maternal beings out there. Your love and care sustain the world! I’m hoping you are celebrated and cherished, and not just on Mother’s Day!

As I always do, I sign off from our Wonderworld with a reminder that Wonderworld is all around you. In tumultuous times, we survive by stopping to look, listen, smell, taste, feel the beauty in humanity and nature around us. Within us. These are my Excerpts. Today, may you become more keenly aware of and find delight in excerpts from your Wonderworld. And may those excerpts deeply sustain you.

With love,

Linda

and Ruby

Did I tell you I got to take a mini vacation to Quebec City in March? Yes! For years, Quebec City has been on my bucket list to explore, and in a last minute decision, I booked a flight using points I had saved up on my Amex card.

If you’ve visited Substack’s home page lately and checked out my Notes, you may have seen photos, videos and descriptions of my adventures. Here is a link to my favorite one so far: Quebec's Oldest Library And there will be more, including my toboggan ride at the Chateau Frontenac 🛷🙏🏼.

But I had to stop the travel blogging because early in my adventures, there was a terrible interruption in the excitement. I’ll tell you what happened before I proceed with the rest of the escapades exploring this magical, old world city.

Immersing in QC Culture

In planning my four night stay in Old Quebec City, I had researched “oldest restaurant in Old Quebec” and discovered this little gem. It’s building was constructed in 1675: Restaurant aux Anciens Canadiens.

Tired and hungry from traveling, I discovered was just down the short two-block hill from my little hotel. I strapped on my crampons (Quebec City had had THREE FEET of snow in the two weeks before my arrival and the streets were very icy!) and bundled up.

It’s always nice to be welcomed by a friendly person who is willing to speak English when you are in a French speaking city. Nicolas seated me, and Claudine brought me the menu, which included dishes the locals would have eaten in centuries past. While awaiting this delicious food, I received a notification on my phone screen about an email from a doctor. Ruby’s doctor. Ruby is my beloved canine companion of eleven years. I decided to open the message and read it because I knew it was the report from a blood test earlier that week.

My heart stopped when I saw the results: Ruby’s cancer has recurred. Multiple myeloma, in her blood and bones, returning “aggressively.”

I’m dining at a table alone. A dividing partial wall is on my left so I have a bit of privacy. Nicolas brings me a glass of white wine, included with the dinner. The room is small - perhaps a dozen tables, a fireplace with real logs burning, low lighting, lively carvings hung on the walls depicting people dancing and women’s skirts swirling. My eyes are pooling with tears and I can’t help them from spilling onto my cheeks.

As I’m blotting my tears with my grandmother’s hand made “tatted” handkerchief, Claudine delivers the most vibrant beetroot salad. I don’t make eye contact but I thank her. Nicolas returns to check on me and, apologetically, I say, “The food is delicious but I just received the bad news that my beloved dog’s cancer has returned.”

He looks at me compassionately.

“My colleague has dogs and she competes in national races with them,” Nicolas says. “You should talk with her. I will send her over.”

Claudine returned with my main course, the pot-au-feu of mushrooms and root vegetables. She stayed for a moment, standing by me quietly. I took out my phone, as we dog-parents do, and showed her photos of my “doghter.”

Ruby’s story slipped out of my mouth as tears had from my eyes. I told Claudine how cancer had completely surprised us in October of 2023, invading Ruby’s body, and how the cancer amazingly went into remission after just two months on daily chemotherapy pills and steroids. I told her how difficult the following year on those pills had been on both Ruby and me. I had been so relieved when her oncologist gave us the all clear and stopped the medications. But what a shock, that just a few months later, the cancer had returned.

It touched me deeply when Claudine’s eyes teared up too as she witnessed my fresh heartbreak. She knew what it was like.

The first night of my vacation, I sat in this incredible 350 year-old French Canadian restaurant digesting anguishing news. “How will I enjoy this desperately needed holiday now?”

Claudine took out her phone and showed me images of her sleek German short-haired pointers, fantastic photographs of them competing in running races with her, then pulling her in a sled race. She spoke of losing one of her soul dogs not long ago, and we shared a poignant moment of human suffering together.

Because of her and Nicolas, I did not feel so alone that night. They were so kind to me—almost like angels—that night.

The next morning, I awoke and shuddered when I remembered the past night’s news. I felt that awful ache you feel in the middle of your chest when sadness overtakes you. Again, I shook my head. How would I meet people and enjoy this city with this heavy despair over me?

The truth is, it was better for me to process this hard information there in Quebec City with a weekend of adventures planned than it would have been at home. Ruby would have seen me confounded and broken down as I grappled with how I would possibly manage the coming days. I know I would have been a wreck as I imagined her declining and suffering in pain from this cancer.

And of course, as you cannot help doing when a cancer diagnosis comes, I thought about the inevitable—how would I face life without my soul dog?

I call Ruby my “doghter” (like daughter) because she is my only child. She’s a very smart breed, an Australian cattle dog (mostly,) estimated to have the intelligence level of a two or three year-old human. I adopted her at nine weeks old from the Love at First Sight shelter in Nashville, Tennessee. She is eleven now, and she and I have developed a profound bond. Communicating with her has been mind-blowing for me. I was a cat lady before I became Ruby’s person. I had no idea of dogs’ capacity to understand so many words and connect with humans so deeply. You really can’t know until you experience it.

