I did a brave thing recently. I shared a story I’ve been working on with some friends. I got a wide range of reactions and feedback.

Anyone who has toiled over a creative project knows how vulnerable it feels to actually share it. Especially when you know it is still very much in process.

Annie Lamott, who I love, famously talks about “shitty first drafts.”

Sometimes you are just trying to get something down on paper. Perhaps you’re trying to figure out what story you are really trying to tell. There’s another edict around writing that says you don’t know what you think until you try to write it down.

This is certainly true for me. Often, the process of writing something down takes me on a journey I never would have imagined.

The story I’ve been working on is particularly tricky because it is about grief and loss. This is treacherous ground to walk. It makes it all the more scary to open yourself up to feedback.

But one of my pals, a writer himself, gave me some very helpful feedback and then simply said:

“Keep going.”

So I’ve been pondering the meaning of those two little words.

When it comes to writing, “Keep going” means powering through that shitty first draft and trusting that, somewhere along the way, a story will begin to emerge. You keep writing. You keep tinkering. You keep listening for what the story is trying to tell you.

How about in other areas of our lives?

“Keep going” might mean sticking with a health routine even when it’s hard. It might mean trying that recipe that bombed the first time—this time with different instructions or ingredients.

In the rehearsal room, it surely means continuing to work on a scene or a moment until you find the most authentic, human connection to the work.

And sometimes “keep going” means something much bigger.

I’ve had some pretty gnarly health challenges over the last several years. “Keep going” is pretty good advice when you’re trying to learn how to hear with one ear or see through double vision.

What’s the alternative, right?

We just keep on keeping on.

Maybe that’s what resilience really is. Not some heroic ability to conquer everything that gets in our way, but the willingness to take the next step. And then the next one.

Keep going.

I think I’m going to put a sign on my desk with those words.

It may give me just the nudge I need.

I remembered the wonderful dream my daughter had about my dear friend Barnes Boffey. I actually shared this story at his memorial service.

By the end of his life, Barnes had become quite physically hobbled. I’m sure everything hurt. In the dream, my daughter was lying in a field looking up at the sky when she saw Barnes striding through the clouds—spry and full of vitality. He took long strides and pumped his arms with vigor. Then he looked down at her and winked.

I found this story particularly comforting.

Barnes had also promised me that he would always be on my shoulder, looking over me and looking out for me. That was enormously comforting as well.

And, as many readers of this blog know, I recently lost my most wonderful dog, Smooch, to old age and kidney disease. I have been gutted by his loss, and in my grief I have been writing a story called Bookends.

In the story, Smooch crosses the rainbow bridge and meets the other Labrador retriever from earlier in my life, whose name was Morganetta. Also in the story are my friend Barnes and my beloved sister, Amy, who died several years ago of ovarian cancer.

So much loss.

But there is an interesting twist in this story. Barnes’ dog, Sunshine, was actually the dog-mom to Morganetta. I remember the day I met Barnes and he opened up the back of his car to release a carful of Labrador puppies onto the playing field at our camp. That was the beginning of a charmed life for me and Morganetta.

To imagine that my two “bookend” dogs might meet on the other side of the rainbow bridge and share stories about their lives with me and my family has been a wonderfully healing exercise.

But back to that morning on my porch.

As I looked up at the clouds against the blue sky, I imagined all of these beloveds together, looking down at us.

And while most of us know what deep grief feels like, what I found surprisingly comforting was picturing them together. Barnes and Amy. Smooch and Morganetta. Sunshine somewhere in the mix. All of them in one place, reunited, healthy and whole, and united in their love for me and my family.

For me, actually picturing them together was quite powerful and profound.

I recommend trying it

.

I’m going to try an experiment inspired by a quote from clothing designer, Lisa Payne. She said- “As long as we have to get dressed in the morning, we might as well look great.”

I’m going to amend this quote to say, “We might as well look colorful”.

For much of my life, I had to “dress up” every day to go to work. The business suits and dresses have long since been donated to the local thrift store. I recently spent an afternoon with my Mom, helping her weed through her closets. I watched her struggle to let go of some of her favorite clothes. Each one carries memories of a life well lived- the sparkly top that she wears at Christmas, the t-shirts that she wears to exercise. (even 99 year olds can work on their fitness), the long dress that she remembered from her last birthday party.

I too can look through my closet and remember the outfit I wore as the Mother of the Bride, or to the fabulous Downton Abbey party. I still have the dress that I wore when our production of Urinetown in Massachusetts won “Best Musical” at a local awards ceremony. Now that was some night!

As a Vermonter, there is a great temptation to stick with blue jeans and flannels. At my camp, there is a uniform of green shorts and white or striped shirts. This levels the playing field for the campers and removes any status that might come from the clothes we wear and the things we own. It makes life so simple to not have to think about what to wear. I love that at camp.

But in life, I am going to try and color my world a bit more. If I am spending my days making art, then why shouldn’t I reflect that colorful approach to life? My closet will certainly cooperate as I have many fun, colorful clothes to pick from. Of course there are the ubiquitous black pants that I wear most of the fall and winter, but with summer comes the chance to bring out the fun and frivolous dresses from my closet. I bought several when I was in Italy a few years ago and bought a couple more while in Berlin this spring.

I was also inspired a few years ago by a wonderful artist that I discovered through an online school called Fodder School. This busy and successful artist, a mother of four, shared that she liked to get dressed up every day, even while working alone in her art studio. It made her feel more aligned with the art she was creating.

If everyone adopted that philosophy, we might see some pretty strange fashion choices- truck drivers donning grease-stained shirts, waitresses appearing in food-splattered dresses, day care workers sporting formula stains highlighted by crayon marks on their clothing. Even construction workers whose shorts keep falling down might show off their accumulated saw dust as part of their fashionable attire.

But for artists who love to mix colors, to try new splotches of paint, who love adding new marks to their work, the chance to wear clothing that complements their work feels irresistible.

I’ve already confessed that I have lived a life without earrings, that my face is crooked, and that my brain is a bit addled. Why not celebrate showing up with a colorful expression of my quirky self?

Grieving is a messy business. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it. It washes over you like waves at the seashore. A very thoughtful friend brought me a book after she learned of the death of my beloved Smooch. The book is called Honoring our Animals, 365 Mediations for Healing After Pet Loss. Truth be told, I have barely cracked it open. Every time I try to read one of the passages, it cracks me open and the tears fall.

