The show I was planning to put on today has been postponed until October.

The band I had hoped to be playing out with by now has not come together… yet.

The songs I have been working on are not ready to be released.

When the Universe seems to be conspiring against wills or desires, all I can do is wonder what the real plans are. Not my plans, but the larger picture. What is really at play?

They key word for me these past few months has been play. But more specifically Sacred Play. My friend Lori Koop is creating a wonderful series of practices, as a workshop experience on Zoom. A guided journey of exploring and witnessing creativity in a structure that emphasizes play as a means of going deeper, and maybe even loosening up a little inspiration.

I have been participating in her weekly offerings on Sunday. She has been in development phase but will be opening up Zoom sessions in September. Read more here if you might be interested in checking it out.

Sacred Play

I have been immensely inspired.

Painting like crazy.

Living, breathing, and creating art like never before.

Some things may not have been lining up or falling into place as I hoped they would, but other things are showing up in unexpected ways.

For instance, this Geisha I drove by the other night.

She was just standing next to a post by the side of the road, watching me go by. Haunting at first glance. I stepped on the brake, put the car in reverse, and took some photos and video.

As I drove up the hill towards home, I pondered her fate. Someone had abandoned her. Clearly leaving her to be rescued, adopted, or worst case scenario, trashed by someone else. Should I go back and pick her up? I certainly have a full stable of figurines as it is.

But, I am in the process of giving some of them new life as mermaids.

She would make a fabulous Mermaid!

I turned right around, picked her up, and set her down on the floor of the passenger seat. She was rather dusty and a bit spooky really. I almost expected her to say something on the way home. There was definitely a thriller vibe in the car as I made my way back up the canyon. I carried her to my front door, but, truth be told, I did leave her outside overnight. Just in case she decided to pull a M3GAN, Annabelle, or Talking Tina on me. I didn’t exactly sage her, but I willed any evil spirits away just by, well, willing it!

I think it worked, or, possibly didn’t really need to. She hasn’t bitten off my head or anything… yet 😂🤣😂😳🧜‍♀️.

She is still a work in progress but she is coming along.

Meet Mergeisha

It all started as I was collecting a box of miniatures and doll house furniture from a neighbor. They were for my sister’s art project, another exciting production coming soon, which I will announce as soon as she is ready to present it to the world.

As I was going through the pieces, packing them up carefully to ship off to my sister in Colorado, I came across a little figurine of an old woman. I wrote about her metamorphosis into a mermaid in a previous post on Substack.

Mermaid Logic by Lisa Verlo on Substack

I’ve been transforming Trolls and Gnomes, bears and cats, angels and cupids, Venus and Medusa into fantastic mermaids. Here are some works in progress.

I’ve covered canvas, soaked some  paper, and sprayed, glued, or adorned anything I could with mermaids. I’ve been having so much fun exploring different mediums, trying out iridescent paint, collaging, beading, stitching, and working with papier mâché, to bring these beauties into existence.

They are all still works in progress, but I wanted to share my excitement.

The creative process.

A sneak peak of a show I am putting together soon.

Today I am 64.

I think of Mom

Who carried me into this world

My guide

My mentor

Now an angel

Reminding me

To nurture this wild and precious life

Today I celebrate my mother

who birthed me

Mary Oliver

Who inspired me

Debra Pasquerette

Whose class I am taking today as part of a creative aging community  

at the Wallis Annenberg Foundation in Beverly Hills

A wonderful way to celebrate another year on this planet

Check out their programs

My offering

The piece I wrote for class today

I Aspire

There was a place at the top of the stairs

A small room on the third floor of our house in France

Where my mom would go to be alone

In it was an easel

A few canvases leaned into the wall

As they waited their turn

Ready to be transformed

By a sweep of imagination

A stir in the soul

A soft whisper that said yes, yes

You can do it

Painting will make you whole

Away from the commotion of childhood

Pulling on chords

Away from relentless need

Endless tallies

Ruthless scores

Away to contemplate a yearning

Desire for more

Something to settle the senses

To satisfy the core

Who are we when we create?

Who will we be when it’s done?

How often do we allow ourselves to have fun?

A room to play in

Room to create

Room for the adventure of self

Like the one mom had

At the top of the stairs

So she could be alone

with her creator

To pray

To feel

To paint

To be the person she was

When she only had herself

to please

I aspire to ascend those stairs

Find that place

Make the space

For inspiration

💜

Inspiration can come from anywhere. I recently fell in love with another artist’s work when I came across a post about Chelsea Bayouth on Instagram.

Chelsea Bayouth on Instagram

Chelsea lost her home in the Altadena fires but many of her pieces were saved because she works in porcelain and her work is fired at extremely high temperatures. I just love so many of her pieces and found a Mer-cat (Mermaid Cat) that I gifted myself for my birthday.

Check out some of her magical pieces.

Chelsea's Sea Bay Store

I hadn’t even thought of making a mer-cat so I was immediately inspired

because I love them both, mermaids and cats.

Here is my Mercat

Also inspired by a photo of my sweet recently departed Dash

I will be getting back to my music soon. Still plan of putting together that band. I may even create a band of mermaids and release “their” music.

I also have plans to offer some more Workshops as well as

Creative Mastermind - an accountability, goal setting, and reflection Zoom group

details coming soon

I also offer one on one coaching in:

Lyric writing

Solo show development

Staged stories

Finding your voice

Building your own She Shed, creative space, or sanctuary

DM me for details

I am having a very happy and inspired birthday.

Grateful for you, my family, friends, the Substack community, and any new readers.

Stay creative and run with that one wild life of yours!

A song to help pull us all through.

Bright Side of Blue on Spotify

Kathy Hough Verlo July 21, 1938 - Jan 26, 2008

Activist, community member extraordinaire, and wonderful human being

My mom was an angel

A saint

My sister wants to have her canonized. I’m all for it. Although Mom was honored with a lifetime achievement award by the city council of Manitou Springs, Colorado for all the work she did preserving green space, she did so much for so many people all over the world. Mom was very active in every community she was part of. Now that she’s gone I long to connect with her friends and acquaintances in order to get to know the woman I had always hoped to get a chance to catch up with in the future. Sadly, my sister and I both felt we would get to know our mother better once our father, who was nine years older than her, passed on. We never imagined she would go before him. Almost 19 years ago now.  Dad is gone now too. He died last June, at 96, on Father’s Day, outliving mom by 18 years.

As July 21, her birthday, comes upon us again, I searched the files I have saved in the folder labeled MOM on my laptop. That’s all I have of her writing now, other than the many letters she sent to me over the years. I keep those all bundled in several gallon sized Ziplock bags stashed away in a plastic banker’s box, in order to keep out the silverfish, those destructive little paper consumers. They eat it all, edges of index cards and treasured correspondence all the same. My plan is to go through her letters, one of these days, when all my other priorities settle down long enough to sort themselves out.

Mom had written poems, songs, morning pages, and other journal entries all of which Dad took possession of after she passed. And then, at some point, purged because we never saw any of them again. I knew they existed. She had shown them to me. Read some of them to me. Sang a couple of her songs into cassette tapes even. Her journals are all gone now. Nothing was left of them when we finally finished going through Dad’s things.

I found this, though, saved on my hard drive.

I missed her last phone call.

But I have this.

Her last letter.

Mom’s last letter to family and friends November 2007.

She died in her sleep two months later.

She wrote:

“As we prepare to reunite with Eric, Lisa and Karin’s families for Thanksgiving we are

overwhelmed with gratitude for all our blessings. It is with this joyful attitude that we are sending early Christmas and New Year greetings to family and friends, along with hope for a better direction to bring our nation and world to some kind of equilibrium in the future.

Maybe because my parents who have given much have both gone to their next life that I am filled with a desire to celebrate 68 years of blessings. Maybe because there never seemed to be enough time or exact words that could convey my thanks to them; or because these past few years have brought close to home the experiences of death and birth, the gift of our latest grandson who was born on the date of my parents’ wedding anniversary. Maybe it is simply as time passes we realize how much more we would have liked to have gifted our own family, that the feeling of thanksgiving is all-encompassing as we discover that we gave what we knew how to give and that is good.”

I’ve spent years wanting one more conversation with my mother.

Oh Mom,

Thank you for the greatest gift

For being my Mom

Happy Birthday

I miss you so much

Where are you Mom?

What is it like being dead?

Is it all you thought it might be?

I could never have imagined

Not being able to speak to you again

Never even able to say goodbye

I want to call you and cry

You are dearly missed

And have missed so much of our lives

You would have loved Substack, Mom

You would have really liked Instagram and Facebook

Being able to text and message people so easily

To be able to stay in touch

See everyone’s pictures and videos

Whenever you wanted

Now, as a letter through the universe

I send you my love

Out into cyberspace

As if you can somehow tap in and receive it

I feel that much more connected to you

By posting images of your smile

Things you have said

Stories about your life

As modern memory keeping

Keeping you in my network, my feed, my platforms

That’s what we do now, Mom

We post things

Thoughts, quotes, visions, dreams

Sharing this feeling of staying connected

As we forge into dimensions unknown

Experiencing life together

Any way we can make that happen

You are always in my heart Mom

In my mind

In my memories

I miss you so much

So I am posting this

Can’t believe you have been gone almost 19 years now

Your grandson is nearly 20

You were there for his first birthday

His first steps

He lost his grandma so young, at one

You lost the rest of your life, so young, at 69

I mourn the old age you will never be

Changes you helped bring about

That you will never see

I mourn the Grandma my son never had

The loving mother

Who was always there for me

Until you died unexpectedly in your sleep

Some of our last exchanges still haunt me

Unresolved issues taunt me

Wish I could take you in my arms and hug you

Thank you for efforts you made

Even though some things may have upset me so much

That I couldn’t see past my frustration at the time

What I would give for just one more exchange with you

To tell you how much I think of you

Although I only saw you two or three times a year

You in Colorado

Me in California

We spoke every other day or so

I miss that more than anything

You were so good about calling

Checking in

It has been very hard to believe and accept

That you are just not around anymore

I do take comfort in the idea that you may still be here in spirit

I see hummingbirds and think of you

When I recycle I think of you

That apple with the little spot on it

I pare it out

With a smile

I rinse out plastic Ziplock bags

Reuse tin foil if it is still clean

I save jars, plastic containers, rubber bands

Even if my son scowls

As I scowled at you

Rolling his eyes at some of the things I do

Like you, now

I teach him to compost

Not to waste

I try to teach him tolerance

Acceptance, compassion, and care

The things you cared about

The impressions you made on me are lasting

I find myself constantly reflecting on the ways you lived

Or live on in me

Concerns I have about being an ‘older’ mom are magnified though too

It is unsettling to think of how long I may

or may not be around for my son

It really is a different reality

not having a mother around

anymore

I miss you so much Mom

More than ever

Every year brings renewed appreciation though

For all that you stood for

If someone were to ask me who Kathy Verlo was, this is what I would tell them.

You spread love and kindness everywhere you went

Thanks to Dad’s positions at General Motors Overseas

You had global impact

You spent your life championing causes that made a difference

Involved with the Council of Europe while we were stationed in Strasbourg, France

Leading the battle for public access on cable television, when we lived in Michigan

Then, hosting your own local show on health to take advantage of the opportunity

Performing with Sweet Adelades raising money for charity in Caracas, Venezuela

Hugging babies in orphanages in the Philippines

You took us along to help

There were so many babies and not enough arms

Entertaining elders in nursing homes

Counseling women in prison

Traveling to Denver to lobby lawmakers for health and education reforms

Helping Manitou Springs, Colorado launch their recycling program

You helped defeat efforts to bring gambling to Manitou Springs

Even getting death threats and making some intimidating enemies

Businesses had a lot invested

You were up against some big players

But nothing stopped you

Leading you to serve on the Manitou Springs City Council for three terms

Playing a critical role in efforts to save Section 16

And preserve Red Rock Canyon in Colorado

Dad wanted to travel so you did a bit of that as well

But only if you could return for the next City Council meeting on a Tuesday

You didn’t want to miss a single meeting

You would talk to anyone who had a concern

Which meant a lot of really long phone calls

You went to endless meetings

Wrote letters to editors

Showed up to prayer circles

People needed you and you were there for them

When you had an issue that you felt strongly about

You spoke up

Talked to people about it

Got them involved

When others just sat back waiting for things to be resolved

You took action

Not wanting to become a large political figure

But wanting to do what was best for the community

So many people have been inspired by your spirit and accomplishments

Leading by example

Joining groups eager to make a difference

like the Jung Society

The Mineral Springs Foundation

The Colorado Municipal League

The Pikes Peak Area Council of Governments

The Red Hat Society

Even on the last day of your life you were making phone calls

Helping a newcomer to the area

Giving a walking tour of the mineral springs in downtown Manitou

You were a shining example of people dedicating their energies to the community

You were out there endlessly protesting as well

Standing next to your son who was an ardent activist, like you

Knowing how to make an impact

Standing up for injustice

Waving your flag for peace

You were amazing, Mom

A modern day saint, for sure

Doing so much for others

You followed the light

Becoming a beacon for those who needed a little more brightness in life.

Thank you

Thank you for being the example of change you wanted to see

Thank you for all you did for the world

And for me, as my Mom

Happy Birthday Mom

On what would have been your 88 year celebration

I will always celebrate you

Honor you

Bless you

May the peace you sought

Be with all of us

Always

Awoman

I couldn’t let this birthday pass without writing something for her.

This is my gift to Mom this year. A song.

photo credit - Elise Robertson

I am a singing songwriting performer without a backing band. I am attempting to get a band together again. My greatest dream. The one big thing I’ve always aspired to do. I am having such a hard time manifesting this “situation”. It’s an issue right now. I have a gig coming up. I put it on the calendar to kick my butt in gear. These gears are extremely rusty. Moving quite slow. What is this? Self-sabotage? Fear of failure? Long standing struggles with perfection? Haven’t I gotten over that already?

Two things I’ve always hoped to be, married and in a band. I am neither one of them right now. I thought I was almost there. So close to both of them. With the same person even. That was the idea. That was the ideal situation, the solution. But no. He didn’t want to get married OR have a band together. I thought I had found my partner in music and life. We had a kid together. We wrote song after song.

Then it all collapsed.

Embarrassing.

Both things I had wanted more than anything, still elude me.