I’ve written about her before, but for newcomers to my Substack community, she’s been my copilot on hundreds of errands and road trips. Working with me in my business as a massage therapist for seven years, Ruby greeted my clients at the door and slept under the massage table, offering her puppy love to those who wanted her near. She’s ridden in the car with me every workday, working with me to help care for older people these past eight years until, last year, cancer made car riding no fun. (She still comes to visit Grandma once a week.)

So, in imagining life without her, there will be a giant space where her furry presence and constant interaction has been. The intrusive news of cancer recurrence forced me to have to think about that while in Quebec City.

Holding Anguish and Joy in the Same Palm

Now, I hope you’ll watch this important video where I grappled with the dilemma of how to enjoy a vacation after receiving bad news. I filmed it the morning after I read the report.

The Return to Ruby

The first month back home with Ruby felt dark as I processed and adjusted to our new reality. Administering chemotherapy tablets daily and watching Ruby lying quietly for hours afterward made me feel concerned, as I knew she was uncomfortable and in pain. I worried she might be declining.

Leave a comment

But after that first month, Ruby’s energy started coming back. She began walking faster outside. Then came the day she played with a neighbor dog, pouncing in playfulness, and, astonishingly, spinning around with excitement like she did when she was much younger. She’s been feisty and sometimes mouthy with me again!

Relief lifted my heavy heart. Ruby is having a positive response to the chemotherapy, and I have hope the cancer will go into remission again. I have more time with my beautiful girl and this makes my eyes warm with happy tears.

Slivers of Wonder

The Wonder in my present day is the intrusion of a surprisingly good outcome so far. I see the sparkle returning in Ruby’s personality. I’m amazed with the sheen of her coat and the reduction of bloating in her body. She looks so healthy.

Gratefulness overwhelms me at times.

This is my Wonderworld today.

Where might you find slivers of wonder?

It’s there, for you and all around you, ready to uplift you in dark times and in lighter ones.

I love having you here with me through it all. Thanks for reading my work and supporting my creative life.

Thanks for engaging with comments and heart likes, too.

Love,

Linda

and Ruby

But this video is a taste of one of Quebec‘s delicacies, a maple wine sampling. Domaine Vallier- Robert Maple wine, Val ambre. And, a sampling of one of my favorite treats in the whole world.

I landed safely (and upright) in Toronto today. 😮‍💨

I’m off for a few days of respite, exploring and adventuring in Old Quebec, Canada. I’m bringing you along, so stay tuned for photos and videos! My ancestors are French and Scottish Canadians, so I’m hoping this American will be welcome here. (I voted for HER.)

On the agenda: tobogganing, ice skating (poorly,) a visit to the gorgeous castle, Chateau Frontenac, writing in one of the oldest libraries in North America, sampling pastries, maple wine, and delish food from local farm-to-table restaurants. I’ve been watching YouTube foodie and walking tours of the 17th Century section of Quebec City. Magical old-world shops, divine restaurants, mosaic cobblestone streets. I’m pretty excited!

Can’t wait to share my experience with you. 🇨🇦🩵

Dear You,

If you knew how many letters I have started to you and not finished, you would laugh. There is a backlog of beginnings in my Substack dashboard. I’ve thought of perhaps including them as “parts,” in case there are some gems in there for you. I might just do that with some links, if you are curious.

We writers understand that we rarely know when our words alight with your souls. There are times I finish a letter and think, “Okay, this is a good one. Some of my best writing.” And it falls flat on the proverbial ears of my readers, or at least evokes little response. Then, I receive a direct message from a reader about how my writing connected with them, maybe even moved them, in response to a missive that felt woefully flawed to me.

But here I am tonight, on a “snow night,” when the streets of Detroit are mostly quiet, layering hour after hour with downy snow. The winter weather advisory went into effect several hours ago. Ruby and I didn’t miss our window of wonder, getting out for a lovely walk in this fantastic show of magic in our adjoining walking neighborhood of quaint homes, some still twinkling with baubles and fairy lights from Christmastime.

Blue dusk now falls over the city east of Woodward Avenue, and I’m nestled in for the evening.

January Crash & Fires

The first week in January found me wiped out from the Christmas season, and a bit under the weather. I find I need it to be quiet after the hustle and bustle of the holidays, and the good news is, so does most everyone else. It’s the beginning of hibernation season for us northern hemispheric humans, after Christmas. Because during, we are still packing our cheeks like chipmunks, as if we’re going underground and need enough stuffing to sustain us for a while. Do you find this to be true for you?

Mom has been fighting an infection as well as I, and so our energies have been directed toward visiting medical experts and attempting to solve health mysteries. Tonight, after a hard week’s work, it feels so good to settle in to the cozy of this hush that a good snowfall brings.