I sat this morning on my porch thinking about the summer and the ways in which I have spent my time. I realized that many of the things I used to get great pleasure from, have been mostly missing. So many of the things I thought were my pleasures were actually pleasures because Smooch was there.

Camp, for example. I have written often about my camp and how much I love the place. And I do. But I realized this summer that one of the great joys for me being there was watching Smooch fall into the camp routine and become a friend to many young girls. She would cruise between different places at camp- the hall where rehearsals are held for the summer show, the arts and crafts building, the tennis courts where she would sniff out stray balls that had rocketed outside the courts. Of course as any good Labrador would do, she took every opportunity for a refreshing dip in the lake. She would often be invited up to a tent or cabin for “rest hour” where she would lie on a campers bed and be read to. And since she already had an illustrious career as a theatre dog, she would often wander across the stage when a skit or a show was happening.

Right down the lake from camp is another spot that we would frequently visit. It is actually the waterfront for the day camp. I would often bring Smooch there for some dock-diving and sunning. Naturally, I would also enjoy a bracing swim in the lake, but my primary motivation was allowing her to do what she loved. There were often other dogs there and lots of kids so she was delighted to join the fun.

During those surreal Covid years, we bought a small trailer- a Little Guy Mini Max. We traversed the country several times in this little rig and Smooch was always along for the ride. One of the motivations to buy this trailer was that we wanted to be able to bring her with us when we visited our family in Colorado. We didn’t want to put her down below in the cargo hold in a plane. She loved life on the road. The trailer was cozy to say the least, but her bed laid right below ours. When we were at a campground, she would happily sit on our outdoor rug and watch the passersby. She would sniff out the neighbors, look for anywhere where she could go for a swim, and generally be a companionable road warrior.

Our trailer has not left our property all year.

Another place that Smooch and I frequented was the dog park. For many years we would go there several times a week. She would run and play with her friends and I would chat with the human friends that I made there. I would always have my chuck-it and orange ball in tow, as Smooch loved nothing more than chasing the ball into the river next to where we sat. I am very fond of the people that I have met at the dog park but once again, I have not been back since Smooch left us.

Some things have simply lost their luster, at least for now.

We have dear friends who own a tiny beach house in Rhode Island. We have frequently visited them at the beach. Smooch loved to gallop down the beach and dance through the waves with their golden retriever, Ripley. He was one of her first boyfriends and they sure loved each other. Ripley also crossed the rainbow bridge this year. And while we are always thrilled to go to the beach with our dearest friends, it won’t be quite the same without the wet, sandy dogs keeping us entertained.

And now as I dream of my next dog, I console myself imagining the many conversations that I will have with that dog. I will tell her-

“This is where Smoochy and I made lots of friends.”

“This is our favorite place for dock-diving, you should try it.”

“Wait until you see how much fun camp can be.”

“Guess what? We’re going on a road trip!”

“Today’s your lucky day. You get to come to rehearsal with me.”

.

I am awash in memories of camp. After a glorious reunion weekend- the 120th for Camp Aloha and the 110th for Camp Hive, my thoughts return to this place that has meant so much to me throughout my life.

There is a wonderful tradition at camp where at the end of each summer, name boards are created. These are wooden boards that list the name of each person who was at camp that summer. They also list all small fry and canine companions who spent the summer by the lake. They are hung on the ceiling of several of the buildings at camp and allow us to remember the friends we made over the years and recall the years we were there.

Imagine my delight when I looked up at one of the name boards and saw not only my name, but the name of my first dog, Morganetta, a labrador retriever who absolutely loved camp. Morganetta actually died one summer when I was a counselor. She was quite old and declining and on a very hot day while I was on a day off, she simply collapsed. We buried her in a sunny spot near my family’s Vermont house. My daughter Abigail collected rocks which she placed on the grave for each of the people who she thought would be sad- her best friend Hannah, her cousins and her two teachers from nursery school. Abigail remarked that she was quite sure that Santa Claus was crying too.

I returned to camp the next day with just three days to pull together the summer show that we were putting on the next weekend for visiting families. The campers were very sweet to me as they knew how very sad I was. They made cards, drew pictures and wrote poems about Morganetta. And on the night of the first performance, after the curtain call, one of the actresses began to speak. This had not been rehearsed. She said that the girls had decided to dedicate the show to my dog. Needless to say, I fell to the floor in a puddle.

Other memories return of my earliest summers as a camper. My first summer, my counselor was the accompanist for the music and drama department. This was her first experience at a camp and I can safely say that she did not have an athletic bone in her body. My two tent mates, Sally and Julie and I bonded over our efforts to torment her. Teenagers can be brutal. I recall one fateful night when we tromped through the woods to a nearby campsite for a tent family overnight. Making a fire was also something that was not in this counselor’s repertoire. I remember her saying repeatedly, “the trick is to keep fanning”. I’m not sure whether we ever successfully got our fire going but that admonition became an inside joke for the rest of the summer.

I spent three summers as a camper at Aloha. Not surprisingly, I was in the show every summer, in those days a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. I played a lot of tennis and also went on as many canoe trips as I could. I have one real regret and that is that I did not set foot in the Art Barn. This is a fabulous place at camp with all manner of equipment for making art. There is a loom, a pottery wheel, a place for copper enameling and more. What a missed opportunity. I guess I’m making up for it now.

There are many extraordinary women that I remember from those summers. As a young teenager, I idolized many of them. The power that camp counselors have to inspire young people is extraordinary. I remember one summer we had a visiting camp leader come and speak to us during pre-camp. This is the time when the counselors from the camps come together for training and inspiration. I’ll never forget what he said. He described a scene in which a camper was helping to portage a canoe. This involves hoisting the canoe over your head and carrying it some distance. He told the story of the counselor saying to the camper how well they were doing, what an effort they were putting in and how strong they seemed to be. And he said, that might be the moment where that camper truly hears the praise for the first time. It might be the moment that imbues that young person with a new confidence, a new sense of pride in their accomplishments. Now that is some kind of influence.