When I was a lot younger, and all my girlfriends were focused on going out, dating, and finding the right guy, I wasn’t. I was singing in cafes, sometimes solo, sometimes with a backing band. Putting my music out there. Going after my dreams. I wasn’t really admitting to one of my aspirations, though. I wasn’t really looking to get married. It wasn’t my focus. Until it started to look like it was never going to happen. Yep, that ticking time clock, everyone kept talking about, finally kicked in. I finally started to admit to myself that I really did want a partner. Not only that, but as much as I resisted the idea because it wasn’t a very feminist one, I really did want to be taken care of. I loved the idea of being cherished. Adored. Picked over others in the first place and then holding the title until death relinquishes the duty. Sure, there were duties to uphold. I was up for that as well. Cherishing and taking care of another sounded good to me too.

I don’t know if it’s just programming, conditioning, or grooming, but I was buying what I was sold. That I would be protected, looked after, and admired. I would be held in high esteem as one who was desired, chosen, treasured.

So it really was about validation. Yes, I wanted validation. I still do. I crave it. I need it. Why? Why do flowers need the sun? Because they don’t have their own internal source of sunshine. They need to be tended to and watered. Even wild flowers don’t subsist on their own. They rely on external forces to thrive. They need sunlight, water, air, nutrients, and appropriate temperatures.

I need those thing too. And love. I could use a little more love here. The idea of being self-sufficient has limited allure. I don’t want to do everything by myself. I don’t (in my best Greta Garbo impersonation) VANT TO BE ALONE! I don’t even vant to be left alone as Garbo corrected in a 1955 interview in Life magazine. But then the duality seeps in. Yes, I like being alone. Sure, there are plenty of instances where I enjoy proving myself capable of not needing anyone’s help with anything. I have no desire to row across the Pacific Ocean alone just to prove I can, though. Some people need that challenge. I don’t. I enjoy my moment’s, hours, even days of solitude, but I prefer community. I chose to live in Los Angeles. Doesn’t that say something? Wouldn’t I be living in a cabin in Montana, or Wyoming, or Alaska if I felt otherwise?

So, why this internal conflict that invariably foments a dependence on others? What do I really VANT? Vat do I vant? I have spent endless hours in therapy, workshops, retreats. I’ve taken classes in this and that. I’ve been searching for answers my whole life. Full on introspection. I tried yoga, meditation, mushrooms. Haven’t done ayahuasca yet, but I’ve journaled and journaled, written and written, till my knuckles were blue. What is this tortured need for validation and support? Why can’t I get along just fine without it? Why do I crave confirmation? Approval?

Look at this. All this journaling. All these questions… no answers.

What? Do I have to start answering myself? Is that the idea? I can’t even seem to do that by myself. What gives?

Maybe this is why, on the Fourth of July, I found myself writing a song called Feeling Complete. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I think I was answering a question I’ve been asking for decades.

I started to realize I was doing to same thing with my music career. Wanting to rely on others. that’s the big karmic joke, right? Not to rely on anyone. Be self-sufficient. Accompany myself. That’s the part I kept giving up on. I stopped taking guitar lessons. I stopped practicing. It was such a struggle. I figured I wasn’t born a prodigy so why bother. I don’t want to have to accompany myself. I don’t want to do everything alone. I’ve done that. I did solo shows. I want a band. If I can’t find a husband who will accompany me on guitar, I’ll just have to find the right person. The right people.

Maybe that is my biggest fear though. Not being good enough to play with other musicians. I used to justify giving up on playing guitar by deciding that I was the singer and songwriter. Wasn’t that enough? I thought that I should be finding musicians who were better than me to perform with. That was the idea. To collaborate with pros and raise my skill level. But maybe in the end it comes down to fear. Fear that I’m not good enough. Fear that even though I may be a great songwriter, which I am 100% confident in, maybe I worry that my vocals aren’t up to par. That my skills as a singer are a bit lacking. I know I have a nice voice. I’ve had vocal training, singing lessons. I have some good technique. It’s the musicianship I am insecure about. Especially the rhythm aspect. Being in the groove, staying in the pocket. I have a good ear, for accents, for melodies. But maybe I don’t have perfect pitch. Perhaps my sense of rhythm is a bit lacking.

There’s that perfection thing popping up again. Do I have to be perfect?

Or is it ok to be perfect enough?

Maybe I’ve been waiting to be chosen in more ways than I realized. By a husband. By a band. By collaborators. By the music industry. Maybe I’ve been treating belonging as something someone else gets to grant me.

What if the opposite of loneliness isn’t partnership, but, participation?

I’m done waiting.

I’m ready to start doing. Creating. Going for it!

So, on that note, on Tuesday, August 18, which also happens to be my birthday, I’ll be playing at Adam’s Pack Station in Chantry Flat, North of Arcadia. I intentionally put the date on the calendar before I knew exactly how I was going to pull it off. Sometimes you have to give your future self a reason to catch up with your dreams. Save the date. More info to come. But I will tell you this much, the first hour will be an open mic. How’s that for expanding participation?

If all goes according to plan, it won’t be just me this time.

That’s right.

I’m also putting together a band. If you’re a guitarist, bassist, cellist, percussionist, keyboard player, or another musician who loves original music with folk, country, blues, and Americana influences, I’d love to hear from you.

Women and female-identifying musicians are especially encouraged to reach out. I’m hoping to build a collaborative, joyful group of musicians who love creating together.

You can listen to my music under Lisa Verlo on Spotify or Apple Music. If it resonates, send me a message.

And finally…

This is the new song I wrote on Independence Day. How fitting. I am still working it out on Suno. It’s the only way I can produce music on my own, at the moment. I write all the lyrics and melody without the assistance of AI, so this is definitely my own creation. I just have a lot of help with the arrangements, instrumentation, and vocals.

I haven’t released the song yet but decided to offer you a sneak preview as an example of the process I go through to get the song just right.

Here is the country folk blues version of the song FEELING COMPLETE

Here are the lyrics:

Feeling Complete

Left home on the 4th of July

Left the past and my family behind

Went searching for something

More concrete than hope

More than the promise of love

At the end of a rope

Looks like courage

Feels like freedom

Sounds like thunder in the heart

Tastes like nothing

I’ve ever swallowed

Bitter or sweet

The best part is feeling complete

Went looking for independence too

To dance untethered to you

Took me years to unravel

these twisted ties

and see for myself

through a lens of lies

All the courage

All the freedom

The thunder in my heart

Bring it on

bitter or sweet

Bring on the best part

Feeling complete

Looks like courage

Feels like freedom

Sounds like thunder in the heart

Bring it on

bitter or sweet

Bring on the best part

Feeling complete

photo credit - Elise Robertson

Elise Robertson

I’m curious what producers hear that I don’t.

Here is another version of my song Feeling Complete. Tell me which one you think best captures the heart of the song. Which version do you prefer? If you’d like to put on a producer’s hat and give a little direction, I’m open to that too. The vocals are not mine, I’m just experimenting with different directions to take the song. What do you think?

This is the Indie Anthem Version of FEELING COMPLETE

Stories, songs, and finding the bright side of blue. 💙

When I first heard of Atlantis, I knew I had lived there. As a mermaid! So, that would have been after the island the size of a continent sank. I also believed in reincarnation at a young age. What else could explain such vivid memories or unfathomable imagination? Either way, I had lived in oceans, swam with dolphins, chased whales, and had my way with looming sharks. I remembered as if it was yesterday. I just don’t remember how I peed, where I slept, or what I did when I wasn’t frolicking with sea horses or combing out my long strands of silky hair with the jagged edge of a scallop shell.

I used to sit at the bottom of our kidney shaped swimming pool in the Philippines, holding my breath for as long as I could, attempting to regain some of the skills I had lost in this particular incarnation. I was a good swimmer, no doubt about that. I had mastered the butterfly. But I was more about diving for quarters and keeping it all underwater as much as I could. I did have occasional flashes of having been a Russian Ballerina at one point, as well, so sometimes I would combine my epigenetic skills into a freeform dance at the bottom of the pool. I excelled at underwater somersaults, backwards and forwards. Counting how many I could do in a row with one breath was the challenge. When my skill improved over relentless effort I finally figured out how to take a quick breath in process and then it became about how many circles I could complete before I became too dizzy to think straight.

My fascination with mermaidhood predated Ariel by 30 years. It may have been sparked by hearing Danny Kaye’s telling of Hans Christian Anderson’s story of The Little Mermaid, which, in my mind, just had to be based on some element of truth. There was a whole solid metal statue of her in Denmark. I had seen it when we went to Copenhagen to take the boat up to Norway to visit my grandparents. We went to a lot of art and history museums as well and I tell you there are mermaids all over those places. I saw depictions of mermaids in every art form going way back in time.

In my efforts to reconnect with my aquatic past, I submerged myself in bathtubs as often as I could, but my closest mermaid moment finally happened when I made it to an actual real live ocean. In my early teens we happened to live in the Philippines for a few years where we went snorkel diving on the occasional weekend. The water was a crystal clear aqua. I was exploring some coral reefs on my own, but not too far from the family because we were in fact in shark infested waters. All waters in the Pacific Ocean are replete with all variety of shark so one can’t be too fear based if one wants to enjoy other aspects of what ocean life has to offer. There I was circling a reef imagining what my long lost life might have looked like in the ruins of Atlantis when I saw some movement in what looked to be a coral covered rock. At closer inspection there was something hiding away in a crevice and that is when I had my very own Remarkably Bright Creatures moment, because the octopus then caved in to its own curiosity, and came out of hiding long enough to ascertain that I posed no danger. Perhaps our ancestors had even met at one point all those 9,600 years before the birth of Christ when it was purported that Atlantis came crashing down to the ocean floor.

As I tore through my teenage years and sat through a course or two on human anatomy and sexual reproduction, I did have some serious questions as to how mermaids might possibly reproduce or, for that matter, go about doing number two. By design mermaids appear quite impenetrable so one does have to use even more imagination as to how any kind of sexual satisfaction would be accomplished between scales and lusty loins, but no apparent orifices. I pondered that one quite a bit until it became apparent that mermaids might have more to do with fiction than the scientific function of fins, dorsal or otherwise.

My history of mermaid entanglement continued though, resurfacing in my very first cattle call as an ingenue in Hollywood. When I read about an open casting call for the lead role in Ondine, a film based on the story of the water nymph, I was determined to be first in line. Half the ingenues in Hollywood had the same idea though, and there I stood halfway down a line that wrapped around the block and back. It was a long day of waiting on parched pavement and scorching cement, eight by ten in hand and humility heating up the soles of my feet. I never heard back from anyone associated with the project. I doubt the movie was ever made. Splash would soon come out. It would be five more years before Ariel would be singing about all her neat stuff.

I had a lot in common with Ariel. I loved to sing and I collected a lot of stuff as well. I even traded my voice for the love of a man. Not something I had negotiated or planned to do but it just sort of happened. I had been pursuing a career in music and thought the partnership would support that interest. Love came in the form of a son, so that part worked out very well. The man, not so much. I’m in the process of finding my voice again. Lots of songs are floating to the top. Inspiration is flowing for sure. Here is the interesting part, mermaids are surfacing as well. All kinds of them.

It all started when a neighbor gave me a box of items she had left over from years of working on doll houses as a hobby. I had told her that I do assemblage as an artform among other mediums of artistic expression. In the box she gave me was a small porcelain figurine of an old lady. A beautiful old lady clutching a red shawl and wearing a green skirt. The lower half of the skirt was broken off, though, so she had no feet to stand on. As I gazed at the white hair peeking out of her camel colored scarf and the slightly forlorn look on her hopeful face, I decided to transition her into a mermaid. I found a half shell to mount her on and secured that to a piece of wood whose grain I painted to emphasize waves of an ocean.  She became my Wise Woman on a Half Shell.

That was it! I started turning everything I could into mermaids. This little troll was next.

Everything kept falling into place. All the shells I’ve ever collected, all the driftwood, broken figurines, aqua beads, and iridescent paint, all the stuff I saw as treasures turned into art supplies. The pedestals, rocks, remnants of fabrics, yarn, all repurposed into magical mermaids. How fun was this. I even started painting again. Waves and swirls, crashing water and bubbles. I found a beautiful bisque ornament of Venus I had stashed away in a drawer last year when she had fallen and broken off her feet. It was almost as if that was meant to happen as she waited for her transformation. This piece on which I had added a sterling silver enamel butterfly was just waiting for the right mermaid. And here she was.

I have been busy creating. All kinds of other aspects are falling into place. I will be announcing a show soon. It will be called Maidens, Mermaids, and Monsters. You will be the first to know when the date is set.

Until then, pencil in Tuesday, August 18 on your calendar and plan to join me up at Adam’s Pack Station (up Santa Anita Canyon in Chantry Flat Recreation Area) at 6pm for a creative evening of staged stories and songs. I will be hosting an open mic, the first hour, and following that with a set of my original songs. I’m still getting my band together. Any interested cellists, bass players, or percussionists out there? Proper announcements coming soon.

I will also be offering a weekend of workshops July 18 and 19. They will involve art, writing, and music. Stay tuned for that as well.

Until then, namaste, aloha, and may the call of the mermaid be with you all.

Gratefully yours,

Lisa

We used to call her Nanny Cat. She would slip into the living room and meow for our little boy, Turner, to go to bed. There was no doubt that was what Dash was doing. She was the bedtime bell. She would do it pretty consistently. Dash was more insistent on bedtime than we were. A family of musicians, on creative time, bedtime was more of a suggestion depending projects were going on. Sometimes we had to be reminded. Dash took on that duty. She had solid maternal instincts, and was certainly a comforting cat.

Dash came to us with a brother, Moo. They were Ragdoll cats. Rescues, but the truth is, they rescued us. Turner had been begging for a dog, but his dad was not fond of dogs and ixnayed that idea over and over again. I had come to our canyon home with a cat, Bellagio, but he succumbed to some form of wildlife not long after I moved in, so I was pretty wary of introducing any new pets to the wilds of Sierra Madre Canyon. Bellagio had a few stand offs with foxes, but it wasn’t the bears, mountain lions, or coyotes that got him. We were pretty sure it had been a hawk or an owl that had swooped him up and dropped him on our neighbor’s steps before making a meal of his midsection. Bellagio was six when he left us. Turner was still a couple months from being born.

This portrait I painted of Bellagio hung in our bedroom ever since.