As I write this, across the country, another type of fluffy white flakes cover the neighborhoods of Los Angeles. There is no cozy to be found. It is elusive. Ten thousand structures, mostly residential, went up in flames in the wildfires last week, leaving tens of thousands unhoused. A hollow sense of shock holds those affected in it’s grip. Elderly who expected to die in their beautiful homes, children who just want their blankets and stuffies, those who suffer mental or physical illness who are desperate for a quiet, safe space to rest, pets who can’t make sense of any of it—their hearts are all yearning for the familiar, the cozy, for a home that no longer exists.

We can send support and tangible love to our suffering neighbors. A gifted therapist and wise, caring human I follow closely on social media (and podcasts) lost his home. See his video John Kim, the "Angry Therapist"—John Kim and his wife, Vanessa, set up a GoFundMe fundraiser to help their neighbors. Their neighborhood was razed. I trust John and his wife to steward this fund well and get practical help into the hands of those who need it most. Here is the link: GoFundMe for Altadena Fires

So many other non-profit organizations have also mobilized, so if you want to support them, Google disaster relief Los Angeles wildfires.

Instructive Dreams

I read this week about an inquisitive practice writer Dana Levin describes in the postscript of one of her lovely poems. “Sometimes, as I fall asleep, I ask for an instructive dream; and sometimes my psyche provides.”

I love that idea. Clarity coming through dreams and upon waking—sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?

2024 was a jumble of chaos for me: family illness crises, two floods, and months of displacement. I felt like Providence took me in her cupped hands, shook me around for a while, and then set me down, saying “Find your way!”

I’m still tippy and dizzy from the ride.

As a result, 2025 finds me nesting in my new home and resting for a while as the spinning stops.

As I tossed and turned in yesterday’s nascent hours, I found myself sort of yearning for answers in my half-sleep state. For “how” to fully recover and how to find my way forward in this new year. Part dreaming, part waking, the beta waves in my brain were at work receiving instructions.

In my dream, I was flailing around in the dark trying to paddle through noisy, choppy waves in a canal. It was clear to me the dark waters were the stressors in my brain: concerns about the world’s catastrophes and traumatized victims; worries about my Mom, myself and our futures; fears that it’s all too much for my sometimes tumultuous brain and soul.

Wordless dialog ensued, and a question wooshed back and forth inside me: “What do I need to do to manage and to stay alive through this?” On a basic level, I was asking for life instructions, searching, in that fever-dream desperation, for what I needed to do to make sense of my mind’s overwhelm and my life’s current state. “What do I need to DO?”

Thoughts, proposed solutions, and figurings came and went. My brain searched, sorted and shuffled the proposed ideas, tossing some out like rough drafts. The feeling of being tossed in loud, rushing waters continued as the undercurrent of this dream.

The narrowing down experience with clear instructions came just before I awoke. It was far simpler than I was thinking it had to be.

In obvious order, this is what I need to do:

1. Breathe.

   In

   Out

   In

   Out

   In

   Out

   In

   Out

Simple.

In my twilight state, the instruction seemed like an enormously relieving revelation. Wow. That’s it! Breathe. This is what I came to, after hours of flailing around.

The second instruction was just as simple:

2. Pray.

   Not just conversing with a Higher Power I think of as Love with a capital L (you know, “God is Love”) and Life, (as in that power that brings Life, gives Life, sustains Life.) Not just prayers asking for help, like interventions for myself or others. Instead, this instruction seemed to be a type of melding prayer between me and this Love, Life/God that I feel connected to. A type of visioning and building together of a clear idea. For example, an imagining of my Mom up and moving about steadily. A view of Ruby comfortably playing with a new furry friend in our new neighborhood.

I don’t fully know what number two instruction is all about yet, but I’m thrilled to have received something clear, seeing as my mind and soul were so burdened when I went to sleep the night before. I’m letting that sink in to my soul, with hope there will be more clarity in these lovely, quiet days of winter.

Sick Day Reset

Have you ever noticed how the human body has a way of demanding rest when it’s needed? This week, when my brain seemed to still be stuck on the gerbil wheel of holiday intensity and I couldn’t shift gears into the necessary quiet of January, my body revolted.

I started off the new year with a brilliant journaling challenge, and I think that action is what threw the proverbial spanner in the works. The Isolation Journal’s New Year's Journaling Challenge provides the perfect mental reset with which to ease into 2025. It’s not too late to do it—I’m still in process with it.

I really do thank God for Suleika Jaouad. Her writing, life and community building work has been a lifeline to me. Her 2025 journaling prompts seemed to dislodge me from the crazy that was 2024.

But, I could not get my body to stop and get quiet.

So it said, “Enough! Since you’re attached to that gerbil wheel, I’ll present you with some annoying symptoms you won’t be able to ignore and you’ll have to fall off!”

That’s exactly what happened. Mild symptoms hit before New Year’s, but I was so busy spinning I ignored them at first. Once in January, they accomplished their mission and successfully knocked me off the wheel. I was forced to rest.

In the falling off, I received the gift of facing some lifestyle changes I need to make. So today was my first day in who knows how long without caffeine and sweets. No, I’m not in withdrawals at all….