At one of the meals, I sat at a table with a group of young counselors who were sharing stories about some night-time shenanigans. There was a story about a group of them driving a camp mini-van in the nude. I didn’t get all of the details but it reminded me of a fateful night when I, as a young counselor had been at the neighboring boys camp until the wee hours in the morning. As I made my way back to camp as dawn was breaking, I concocted a plan to take off my clothes in the car before returning to my tent. My logic was that if someone was to wake up and see me slinking up the hillside at that hour, I could claim to be returning from the bathroom. Wasn’t I clever?

I find it hilarious to share some of these stories with today’s young counselors who find it hard to believe that I could have been a fun-loving troublemaker as a counselor. It reminds me of the joy I get from sharing with young friends about my multiple trips to Burning Man. People are often aghast to learn that as well. I may be old, but I’m still fun.

I am cheered to know that there are still hundreds of young people each year who get the privilege of spending part of their summers at this magical place. The gifts of accomplishment, of earned independence, of friendship will truly last a lifetime. And a hundred years from now, there will be more grateful campers returning for reunions and looking for their names on the name boards. They’ll sing, they’ll hug, they’ll laugh and they’ll remember

This morning I sat next to a lovely lake in Vermont celebrating the 110th anniversary of my camp- Camp Hive. The mist had risen over the lake, the sun was sparkling over the water, there was a gentle breeze blowing. It was a BVD- a beautiful Vermont day. The love that people feel for the place was palpable. I am often inspired to write about camp and today’s inspiration came from a quote that was shared during the gathering. It was attributed to the woman who founded the camps all those many years ago. She was known to say- “The sign of an educated woman is her ability to change gracefully.”

Hmm. The context in which this was delivered was all about how camps, like schools and companies, need to evolve and change with the times. For those who have history with these institutions, there is often resistance to change.

But there is another thread in this wisdom that feels much more personal to me. Changing gracefully feels like the most important work that I do now. Accepting the new reality of my physical limitations, my diminished resources, my aging body and brain all requires graceful acceptance. But it does not come easily.

A friend asked me if I was planning to join the campfire in the woods at the top of the hill. Nope. While I’m sure it was a stirring and reflective time, trudging up a hillside and returning in the dark is just not on my dance card. I’m fine with that.

I remember another reunion some years ago when I did walk up that hillside behind a group of older counselors. I was charmed by their energy and hearty good cheer. They were undaunted by the terrain and by the need to come down the hill in the dark. These are the kind of women that our camp nurtures. Self-reliant, intrepid, adventuresome and fun! These are the role models that I was lucky to have as a teenager and as a young adult. I think I mostly do share those qualities albeit in new ways.

Self-reliant- check

(I have travelled to many places around the world and have been able to get myself where I needed to be on my own)

Intrepid- check

(allowing a stranger to operate on my brain certainly qualifies)

Adventuresome- check

(Consider the cross-country road trip that I took with two of my best pals in a Cruise America RV, with nary a mansplainer in sight.

Fun- Oh yes! No example needed for that one.

I recall the important lesson taught to me by a beloved camp friend- Ask yourself who do you want to be in this situation? It’s a powerful reminder of our own ability to choose how we want to be, how we want to change gracefully, how we want to show up for our friends and our community.

My camp taught me to be self-reliant, intrepid, adventuresome and fun.

Now I’m learning that those qualities don’t disappear just because my circumstances change. I get to decide who I want to be.

A little favor

And now, a little favor for those of you who are regular readers of this blog. I was reminded again this weekend how many of you really enjoy and appreciate these little pieces I send out into the world. The blog has grown quite organically, which I love. But if you read something that particularly resonates with you, I’d be grateful if you shared it with a few friends who might enjoy it too. I’d love to reach a few more people.

I sat today in my art studio painting fish onto papers for collage and found myself reflecting on how much I have always loved fish.

I remembered all the way back to growing up in Longmeadow, Massachusetts, where we had a large fish tank in our family room. It was mostly guppies and snails, but I was nonetheless captivated by it. It was my Dad’s hobby, and later it became my hobby when I had a house of my own in Massachusetts.

The only traumatic part of the process was when the guppies got too busy procreating and filled up the tank, my Dad would simply put some of them down the disposal.

Ew. Right?

He would often cull the snails in the same way, which released a loud crunching sound. I suppose it’s not much different than my husband arming himself with a BB gun to rid us of those pesky squirrels. But still, neither practice ever sat well with me.

When we had children of our own, we invested in a very expensive saltwater tank. This was no garden-variety aquatic operation. It was not like throwing a couple of goldfish into a tank or having a turtle in a bowl that you could feed bits of hamburger. This was an elaborate operation that required chemical precision to keep the water pristine.

I would spend hours on the weekends cleaning the tank and occasionally purchasing new, beautiful saltwater fish. Don’t even ask how much this cost. It was an expensive hobby.

But after a very busy workday, making our way through dinner and the homework hour, there was nothing quite like sitting down and watching my beautiful fish.

We even expanded our collection to include cleaner shrimp and sea anemones. One of our favorite fish was a puffer fish that would puff up to twice its size when frightened. One fateful winter, we were away on vacation on the other side of the country when a terrible blizzard left our house without power for several days. The fish tank was not filtered, and the water was not kept at an even temperature.

We came home to a tank of mostly dead fish. Except for Spike, our puffer fish. He seemed almost prehistoric.

Go, Spike!

We moved to California during this time and had to give up our tank. I was very sad about that, but adding this particular hobby to a cross-country move and a very busy life in Silicon Valley didn’t make much sense.

Upon moving to Vermont, my handy husband, knowing how much I love my fish, actually built us a fish pond in our backyard.

Ahhh. What joy.

We had lily pads and a colorful collection of koi fish. It wasn’t quite the same as watching the glorious colors of our saltwater tank, but it was just right for country living.

There is a famous story about our beloved dog Smooch helping herself to a sushi feast at the end of the season. We had removed the lily pads and plants, so the fish were very easy to spot. One day I noticed that where there had once been ten or more fish, there were now just two.

They say Labrador retrievers will eat almost anything.

Yup.

So now I content myself with drawing fish and pining for another fish pond. My husband swears he’s going to build one for us. This is after the other pressing things on our new-house list are checked off. I can’t wait.

I remarked to him recently that I want animals in my life. Of course I dream incessantly about getting another dog, but what about a goat? There was a time we dreamt of getting cows. He has absolutely vetoed a cat. Squirrels are not the answer but perhaps my fish give me that little touch of the natural world that I yearn for.

Some things, I suppose, we just know we love.