By the time Turner was six, and still asking for a cat or a dog, it occurred to me that Frank, Turner’s father, was always telling us stories about the cats he grew up with, so I decided that Turner would benefit from that experience as well. I searched Ragdoll rescue sites hoping to find a cute Ragdoll kitten to adopt. There were no kittens needing a home, at the time, but that’s when we found them and finally expanded our family to include Moo, and Dash. Those were the names they came with. We were told they were litter mates, brother and sister, and that they were four years old. We were informed that the larger cat, Moo, was the female and Dash was the more skittish and shy brother. Our first trip to the vet confirmed that Moo was in fact male and Dash, apparently his sister. Moo was not only male, he was definitely alpha and much more social than demure Dash. The vet also informed us that they were closer to six, so it was always easy keeping track of their age due to them being the same age as Turner.

I had sought out Ragdolls because Turner had allergies and that breed of cats were specifically bred to be easier to tolerate because they generally shed less and produce less dander. They are named for their tendency to be extremely docile and basically go limp when you pick them up. They are often called puppy kitties as well because they tend to follow you around like a dog. They especially do not like closed doors and will start complaining if you don’t let them into the bathroom with you.

Moo and Dash had already been through three care takers. Originally a family who had a baby and decided not to keep the cats, for whatever reason. Next was the co-worker of Kristin, who we got them from. Her co-worker had accepted a position in New York and would not be taking the cats either. Kristin wanted to keep them, but she and her roommate already had four cats and her landlord made it clear that she couldn’t keep them either. When I saw photos of them on a Ragdoll rescue site, I knew we would be bringing them home.

My heart just melted when I saw Dash, a beautiful long hair with dark brown seal point markings. We were told that they were part Siamese. Dash looked more like a Birman, one of the breeds in the ragdoll mix. She had big blue eyes and no white paws or splashes of white on her face as many Ragdolls do. She had beautiful espresso tipped ears, nose, paws, and tail and the rest blended into a creamy café au lait. She had a fluffy yet regal mane, but the rest of her was as dainty as her delicate demeanor. Dash was a beautiful cat.

Moo was blind in one eye, which showed up clearly in the photo. It appeared a milky white. But when we finally took the trip to Hollywood to meet them, Moo didn’t seem bothered by it at all so we weren’t either. The story was that he had possibly been hit by a car when he was one year old or so, which seemed likely because he also had a cracked canine tooth and his skull looked a little out of whack. But Moo is certainly a survivor, having made it through a likely bobcat attack 5 years later, and a number of other close calls such as accidentally being left out on the balcony in 100 degree weather.

We used to let them out in the yard for a little while in the morning or afternoon, never overnight, because of what happened to Bellagio. But they became indoor cats after Moo’s bobcat incident. Dash was definitely cautious but not the least bit bothered by wildlife. We witnessed them both checking out a bear on the other side of the fence, one day, coming nose to nose with curiosity. No one ran or charged, they just innocently sniffed each other and then moved on. The moment didn’t even last long enough to get our cameras or phones but I did get a shot, another time, of Dash watching a bear up in our back yard.

Sunshine was always her favorite spot. Wherever it happened to land on the floor, there she was. Sprawled out soaking up the sun.

Turner is nearly 20 now, which is a lot in cat years. Dash had been slowing down quite a bit. Trips to the vet kept track of her worsening kidney disease. We did as many preventative measures as possible.

Kidney support formula

Extra fluids

Lots of love and support

Then last Friday

She veered in circles

Covering one step with another

Hesitating now and then

To see if it might come

Urgency yielding to expectation

Habit assessing discomfort

Then she just

Tipped over

Confirmation

Colliding with concern

Caution

You’ll know

They told me

I hadn’t

Not for sure

There had been signs

Open to interpretation

It wasn’t clear

She still reached out

Made effort

She was holding on

Or was it me?

We were holding on to each other

For dear life

The one we knew together

The one that included both of us

In the equation

The one that started each day with care taking

And ended

Taking even more care

Than before

This was our routine

It was ours

What we had

Until that morning

When circles ended sideways

It had been a heavy night

With the weight of the world

Pressing our hearts together one last time

Like flowers saved

Between pages

An everlasting reminder

Of an August in Italy

A July in Paris

Last June saying goodbye

To my father

And now May will always

Remind me

Of how much more I cried for you

Your absence on my pillow

Paw on my cheek

Your presence at the piano

As your big little boy would play

Anytime there was music

There you were

Sensing serenity in a note

Anticipation in a pause

As healing as a perfectly placed purr

Your bedtime reminders

Gentle reminders

As you would quietly enter the room

And all would know

It was time for bed

Time for me to call bedtime now

My little Nanny Cat

The circles you paced

Heralding your fall

Gave me an answer

Confirmation you were ready

Even if I was not

Piano played

A vet was called

To administer peace

A place you used to perch

An arm of a couch

You used to straddle

Sink into so fluidly

We called you Protoplasm

My little Cuddle Bug

My Dashy-Poo

Our Nanny Cat

Honey Bunny

Fluffy Butt

Sweetie Pie

Angel Puss

All the endearments in the world

Couldn’t capture you Dash

Your paw print indelible

In my heart

I just released a new song today, The Way Home, on Apple Music, Spotify, or whatever platform you stream your music. I decided to share the story about the development of that song. It all came together pretty fast in an almost magical mystical way. But it is really about just being open to what may come and then just going for it.

The original idea came out of a writing prompt I had been given while attending Debra Pasquerette’s class Staged Stories at the Wallis Annenberg Foundation in Beverly Hills. There are some really good writers and very interesting stories that come out of the Creative Aging program. It is one of many offerings the Wallis provides for people over 50, a community designed to encourage the integration of art in the aging process. I was introduced to the group during Covid by my writing coach Ellen Snortland, who holds online “classes” as well. She calls them  Writers Workouts, reminding us of the importance of exercising those creative muscles just as much as any gluts or abs. I started with an online screenwriting class held on Zoom, but a year or so later, when classes were offered in person again, I had to drive all the way from Sierra Madre to Beverly Hills. I do that weekly when the 6 week long courses are offered. Debra and her group of students are worth the drive, gas money and all. There is also a culminating performance after each 6 week session and the Wallis also has an evening event twice a year, showcasing all the talent in the Creative Aging community.

Back to my song, The Way Home, which evolved over the course of three days a few weeks ago. Debra’s prompt for our next writing assignment was simply this: You are on a two lane highway. When she had given us that line the week prior I immediately thought about writing a song. I suppose some ideas may have been gestating, but I didn’t really get around to putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard until the Sunday before class. Sunday night I decided to make an attempt at the usual 300 word essay, and started with this:

Like a long, long driveway. The kind you’ve never been on . So far up the hill, into another man’s land. Feeling more hungry than stray. Been gone too long. So long I’ve lost my way.

But then, the song called. The song just had to come through so I continued with this:

Now here you are

coming down the road ahead

Driving the wrong direction

Made me turn my head

But there you go

Just one more bloke I’ll never know

That might have been you

But I just sigh

And think of all the things you’ll never put me through

All the time that’ll go by

Without one good reason to cry

I think I stopped there on Sunday night. Too tired to go on. But, Monday night I had to finish. It was due the next day, so I continued.

-       Because this time I won’t stop

I won’t get on my knees

This time I won’t drop

What I’m doing just to please

You and your needs

This time I’m driving straight back

You’ll see

I’m driving straight back to me.

You used to give me the time of day

The kind we quarreled through or wasted away

Like we were running head on into night

hours behind our next reason to fight

But this time I won’t stop

Won’t get on my damn knees

This time I won’t plead

Pretty pretty, please

I’ll roll up my sleeves

This time I’m driving straight back

You’ll see

Driving straight back to me.

So, that was the first draft. Then I reworked it a bit until I came up with this to bring into class the next day. It was Tuesday May 5th, Cinco de Mayo. After two students read their essays it was my turn. I explained that mine came out as song lyrics. When asked whether I was going to sing it, I explained that I had just finished writing it the night before and had not even come up with a melody yet. I pulled the lyrics up on my phone which I keep in the Notes App instead of bringing in my laptop. I suggested that I could just wing it a cappella and see what comes out. I got a lot of encouragement on that idea, so, I just went for it. Knowing that there was a good chance I might come up with something I might like to work on, I turned on the voice memo app on my phone as well and stated recording. This is what I came up with off the top of my head in class.

These were the lyrics I sang:

The Road Home

Between cactus and cornfields

stretches of canyon

and mountains that beat the Midwest.

I quit California

A Gold Rush reversal

In endless pursuit of a quest

Dropped a few quarters

In slots of Las Vegas

That held what the Rockies could not

from rest to relentless

so desperate to follow

what fortune clearly forgot

But this time I won’t stop

I won’t get on my knees

This time I won’t drop

What I’m doing to please

This time I’m driving straight back

You’ll see

I’m driving straight back to me.

I hadn’t quite found it

The point of this trip

The kind you can follow along

Over valleys and hills

Making segues of strips

like the endless refrain of a song

I now see you coming

and watch you go by

the bloke I will never know

I drive right past

As I step on the gas

No more drama I’ll skip the show

This time I won’t stop

I won’t drop to my knees

This time I won’t do it

just to please

I’m driving straight back

You’ll see

Driving straight back to me.

You used to give me the time of day

The kind we inflated or wasted away

While running head on into night

hours behind our next reason to fight

But this time I won’t stop

Won’t drop to my damn knees

This time I won’t plead

Pretty, pretty please

I’ll just roll up my sleeves

This time I’m driving straight back

You’ll see

I’m driving straight back to me.

As you can hear, I got quite a nice round of applause at the end. There were a lot of surprised people, amazed that I could just make up a melody as I sang the words, I had written the night before, a cappella. That is the magical mystical part. I don’t know where it comes from but I suppose it is just like an artist who picks up a brush and starts painting. There is certainly some training and practice involved, but it really is about just going for it. Trying something out. Maybe tapping into a certain amount of confidence helps, but just taking the chance that something interesting might come out is what it’s really about. After Debra’s notes and some group feedback, which is the customary practice, it occurred to me that I could feed the recording I had just made into my favorite new music creation app, SUNO, and see how it would fully produce the song. I told the class that I could do that over our 10 minute break and see what it comes up with.

I uploaded my recording into the app, spent a little time changing a few words and refining my lyrics, and then adding some instructions as to the style I would like it to be. I went for alternative folk, country blues, and blues-rock. I also added slow, sparse, and emotionally driven. I requested cello as well. I usually always add cello. I love cello. Then I pressed the little red button with the music icon on it and in 30 seconds (yes, you read that right, 30 seconds, thank you AI) I had two versions of my new song to listen to.

The Way Home - First SUNO version

This is the second one that the SUNO app came up with. I played it for the class. They were all blown away, of course. It is pretty mind boggling what AI can do for us now. I know that is a big concern for artists and musicians who feel like they are so easily replaced by the expediency and scope of AI. But for a song writer such as myself it is an answer to a prayer being able to fully realize ideas that would otherwise take renting a studio, hiring a sound engineer, hiring all the musicians, and paying a good producer to materialize my song. I never use AI to write my lyrics or come up with melodies. Why would I? That’s the fun part! I am sharing this version with you so you can see the progression of the song.

I made six passes on SUNO which generated 12 more versions until I landed on the one I released today. This is the final version I uploaded to Distrokid, which sent it out to all the streaming platforms like Apple Music and Spotify. This one really captured the song for me. It is not my vocals. I am still figuring out how to do that. There is a new feature on SUNO which supposedly recreates my voice to use on future songs. For now I am distinguishing them as “featuring Violet Blues” for the ones I have used AI assist on SUNO.

I still thinks it takes a human to come up with art that truly captures the human experience. It takes artists, musicians, songwriters, and creative directors to come up with the real magic of storytelling and song writing. I see SUNO or AI as another tool to help us create. I am grateful to be able to put this version out in the world. I hope you appreciate it as well.

Here are links to The Way Home on streaming services near you:

The Way Home on Apple Music

The Way Home on Spotify

Please follow me on your favorite streaming music platform. Please press the little heart thing if you liked this as well. All the likes and shares count. And feel free to leave comments, those are always nice as well.

BTW you can follow on Substack too. The LA Press Club just nominated her for five SoCal Journalism awards, including Best Columnist and Journalist of the Year! Check out her latest post:

Snortland's Substack

Thank The Goddess For Good Theater

“Please, don’t suck, please, don’t suck, please let this play not suck!” I offer this silent prayer to Thalia, one of the nine muses and the goddess of theater, whenever I’m about to see a play. I especially pray when I know someone involved in the production. I cringe when I think of plays I’ve seen where the nicest thing I can say to my friend who eit…

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3 months ago · 3 likes · ELLEN B SNORTLAND

Today I happen to have nice nails. It is a rare occurrence when they naturally have French tips. Normally, I use my hands in such a manner that it becomes almost impossible to maintain presentable nails. I don’t bother with manicures either. Manicures last one, maybe two days, if I’m lucky.

My nails tend to chip, crack, or bend. I do however have formidable hang nails. My hang nails are reliable. Persistent. It may have something to do with the neglect of my cuticles.

I am not one to coddle my cuticles. My cuticles are on their own. I think it is a genetic predisposition. My mother was always at war with her cuticles. Her hands were graceful enough, at first glance, but look too closely and her fingers bore the ravages of tortured, screaming cuticles.

I followed in her fingerprints but I did not wear rubber gloves. I like the feel of hot water on my hands. I took the washing of dishes as a mini spa experience for each of my fingers.  They may have suffered too much detergent because of it, but I go for moist and wet over desperately dry digits anytime.

I cannot abide chalk or any form of powder that would seek to suck the humidity out of my fingertips. I would have loved to become a ceramicist were it not for the clay cracking and crumbling on my hands.

My mother looked at my hands and stuck piano keys under them. This was a repeated process she made me engage in just because I had the finger span to accommodate the chords she felt might bring me more harmony in life. My fingers did not comply. They did not do the happy dance required to transform practice into passion. My fingers were long, yes, but my knuckles resembled elephant knees more than gazelle legs so they simply refused to spring across the keyboard.

I tend to take after my father’s heavy-handed approach to life, so I was given some lessons in perfectly placed ballet hands. I can definitely perform a dexterous arabesque when needed, and can gesticulate with the best of them. But these are superficial gestures. I rather enjoy engaging my middle finger when I really need to make a point. French tips certainly enhance that sentiment.

photo credit Frederic Ohringer

What I’ve always wanted, more than anything, was to have a band.

Not just write songs. Not just sing them. A band. A real, live, in-person, up-on-the-bandstand group of musicians.

People who would actually want to hang out with each other long enough to get through a song.