Nourishment for the Lazy Cook

Thanks to a gift card I received from my dear Mom, I was able to fill my refrigerator with fresh produce (as fresh as you can get during Michigan winter) from a great little urban market nearby. What a great gift idea! Thanks, Mom, and brother for facilitating!

These glorious vegetables inspired me to make a soup that tastes even better than candy and cookies! Every spoonful feels like a bite of health! It’s so unbelievably good, I’m sipping the savory broth down like a tonic, relishing each tasty collard leaf and every chunky potatoey, carrotty, celery-ey bite.

If your’e impressed that I make soup, hold on. I’m the laziest cook. I literally take a tray to my living room couch with washed veggies, a cutting board, a large bowl and a container for scraps. I flip on a film for company—usually a British mystery—and I chop away. I like chunky soups, where I can bite in and taste the good nutrients, so there’s no fancy approach.

I have gotten a couple of tips from better cooks than me. One is sauteeing the chopped garlic and onion in a bit of olive oil before putting it in the soup pot. You can include the celery as well. That carmelized flavoring really enriches the broth. I throw in seasonings like salt and pepper, bay leaves—maybe I try something new with it each time. The other secret is hot sauce. A few dashes of Tabasco warms up the flavor really nicely. You can use a vegetable broth, but if I don’t have it on hand, I filter a batch of good ol’ H20.

The rest is pure “cut and dump.” A small bag of little gold potatoes, bunches of organic carrots and collard greens, a few big celery stalks, and a can of diced tomatoes. My sister makes delicious Tuscan soup similarly and adds in fennel seeds, so they’re on my shopping list for next time.

I keep the big pot of soup in the refrigerator and as I make my way through it, I just keep adding veggies and liquid. I love to keep soup on the stove all through the winter, sampling different vegetables, herbs and spices. And I just keep dumping them in, and see how they meld with the last batch. It’s been a really easy cooking experience that makes me feel much healthier. Comfort food for sure.

What Are Your Instructions?

Aww, well, how are you doing? How do you feel after reading this, or listening? Any soup ideas you want to drop in the comments?

Leave a comment

I hope these words and pictures reach you in that part of your soul that needs a bit of nourishing. Perhaps a bit of a “stop and rest” nudge. At the least, may you find some comfort here.

If you’re having trouble getting the brakes to engage so you can rest, perhaps you, too, can ask for an Instructive Dream to help you.

I think I’ll be asking for more, because I need continued healing through hibernation season. At this time in history, many of us are in need of major refreshing and reconstituting after a difficult and tumultuous 2024. And we need that, even as things may become more difficult in 2025. We especially need it. We can’t go forward without resting and recovering, and getting our nervous systems back in order and reset. So I wish and pray for you to find that place within, that place of profound rest and healing. I also vision-pray for sparks to light up new hope within you for your days ahead.

As always, I invite you to look around you today. To celebrate the magical Wonderworld that is all around us.

May little delightful things capture your attention and lift your spirits. Snowflakes on your dog’s nose. A kind person who holds a door for you. The sound of your child or grandchild’s voice on the other end of the phone. Or, you niece or nephew’s voice. Candlelight as you read. Your own breath.

Now, I’d like to ask for a simple click of your mouse on that heart below. It seems negligible, but it signifies to me that someone “sees” me and appreciates the time, love and energy I put into these missives. I appreciate comments more than I can express. They let me build the sense of community that I long to create here with you and our other wonderers.

Leave a comment

I’d like to specifically thank my paid subscribers. I can’t adequately express how much it means to me that you choose to invest a little bit of your resources into my writing. I look forward to expanding that experience here and to growing my contributions to Excerpts from Wonderworld for you to enjoy.

Thank you all for dropping in for a visit with me.

Sending you all the love,

Linda

and Ruby

Share Excerpts from Wonderworld

Dear Friend,

After an arduous four-hour drive yesterday from Detroit to Charlevoix, Michigan, my bestie, Ruby, and I boarded a small plane heading for Beaver Island. The flight, lasting just about 12 minutes, takes you over 32 miles of spectacular Lake Michigan. Eight adults and two pups did what we always do while being air lifted across that lake: stared out the windows, mesmerized at the beauty of that vast inland sea.

As we disembarked, a long-time island resident asked me, “Did you hear about the Three Sisters forcing the Emerald Isle ferry to reroute and return to shore?”

Not sure whose sisters she was referring to, I shook my head. “No—what happened?”

“The boat headed out into rough waters that day—nothing unusual. A pretty choppy ride. Then out of no where, a giant wave lifted them sideways. They changed course to get out of the path of the monster wave, but another one reared up before them from that direction. They were damn lucky to have avoided a third. They actually turned back to shore. They call those waves the Three Sisters. These were at least ten feet high.” Maybe higher.

Rogue waves rise to a height more than double that of other waves around them. Legend has it that “three sisters” likely contributed to the terrible shipwreck in Lake Superior that drowned twenty-nine crew members in 1975. You may know of the story. Gordon Lightfoot wrote about it in his famous song. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

“Those Three Sisters waves caused many of the shipwrecks around this island,” my island friend said. “You know what prevents them today? Technology.”