I spent a delightful morning making art with a group of campers at my beloved Camp Aloha Hive. I had been invited to lead a simple art project, but as always, my favorite part wasn’t the art. It was the conversations. What I have most loved about my time working in Arts and Crafts at camp is the opportunity to chat with the campers about their summer, their life and more. They are also curious about my history with the camp and my special memories.

As we assembled our materials- scissors, glue sticks, papers and ephemera, I was immediately asked when I had first come to camp to which I answered- 1974. This was met with incredulous looks from many of the girls. Several piped up and said- “that is before my Mom was even born”.

Okay, so now I’ve solidified my spot on the senior citizen list. And as young people are likely to do, one asked the very direct question- “how old are you anyway?” Most adults would not jump right to that question upon first meeting. I gave them a solid warning that I was ancient and shared that I am 72 years old. More incredulous looks.

One sweet and empathetic girl quickly reassured me that her grandmother was older than me. I guess that was supposed to make me feel better.

Their innocent curiosity sent me down a familiar path. As my own mother, also a former Aloha camper, is nearing her 99th birthday, I am thinking deep thoughts about growing old gracefully. Luckily for me, we have great longevity genes in our family. My Dad lived to be 94 and both sets of grandparents lived into their 90’s.

What was their secret? I think my Mom’s secret is that she has stayed very busy and engaged in a full life. Even with diminished mobility, she goes to exercise classes and with her trusty walker in tow makes her way down the long walk to the dining room at least once a day. She is not rolling over and settling for a motorized vehicle. My father did use a motorized scooter until he was cautioned about his erratic driving which was deemed a menace. I think he just liked having the wind in his hair as he sped down the hallways at their senior living facility.

Many of my friends have reached the stage where conversations drift toward the practicalities of aging. Can we stay in our homes? Should we get on the waiting list for a retirement community? How will we afford it? What will happen to all our stuff?

My daughter recently confessed she was looking forward to the day we’d “croak” (her word) so she could finally have her way with our house. Several friends married to enthusiastic “collectors” have already planned the first call they’ll make: 1-800-GOT-JUNK.

Whether we make that call or our adult children make the call, someone is going to have to unload the accumulated junk. It feels like the greatest gift we can give to our children is to get a good head start on the cleaning out.

I hope I have many more mornings like this one ahead of me—sitting around a table with glue sticks and scraps of colored paper, listening to young people talk about their lives and answering their wonderfully unfiltered questions. They may think seventy-two is unimaginably old, but once the conversation gets going, they don’t seem to care much about my age. They simply see another camper who never quite left and loves the place as much as they do.

I am not a girl who spends much time gazing into the mirror. As I’ve recently confessed, I’ve managed to get through life without the daily ritual of putting on earrings. My eyesight isn’t good enough to appreciate the finer details anyway.

So imagine my surprise when I glanced into my rearview mirror recently and noticed that my eyebrows weren’t lining up. One was definitely higher than the other.

How long has that been going on?

I’ve written before about my brain surgeries and the stubborn tumor that still wraps itself around my facial nerve. Was this another little gift from that adventure?

I mentioned my discovery to a family friend, who immediately assured me that asymmetrical faces are actually all the rage.

“Some of the most attractive people have them,” she said.

Naturally, this required research. A simple Google search reveals an impressive list- Ryan Gosling, Demi Moore, Bradley Cooper. There are many more.

Plenty of famously beautiful people have faces that refuse to obey perfect symmetry. A nose that leans a little. One eye slightly higher than the other. An uneven smile. Apparently, perfection isn’t nearly as common—or as interesting—as I’d imagined.

I thought about all the time I’ve spent in a theatre dressing room, preparing to become someone else. The meticulous application of make-up and hair. The slow path to finding my character starts there, even before I hit the stage. As Aunt Eller in Oklahoma, I had to create a bun on the back of my head. As Mrs. Fairfax in Jane Eyre, I had to apply make-up that would secure my character as jolly and a bit dotty. As Domina in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, I had to make my face look way more severe than it normally did. In La Cage Aux Folles, I had hair so big, it concealed my imperfect face. The list goes on.

This reverie made me wonder whether makeup artists have clever tricks for disguising the little irregularities that show up on people’s faces.

Then I caught myself.

Who decided a face needs to be perfect?

A face gets sunburned at the beach. It gets licked by devoted dogs. It creates little byways for tears to travel. It lights up when it spots an old friend across the room and furrows while reading the day’s bad news.

I’ll gladly keep the freckles, the rosy cheeks, the laugh lines, the worry lines, and yes, my slightly mismatched eyebrows. I’m still engaged in an ongoing battle with chin hairs, but I’ve made peace with the occasional gray hair.

There's no point fighting the fact that a face has seen a lot, lived a lot,

These days, I’m far more interested in the light that shines from a face than whether every feature lines up perfectly.

And when I look at asymmetric faces on people, especially the ones I love, that’s never what I notice anyway.

I have given ear piercing two earnest attempts. My earlobes rejected both of them with surprising speed. The first time was when I was a freshman in college. I had gone to a local shop that offered ear piercing services and my ears immediately became infected. Here’s what I remember about that time. I had auditioned for the a cappella group at my college and they had a tradition that if you were accepted into the group, they would come and serenade you in your room. My dorm had a bathroom that spanned suites on two sides. There I stood, with tears pouring down my cheeks as I nursed my miserable ear lobes. Suddenly, I heard the sound of singing coming down the hallway. I did not know they were coming for me until they turned the corner towards my room. I was both elated and horrified to be caught with tears streaming down my cheeks, all while getting such good news. I sang with that group throughout my four years in college.

The second attempt was even more ill-advised. My big brother had somehow become qualified to pierce ears and offered his services while we were at our family’s home in Vermont. Given his lifelong commitment to teasing me, handing him a device designed to shoot holes through body parts seemed questionable. Still, optimism prevailed. So did infected earlobes. I do credit the special treatment that I received from him throughout my life as giving me a relatively tough skin and the ability to roll with the punches, particularly in the company of men. Why we thought that this time my tender earlobes would not react the way they had before was a mystery. And sure enough, no sooner was the operation completed that my ears began to burn and protest.

So it was that I gave up my dream to wear earrings. On two occasions, at the weddings of my two children, I decided to suck it up and wear clip-on earrings. But in both cases, I barely made it to the reception before I took them off to later put them away in my jewelry drawer.