I tried a few times over the years. Turns out, putting a band together isn’t just about finding great musicians, aligning everyone’s schedules, or clearing out the garage for rehearsal. It’s about chemistry. Curating personalities. Coordinating that part was especially challenging. I didn’t have whatever it took back in high school. So naturally, I decided to give it a shot at 27. I did it all backwards. I mean, isn’t that the age when rock stars are supposed to mysteriously die? There I was, 27 and counting, finally stepping up to a mic because I couldn’t play guitar to save my life. But I sure could write songs.

I saw Laurie Anderson once, on stage, in a big old barn type venue in Boulder, Colorado. On stage, all by herself, and a bunch of complying electronics. So cool, super inspiring, but… mostly intimidating. That would mean I would have to do everything myself. Well, I’d knock scheduling conflicts out of the ballpark. But… I couldn’t play all those instruments! I couldn’t play any instruments well enough to accompany myself. 

I decided, a long time ago, that I was the singer in the band. The problem with just being a singer, is that you need a band! Unless you feel like singing a cappella in coffeehouses. That’s what singers have to do when they really want to sing because maybe they have a beautiful voice and lots of expression, as well as a certain amount of dramatic flair and, of course, lots of cool outfits to wear. But they don’t have their own garage, or enough money to hire a legit backing band. So they end up standing in a little corner of a loft, in a caffe, on an alley, off Venice Beach, singing for peanuts. Some people’s worst nightmare, right?! I don’t know what I was thinking, but that’s exactly what I did. And, believe it or not, I got two of my biggest breaks that way.

The first one, well, I wasn’t exactly ready for that big break. 

The coffee house was tall and narrow with a stairway that went up to a loft, which is where music was performed. There were a couple overstuffed couches and a variety of other chairs filling up the space. I didn’t have a lot of gear. I didn’t have any actually. I had taken to singing a cappella. Just me creating ambiance and music with my voice. I sang a little blues, a little jazz, a bit of folk music, and some random musical numbers. I also sang a few of my original songs as well. I’d be mixing songs like Joni Mitchell’s Both Sides Now with Crazy, Willie Nelson’s song made popular by Patsy Cline, alongside Nancy Grifith’s Love at the five and Dime, or Sheena Easton’s Almost Over You. I was all over the musical map.

“Thanks for coming everyone.” I announced in gratitude at the end of my set that night. “All three of you.” I joked and continued. “It’s kind of nice this way though, right? Y’all get a whole couch to yourself!”

One of the three people clapped a little longer than the others and then motioned me over. He was probably in his forties and dressed a lot nicer than the local Venice, California crowd.

“That was very nice. Do you perform here often?” he asked.

“Every once in a while. Yeah.” I responded.

“Ever come out to New York?” He wanted to know.

“Well, I’ve been there… a while ago… but I’ve never performed there, no.” I explained.

“You got a nice voice.” He tells me.

“Thank you.” I replied.

“Yeah well, If you’re ever back in New York... look me up. I can maybe help you out.” He says, handing me his business card.

“Thank you.” I said, searching for his name. “Michael. Thank you Michael.”

I studied the card a few seconds, but it didn’t take me long to register as I read.

“Radio City Music Hall... THE Radio City Music Hall?”

“We only got one.”

“Wow. Well, okay. Really nice to meet you, Michael.”

So, that was an epic example of being at the right place, at the right time... but, he handed his card to the wrong person. I mean, I stared at that business card for days, and then weeks, and then months, but I did not know what to do with that big break. I mean really, how do you go from singing to an audience of three at a shabby little coffee house in Venice, California to performing at Radio City Music Hall in New York, New York?

It just wasn’t going to happen. I mean, you have to be ready for your big break, right?! I was not ready. No, I was definitely not ready. Radio City Music Hall wasn’t even on my radar. Not in my wildest dreams. I had to reassess my dreams, make some adjustments, recalibrate, so I’d be ready for the next big break.

I was living in Santa Monica back in those days, at the corner of 4th and California, next to a big Art Deco building we shared a pool with. I lived on the 2nd floor of a building built in the 40s. They were all studio apartments that came with a Murphy bed you could just push back up into the closet. I lived one block from the 3rd Street promenade, which was not the tourist destination, it is today. No, my third street was no promenade. All the shopping action was in the mall at the south end of 3rd Street, back in the day before buskers and circus acts and giant dinosaur topiaries. I was part of the rehabilitation of the street, though. I had painted a huge mural in the back of Congo Square, the local coffee house, way before there were any Starbucks anywhere but Seattle. Congo Square was the Bohemian hippie scene in the late 80s and early 90s with poetry readings and alternative music nights, perfect for my acapella offerings. That is where I had my 2nd big break. This time I was ready for it.

I was finishing up a song, singing:

MOMMA MAY SCOLD ME

CAUSE SHE TOLD ME

IT IS NAUGHTY BUT THEN

OH DO IT AGAIN

PLEASE DO IT AGAIN

“Thanks for coming, everyone! You guys are great. Check out the mural in the back too… done by yours truly.” I finished, taking a big bow and blowing kisses.

“I saw it. It’s beautiful.” A man with an accent approached me.

“Thank you.” I replied.

“Could we talk outside? It’s a bit noisy here.”

“Sure. Yeah, try singing over those cappuccino machines!” I exclaimed.

“Allow me to introduce myself, I am Rafal Zelinsky.”

“Nice to meet you Rafal. I’m Lisa.”

“Lisa. How would you like to perform that song in my film? I am a filmmaker.”

“You’re the director?” I asked.

“I am. We are shooting a club scene in the film, and your act would be perfect, especially that last song you just sang, perfect.”

“Sure, it’s a Gershwin.” I clarified. “I guess you got to get the rights, but sure. I’ll sing it in your movie.”

“Ah, I see. I don’t think we have the budget for Gershwin. I did not know. I never heard it before.”

“Yeah, It’s called, Do it Again. Marilyn Monroe sang it.” I informed him.

“I see. Well... could you... could you write one kind of like it? You know, similar but not the same.”

“Well, Yeah, sure, why not?!”

And that folks, was the beginning of my recording career. Could I write a song like that? I just channeled my little inner Gershwin... and a repressed alternative pop folk star was born! Now, no one told me that my song was going to be the butt of the joke, in the bar scene of said film. Or, that the director was transitioning from porn to B movies, but that was my little big break… and I was ready for it!

The film was called Under Surveillance. It starred Robert Davi. He had been in The Goonies, Die Hard, and License to Kill. Filming it was pretty exciting. There I stood, onstage, with a backing band. Velvet curtains draped the sides of the stage. I had sat through an hour of make-up to get the right grunge diva look to go with the short black leather mini skirt and corset they squeezed me in. My hair didn’t need much work. It was cropped short and dyed red at the time, besides they had a leather captain’s cap to top my head off and compliment the get up. I didn’t even get to sing with the band at all. Just had to lip synch during the scene.

The song sounded good though. What a rush to hear my song, my singing, my voice, blasted over the speakers when they were getting some close-ups of the band. It was a pretty cool experience, but was definitely brought down a notch, later, during one of the breaks. A friend who happened to be an actor in the film, someone I knew from theater school, came over to check on me.

“Are you doing ok?” He asked.

“Sure, yeah. Hey, Dan, I didn’t even see you there.” I replied.

I had no idea he was even in this film, until he approached me. He was in the group of actors sitting at the table, the focus of the scene. That’s when I found out that the dialogue during the scene included making derogatory remarks about the band onstage. Honestly, I didn’t really care. I had recorded a song and there I was singing it in a film. So it wasn’t their kind of music. It was mine. I loved it! I ended up becoming SAG eligible because of that experience.

I was still focused on how much fun it had been making the recording. All I had to do was gather some amazing musicians, pay for studio time, pay for amazing musicians to record the song, record my vocals, and then sing the song onstage with a band in the film,  and voila, I was legit. I did it! So, THAT’S how things get done. The only difference between my two big breaks, is that the second time, I said yes. I made the commitment. Then I had to do it! So I did. Note to self, write more songs… record more songs. And then… just say yes!

There it was, my big break. So it was a B movie, so it went straight to video, so the director was transitioning from porn to legit filmmaking. I finally got a part in a film. And singing with a band to boot. How cool was that?!

Now I was bitten by two bugs... acting, and making music. Making music was much more satisfying. I suppose because I ended up having to play producer. That was a role I stepped in to quite easily. All I had to do was make it all happen on my own terms. Wow. Yeah, I can do that. So the real difference between my two big breaks, is that the first one, the call I would have to make to Michael who apparently worked at Radio City Music Hall, in some capacity, was as an artist, hoping for a break. The second opportunity was simply a request, and a commitment. All it took was an answer. Yes, I can do that. Sure, I can write a song for your film. Then I just had to figure out how to do it. Easy peasy. How hard could that be? I figured it out pretty fast. The first thing I did, as a newly self-appointed producer, was to find people who actually knew what they were doing. Hah. That’s really all it took. Okay, so a little money to get things going but sad to say, and lucky for me, musicians really are a dime a dozen in Los Angeles. So I really only had to say the word... play... and a whole career was born.

I was definitely into making posters and flyers for my gigs

A drummer friend of mine, Dwight Payne, helped me put my first band together, Lisa Verlo and the Free Radicals. I posed for noted photographer Frederic Ohringer in exchange for some fabulous portraits I used in my promo material.

I really didn’t know what I was doing, but wow, doing it was the best way to learn.

I’ve never stopped writing songs, but I’ve quit on the idea of a band more times than I can count. Not this time. If there’s a heartbeat, it’s not too late. Anyone want to make some music?

Here is a song I wrote the last time I attempted putting a band together while taking the three month Encore program, now called MI Select, at the Musicians Institute in Hollywood.

Maybe this is what it all comes down to… learning which battles are worth the fight.

PICK YOUR BATTLES music and lyrics by Lisa Verlo

Need a Creativity Coach? Looking for a story doula, a lyric whisperer, or an inspiration sparker? You’ve come to the right Lisa.

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Here’s one of the first experiments that made me realize these songs might finally take flight.

WE’RE THROUGH by Lisa Verlo (featuring Violet Blues)

Listen on Apple Music

Listen on Spotify

When one door closes another opens.

Well, Alexander Graham Bell was on to more than just telephones. His famous announcement is certainly proving to be true when it comes to my musical journey. Sayonara Frank. Hello SUNO. I’m not saying that such a stellar musician as Frank Simes can be replaced in any way, shape, or form by AI. There is no substitution for the amazing zone Frank gets into when he plays guitar, or the incredible connection he has to the universe of music. But, after a 20 year collaboration on songs and musicals that rarely saw the light of day or any airplay guiding them from our hearts to your ears, I have been gently nudged by the universe to find other ways of producing my music.

Enter SUNO. My longtime friend, Richard, sent me a message around Valentines Day alerting me to all the possibilities of checking out the amazing app. I was busy with all the complications that arise when two decades of creative entanglement come apart. I took a quick glance at the message with the intention of returning to it. The next weekend another friend sent me a text message with a creation she had made on SUNO. When that name came up once again, because sometimes the universe decides subtlety isn’t working and hits you over the head with inspiration, I finally gave it a proper measure of my attention. Wow! Everything I could never imagine would ever be possible was now at my fingertips. The form that magic now takes in the world of apps is astounding. SUNO it is. Apparently the songs just needed a runway.

I started experimenting right away. I had written some new lyrics recently, in my effort to turn heartache into art and creative expression, so I entered them in as an experiment. I gave a few musical directions as to styles, instrumentation, and any other words chosen to help guide the outcome of the mix. Boom! In less than 30 seconds I had a fully produced song. Unreal really, but so exciting as my mind started to tally the possibilities. I signed up for the premier package. I had a lot of songs to produce. Two weeks and a couple hundred mixes later (mixes, not songs) I’m reveling in what is suddenly possible. For years I felt my music career slipping away because I couldn’t accompany myself on an instrument or record and engineer my own songs. I had always relied on other musicians to help bring my musical creations into existence, live, on mp3s, or on wave files of any kind.

I knew how to write a song. My head was full of them. Getting them out was the challenging part. The lyrics sort of spilled out without much effort. All I had to do was put pen to paper and most of the words fell into formation well enough. A little nudging here, a little organizing and rearranging there, and voila, a verse, a chorus, and sometimes even a little bridge showed up on the journey. It was kind of like a puzzle, all the pieces were there, I just had to make sense of them... or not. Sometimes nonsense was the more poetic approach. The words, the chosen words, strong enough in their sentiment, were sometimes at war with each other and struck just enough of a chord of dissonance that the appropriate emotion resonated all on its own. As for the melodies, the chords and arrangements, well, they were all in there too. I could sing them all right. I might have a spontaneous symphony erupt at any given time throughout the course of the day. Oddly enough, they tended to erupt, more often than not, while stuck in traffic or on a long road trip. I took to carrying a small mini cassette recorder with me, way before the days of having every single electronic device known to man, represented as an app, and ready to be engaged at the push of a simulated button on a cyber appendage now known as an iPhone or Android. I still have sound files of melodies and song ideas stored away on old devices. The means of unlimited expression has been released. Now, to translate this creative content into song, musical, album, book, film, operetta, libretto, spoken word, poetry, slam, dance, slam dance, rap, revival. Holy crap, the possibilities are endless.

When I first met Frank he had been touring with Stevie Nicks and Don Henley. When not on tour, he had been composing music for Paramount Studios and another music house that helped place his compositions in commercials and on TV and Film. The girlfriend who introduced us would rave about the classical pieces he would compose while touring as a sideman on guitar with some of the top legends of all time. He had played with Mick Jagger on his Wandering Spirit album, and would soon be touring with Roger Daltrey and then The Who. When my girlfriend suggest I have Frank play on the latest song I was producing at 4th street Studio in Santa Monica, I was thrilled that he took an interest. He ended up bringing in a drummer friend of his, Stevie D, to add some drum tracks. When we finally finished the song, HIGH INSIDE, a year later, due to scheduling conflicts, break ups, and day to day life dragging out the creative process, Frank asked me if I had any more songs I’d like to record. And that is how that door opened to us not only collaborating on an actual human being, but writing lots more songs and even a musical with the now premonitory title, THE DOOR.