“That’s one of many reasons why I don’t ride the ferry anymore,” I confessed. “Big waves—no thanks.” (It took but one bout of seasickness to make me a semi-frequent flyer on Beaver Island’s Fresh Air planes.)

In contrast to the ferry’s voyage days earlier, our flight over was just perfect. No turbulence. We flew over a sea of glassy turquoise, just under puffy clouds. Here’s a three second clip from my window seat.

Ruby and I then walked to my old 2004 Chevy Blazer parked along the edge of the small airport’s grassy lot. I’m crossing my fingers as I pull out my keys, since “The Beav” hasn’t been driven since June and, well, he’s old.

He starts right up, proving my doubts wrong, and I shift him into first gear to pull forward. His transmission has seen better days. As we all do in our elder years, he needs special care to get us where we need to go. We have to start in first gear to get going, then gradually move through second and third in order to make it into “drive.” And he makes it. Good ol’ boy!

I’d received a text upon landing from one of my dearest friends, Becca. She was heading to the north shore to capture a photograph of the rising full moon rising, as the sun was setting. Somehow, our paths crossed at exactly the right moment, because the next thing I know, Becca’s navy blue truck all “browned” from Beaver Island’s dirt roads is right in front of me. I follow her as she turns onto Lake Street, our brown trucks crunching down the stony dirt road to the shore.

I hop out, lifting Ruby gently to the ground. Becca comes to greet us with a great hug and a sweet scrub of Ruby’s sides, setting her tail a-wagging. Ruby adores Becca—and she’s so happy to be at the beach. Becca’s already scanning the sky in search of the moon, but this November Beaver Moon is playing hard to get.

Meanwhile, the first thing I notice upon getting out of my old clunker car is the smell of burning something. I pop the hood and start pulling out dipsticks and checking fluid levels. Oil is okay. Transmission fluid is not.

For the last few years, the Beav’s transmission has been developing rheumatism, shall we say. Really having trouble shifting gears, leaking fluid like Henry’s bucket, and making horrible grinding noises. Many trips to the island mechanics for various repairs have left the Beav functioning, but quite disabled. So, I’ve had to fill up those fluids over the years. Thank God I had a bottle or two handy in the car for just this occasion. My first visit to the beach was spent playing Mrs. Goodwrench.

The Beaver Moon Appears

The full moon did not expose itself last night, but tonight, what a glorious sight. Becca’s talent for capturing stunning displays of nature does not disappoint. The Beaver Moon happened to fall on my mother’s 87th birthday this year. So I celebrate her as I behold Beaver Island’s annual namesake moon.

As I awoke this morning after a tumultuous night, up and down for hours trying to settle my over-stressed puppy after a drive she hated, my heart was full of excitement to be on the island and at my beautiful little home, but also full of sadness. Exhaustion from no rest contributed to my weary state.

In that emotional overwhelm, I found myself pensive, mug o’ tea in hand. The drive up has been increasingly difficult for Ruby in recent years, stressing her immensely, in spite of my many efforts to make it relaxing for her. Seeing her suffering causes me much sorrow.

In the fresh and undeniable fatigue of this turbulent transport to the island, I am forced to reckon with this reality: it is all just simply too much for Ruby and I on our own.

The demands required to prepare for time away from work seem immense for me. Having to haul supplies and maintain the house for guest rental (Ruby’s Chalet is listed on AirBnB at Beaver Island Artists Retreat) overwhelms me. Driving four hours with my panicked, weary puppy is physically and emotionally draining. And then, having to spend my visit working—it all dampens the joy of my magical island experience.

This island holds extraordinary wonders within its sandy borders. Treasures within its shorelines. I’ve never experienced such a pristine, unexploited place on earth. Part of it is the islanders’ determination to preserve its simplicity. They will not allow the commercialism that exploits many vacation destinations to ruin the island’s natural beauty and historic charm.

I come here to escape the vacuousness created by developers as they replace Michigan’s rich forests, marshes, and wildlife habitats with architecturally characterless sprawling suburbs. I come here for the heavenly quiet of my forested neighborhood, currently surrounded only by winter-hardy creatures like squirrels, deer, and a few remaining birds. I come here to notice things I miss when I’m in the city. Like the calls and peeps of these guys:

Today, it is sunny, and the bright shafts of light stream through the wall of windows stretching across the back of the chalet. The forested hillside just beyond the campfire pit is glowing with golden auburn maple and oak leaves. And the evergreens — they surround the front of the lot near the road, providing such shelter, privacy and safety.

In my remaining time here, I’ll be preparing for winterizing the house, painting a wooden picture frame, heading out with Ruby for a walk on the beach, and savoring a slow hike in the golden leaves on one of the many historic, wooded trails of Beaver Island.

I hope you’ve enjoyed coming along with me, glimpsing just a wee bit of the magic of this precious place. Would you drop a like heart or a comment in the chat? It would mean so much to me.

Leave a comment

I think of you all so often and I am constantly wishing you all moments of peace, refreshing moments savoring the wonders of your world, and relief from the intensity of the present troubles of our time.