I wonder how my life would be different if I was able to sport ear ornaments. Would I have gotten better jobs, or more roles in plays? Would strangers have smiled at me more? Would my husband of 42 years have noticed me sooner? Would my dog have loved me more? Would squirrels finally stop stealing my birdseed?

These days my life asks less to be adorned than it once did. I am a girl who enjoys fashion with the best of them. My overflowing closet is a testament to that. My wardrobe is still colorful, but I seem to need fewer things to announce who I am. I have written before about my shoe collection. I do wear some jewelry although way less often with my simple country life than I did when I had to put on business clothes every day. I have a couple of necklaces that I particularly love.

Wearing earrings can just be added to the list of things that will not be part of my life. The list is growing longer each year— earrings, pickleball, a cappella singing, playing the role of Dolly Levi or Mrs. Lovett.

The funny thing is that every item on that list once felt terribly important. Each one seemed like something I couldn’t imagine giving up.

But life has a way of replacing one joy with another. I may never wear earrings, but I have grandchildren who think I’m pretty darn special, a porch full of birds, stories to write, and enough colorful clothes to keep life interesting.

As my dear departed sister Amy would say, oh well.

This spring, on a river cruise along the Danube, I made a new friend. Recently he sent me the lyrics to a song he had written. It is called A Last Time for Everything, and ever since I read it, I have been thinking about it.

Here is a taste:

There’s a last time for everything you do

Funny how those last times sneak up on you

You’ll be busy carrying on; you won’t even have a clue

That it’s the last time until it’s gone from you

Playing fetch with your dog in the park

Picking up your prom date with your daddy’s car

Holding a baby in your arms as they fall asleep

Diving off a bridge into the river running deep

Composed by Ron Kotecki

At first I felt a twinge of sadness at the thought of the last time for something precious. At this stage in life, it is easy to feel wistful at the thought that I’ll never take that trip or visit that place or make another new friend. But as I thought more deeply about it, I realized that there is an entirely different way to frame this idea. If what I’m about to do is going to be the last time I’ll do it, then I better make sure that I do it with my eyes and heart wide open. If this was the last time that I would travel the Danube River, then I sure hope that I took it all in and appreciated every mile that we travelled.

If my time with my delightful grandchildren will be the last time that they are nine and five, then I better squeeze them and love them with everything I’ve got. Before I know it, they’ll be teenagers, and those spontaneous hugs will become harder to come by.

None of us gets to decide which moments become the last. We all know how life sneaks up on you. The unexpected arrives. The scary diagnosis. The thrilling artistic project. The laugh-til-you-pee-your-pants moment. The day you must say goodbye to your beloved dog. All of it.

So I'm going to keep squeezing those grandchildren while they'll let me. I'll linger a little longer at the view overlooking Prague. I'll say yes to new friendships and new songs.

None of us ever knows when we’re doing something for the last time.

Fortunately, we do get to decide whether we were truly there for it.

I have a philosophy that has followed me throughout life: Maximum Freedom for all Beings.

Never was the power of this philosophy more evident than this week at the Ohana Family Camp in Fairlee, VT. My daughter and family, along with two other families, including a posse of 7 children, spent the week at this glorious setting, living the dream.

Ohana has special significance for our family. Both of our children were married there, and one of my most precious memories is singing with my a cappella group for family and friends on the first night of our daughter’s wedding weekend. Looking out over Lake Fairlee toward the mountains, surrounded by people we loved, it was sublime.

For accommodations, each family has their own cabin and there is a large lodge that houses the dining room and a gathering space. The activities range from frisbee golf to woodworking to art projects and more. Today there is a kick-ball game which will invite all ages to participate. They recently acquired a paddle board that can fit up to 16 people on it. Naturally, our gang, jumped right on.

But here’s the free range part. The kids are completely free to roam, to play, to make new friends and soak up all of the good fun that being at camp invites. The meals are served buffet style so the kids are able to serve themselves and select whatever food appeals. Our grandson who has a monster appetite arrived at the table the other night with three rolls, a big mound of mashed potatoes, peas and butter!

There is a soccer game going on pretty much non-stop and each evening there are fun activities- a square dance, a visit from the local science museum, a puppet show and more. There is no shortage of fun for campers- young and old.

This week has proven to be a bit wet after the glorious month of sparkling weather that we enjoyed in July. Camp has a celebrity that visits when the group assembles each night before dinner. His name is Elvis and he is the weather man. He comes with a big rock and explains that if the rock is dry on top, the weather will be good. If it is wet on the bottom, then we are in for some sprinkles.

But little gets in the way of the fun. For the parents in the group, there is nothing quite like knowing your children are safe and happy and able to explore on their own.

My free range philosophy was also exercised with my backyard chickens and my beloved dog, Smooch. The chickens were always able to roam the yard, peck away for worms and bugs and generally keep us entertained. They would return to their coop each evening to stay safe from the marauding predators who were out for a snack.

Smooch rarely sported a leash unless we were in a city somewhere. At home, in the country, she was always able to run free. It helps to have a dog with good recall. I could always trust her to return to me.

Maybe the secret to a free range life isn’t really freedom at all. Maybe it’s trust.

We trusted the chickens to wander around the yard and come home to their coop at night. I trusted Smooch to race through the woods and eventually come bounding back to me. And this week at Ohana, parents have had the rare pleasure of watching their children disappear down a path, join a soccer game, or make a new friend without an adult orchestrating every minute.

There is risk in giving the beings we love room to roam. Chickens encounter predators. Dogs occasionally follow an irresistible smell. Children make questionable dinner choices involving three rolls and a mountain of mashed potatoes, don’t hold the butter.

But they also discover things on their own.

Maybe that’s what I love most about being free range. You get to wander. You get to explore. You get to make a few questionable choices.

And, if you’re lucky, you know where home is.

Maximum Freedom for All Beings.

I think I’m sticking with it

.

Having my grandchildren around has proven to be the best possible inspiration. Between making up shows, building a lego pinball machine, painting and drawing, the laughs have been non-stop. The other night we went out to dinner at a local restaurant and played a game called Dream House. This was a first for us but for an architect like my husband, it was a fascinating exercise. The rules are that each person, one at a time, describes one thing that they want in their dream house with as much detail as they can muster. There are no limits — on space, money or imagination. It was a combination of pure fantasy and echoes of real world spaces.