We were prolific writing and producing songs. We even wrote a whole Children’s Album, TURNER’S TREEHOUSE, in which the namesake even came up with one of the songs, HAPPY DAY! They are all on Apple Music and Spotify, you can hear them there. They were never properly monetized, though, which is part of the story of our life and, in my mind, lead to the dissolution of our relationship. Both being creative types, neither of us took up the business reigns in order to get our creations out into the world. Each thought the other would do it for them, and here we are, still trying to make a musical buck. Frank always had his gigs, but after his Paramount contact left, and his other connection met an even more misfortunate end, Frank was at a loss on how to get his (and our) compositions into the right hands. It was all connections, and even though I had gotten a few songs in films myself, he was the one with all the connections. When touring pretty much stopped because of Covid, revenue was a serious issue in the house.

At this point I have to take full responsibility for not having done everything I can to get our music out there. I had listed my album HOME on CD baby, as well as TURNER’S TREEHOUSE, and I had registered some songs on Distrokid and even put some up on Songtradr with hopes of some kind of monetization with those avenues. But between raising a kid, writing more musicals, performing musicals as solo shows, writing scripts and screenplays, and trying to help Frank get his Big Strum ideas off the ground which entailed helping him develop a show and then making endless pitch decks to help promote it, our music got a little lost.

We wrote the song, GONE, quite a while ago, clearly an indication that we were not on the same page anymore. Frank had written the music when I brought the lyrics to him one day, an admission that all was not right with our alliance. He recorded some amazing vocals but when I insisted it was a duet, the song just sat there… for years.

This is Frank’s amazing and emotional performance.

But, with SUNO’s help, I finally produced the version I had been hearing in my head all along. This version is not released yet so you are getting a preview, but also an astonishing example of what SUNO can do.

Reinspired, empowered, and ready to take on the business end of things the best I can, I am starting a new project with the help of SUNO to explore producing and releasing songs I’ve held in my heart for so long. I am using AI vocals for now, so it is not my voice you hear in the recording. I am releasing the songs I am producing with SUNO under the artist/band name Violet Blues. Unapologetic for the need to rely on AI at this point, I am just grateful to have help realizing not only my dreams, but the talent I have for songwriting. I would love to record them live if the opportunity comes up. Better yet, perform them live with a band. But until I get that act together, I’ll be uploading them here for your listening pleasure and for the education we all get by sharing the messy, sometimes heartbreaking, but equally beautiful process of writing and producing a song.

Twenty years of writing together leaves a long trail of melodies, memories, and unfinished business. Some doors close quietly, others slam. Either way, the songs remain. Thanks to a little help from the universe and a surprising new tool, they’re finally ready to fly.

In my mind I hadn’t really quit. I’ve always made music and considered myself a singer songwriter. Not just another songwriter either, I finally could specifically name it, a top-line lyricist or top-liner. Someone who can take any musical genre, harmony, rhythm, or tonality, create lyrics and melodies, and form a song. I can take a story, a concept, or an over encumbered lyric sheet, and make it pop. I make it hum. I can rearrange, whittle it down, or wordsmith the hell out of it until it sings like an angel. I know prosody, the musical word that means when the melody and lyrics go exceptionally well together.

I’ve been writing songs ever since I can remember. Mom was very musical. I treasured sitting at the piano with her when I was a kid as she played children’s songs and sang to us about the Little Red Hen who got to eat the yummy bread all by herself because she was the only one who did all the work it took to make it. Or Chicken Little, who warned of impending doom, certain the sky was falling down. I would be jumping off chairs singing I Can Fly, from Peter Pan. I could sing the entirety of Jesus Christ Superstar while bouncing around the back of a station wagon driving cross country to see our cousins in South Dakota. My first forays into songwriting would be the spoof songs I would write with my brother and sister, set to the music of popular songs and then performed at family reunions. I would script out stories of my grandparent’s courtship, our cousin’s crushes, or family adventures. Influenced by Mom’s appreciation for Simon & Garfunkel, the Mamas and the Papas, and anything involving Julie Andrews, I saw Up With People singing in France, and then sang some of those songs at orphanages with her in the Philippines. At one point I even translated the song Memories, from Cats, into Norwegian to sing at a family reunion in Oslo. I was a singing, dancing, and writing machine.

When I saw a schoolmate perform Barracuda with her band at our high school pep rally, I knew what I really wanted to do. I wanted a band! But, back in high school, it was all an enigma to me.

“Hey Julie, who is that?” I asked my girlfriend sitting next to me on the bleachers.

“Oh, that’s Carla. She’s a senior.”

“She’s good, huh?” I was in awe.

“She’s okay. If you like girl bands.” Replied Julie.

“How does she do that?” I wanted to know.

“Strain her voice like that?” Julie was in orchestra.

“No, put a band together and play like that. My parents would kill me if I made that much noise in the living room.”

“Well, first of all, you have to have a basement or garage. And then you have to staple egg cartons all over it.” Julie instructed.

“Where did she take guitar lessons?” I needed to know.

“Her brother has a band.”

“That’s amazing to be able to sing and play guitar.” I really was blown away.

“That’s a bass.” She informed me.

“Oh. How can you tell?”

“Count the strings.” She quipped.

“I can’t see them from here.” I said, straining to make out any strings at all. We were way up in the bleachers.

“4 strings.”

“You can count the strings from here?” I asked astonished.

“Uh, yeah. You might look into glasses. But, yeah, she’s not bad. It’s even harder to sing when you’re playing bass.” She explained. “That’s her brother on guitar.”

I didn’t stand a chance back then. Aside from not having the garage for it, I didn’t have the chops to jam with musician friends at the time. But secretly, so secretly I never even admitted to myself, I wanted to be a rock star. Well, really more of a folk star, but rock star sounded better. It didn’t exactly come natural to me. I was raised on classical music, Catholic hymnals, and Broadway musicals. I had regular instruction on the piano, and was made to sit for specific amounts of time and practice, but my brother was the one who got to take guitar lessons. He was into John Denver, barbershop quartets, and obscure 1930s and 40s musicals. We had no rock or roll in our bloodline. My sister acted like a groupie, but she gave up on musical aspirations after being forced to play the recorder and then getting nodules on her vocal cords leading her pompom squad. My musical influences were listening to the Sound of Music over and over until I could sing the whole show as a solo performance in my Grandma’s backyard. I also did a lot of ballet dancing to the Nutcracker suite, and interpretive dancing to big band orchestras. I had more polka in my genes than rhythm and blues.

But the biggest problem that interfered with my rock star potential was school. They had all these rules that were not very conducive to exploring musical talents. I pleaded with my guidance counselor to no avail.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t take band or orchestra if you want to take choir and drama.” He explained.

“I really like to sing, but I’d like to play cello or violin or marimba or a glockenspiel or something.”

“Take choir and orchestra then.” Was his solution.

“ I really like acting too. I was born dramatic.” I insisted.

I really didn’t have to convince him of that, it was a passionate plea.

“But I want to know how to be in a band too.” I implored.

“Well, What instruments do you play?” He asked.

“A little piano.” I told him

“Well, there’s no piano in a marching band, so you can just scratch that one off your list.” He was going for the process of elimination.

“Why can’t we just take any classes we want?” I demanded. I wanted a proper education, after all, and in my mind, that included every aspect of music.

“Because this is high school. You can’t just do what you want. You might have considered taking some of those classes in elementary or middle school.” He pointed out as he adjusted his completely non empathetic bow tie.

“In elementary school all we learned to play was a recorder. It might as well have been a kazoo! Besides, I moved here from the Philippines.” I explained. “It was a jock school, it was all about sports! I did take drama, but I had to give up the role of my lifetime to an eighth grader.” I said, tearing up.

“Well, you’re definitely dramatic. That’s for sure. Why don’t you just stick with Drama and Choir.” He commanded, ushering me out the door.

I was dramatic. I played one of the fairies in Cinderella, in my school in France. I was in drama club in the Philippines and sang “I Feel Pretty,” from West Side Story, in a school presentation. My cat even got to be in another performance I did where I constructed a cardboard helicopter that my cat sat in while I dragged her across the stage. I have no idea who wrote that script, but I was building up my acting and musical theater resume with a fury. I really blew it, though, when my acting teacher pulled me aside one day, and I decided to be a lousy good Samaritan. She was trying to decide whether to give me the lead in the school play. I was a seventh grader at the time, and she was also considering my good friend, Toni, for the part as well. Toni was an eighth grader so this would be her last year in middle school. I still had another year to play all the lead roles, my teacher explained to me. She wanted me to make the decision, though, but promised that if I gave up the lead role to Toni this year, she would definitely let me have the lead role in eighth grade. What was I supposed to do? Toni was my friend. So yeah, I ended up playing the grandma, and Toni got to be the angel. But then, the next year... we moved! Story of my life! So, yeah, I wasn’t about to drop drama in high school, I had a cosmic score to settle. So, I chose drama and choir over orchestra or band. So much for being a rock star. If I’d only been able to go to a performing arts school, I could have been a contender!

The seed of having my own band was planted and I could definitely write original songs. That seed needed more than watering though. Skills needed to be learned and honed. I took voice lessons in theater school. I had enough piano lessons to get me through the key of C, anyway. I stumbled around sharps and flats. When it came to aligning white and black keys with all the lines on music paper I had a bit of musical dyslexia going on, but it all smoothed itself out in my head. I could make up melodies for days. I could make songs up on the spot. Singing covers wasn’t exactly my forte, and singing with a band proved to be the biggest challenge of all. Rhythm was my weak spot. I had my own grooves going on. Staying in the pocket, as they called it, did not seem to be a natural inclination of mine. A drummer I once worked with told me that I danced to all the tiny notes. I could never figure out where one was. A jazz guitarist friend gave me encouragement, though. When translating the music that came out of my head, and helping to put it down on a chart, he complemented me on all the sophisticated nuances I had going on in my songs. I took that as a compliment and a challenge.

I’ve never stopped writing songs, but that band I’ve wanted to put together, I’ve quit more times than I’ve ever followed through on. But, you know what? It’s high time to give it another go. At this point, it’s especially now or never. If there’s a heartbeat, it’s never too late. I may have quit, numerous times, but I’m not about to give up on it. Anyone with me? Any seasoned musicians out there wanna join my band? I’ve got some great songs ready to take center stage!

Here is one of them. I wrote this quite a while back, but it was never released.

Letting it fly now!

I WANT MY HIGHS

Stay tuned for more stories about my on again off again music career and lots more songs. I’m getting back into music production and, who knows, I might even get that band together sooner than later.

There’s a difference between giving up and taking a long pause.

I’ve been paused for years. I’m pressing play.

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Need a Creativity Coach? Looking for a story doula, a lyric whisperer, or an inspiration sparker? You’ve come to the right Lisa.

When two people come together later in life they often have to find a way to merge the collection of furniture each has amassed over the four decades it took to find each other. Some people start fresh, clearing out couches, consoles, and chaise lounges with every move. Then, gathering new items, carefully curated vintage or tediously assembled IKEA pieces to turn the new abode into a home.

I came to the relationship, 20 years ago, with a gorgeous antique table from France that we moved from room to room until I finally built myself a studio to put it in. 300 year old, blonde ash hardwood so soft to the touch it feels like silk velvet. Purchased from a woman I used to house-sit for in Malibu, when she remodeled and went modern. I spent a Thanksgiving, a Christmas, and a couple Easters at that table while she was off traveling the world for the holidays. It isn’t very wide, but has the most amazing system designed to lift up and pull out, doubling its length. All covered with beads, bobbles, and art supplies, now, I look forward to giving it a place of prominence again.

The table that is actually in our dining room is so big it came with the house. Too much of a hassle to move, it’s thick heavy dark wood supported by big sturdy round legs. So rustic if stuck outside would probably look the same in a hundred years. A table that has seen Play-Doh, sippy cups, scissors, sewing projects, denim, turkeys, dahlias, and baby’s breath. Our kitchen is in the center of the house, open to the living room and next to the dining room, with only a small island in the middle for extra counter space. No room for a kitchen table, so this heavy hunk of wood does the duties of all, kitchen table, dinning room table, and workspace as well. I wouldn’t have picked it out at World Market or Ethan Allen or wherever it came from, but it has serviced our family well and will definitely be staying with the house when the rest of us move on, whether the new buyers want it or not.

We had to put Frank’s claw footed antique walnut dining table in the living room, with its exquisite extensions that fold down to two or one third its size. When the sides are lifted a cleverly designed triangle of wood can be opened up from the base to support the added surface accommodation. There is also a secret ledge under the supports that can serve as a shelf for a case of heirloom silverware, private journals, hidden jewels, or other such treasures. This table, passed down to Frank by his father’s sister, is situated in front of a huge picture window, with a provenance that heralds from the East Coast. It now faces South, soaking in the California sun and humming with history. It’s twin, I’m told, used to reside in the Octagon House, now a museum of architecture in Washington DC. Aunt Margaret’s portrait hangs on the wall to the right of this stunning piece of antiquity.

The other dining room table, from the same family tree, is an elegant Victorian number with two ornate pedestals and a crate of extra inserts. Way too big to fit anywhere in the house, it leans against shelves in our garage waiting to be adopted. I’ve had it on Facebook Marketplace a number of times to no avail. It demands it’s own room but the chairs to accompany it to its unknown destiny are long gone.

The fifth table, a tragedy stuck outside against a hedge, wasn’t meant for the rain, but is such a sturdy hardwood antique it has weathered a number of storms while I figure out what to do with it. One leg needs work. My cousin gave it to me when my aunt passed at 94, Claiming it came all the way from Norway. I ran out of room for tables.

What I really could have used was one of Aunt Ingrid’s dining rooms. She had five at one point. Two in the chateau my uncle built for her in Palos Verdes Estates, one in their sprawling home on Portuguese Bend Road in Rancho Palos Verdes, which started sliding awhile back, and why he built her a chateau in the first place. Their other dining rooms were in their cabin in Big Bear, the other in Lake Arrowhead. I am going to have to start looking for a new dining room, and a few other rooms to go with it.

Now, as I contemplate where my next move will be and when, I am psychologically readying to part with some of my furniture as well. Mine, only for as long as I oiled and polished them these past two decades. I am ready to move on from a man who has no room for me in his heart…

but I’m not quite ready to break up with the furniture.

Need a creativity coach? An art ally? Looking for a story doula, lyric whisperer, or an inspiration sparker? I’m your Lisa.

Whether you’re shaping a personal essay, giving voice to a solo show, trying to make your songs not sound like bad diary entries, or exploring your creative life purpose... I’m here.

Contact me at: LisaVerlo@gmail.com

Feeling generous and supportive?

Buy me a brick

There comes a moment when we realize that the most important relationship in our lives is the one we’re already in. Not the one we’re searching for, repairing, or performing inside of, but the ongoing, intimate relationship we have with ourselves. It’s the relationship that holds every creative risk, every brave boundary, every quiet knowing.