I appreciate your continual support even though my letters have been sparse lately. I hope for more consistency in the future, but I love your company whenever I’m here. I’ll snap photos from the shore and the gorgeous Font Lake Trail and will try to post another quick tour for you to enjoy. I’d be so grateful if you might share Excerpts from Wonderworld with others.

Share Excerpts from Wonderworld

From my Wonderworld to yours with lots of love,

Linda

and Ruby

P.S. I offer this publication free, but there is an option for a paid subscription. Great thanks to you dear ones who have supported my work in this way. It makes an enormous difference to me.

P.S.S. Yes, you’re hearing Christmas music in the background. We need all the uplift we can get right now, and this is actually some really nice jazz. Possibly even acoustic. You can find this YouTube video at A Bakery Shop in the Victorian Era: Christmas Jazz Music

Subscribe now

Sending you Lots of Love

Last night, I walked outside with Ruby under the tulip trees. The leaves and twigs swirled above us in the gentle breeze, rustling and waving as if to get our attention. I stopped and felt the wind brush my cheeks. It was a perfect night. 77 degrees (25 C) with the sun lowering in clear skies. Soft.

Have you ever noticed a breeze and been stopped in your tracks, as if someone is calling you to be still and listen? To just wait and feel?

“Stop and smell the flowers” is always prompted with a noticing. A pink thing on your left is beckoning you to come, to put your nose in it and breathe in its fragrant offering.

A musician playing a guitar on the street is metaphorically nudging something deep inside you. Come and listen!

A collection of leaves is exuberantly waving you down. Hey! Look, listen, and feel!

You see it. You can ignore it and walk by. Or you can heed the beckoning and receive the gift.

As Ruby and I stood under the trees, my body impulsively responded with a deep inhale and exhale where you become aware of all of your senses. Something in me tenderizes and I feel more alive.

I lean over and put my arms around Ruby’s neck, reminding her how much I love her. Her beautiful soul and happy wagging tail make me laugh.

I received the gift.

It was just a moment. But a joyful one I am grateful for.

A doe and her two fawns visited me on a recent walk at the “Tree Farm” at Lakeshore Park. My favorite trail there, where wonderful, narrow bike trails wind through a majestic old plantation of Norway spruces.

Changing Seasons

The roar of summer with its travels and heat is quieting into September here in Michigan. How is it where you are?

Something opens up ahead of us as the air cools. Space opens for creating, for shifting, for the “new.” I love this transition.

I see fresh messages popping into my inbox from my writerly friends from Substack and other blog spaces. I feel excitement as I watch kids crossing streets with new backpacks and fresh outfits. I hear the strains of the marching band practicing for this Friday’s football game.

Do you feel excitement as you pass by maple trees changing from green to gold and red?

My friend Clare expressed anxiety over summer’s end. She feels dread about the cold weather ahead because her tiny frame struggles to stay warm through Michigan’s cold seasons. A man I was in a relationship with for several years felt his heart sink with the coming of autumn, as depression set in for him during Tennessee’s winter months. Though the fall brought such beauty and temperate weather, it signaled the end of seasons that fueled him, triggering angst over the battle he knew he’d face as the days shortened.

How is it for you? What kinds of feelings and thoughts does the change bring for you? I’d love to know your thoughts and you can comment here:

Leave a comment

I do care about you and where you are on your journey. Whether you are in a season of reprieve or a season of intensity, I’m here for it. We can offer such support to one another by connecting. Even just in the comments. I love to see one person’s note followed by the thoughtful interaction of another reader’s response. Such small efforts are indeed huge, because they make us feel a part of something. Not alone in the world.

I have started posting in Substack’s Chat and Notes sections. I would love to connect with you, even in small ways with a “like” or a ♡. In these sections, I usually just post a photo from my day-to-day, often nature finds. With a thought or two. Or I restack another writer’s thoughtful post.

I would also love if you might share Excerpts from Wonderworld with a friend or on your socials.

Responding to the Beckoning

Excerpts from Wonderworld is my response to Mother Nature’s many calls to me for attention. There are beckoning 👋🏻 waves from agents of beauty and healing all around me. I know you feel them too—though perhaps your ear has been dulled by the busyness of trying to just survive in these difficult times? Survival mode can do that.

Let the breeze in the leaves above you trigger a response from your senses. Just stopping for a moment and feeling can drop you into your body and give you a little taste of joy.

Or tenderness.

As I always say, Wonderworld is around you. Don’t miss the whispers offering you a reprieve.

Let the kiss of a warm breeze on your cheek be your prompt.

Don’t miss it!

Sending you loads of love,

Linda

and Ruby

Dearest Readers,

On April 23, a torrent of water poured through almost every orifice in my apartment ceiling. From three floors up, the main water pipe burst, forcing it’s way down through two apartments to flood in on mine. Two inches of water on the bathroom, hall and kitchen floors flowed into the carpets of the bedroom and living room. Water funneled onto every surface, including my bed. There were not enough buckets/substitutions, nor was I quick enough to save my belongings from saturation. Five days later, the carpet was still wet on my bare feet. Drywall was still 100% saturated. Mildew had set in immediately and no question, mold began to grow at the 72 hour mark, as it does.