My grandson, Warren’s first idea was a mud room with a mud bath in it for wallowing in mud. Sounds like something a pig would like.

Mabel’s idea was a Ninja Course. I assume this means something like the TV show American Ninja Warrior. It features people leaping off of platforms, hurling themselves into the air to catch trapezes and more. An agility course would be a sure fire way to tire out these energetic kiddos.

Michael’s first idea was an antique car garage filled with Porsches. No one in the family was surprised. His fascination with cars runs deep—so deep that he once bought a Porsche replica without even mentioning it to me. You can only imagine how that went.

My first idea was a pool with a spa, a waterfall and a fish pond. Michael’s quick response was — you should move back to Massachusetts as our house there had exactly that outdoor scene. (there is photo evidence above)

My next inspiration was a puppy palace. It would be a puppy room with couches and dog beds and lots of toys for dogs. There would be a ball launcher that the dogs would learn how to work themselves. There would be an outdoor water feature for dock-diving. There would be at least ten dogs in our puppy palace — mostly Labrador retrievers with a Bernese Mountain dog and a Golden Retriever thrown in for good measure.

Other ideas came fast and furious. Warren wanted a restaurant complete with chef, servers and dishwashers. Mabel added a soccer field to keep the World Cup spirit alive. My athletic daughter, Abigail, envisioned pickleball and paddle tennis courts with a cozy warming hut—stocked with snacks, naturally. And why stop there, why not add a ski and sledding hill as well?

Warren suggested a greenhouse with lots of flowers for cutting, and an adjacent bird sanctuary. It would be a lot like our porch which we have spent lots of time enjoying.

Michael returned to his transportation theme with an idea for a train room. It would have a large train set on a table that could be endlessly arranged and re-arranged. He has indulged his love for all things train this summer when the Big Boy Train which is the world’s largest operating steam engine train was traversing the county. He drove all the way to Pennsylvania to see it in action.

And then I came up with the most genius idea of them all — a theatre, complete with a pit for musicians, lights, costume storage — the works.

There would of course be room for an audience who would cheer wildly for all of our shows.

Then I added a very practical suggestion which was a cleaners room with all necessary cleaning supplies for someone else to keep our amazing dream home spit spot. There would be a cadre of cleaners available 24/7. We would probably need to recruit some gardeners as well.

It seems after living through a house building project for several years, I had more ideas than anyone about the perfect Dream House.

After imagining acres of land, train rooms, puppy palaces and restaurants, I couldn’t help smiling. Building our own home has taught us something the game couldn’t. Sometimes the dream isn’t about adding more rooms. Sometimes it’s about discovering how little you actually need.

Building our own passive house has been a life-long dream for my husband, and while it has taken years to build, it is really quite simple. Good light, open spaces, room for art making and reading. A kitchen that allows for culinary creativity. And a cozy bedroom for dreaming.

Children dream of mud baths and ninja courses. Adults, if we’re lucky, eventually dream of good light, books, birds and the people we love.

Now it’s your turn, what would be your favorite room in your dream house?

One of the great pleasures of summer is sitting on my porch watching the birds. We are visited by a wide array of different birds and I like to imagine them talking to each other as they interact.

Along with sitting on my porch, I have been enjoying my two lively grandchildren who have become captivated by the Peter Pan story. We watched the wonderful film, Hook, the other night, which just added to their excitement.

We’re also preparing for a very special family gathering. My mother turns 99 next month, and the entire clan will descend on the Basin Harbor Club to celebrate. Yup, you heard that right. 99! The family, including five great grandchildren, will arrive from every corner of the country. Family reunions have always included some form of theatrical entertainment, and this year we’ve decided to reprise Peter Pan. At a family reunions many years ago, we put on our version of Peter Pan. My nephew, George was Peter Pan. My niece Allison was Tiger Lily and naturally I was Captain Hook. We had several Tinkerbells who flitted about in their tutus.

The history of putting on homemade shows runs deep in our family. At my mother’s home in Pelham, New York, her parents used to love “putting on a show”. They had a lovely grand piano and a closet full of costumes that people would don and the rest, well, you can just imagine.

As the theatrical producer in the family, I have been tasked with organizing the entertainment at the birthday party so we’ve been scheming about what we might do. It makes perfect sense that we bring back Peter Pan with a new generation of actors. My granddaughter Mabel, has claimed the role of Peter Pan. We’ve been learning and rehearsing the song, “I Won’t Grow Up” and designing costumes.

With this as a backdrop, I have been imagining my birds putting on their own Peter Pan. The hummingbird is Tinkerbell, the finches and the wrens are the lost boys and the woodpecker, blue jays and crows are the pirates. I have dubbed the squirrels as the Captain Hook brigade as they pillage the feeders on my porch. Hmmm. Who can I anoint as the crocodile?

I’ve also been dreaming about the next production that my theatre company will tackle. One possibility is Finding Neverland, a beautiful show about the power of imagination and family. Between those musings, Peter Pan rehearsals with Mabel, Hook on the television, and my imaginary cast of backyard birds, it seems I’ve been living in Neverland all week.

Maybe that’s what I love most about watching birds. They’re never just birds. On some days they’re simply feeding their young. On others they’re pirates, fairies, and lost boys. And thanks to two enthusiastic grandchildren, a family preparing yet another homemade production, and a porch full of feathered actors, it feels like we’ve already arrived in Neverland.

“I have a place where dreams are born, and time is never planned. It’s not on any chart, you must find it with your heart, never Neverland. You’ll have a treasure if you stay there, more precious far than gold, for once you have found your way there, you will never never grow old”

And that sounds pretty good to me.

“The loss of anything you treasure has deep reverberations.”

I don’t know who wrote it but I know that I every time I read it, I nod in recognition.

This essay has been sitting in my draft folder for months. It wasn't until my daughter came to visit and we found ourselves talking about those frightening weeks six years ago that I felt ready to finish it. Memory has a way of waiting patiently until it's invited back into the room.