CHI Check-Ins were born from a radical idea: your creative inner life deserves an appointment. Not someday. Not when things calm down. Now. These carefully curated Zoom gatherings create a pause button in a world that rarely offers one, a place to step out of the swirl, tune in, and ask, “What actually wants my attention?” It’s a return to yourself, with witnesses.

CHI Check-Ins are weekly, one-hour circles held on Zoom for creative accountability, bold intention, and follow-through with heart. This is where dreams stop hovering politely in the background and start getting treated like priorities. We name what matters, listen for what’s been quietly nudging, and take real, doable steps forward. There’s something deliciously powerful about putting it on the calendar and keeping the date with yourself. Show up curious. Leave clearer. Momentum included.

Groups are limited to seven participants, so choose the day and time you’re most likely to show up for yourself. Consider it a weekly workout for the soul.

Spaces are available:

Monday evenings 6:30–7:30pm

Monday evenings 8:00–9:00pm

Wednesdays 1:00–2:00pm

Wednesdays 3:00–4:00pm

Sign up and save your spot, email me at: LisaVerlo@gmail.com

CHI Check-Ins are a monthly commitment of $92. A small, steady investment in showing up, listening in, and following through.

Because showing up for yourself changes everything.

Alongside the new CHI Check-In groups, I’m also offering two special in-person workshops designed to support different facets of the same journey. One meets us exactly where we are, helping us slow down and listen more closely. The other invites us to return, gently and playfully, to what feels most alive and true. Each workshop stands on its own, or can be paired as a weekend arc of reflection, release, and creative renewal.

CHI with Lisa: Be Your Valentine

Creative passion, personal power, and the art of self-relationship

Valentine’s Day doesn’t have to be about roses, reservations, or anyone else getting it “right.” It can be sweet… or it can be radical. This CHI with Lisa workshop is a space to reconnect with your creative fire, cultivate a deeper relationship with yourself, and celebrate love beyond romantic expectations. Through movement, reflection, creative exploration, and shared intention, we’ll honor self-love as an act of courage, community, and choice. Come nourish your inner life, spark new inspiration, and spend the day in good company—with yourself and others who value empowerment over perfection. Here self-love is not a cliché, but a living, breathing practice rooted in creativity and shared humanity.

Saturday February 14, 2026

1:00 - 5:00pm

At an enchanting private home in Sierra Madre Canyon

Limited to 7 participants

$56 to nourish your soul

Sign up and save your spot, email me at: LisaVerlo@gmail.com

CHI with Lisa: Returning to the Heart

A post-Valentine’s Day recovery workshop for self-love and creative renewal

Consider this a soft landing after Valentine’s Day. Whether the day was beautiful, disappointing, or simply too loud, this CHI with Lisa workshop is an invitation to reconnect with the most enduring relationship of all: the one you have with yourself. Through movement, reflection, creative exploration, and community, we’ll explore self-love as something lived rather than performed, and reconnect with what feels honest and nourishing. Not every heart wants fireworks. Some want warmth, presence, and room to breathe. Come as you are, and leave feeling more grounded, spacious, and gently reconnected.

Sunday February 15, 2026

1:00 - 5:00pm

at an enchanting private home in Sierra Madre Canyon

limited to 7 participants

$56 to nourish your soul

Sign up and save your spot, email me at: LisaVerlo@gmail.com

Attend one, or join both days for a full-circle experience.

Saturday opens the door. Sunday lets you settle into your exquisite creative self .

$100 for both days

Sign up and save your spot, email me at: LisaVerlo@gmail.com

Need a creativity coach? An art ally? Looking for a story doula, lyric whisperer, or an inspiration sparker? I’m your Lisa.

Whether you’re shaping a personal essay, giving voice to a solo show, trying to make your songs not sound like bad diary entries, or exploring your creative life purpose... I’m here.

Things I Love Helping With: Memoir, monologue, story and solo show development - Song lyrics and musical storytelling - Performance polish and delivery coaching - Substack strategies, pitch decks, vision boards, creative collaging, and Sacred Play.

Let’s turn chaos into creative expression. Creativity is our salvation

Need a Creative Coach?

Halfway through a soft serve chocolate vanilla swirl ice cream cone from Fosters Freeze, I was already fantasizing about driving back and getting another one. I was definitely not living in the moment. I was completely wrapped up in plans for the procurement of something that would bring me more joy. Even for just the short time it took to melt down my throat, before any of it soaked into the paper thin wafer receptacle rendering it soggy, sticky, and needing to be ingested as quickly as its cool, delicious, and delectable contents took to liquify.

That would make me a complete hedonist just contemplating driving back to pick up another one. Why did I decide to eat it on the way home anyway? I noticed two construction workers sitting at an outside booth, to the left of the pick-up window, eating their vanilla soft serve snacks like reasonable adults. I chose to take mine to go, planning to carefully consume it on my way home. My father would certainly be rolling in his grave at the mere thought of me having anything in my hands other than the steering wheel, as I navigated the side streets of Glendora, Azusa, Duarte, Monrovia, and Arcadia on my way back to Sierra Madre. Just thinking of my dad wincing in disapproval makes me want another one! Definitely worth the calories just to defy him. I needed cool and soothing comfort. Not the heat of emotional burnout. I clearly have daddy issues to work out, but those seem to be lifelong goals that I am still juggling between cones.

I was heading West, just as I had so many lifetimes ago. The initial expedition established me as a California girl completely rejecting any semblance of being mistaken as a Midwesterner. Forty years and over two thousand and eighty ice cream cones later, here I am doing the math on what might restore my joie de vivre and the likelihood that I make a blatant U-turn for more.

I wasn’t out driving around in Glendora for the sole sake of soothing my soul with soft serve. I had a dermatological appointment to recover from. I thought I had spent enough years blocking the ravages of sun, but there it was, some form of something or other that required more than the routine freezing off of a layer of epidermis, enough to rid my mind of worry. There is no way that after all the years of sunblock, sunscreen, sun hats, and a great numbers of parasols, that I would have to be even remotely concerned about skin cancer. I mean really, me and my freckled complexion made a pact to stay un-bronzed our whole life.

Ever since burning on the beach of Alabama as a five year old and spending three days recovering from the solar assault, stretched across a pillow, on my stomach, cursing the sun in ways that only 5 year olds can convey. I was determined to stay away from the dark side of sunshine and all the damage those rays could do to me . I lean more towards fairies, if I were ever to get into serious cosplay, but I would become a vampire if need be. My skin was staying white. Well, chocolate chip would be the description in ice cream. I had freckles. Nothing I could do about that!

With all the safeguarding and aversion to any exposure that would compromise my determination to stay un-sun-kissed, how in the world did I end up with a blemish smaller than the size of a sunflower seed, that would require a biopsy and then the subsequent excision? On my backside, just under my panty line, above my left butt cheek of all places! What the heck?! This is nowhere the sun ever shines! What’s up with that? So there I was, at my follow up appointment having that little assembly of unwanted precancerous cells, carved out of me.

I’m starting to feel it now. Whatever they shot me up with has worn off. The burning pain of having been cut into and sewn up again. I can handle that. OK maybe a couple Tylenol will help. I was big baby in the doctor’s office, face down after having taken a selfie with my now departed blemish. It was an over the shoulder shot of my worried face and my backside covered in one of those paper deals they give you to cover up in. I captured a picture before they came back into the room. I even had time to zoom in and see how they had cut a little hole in the covering and set up the small area above my butt for the ‘minor’ surgery.

By the time the doctor came back into the room I was ready to brace myself for the cutting. Scalpels make me scream. I can’t help it. As much as I tried to be tough, anything piercing my skin is going to require a yelp to help me get through it. I screamed. I screamed for ice cream.

Now I want another one.

I don’t think it’s just the stitches that I’m trying to soothe. I’m sure that a great deal more is being covered by comfort eating. I can’t even think of facing current affairs without the aid of chocolate. I’ve tried a few healthier approaches. Putting on some favorite songs and dancing with complete abandon helps realign some of the flustered molecules that make up my frazzled constitution. I’ve been pretty good about taking daily walks, even though I just go in circles. Loops in the canyon tend to have steep inclines so I am forced to exert more energy than I would otherwise.

I know I shared my song Lullaby Blues before, but since it is finally on Spotify, including all the other places it was placed through DistroKid in an attempt to send more of my music out into the world, I thought I’d give it another plug since it too is on the soothing side.

Listen to Lullaby Blues

Speaking of soothing and soul sweetening, I am launching a new workshop series:

CHI with Lisa

Introducing a new immersive workshop series that blends creative expression, embodied practices, and gentle healing in spaces designed for curiosity, connection, and honest self-exploration. Each experience is guided by Lisa Verlo and offered in collaboration with artists, healers, and facilitators who understand that creativity is not a luxury, it is a vital force.

Whether you are a writer, performer, seeker, or simply someone who feels a little dimmed by life, CHI invites you to slow down, breathe deeply, and listen to what is ready to be expressed. You do not need to be an artist to belong here. You only need your presence, a pulse, and a willingness to feel.

Creativity is not something we do. It is something we are.

The first offerings in the series are geared towards girlfriends, women, or female identifying folks and are in person. I will be posting more events open to anyone who resonates with them. Zoom sessions will be offered as well. Check out this link for the details.

CHI with Lisa

I also offer one on one coaching.

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Wishing you sweet swirls, healing hugs, and copious creativity always.

Love,

Lisa

As I sit in the warmth of my canyon home on Christmas Eve, rain pounding down, my Ragdoll cat curled up beside me, George Winston’s December playing on my iPhone, I find myself reflecting on holidays past and looking to love to lead me into a more harmonious future. True love has topped my wish list for years. I had hoped to stumble into it, be claimed by it, overtaken by the kind of love that lets you say, without hesitation, I am deeply, deeply in love.

That hasn’t happened for me... I may need to rethink what I’ve been expecting. But it also might say more about the story I was sold than the life I’ve lived.

So tonight, alone, pouring a slightly more than generous amount of eggnogg into my homemade concoction of chai-ish golden milk tea infused with fresh ginger, I lean into what has been mine: the joy of Christmases past. The memories that still glow. With no fairytale to tell, only the truth, I offer these recollections back to myself as gifts, set down gently, in writing.

The first Christmas that springs to mind, because it is the first one I can remember, was when I must have been four years old and living on Wagon Wheel Lane in Grand Blanc, Michigan. Snow drifts reached the rafters and Dad helped us get up on the roof so I could slide down into a freshly fallen snow bank along with my brother and sister. I don’t know if I heard sleigh bells, or just my ears ringing with unbridled laughter, but that was one jolly good time that registered as joy in my world of holiday recollections. Christmas morning was pretty epic as well. I know it was not just the photo that forever etched the biggest Christmas present ever into my memory log of stellar surprises. I can still feel my jaw drop as I excitedly bounced toward the Christmas tree to discover that my present was not under it, but spanning the width of the room next to it, as I gazed at my very own wall to wall kitchen set. Stove, refrigerator, even the kitchen sink! I was set up for happy home making with a cherry on top. The set was a coppertone ensemble, a popular color choice at the time, right up there with harvest gold, avocado green, and burnt orange. Made of lightweight metal, it felt cold to the touch. The knobs all turned and the oven door really actually opened up, even though you had to use your imagination to turn it on, of course. This was way before easy bake ovens. This was a whole kitchen playground! My fridge came fully stocked. Plastic cans with paper labels, little boxes of pretend this and that whose printed images conjured up the appropriate mix of saliva and voracity. I could taste all those bundt cakes before I even baked them! The Kitchen set was apparently from Santa and I didn’t even question how he got it all down the chimney. But, there it was, so I couldn’t help being a believer. I also remember getting a new light blue satin quilted robe that matched my sister’s pink one, which I wore until it had holes in it. The sleeves went from being longer than my arms to three quarter length by the time I grew out of it. That kitchen set ended up moving to France with us and my father fashioned a whole playhouse for it out of wooden moving crates. That was my first home of my own. My only home of my own, come to think of it, even though I had to share it with my sister.

That brings me to my first Noël, in Strasbourg, France. Our tree was set up in the foyer, next to the staircase leading up to the second and third floor. Three stories felt palatial compared to the houses in the subdivision we had just left, right outside of Flint, Michigan. Here in the Alsatian region of France, we had a brass umbrella holder next to the front door and a copper tooled Aesop Fable fox and crow lamp on the adjacent side table. Silvery glass ornaments with red, green and white stripes, from back in the States, hung scattered on the tree. We strung popcorn and made long chains of red and green construction paper to adorn the tree as well. There was smattering of homemade ornaments, such as my princess fairy clothespin angel and the Swedish paper hearts we learned how to make by weaving red and green origami paper. Then, it was all covered in tinsel which greatly enhanced the multicolored Christmas lights. My favorite dolls appeared under that Christmas tree… Mon Beau Sapin, as the song goes in French. I don’t think they both came at the same time, but we were there for four years so one year it was Natalie, a beautiful baby doll with a full head of blonde hair, and another year it was Isabelle who came with her own little pink and blue armoire stocked with clothes hangers and a few coats and dresses to style up her mood. My favorite was a tomato colored wool fleece cape, just like Little Red Riding hood wore, lined with green and gold trim giving her a bit of a Bavarian look, especially when I braided her hair. I wondered if Santa would find me all the way in France, but I was assured that he just went by another name there, Père Noël, or Father Christmas as it translates.

A couple of my Christmases were spent in Norway. While we lived in Europe, we would visit my Grandparents on my father’s side. They lived in Oslo, where we would join my cousins and dance around the Juletre (pronounced ‘yoo-leh-treh’), a combination of “jul” (Christmas/Yule) and “tre” (tree). We sang a song in Norwegian much like the children’s folk song “Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush”. The lyrics went through the days of the week and the chore associated with it, mostly revolving around doing the laundry and hanging it up to dry. In Norway they have the Jule Nisse instead of Santa Clause so I was starting to question the whole Santa legend. I really didn’t like the idea of an old man breaching the privacy of my home by scaling down a chimney. The Norwegian version is more like a garden gnome or elf. The nisse look after the farm animals, so you are supposed to feed them, leave some treats out for them, or they tend to be tricksters and might even harm your livestock, or so the folklore goes. I wrote a whole post about my Norwegian Christmas experiences, which you can read (here) for more Scandinavian traditions and delights. Norway is a true winter wonderland where they burn real candles as lights on the Yuletre.