Subscribe now

Ruby and I got out that first night, but my valuables couldn’t be moved (except my musical instruments, enough items to live on for a week or two, and some precious heirlooms/memoires.) Thankfully, I have renters insurance. Mitigation and remediation teams swooped in like a murder of crows on day three to assess, pack up and carry off the rest of my home’s contents. It all remains in treatment or storage facilities until I find a new home. Because of the property management’s determination to avoid major mold remediation efforts, I did not return to my former place.

A flood is considered a “disaster.”

In my current season of life, I have become increasingly aware of the effects internal “catastrophizing” has on me. When this disaster happened, it felt really important to me to approach it with with a clear mind, putting a bit of space between the chaos and my reaction to it. (A course I’ve taken recently was educating me to tune in and notice my emotional responses to what was happening, and to look for that space. Because of that new practice, it was a different experience from former crises.)

So, what’s happened since?

If you’ve noted my absence, you may have guessed that something was awry. You know the saying, “When it rains, it pours”? Sure enough, the flooding was followed immediately by more life storms. Since April 23, every day I’ve awakened to the reality that April 23 was merely the beginning of a deluge.

It looked like this:

1. Week One. Flood and six days of flood response.

2. Week Two. At Ruby’s oncology checkup, she finds in the grass a college student’s marijuana blunt. Toxic poisoning ensues, this time including back end paralysis and a late night emergency hospital visit.

   —INSERT flight to South Carolina w/Mom for a really fun family wedding here! THIS is one of the things that has kept me going.

3. Week Three. Ruby is poisoned again, this time causing days of gastrointestinal illness requiring ‘round the clock care, and a four a.m. emergency visit. At the same time, Mom contracts a terrible ten-day respiratory virus and needs ‘round the clock care. Nurse Linda on duty.

4. Week Four. A scheduled work trip takes me north (brother steps in to care for Mom.) Upon arrival there, the respiratory virus infects me for ten days. I still work, between coughing spells and naps.

5. Week Five. I return “home” to Mom’s independent living guest room, and focus on getting the three of us packed for our annual trip to Beaver Island. After a long drive and a short flight, we crash for a few days, resting and taking in the fresh air and magical peacefulness there. This is an interjection of rest and nature’s medicine that has kept me going.

6. Week Six. On the day five family members are to descend on the cottage for a girls’ weekend, Mom faints. I catch her and call 911. The ambulance whisks her away to the airport where a helicopter airlifts her across the pond to the mainland for an overnight hospital visit. She’s stabilized; it’s not a stroke. Test results indicate a manageable condition that explains the fainting, and we now know measures to keep her safer.

7. Week Seven. We fly back to the island for a short but really rich time with family, including eating bounteous meals, creating together, and laughing ‘til our sides hurt. This intrusion of laughter and creativity with loved ones has kept me going.

8. Week Eight. Back at home, I’m taxiing Ruby, Mom and myself to seven follow-up doctor’s appointments. I’ve moved to a rented room in a house nearby and I’ve hoped for some respite.

9. Week Nine. The stress has about done me in and I begin to unravel. Cue Imogen Heap’s “Let Go.”

A couple of years back, a British Instagram friend indicated in a course I took that she had a “mental health breakdown.” She said, “It’s no big deal—people have them all the time. They just don’t talk about it.”

The difference here in America is the deep stigma attached. The words mental and breakdown together conjure so many pejorative images and judgments. So much so that no one here would ever want to admit to the experience.

Imogen has a different take, though, and I find far more wisdom in her perspective than in our shame-based American take on mental health breaks. “Let Go” (from the brilliant film, Garden State,” says this:

So let go, so let go and jump in
Oh, well, whatcha waiting for? It's alright
'Cause there's beauty in the breakdown

So let go, yeah, let go, just get in
Oh, it's so amazing here, it's alright
'Cause there's beauty in the breakdown

During Weeks Nine and Ten, worst case scenarios flood my mind’s eye. A sort of around-the-clock panic attack — abject terror at times — sets in, and my body feels like it’s buzzing. I cry a lot, the helpless and desperate kind of crying with which most people feel really uncomfortable. My therapist expresses she is concerned about me. Profound exhaustion has hijacked my nervous system.

Maybe you’ve experienced this. Maybe you haven’t yet—it takes some seriously overwhelming and traumatic life events to bring it about. If you’ve lived past your thirties and don’t know what I’m talking about, you’re one fortunate human. Most humans (unless you have no self-awareness or are completely emotionally shut down) will pass through similar valleys.

The part where I felt like I was drowning and couldn’t get air is behind me. And from this vantage point, I can write to you and tell you about the beauty in the breakdown.

I don’t like the abject fear part. But the tears, even the desperate tears, are beautiful. The letting go and the abandoning control, like the breaking of a dam, allows for the torrent of sometimes tormenting feelings to release. Rather than sucking you under, a tearful outpouring forces the suffocating, panicky waters out and away from you. Tears become a warm pool, a bath of comfort, that bring a buoyancy, letting rest come.