This fall marks the six year anniversary since I went under the knife in the good care of Dr. Fred Barker at Mass General Hospital. They say when you’re having a big surgery and brain surgery surely counts, you want your surgeon to have done lots and lots of these operations. You want them to be the one who’s seen it all. This was the first of two surgeries — this one to put in a shunt that would manage the hydrocephalus that the brain tumor had caused. The fluid had nowhere to go, and my body was struggling under the pressure of it. I’m not sure if “struggling” even captures what a mess I was. The gory details are not important but there was no hemming and hawing about whether this needed to be done. Dr. Barker was brimming with conviction on the course of action required. It’s all kind of a blur. I’m sure I was anxious. But I was trusting that the professionals would take good care of me and that I would come out on the other side.

There have been losses for sure. The two most notable losses are the hearing in my left ear and my vision. I struggle daily with double vision which is mostly managed by the prisms in my glasses. But don’t leave me anywhere without my glasses on. I might as well be in a fun house.

My vestibular issues and bad balance have limited much of what I can do. Traversing uneven ground is a challenge. Driving outside of our local Upper Valley poses a myriad of obstacles. No longer can I jump in the car to go see my pals in Massachusetts. I miss the spontaneity almost as much as I miss the friends. Independence is something you don't appreciate until it quietly slips away.

The fact that this first round happened right in the middle of the covid pandemic, is interesting to me. So much of our world shifted during that time.

In my writing group we have talked often about medical trauma. This rears its ugly head in moments of stress or when in the hospital for a procedure of one kind or another. It’s not even a conscious thought like “oh boy- here we go again”. It’s more a subtle shift in your body, a quickening of your breath, a flutter of your heart. But we press on because we must.

I have written about how I have tried to “love my brain tumor”. Yea, right. Nice try girl. And while I mostly try to ignore it and live my life, once in a while, I remember.

Like the time that I fell out of my bed and could not get up. Yikes. Even writing that sentence makes me weak. What I remember is that I put my head on the bedside table and yelled for my husband to come help me.

I remember the humiliating incontinence.

I remember the moment at Mass General when two PTs came to get me up to take a walk down the corridor for the first time.

Since this was during covid, I was wearing a mask. I stumbled down the hall, with my hospital johnny barely containing my curvy backside with my son walking beside me. Suddenly, I was overcome with nausea and proceeded to barf on the floor. I remember the PT remarking that this was a new challenge for mask wearing, when a person needs to vomit. How thoughtful of me to present this new challenge to the professionals.

There have been losses for sure. The second surgery, which happened a year and a half later, took the tumor itself. The losses do reverberate. Six years later they still echo through ordinary days—in the careful way I walk through the cutting garden down the hill, in the extra thought that goes into every trip, in the glasses I reach for before I open my eyes.

But something else reverberates too.

Survival.

The memory of the people who carried me.

The quiet joy of splashing with my grandchildren, writing another story, or waking up to another ordinary morning.

The losses are real. But thankfully, they are not the only echoes.

“But what can I do?” came the plaintive whine from behind me. It wasn’t an existential question. It came from my five-year-old grandson.

He is visiting along with his sister who is nine. We have been busy. Swimming, fishing, cooking, reading books, playing games and putting on shows. I decided to make a list of possible ideas to inspire us and I reminded them of our famous saying- “Fun is an inside job”.

Our idea list included many of the joys of country living- tractor rides, picking rasberries, painting rocks for my dog Smooch’s grave. It also included some artistic choices- painting and drawing. We took a lovely trip down the hill to a local farm that has a flower CSA and picked 25 stems of flowers from their garden. We then brought them home and drew/painted pictures of the flowers. Triple the fun- choosing them, picking them, painting them

There were the usual suggestions- read a book, play cards, play soccer and the very helpful job of squirrel patrol. As those pesky squirrels arrived on my porch to feast on bird seeds, my grands chased them away with warrior like yells.

Our finest moment came when we decided to put on a show for their Mom who was soon arriving with a friend. We rehearsed, we made costumes, and even came up with a theme song. The show lasted approximately one minute and was aptly named- Dragon Attack. My husband, Michael, was the dragon complete with green painted wings and a snout. (The glitter paint was a nice touch on the wings). Mabel was the warrior and Warren was the random guy on the street. I, naturally, was the Queen.

Everyone remembered their lines and we received a standing ovation during our bows.

This is what it means for fun to be an inside job. We don’t wait for an amusement park or a vacation or someone else to entertain us. We make something out of what is already in front of us—a dragon from cardboard wings, an adventure from chasing squirrels, a bouquet that becomes a painting.

My own version looks different these days. It might be watching the birds on my porch, singing show tunes in the car, wandering through the garden, or dreaming about the dog who will someday follow Smooch. Those things don’t happen because life is perfect. They happen because, over the years, I’ve learned that delight is less something you find than something you cultivate.

My grandson is only five. He’s just beginning to learn that lesson. Judging by this week, with help from his wonderfully capable big sister and his loving parents, he’s off to an excellent start.

To my absolute delight, I recognized my old athletic self. For twenty magical minutes, she came roaring back. Our game required leaping and catching and twirling to return the ball. I had a few spectacular catches. Please indulge me this small brag. I have not been able to brag about my physical prowess in a long time.

It felt great and made me think back to my days of playing all manner of sports. Which leads me to my current empty brag which is I could have, should have, would have been a fabulous pickle ball player. I have absolutely no evidence to support this as I have never played the game. However, between the required hand to eye coordination and the sprightly dashing around the court, I feel certain I would have crushed it.

You might be thinking that I probably could still get out there. I’ve had that thought too but I fear my balance would get in the way. I do not do well turning my head from side to side. I am unsteady in almost every way. And I really am opposed to falling. I’ve perfected that trick enough, thank you very much. Only those of us of a certain age know the annual question every doctor asks: “Have you had any falls this year?”

They are never hoping you’ll answer yes. And they really don’t appreciate a list.

So for that reason, I don’t think I will have a triumphant appearance on the pickleball court.

I wonder what other ways I can catch a glimpse of the athlete within. I’ll have to ask my pals at the pool to play catch me with me more often. This activity should not be confined to when I have a nine and five year old visiting. I could probably do a reasonable job of keeping the ball alive in a ping pong game. And with luck, I may be able to still muster a theatrical spin on stage in some show.

But for now, the pickleball champion I never became may have to remain imaginary. But every now and then, in a swimming pool with two exuberant grandchildren, I get to meet the athlete I used to be. And for a few wonderful minutes, she’s still got game.