We spent a few Christmases in South Dakota with my grandparents on my Mom’s side of the family. Always plenty of snow for a white Christmas in Sioux Falls. Lots of icicles hanging from eaves and awnings outside, but I spent most of my time in Grandma’s kitchen trying out Christmas cookie recipes featured in Lady’s Home Journal. Grandma made the best pecan sandies shortbread cookies. Those were Mom’s favorites and mine as well. Oh, and her date balls. Yum!

Grandma was a Vanda Beauty Counselor which was like Avon cosmetics and sold like Tupperware. Her basement had metal shelves filled with products and samples and smelled like Heaven to me. I don’t remember much about the actual Christmas tree or any of its ornaments, but I sure looked forward to getting some Vanda Beauty products under it on Christmas morning. I started with Ribbons ‘n’ Things cologne mist, targeting the pre-teen market, along with their bubble baths and lip balms. Eventually I graduated to Moonsong, Tender Trap, or Rondeau cologne, and just couldn’t get enough of their iconic Orchid Petal Hand Lotion. My holidays there were spent in the basement trying out samples when we weren’t putting on Christmas shows or caroling.

Christmases in the Philippines were a whole different experience. First of all they don’t have pine trees in the tropics so you can forget the evergreen wreaths as well. We got really creative and made our own Christmas tree one year by wrapping branches with green fringed crepe paper, then we hung all the ornaments we could fit on it. The tinsel didn’t stay on so well and I don’t think the lights worked out too well either. We sat around it and sang all of the holiday standards and were particularly effusive when we got to White Christmas. But, try as we might, through song and prayer, we could never get it to snow in Manila. In the Philippines, most ornaments are made of Capiz, the durable and translucent lining of the oyster shell, either left white for an angelic look, or colored to give the feeling of stained glass. They make lanterns and windows out of it too, as well as chimes that have a delicate tinkling sound. I did learn a Christmas song and can even sing the jingle to a commercial for San Miguel Beer in Tagalog.

Then there was the Christmas we spent in Venezuela. I had missed my first flight on the layover in Miami, so when I finally got to Caracas, my bag didn’t. I was the one bringing all the Christmas goodies from Trader Joe’s! Bags of nuts, boxes of cookies, and the very special Marzipan Stollen I get every year. So much for our food supply! We would be taking the boat out to Los Roches the next day without them. But, not before spending an evening drinking way too much sangria and singing our hearts out. OK, so I may have had way more sangria than everyone else, or just a lower tolerance, and I might have said some things I would later regret. I do remember throwing all the drama I had picked up at the Lee Strasberg Theater Institute at those time tested holiday lyrics. Might have been over the top and off key, but much fun was had until we got in the boat the next day and ended up on very rough water. I think I figured out why they call it a hangover. I almost fell in!

I do appreciate the cultural diversity I was brought up with, now more than I did at the time. I sure miss the Christmas Markets in Germany, the cookies stored in tins in my Norwegian Grandmother’s cupboards, the smell of peppermint candy canes hanging from a freshly cut spruce tree in Michigan. I remember a magical sleigh ride I once took in Aspen, Colorado, bundled under a blanket, bells ringing in the snow. The time I stood smiling, nibbling on a gingerbread cookie, as I read my boy’s letter to Santa one year, and then tearfully having to admit the con the following Christmas, as he admonished me for lying to him all those years. I am grateful for the generous holiday gift my father gave our family when our son was ten years old. Airline tickets to Bali so that Frank could spend Christmas with his mom and Turner could see his Grandma for the second time in his life.

My tree is covered with ornaments collected from all those places, many hand-made. Some by me when I was feeling crafty, by my son when he was in preschool, by his sister when she was in her pottery phase. I have no theme, no predominant color of the year, they all hang next to each other in circles of love around the tree. As I look across the fairy lights shining in glass vases on my fireplace mantel, past the lights on the Christmas tree, beyond the lights hanging from my balcony, out to the twinkling lights of the San Gabriel Valley, I am grateful for the Holiday experiences I have had around the world and the twenty years I have spent here in Southern California, raising a son who grew up in one home, all of his life, so far. I wonder what the next year will bring. I know what I will bring to it. All the love I have in my heart. Profound love. Love I have found, love I have lost, and all the lessons that unfold in the quest for the experience of true love. In creativity I have found it. My passion is in creating, art, cards, jewelry, sculpture, shows, poems, music, and songs!

On that note I would like to share a holiday song I wrote and sang, which Frank recorded back in 2009 but we never “officially” released. So in the spirit of putting it out in the Universe and sharing the love, I wish you a Merry Christmas and leave you with Peace This Holiday.

My father’s passing cracked something open in me, a kind of existential dread that keeps asking what I’m doing with the rest of my one precious life. I am in a relationship that I have been trying to bring back into tune for far too long. Dreams unfulfilled, hopes gone flat, and still, I kept believing we could find our rhythm again. I hoped that love would deepen, and that we would all somehow come to our senses.

And here it is, the big embarrassing admission - I thought things would change!

Even looking at things from his perspective, no matter how hard I try, we see things differently. I thought our dreams aligned. I wanted to write songs together. We did. We wrote musicals. We wrote all kinds of songs. Albums worth. That was wonderful. I thought we could put a band together and play out. That never happened. I thought it was because he was too busy touring with big huge super famous bands. That was an acceptable excuse for not performing our own material. When touring dwindled and then pretty much ended because of Covid, so did our music. No more harmony. Only discord. Not the social media platform but the dissonance, the disagreements, the strife.

I chose to stay in a relationship that was inevitably ending. Love wasn’t really ever there. Not true love anyway. Not that I could really even tell, actually.  I wanted to believe it was enough. Enough love. I didn’t have much to go on. As a shining example there was only my mom’s love for her children. That felt true enough. She was full of love for us kids. She gave love to her husband too, of course, but he abused it. Disrespected it. So the role modeling that went into representing a strong loving relationship was seriously lacking. Woefully weak. Disparaged. She decided to stay married. To accept certain kinds of behavior. To live with less than she deserved.

Is this the example I follow? I watched her tolerate. Is this my choice too?

I watched as Mom went along for the ride. Sat beside a man who disgraced her. Especially the time she was visiting her parents and siblings and inserted a video tape while all assembled ready to watch what they thought would be home movies of us kids. Instead, they were all shocked to see my dad getting it on with three naked Filipino women. Oops, wrong VHS! She didn’t even leave him over that incident. Didn’t divorce him because of what her Catholic parents would think. There is a question as to whether my father could love at all. Lust was all he knew. Mom made her choice, I guess. She walked towards the light. Passed in her sleep unexpectedly at 69, almost 18 years ago. Undoubtedly heartbroken. Only 6 months after her own dad died at 94. I miss her more than ever. We’ll never know whether she would have eventually had enough, and left her husband, my father, who was 9 years older than her. Dad lived until the ripe old age of 96, bitter, critical, ready to go.

As I ponder whether I am the rider or the horse in my own race with life, I am faced with having to make a choice or to let life thrust its fate upon my future. But I wallow, and wallow, and wallow in indecision. Is that the place I feel most comfortable? Out of habit? Out of fear? Fear of what, making the wrong decision and losing something in the option? What have I got to lose? There’s no love in the equation. All signs point to go, but the decision has been so hard to make because shear embarrassment that I let it go on for so long demands that it amount to something or all would have been a big waste.

I choose love. It’s not here. The decision is made, but what next?

I find myself in stages of blowing up my life and then patching it together. Starting fires and then putting them out. I’ve been reading Miranda July’s All Fours, and Lyz Lenz’s This American Ex-Wife, to help fan the fury. Also, Want Me by Tracy Clark-Flory, and Untamed by Glennon Doyle. My determination fueled by Soraya Chemaly’s Rage Becomes Her. On Our Best Behavior by Elise Loehnen, explains a lot of what women go through just to feel good about themselves. Tamara’s Museguided post on Substack really spoke to me as well.

Now I’m trying to figure out how to make the next move after raising a son who just turned 19. I’m the one who needs to go off on my own though. 20 years of not being married but extremely entrenched in what was supposed to be a partnership felt more like indentured servitude the longer I stayed. Meanwhile all my songs, lyrics, and manuscripts are just rotting on the vine.

So there you have it. The state of affairs. Well, I haven’t even gotten into THAT, actually. But, I’m going to start putting my music out there. Out in the world, where it should be. I’m going to start by sharing this one, Lullaby Blues. I wrote it a long time ago as a comforting end to another relationship. I hear some codependency in the lyrics, but it is really just a lullaby to the self. A poem, a song, a prayer to the soul.

Ho’oponopono style.

I love you, I’m sorry, please forgive me, thank you.

I offer it now for all to enjoy, and heal.

Lullaby Blues

Check out my song Gypsy on Spotify or wherever else music is played in the ether without the artist receiving a penny. Thank you so much for following me on Substack and for subscribing as a supporter of music and art and all the stuff that comes out of my mouth or my pen!

I wrote the song Gypsy while driving through Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs, CO a long time ago. I have not made all the music videos I had planned to create. That was part of a long abandoned plan. I have written so many songs I never put out there. As I was listening to the band Sons of Hermon playing at the Pack Station on Friday night I realized that I really missed performing my songs live. I met an accordion player that night and started to get all kinds of wild ideas. Who knows where those ideas will take me.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep writing and posting. Grateful for this platform.

I changed a few lyrics on my song Gypsy so someday I’ll record this version.

Gypsy

Music and Lyrics by Lisa Verlo © Lisa Verlo all rights reserved

Arranged and produced by Chris Millner

Could have been a gypsy if I hadn’t been so square

Could have been a gypsy and gone somewhere

Could have been a gypsy if I hadn’t been so square

Could have been a gypsy and gone somewhere

Would have been a doctor if I hadn’t really cared about

Preventing all the causes of my being there

Couldn’t be a lawyer had to rule it out

It was evident that I retained the shadow of a doubt

Yeah yeah yea

Could have been a gypsy if I hadn’t been so square

Could have been a gypsy and gone somewhere

Would have been your neighbor but I couldn’t find a place

That didn’t have a preference for the color of a face

Couldn’t be a soldier wouldn’t last too long

Wouldn’t know what side I’m on the right or the wrong

Yeah yeah yeah…………..yeah yeah

Could have been a gypsy if I hadn’t been so square

Could have been a gypsy and gone somewhere

If I’d have been a gypsy I wouldn’t have cared

About the house I never had anywhere

Could never be the president it really isn’t done

I’m lucky just to vote they say don’t bother to run

Could have been a gypsy if I hadn’t been so square

Could have been a gypsy and gone somewhere

Gotta be a gypsy try to move on

Just can’t let this weather get me down

Gotta be a gypsy

Built For Speed

I was never a speed freak. Not the drug, not the gear ratio, or rate of motion. So why is it, that after a lifetime of being wary of motorcycles, am I ready to jump on the back of someone’s bike and being ridden somewhere, anywhere, away from the life I somehow entrenched myself in?

We are both way past midlife crisis phases and I only met him a couple of weeks ago. Am I rationalizing long dormant urges welling up in me after our chance encounter over adjacent tables on a sidewalk in Monrovia? Or is this confirmation that I have slipped into full blown crazy?

All I know is that it is time for change and that seems to also require a certain degree of extreme. I was tied up and as true as I could be for as many years it took to get to this breaking point. But I am through living by anyone else’s rules, including my own. Time to take some chances. Live in the full blown moments that keep presenting themselves.

Go for it! Why not? What have I got to lose?

As I listen to this song that I recorded after losing my home in Santa Monica to an earthquake, I reflect on the fact that I still don’t even really have one. Never did. It isn’t mine anyway. Not on paper. Not on any bank notes. I guess I never really cared much about that, not enough to prevent anything from happening, or being taken away from me.

I’ve tethered myself to this place through the accumulation of things. Things that need a place to be put. And there they all are. And there goes me, running away from it all because it has become too much. Some people need to blow up their life. I need to shake off a few things. Or just abandon them and choose joy instead.

I got lost in my things. I need to find myself again. Make more music.

I am ready for that ride.

I couldn’t believe it! There I was, freshly off Zoom, finishing up a project in my studio, determined to keep up the momentum of writing a creation, and there she was. Another Bear. A big one. I pushed my computer aside  and grabbed my iPhone in hopes of capturing a shot of this big beautiful bear going on its merry way. I was a bit too slow.

The bear had already walked past the large picture window I procured from Habitat For Humanity for a mere hundred bucks when I was building my She Shed. Those kinds of windows go for over a thousand dollars new, so I considered the two of them an amazing find in my quest to build the ultimate art studio on a “starving artist’s” budget. I put one window in the wall facing south, and the other looked up at the canyon behind our house in Sierra Madre. I had a view of cacti plodding along the wildlife path running east to west about ten feet up the hill from my rear window. Or is it a front window to the front range? A steep canyon view of Angeles National Forest wilderness behind our house.

Bears go by regularly. I just don’t always see them. My neighbor three houses over has what she calls her cat cam, set up to catch the mountain lions passing by. I’ve hardly ever seen them in person but I can check and see who went by, at say 6pm, from the photos she posts. 6pm? seriously?! There was a mountain lion in my back yard at 6pm last night?!!

So there I was, iPhone in hand, looking out the pane of glass in my studio door to my left. I thought I’d at least get a shot of the bear heading towards my neighbor to the west. But she wasn’t there yet. Where was she? And why am I assuming it was a female bear? Well, I’ll tell you. As soon as I realized she had stopped to look over her shoulder, I spied some motion coming up behind her. There they were, her two cubs in tow, playfully pouncing on each other. I forgot all about mama bear in a hot second as I quickly caught a shot of her progeny being adorable cubs rolling down the hill towards my studio window. I swiftly switched the iPhone into video mode, and with my jaw hanging almost as low as my 62 year old bust line I was thrilled to be capturing the most incredible footage ever.

Not only did the bear cubs end up right on the ledge in front of my studio window, but the more investigative one got up on its haunches and placed its big old cub paws right on my window pane. I gasped with delight and equal measures of horror as I flashed forward to this little cub, full grown, pushing in my beautiful leaded glass window. If you had read my previous post you might remember the mention of a bear brake-in, which I posted in more detail on Instagram! This cub was headed for bad behavior which could get it hauled off, relocated, or, more likely, euthanized in the future! All I could do was stand there, mouth agape, witnessing the incredibly cute curiosity this not so little bear displayed. An almost unbelievable performance, pawing at my window pane repeatedly as I pointed my camera phone in its oblivious direction.