What happens when life sends you an inescapable deluge of floods all at once? How do you get through it?

There are times I find a great sense of comfort in a good cry alone. Times I feel that inexplicable comfort I call Love (with a capital L) very present and very palpable. But other times, I’m so overwhelmed that I know it’s time to reach out.

In the past ten weeks, I made a call to a friend with whom I feel incredibly safe and cried—ugly cry, all-out wailing in my car, weeping and grieving tears—for nearly an hour. I’m so incredibly lucky (blessed) with how she listened. She never made me feel bad or embarrassed, and she never shut me down with a “don’t cry” or any hint of shaming. The power of that gift from her will stay with me forever. I felt unconditionally loved.

And then, in a zoom call with a therapist I’ve met with in the last couple of years, I could not hold it together just about the whole visit. I’d start in with a reply and just cry. Some tears are anticipatory grief. Some tears are fears about my future. Some tears are just plain exhaustion.

I know I could not have made it through seasons of back-to-back stressful life events without reaching out for help. Making my situation and needs known. Making needs known doesn’t make you Needy. It makes you HUMAN. And smart. Because in sharing the needs, others know what’s going on and have the opportunity to reach out and offer help and support.

After asking for help, prayers, good-thoughts/vibes/energy (everyone has different ways of offering,) I received phone calls from a high school acquaintance I didn’t know well offering guidance about the flood, insurance and legal details. Unbelievably scrumptous chocolate cookies were sent by an angel friend I knew in Nashville just at the right time. Voicemail messages sometimes brought me happy tears, just hearing that a friend cared enough to tell me they care. Text messages sent through that little electronic box kept me going on the worst of days, when I couldn’t find my breath. My Mom continually supported me with “you’re doing great, Linda” messages, especially on days I felt I was going to fall over. The kind extension of feelings, of care and compassion from friends and family, and even from strangers, has continued to buoy me through this season.

I wrote this next piece in the moments after my favorite massage therapist, Kelly Kempter, helped me recover from the flood and the subsequent Ruby and Mom illnesses. I came to her in a bit of a state of shock in that second week. My body felt strong in the sense that adrenaline had helped me through two weeks of intense coping, but my whole self felt deeply shaken and exhausted. This poem of sorts goes out to the women who fill this world with such grace and powerful love.

Share

These Women

Their hands,
reaching out,
graceful strong fingers grasping my wrists,
lifting me from this flood.

Their voices,
coming through this flat rectangle
to my unexpected ear,
speaking clearly with words of empowerment and action,
helping guide me out of harms way.

Their compassion,
delivered in words of inquiry,
calling me to remember that
though I am alone walking this path,
I am not.

Their strength,
wrapping me in warm blankets,
grounding me with soft, weighted sandbags,
unfolding my slouching shoulders,
unfurling my arms and stiff hands,
kneading my sore legs and soothing my pain,
so I can stand upright
and step forward again.

Their souls,
poured forth from broken hearts,
expressed from their untold sorrows,
soothing me,
from their own alchemized pain.

Their songs,
fierce and most tender all at once,
offered in notes and strains,
most powerfully from those
who have broken free from shackles.
those freedom fighters,
those warriors,
their words like rubies spilling from valiant breasts.
These songs!

My heart splits open.
My soul so stuck,
so rusty, so tired.

These women!
Let me cry.
Let me feel.
Make me feel.
Loved.

You just may be one of the many women I thought of as I wrote these words. I cherish you, beautiful soul.

Leave a comment

A Song for You

I’ve loved this song for a long time. This video of Frou Frou (Imogen Heap and Guy Sigsworth) singing “Let Go” includes footage from the 1987 film "Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über Berlin; Les ailes du désir)" with brilliant photography by Henri Alekan, and direction by Wim Wenders.

A Book for You

One of the beautiful voices I’ve been savoring is that of Robin Wall Kimmerer, author of Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants

I bought the book a couple of years back to share with dear friends, but hadn’t actually read it myself. Recently, it was suggested I listen to it instead, in the voice of the author, Robin. And I’m so glad I opted for that mode of “reading.” Her words are poetry, and her voice is so soothing. In fact, as I listened on my four-hour drive north to the island, I noticed that every time I started up a chapter (between phone call interruptions from insurance/remediation companies,) that Ruby would calm from her road trip anxiety, lay down and go to sleep. I highly recommend this read for its rich content. As a nature lover, it is serving to deepen my connection with our incredible earth and fellow (non-human) inhabitants. Like these gorgeous sugar maples towering above me.

I wish you all you need to feel safe in your world. I wish you supportive women to remind you of your worth. I wish you hands and voices and compassion and strength and souls and songs to help you through your deluge season. To heal in all the ways you need healing.

This is “Excerpts from Wonderworld.” Wonderworld includes those hands, voices, gorgeous souls. And you, in your state of strength and your beautiful breakdown.

Please leave a comment or click on the heart to let me know you’ve read my writing. It’s valuable to me to feel I’ve reached someone with these words, and yours matter.

Thank you for coming here into my Wonderworld, floods and all. I look forward to having some good housing news soon!

Until then,

xo
Linda

and Ruby