I am a soccer Mom from way back. I couldn’t begin to count the miles that I have driven to tournaments, the hours that I have spent on the sidelines, the snacks that I have provided to hungry players, the pride that I felt as my two children excelled in this sport. Time on the sidelines of a soccer game are some of my most precious memories as a parent.

Watching England play Norway in the World Cup yesterday, I found myself paying less attention to the goals than to what happened between them. Even in defeat the players instinctively reach for one another—with hugs, hands on shoulders, foreheads together, eyes meeting in understanding.

If we are lucky, we know the intimacy of those kinds of relationships- with loved ones, children, spouses and beloved pets. We know what that feels like. But not all of us are lucky enough to experience the intimacy that comes from being part of a team.

What does intimacy ask of us? Honesty. Effort. An open heart.

How do we earn the intimacy that comes from teamwork? We earn it through effort, through shared struggles and through presence. We are there for each other.

I have been fortunate to have that experience both in sports and more recently in theater. The experience of putting on a show has all the marks of an intense competition. We plan, we train, we execute as best we can, we perform. We share our fears about “the actor’s nightmare”. We stand together in front of our audience on opening night, hoping that all of our effort was worth it. Behind it all, we are in it together.

I have another venue where I am earning intimacy. It is in a writing group (Writing for Healing and Joy) that gathers weekly to share our reflections, our deepest desires and our struggles. These are women that I almost never see in person but whom I have grown to care deeply about. Lately we’ve found ways to get together in person. Many of them came to my latest show and we have organized some gatherings at someone’s house. But wherever we gather, we are doing the hard work of building an intimate connection. We are honest with each other and with ourselves. We try to come together with an open heart. I feel so fortunate to have found this group.

Another place where I have experienced this glorious intimacy is with the a capella group that I sang with for twelve years. We were a group of 11 singers. We gathered every Sunday night to rehearse and to share our lives with each other. And we loved each other. There is something almost sacred about making beautiful music in harmony with other people. Truly, it is one of the most meaningful things that I have done in my life.

I keep a sheet of brown paper taped to my desk where I collect ideas worth remembering. One list says that a rich life depends on four things: move your body, use your brain, find your purpose, and stay connected to people you care about. Watching the World Cup reminded me that the last one may be the most precious of all.

This gives me hope. This inspires me. It makes me appreciate anew the ways in which I am building intimacy and connection with the people in my life.

And you can be sure that if my grandchildren did not live 2000 miles away, I would be back on the sidelines yelling GOOOOAL!

It was two years ago that we moved out of our farmhouse and stored most of our belongings in our barn. I have bemoaned this fact to friends and one responded- “well if you haven’t seen it in two years, you probably don’t need it.” I was quick to correct this assessment. That is simply not true. Here is what I need- my music, my books, my recipe box, my garden art, my photo albums. I could go on.

But this weekend, thanks to my energetic son, we unearthed a number of boxes from the barn. I have been slowly unpacking them with great delight. Reconnecting with my books is a particular pleasure as is putting away my music on the bookshelves in my living room. I used to go through my collections of music endlessly looking for audition material. I will likely not need to do that again, but who knows, maybe there will be a cabaret or some opportunity to sing a song or two. And will I ever direct Secret Garden or Beauty and the Beast again? Probably not. But I am cheered to have the script and score on my shelf. It’s my own personal library of creative adventures. And they all come with such rich and wonderful memories.

Then there are the photo albums. These I could drown myself in for days- the scrap book that our daughter made for us for some special occasion, our wedding album, the album that chronicled my life with my dogs. These are the treasures that are priceless. People often say that if there was a house fire, they would try and save the photo albums and I understand why.

And the books. I have recently taken to reading books more than once, partly because I seem to lose the details and also because I like to revisit the writing in a more leisurely fashion. But mostly, I just love having them where I can see them and remember them.

Here are a sampling of the ones I was most happy to unearth- anything from Annie Lamott. I am a huge fan. Likewise, books from Ruth Reichl- Tender at the Bone, Garlic and Sapphires, Comfort Me with Apples. All wonderful books.

There are the gardening books and the cookbooks. The gardening books will hopefully come in handy sometime next year. The landscaping at our house is not at the top of the priority list. But a girl can dream. The cookbooks of course were reluctantly usurped by searching for recipes on the internet. But can one ever live without the Joy of Cooking or The Silver Palate? I was especially thrilled to unpack my cookbook from the French Laundry. For those who don’t know, it is a spectacular restaurant in Napa Valley and I was lucky enough to have an unforgettable meal there with two girlfriends during the days following 9/11. We were stuck in CA and did the only sensible thing and drove to Napa for some spa treatments and a meal to remember.

Over the next few days, I’ll browse my bookshelves, lose myself in old photo albums, and perhaps sing a few show tunes. These aren’t just things I’ve unpacked. They’re old friends, old dreams, and reminders of every version of myself. It turns out the best possible reunion was waiting for me in the barn.

I’ve been a bit mopey lately. Actually it’s more than just lately. I’ve been missing my sister and my dear friend Barnes Boffey for many months and of course there is a hole in my heart at the absence of my beloved dog, Smooch. This time in life sure comes with some heartache.

Then something unexpected happened this morning. I realized that I was blissfully, happily alone. I was in my office/art studio which I love. My husband had left for the day. I had nothing on my calendar other than a trip to the pool and a visit with the chiropractor. (This is how I spend my days trying to keep this old body going.)

There was no music playing, no podcast, no television. There were no thunderous, foundation-shaking sneezes from the other room. (Seriously, why must he do that?) . Even the birds outside were quiet.

After a lifetime of taking care of and worrying about other people, on this day, it was just me.

No dog whining for attention. No husband asking- “what’s for dinner.” No colleagues at my door asking for advice or a raise or a shoulder to cry on. No boss looking for a report or a spreadsheet. Of course my inbox is full of fundraising emails but right now I am ignoring that inbox.

It occurs to me that moments like this reveal needs we don’t always recognize. I spend a lot of time missing people. Perhaps instead of yearning for what we don’t have or worrying about the perpetual chaos that the news delivers, we can just be. We can just be by ourselves and relish it.

This won’t last. My husband will return. My kids are coming for the weekend which will delight me. My sweet grand, Flora, will be here to keep us entertained. And my grand dog, Bagel, will give me the dog fix that I desperately need.

And I will hope to have more blissful alone times later this summer.