I’ll call it the dance of the dominant cub. This bear was not afraid of anything. The cub may have seen some colorful baubles and bells hanging in my window and was pleasantly amused but mostly curious. This cub was bit bolder than the other who watched its sibling’s behavior and decided to move on, in the direction of its mother.

Imagine one of those little cubs straddling the wall and stretched up with its paws on the window well above the lamp to the left.

As the more inquisitive cub pawed at some items sitting on the ledge next to the window, I heard a couple of tiles hit the ground, The cub swiped at a metal globe stand I had rescued from the slumping Earth orb that had rested on it for more years than it had the stamina to withstand. The metal clang amused the cub who gave the crescent shaped support another playful swipe and sent a few more tiles tumbling. A now smaller stack of tiles shifted beneath its paw. I had every intention of mounting those tiles on the cinder block wall, but alas, it was looking more cinder-like than adorned as it held up the bear cub’s hind quarters. With another shuffle he was off and more tiles tumbled as I pointed my camera phone towards the window in my studio door to capture their departure, when I realized they were already gone. I clicked the camera off and immediately and hurriedly pushed send to rush off this incredible footage to my neighborhood group thread, alerting them of mama bear and her cubs heading their way.

I excitedly pushed replay on the footage, digital evidence of my unbelievable bear encounter. All I saw was the door, the handle, and the studio floor the moment before I pushed send. Wait, what happened to my happy bear dance? I scrolled back and forth from my photo of the bear cubs rolling down the hill to the video of my somber studio door. That’s when my heart sank.  I hadn’t captured any of it!!! Come on, seriously?! I know I have made that mistake before, but really, this time too?! No way! That was just too precious. A thousand times more than ANYTHING!

Really?!!

I was the only one who would get to witness that incredible display?

Apparently Fate and/or the Universe had other ideas and didn’t want it to go viral.

I stood there in my studio in a swirl of emotion. Grateful, perplexed, excited, disappointed, honored, and yet tinged with a complex mix of envy and euphoria. I wanted to be able to share it, to show someone what I saw. That rare albino deer. I might as well have seen a unicorn. Or big foot! Well, what could I do?! After a few moments of stunned contemplation I had an epiphany. I mean, was I a photographer or was I a writer? Well, both actually. But when technology fails, what do we do?

I decided to go old school and share the experience the old fashioned way. Before social media, before online posts, before cameras and polaroids, or any kind of apparatus used to capture these incredible moments. Before sketching or painting, or even cave drawings… there were stories.

This is my tell. I hope you enjoyed the show between the words.

I didn’t spend my life doing what he told me. Why should I start now? I also want to explain why I’ve neglected my Substack posts.

Dad died.

A bear broke into my house.

The bear attempted a second reentry! Dad’s death is still sinking in.

I had big plans of launching my memoir HOLLYWOODN’T on Substack. I started posting some excepts and had plans to continue uploading pieces while visiting my family in Colorado. Dad had just turned 96 at the end of March. He occasionally complained about dizziness and walking instability, but he still insisted on looking after himself at an assisted living facility. They made meals for him, did his laundry, cleaned his room, and made his bed once a week, but he was on his own with his daily routine. My sister offered up most of the care taking when he needed extra help. My brother was very devoted as well. I only made it out two to three times a year. It was fortunate timing that I happened to be there when he made his final departure.

I started sorting through my stuff when I got home. Lots of stuff to go through. That’s what you do when someone dies. You have to sort through all the things they left behind. I did that with my brother and sister. Then I came home to my own collection. Opening the pantry door, I found bins I stashed away every time I tried clearing the dining room table/holding station getting ready for guests. Kept telling myself I would get to it later. Well, later is here. Later came and went several times this past decade but priorities did not include taking time to sort through banker boxes that didn’t even make the cut during two evacuations due to fire threats. Why weren’t they just pitched? Because every time I would contemplate whether to sort through outgrown Nike Air Jordans that ought to be listed on eBay, or go through outdated electronics to take to whoever still collects them, or take photos of all the files I think I might need but don’t want to keep accumulating, I ask myself, would I rather be writing, or recording a song, or creating art? Yes! “Absolutely” is always the answer, so the bins remained stacked.

Back to Dad who taught me how to assemble and organize in such a way that it resembles collecting more than hoarding. If it is all stowed away properly then it becomes more a matter of curating anthropologically significant material. Amassing carefully collected curiosities and arranging them in such a way that they bring joy, magnify emotions, and inspire feelings of awe and creative fulfillment. That’s the idea. But until then, it’s all just a big mess of things to recycle, upcycle, repurpose, or throw away.

As a multidisciplinary artist and writer, I have a hard time getting rid of anything. I want to turn everything into a story, an installation, a work of art. That’s kind of what’s going on emotionally regarding my father as well. Mourning him feels so much different than having lost Mom suddenly in her sleep almost 18 years ago. She was 69, Dad was 78 at the time, 9 years older. At 96, he got 27 more years of life than her. I’m still mourning Mom. Now it feels amplified. I’ve been sorting through photos, memories, and relics exploring conflicted feelings I have about my father’s passing.

In the air, on a United flight from Denver to Burbank I started writing this…

Goodbye Dad

I left raw feelings slowly roasting as your body was sent to the crematorium in Colorado Springs.

Walked the tourist lined street in Manitou Springs looking for signs of Mom welcoming you

or comforting me.

I took this pen, left among your things.

Your favorite, Paper Mate Flair, blue felt tip.

But it is drying up.

Then it died, like you…

no longer able to swallow the truth, the lies, the juice, the sustenance.

I had to dig deep in my carry-on, stowed beneath the seat in front of me, for my reliable pilot G2 black roller ball pen, to continue this postmortem letter to you.

High above the north end of the Grand Canyon,

I’m still searching for words, my thoughts in conflict with each other about your slow but certain demise.

Not as swift as you would have hoped.

I know you had wanted to go for a while, but your sturdy Scandinavian body wasn’t ready to give up on you.

Until it did, right in the middle of my visit.

One day we were playing Rummikub

and the next, we were in the ER negotiating with nurses.

I look out of the window now, clouds passing over all our graves, the big holding basin for everyone’s ashes.

Where to now?

You were always one for a big adventure, Dad.

Where are you off to now?

Leaving your three adult orphans to fend for their own families.

I feel like a failure dad.

I know you did too.

You told us often enough.

You showed us whenever you could.

I know you had moments of feeling like a winner too.

You hit the jackpot with mom.

She was amazing. Beautiful, talented, all the things that mattered to you. She looked a lot like Elizabeth Taylor, the barometer for beauty at the time. She played the piano: Chopin, Liszt, Beethoven. Mom was your arm candy, your bragging rights. You supported her the best you could. I’m sorry you felt like such a loser in other aspects of your life. I know that your children didn’t exactly make you proud in the way you had hoped. I would’ve liked to have talked to you a bit more about that. Your ideas about success, your constant comparison to others and their accomplishments. Always concerned about what others would think. It was hard writing your obituary, Dad. You’ve done so much. You led a life that some people could only dream of.

But I guess that’s not good enough when, in the end, you are basically unhappy and critical of not only your own accomplishments but ours. I’m still caught up in processing it all. It was fascinating going through all your stuff, your treasures. The things you held on to as most dear. Were you interested in the beauty and craftsmanship as much as the monetary value they possessed? I know you were fascinated by your huge collection of ivory fetishes. Intricately carved, the details almost mind blowing. Never mind the unethical treatment of the elephants they came from. What’s done is done, right? What do we do with those now?

I can’t look at them with the same awe as you did. Sure, the craftsmanship is unparalleled. What they represent… not so inspiring.

I appreciate your love of art. I have always looked at you as an unfulfilled artist. Your reason for abandoning your dreams tortures me. The Self admission that you were just mediocre when compared to the greats. Heart crushing. That you didn’t even try, gave up so easily, and yet remained bitter in your quest for perfection.

You once told me about seeing Odd Nerdrum’s painting of a brick, so full of life, almost magically expressing emotion. That did it for you.

You felt you couldn’t compete. You had long given up painting, but that just confirmed your choice. I grew up admiring your watercolor works of art. The trees you captured on canvas. The oil paintings you attempted. The one lone tree you cut off from the other three and placed in a huge gold frame all its own, designating that one as being worthy of praise. I always thought of you as an artist, Dad. When I met Andy Warhol in my senior year of high school, while on a business trip to New York as a young entrepreneur fashion designer, I thought, my dad could do that. I wondered why you never tried selling any of your paintings. Years later when I suggested you pick up your brush again, you denied your talent.

I love this painting of yours, Dad, it is hanging in my living room.

That admission about the brick painting made a deep impression on me. I remember the moment as if it were captured in still life. Standing on your parquets floor in the dining room next to a picture window overlooking Pike’s Peak. Sweat rolling down your cheek like a freshly washed peach. The veins in your hands gleaming a river of turquoise on dry parched rock. Your brow furrowed into a fist of hopelessness. Then you brought up music and declared that if someone wasn’t born a prodigy, why bother. You left that exchange hung up for me in a gallery of contemplation, to revisit for years, and wonder, if I could disprove you. Could I have what it takes whether you believed in me or not? Just because you decided you could never make it as an artist, were you trying to discourage me or pass on your doubt for me to grapple with?

 I want to mourn you properly. Honor the dad who took us on grand adventures around the world. The dad who took us sailing, snorkeling, and waterskiing. The dad from Norway who took us to live in France, the Philippines, and South Dakota. The dad who jumped in a freezing river to save a drowning man, dove under our boat at night to repair a propeller in shark infested waters, and was a guide for the blind in Ski For Light for so many years in Colorado.

I know you didn’t want a memorial, Dad. You stated so explicitly in your living will. But mourning is another thing altogether. I’m doing this for me. I’m a writer. This is how I process life. This is my art form. I am an artist, Dad. It has taken me years to feel OK about it. To feel legitimate. Workshops and workshops, journals and journals. Stories, songs, paintings, posters, sculptures, crafts. Yes, arts and crafts. That is where I would get caught up. Is it art or is it craft? What did it mean? What was its value? What was it worth to you Dad? I could never tell. Sometimes you would give the highest praise. Sometimes you were my harshest critic. I’m done trying to please you. There really was no pleasing you. I can make peace with that now. What is that worth to me? Everything.

Everything, Dad.

A forest in Scotland made a deep impression on me

In me

Around me

I couldn’t get enough

At the time

Now

Just outside of Auchencairn, near Castle Douglas, Southwest of Dumfries

Anytime I am asked to think of a place

A magical place,

A time

A memorable time

An incredible sensory experience

I think of rain hitting a canopy of those leaves

On those trees

Hazel, birch, alder, elder, oak, ash, juniper, Scots pine

Evergreen

Dense

So thick rain turns to mist upon descent

Moss underfoot, lush with moisture, cushions my step

Absorbing the shock of me

My weight made fairy light in that hazy glow

Of a fern filled, dew draped hollow

Day breaking through branches above my back

as I bend to take in a toadstool

From magical tales told to me a million times in my youth

Here I am witness to storybook spillage and spine-tingling awe

Nature’s beauty surrounds me

In that forest I am lost

I am found

Key is to keep a world of mushrooms, boughs, and bark

Around me at all times

To twirl in that mist

Lounge on that moss

Talk with those trees and rocks

Walk in wild Scottish woods

Because that is where I find myself

Every time

Searching for answers

In Sierra Madre canyon, California now

I live with bears in my backyard

Mountain lions make their way past my door

Wild, ferocious animals all around

Beasts I can handle

People I don’t trust.

It’s not animals that scare me

Or make me lie down next to them

just to get past the studio gates

None of them lord their predatory power over me

They keep their paws to themselves

I felt so safe in that forest

My sanctuary

A place to howl or scream

Cry out

Curse a misstep or a sideswipe

In that full and fertile forest all is washed clean

My sins

Theirs

In that hallowed cathedral

I pay my penance by living one more day.

peeling away layers of guilt

fostering fresh self esteem

I threw religion out the window long ago

My soul is on its own

If I can wrap those woods around me

anytime I can’t bear anything else

I can make it back to a place in myself

I feel truly inspired and alive

I can breathe

I can sigh

I can sing myself to sleep in that forest

or wake up in the middle of a dream

and feel like I’ve arrived

There are days I’m burning with desire. Other days, I would just like a hot tub, a warm massage, and some damn good ice cream.

This piece is part poem, part rant, part midlife craving spiral. It’s not about answers, it’s about asking better questions. Like: Do I want sex or just a nap? Am I hungry or just unsatisfied? And when did self-care start sounding sexier than sex? Welcome to my brain on low heat.

I can’t stop wanting sex

But I don’t know if that’s a statement or a quandary

Wanting is what keeps us going , right?

Wanting keeps us searching for more

Wanting begets more wanting

But is it really sex I’m looking for?

Take it away and I start to miss it

Take it away and I feel like I’m on a diet

Take away my chocolate and I’ll consider committing any number of crimes

Where does sex rank? Higher or lower than chocolate?

These are all things to consider when wanting sex or to keep one’s sanity

Take away my uterus and I still have a clitoris to contend with

Take away desire and I yearn for deeper validation

Take away my inhibitions and I become an exhibitionist

Take away the mystic and it all seems so crude

I want to get off but do I really need to get in all those positions to keep it interesting?

I don’t want to be a missionary and assume only one approach, but what am I really facing here?

being too tired to pull it off most of the time

In more ways than one!

Who has time for sex when it becomes something you have to think about as an activity to schedule other activities around

or find a place for it in all of the other routines taking over the calendar

isn’t it supposed to be spontaneous?

isn’t it supposed to be fun and exciting?

isn’t is supposed to be the thing that drives us all to find it in the first place?

so we can get our ya-yas out

did I get out all my ya-yas already?

Is it a comfort or a condition

I think I should try writing when i’m all hot and bothered because at this point, I don’t really even want to bother with it

I just want a massage

I just want a week long session at a spa

I want to be rolled around in mud

I want my toes exfoliated and my epidermis scrubbed

I want a baby’s butt thigh again

I want steam to inhale and warm up my brain

my feet are cold and not feeling the least bit interested in slipping into anyone’s fantasy

but i might change my mind tomorrow

so I won’t give all my fussy little what nots (my mom’s term for lingerie) to the Salvation army yet

I need a facial

not for the well being of my skin or anything

just for the position to assume and the hands massaging my scalp

get those neurons firing up a good appetite again

but I really just want ice cream.

Thank you for your time, interest, and any comments or words of wisdom you care to share.

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