I moved into a lovely little apartment below the rectory of a Catholic church just North of my hometown, for work this summer. On the kitchen table when I arrived, sat a barren orchid, left behind by the previous tenant. I gave it some water and perched it on the windowsill. Weeks passed, until one day, I noticed tiny green buds appearing all along the stem! She really came to life then. I feel like a proud mom; just she and I in this cozy apartment, together. (Or are we alone?)

My orchid’s growth coincides with my own spiritual progress within the framework of the Catholic church. Right now, the liturgical year is in ‘Ordinary Time’. I learned that the word ordinary is derived from the Latin word for numbered; each week of this period is, in fact, numbered. The liturgical color during Ordinary Time is green - symbolizing growth, life and hope - important themes in my own life right now as I struggle with God, addiction and love for myself.

In case there are new readers here - welcome! My current employment is within my hometown’s Catholic church. I am working with a volunteer baking guild now, but this idea actually arose back during Lent, which just happened to span my time up in Maine this winter. Lent is a time of conversion and preparation, and that was very much my vibe at the time, too. Still is, I suppose. I was alone, in the snow, up in Maine to write for more than one month in solitude. A gift to myself, with housing in my freshly renovated childhood home kindly provided by new owners/my cousins A + K. I met a bread-obsessed priest named Fr. P during this time, too. I found myself working a few shifts within their church bakery as Almsgiving during Lent and this blossomed into my current bakery residency.

While up in Maine this winter, I also started to dip my toe back into attending this Catholic church - which I grew up in - by going to mass on Sundays; no one pressured me to do so. I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. I found myself spending real quality time with some of the Catholic French-Canadian grammies who I have known all my life, too. That special time provided me with new, strong roots gripping into where I come from; as someone who travels often, this new feeling is very grounding. Comforting, like familial love, almost. But getting back to Now…

One day recently, I happened to show Fr. P a picture of my rescued, budding orchid and her first blossom, unfurled, open-armed, into a snowy-white bloom. Of course, the orchid is a beautiful white, I thought. Fr. P said it ‘reflects the movement of grace within me.’ In Catholicism, the color white symbolizes not only purity and holiness, but joy and the resurrection - the triumph of life over death, of light over darkness. I can identify with this. Especially since I am getting sober again, right now. It is time.

The harm-reduction strategy of enjoying just one or two alcoholic drinks then switching to NA beverages that my therapist and I tried out, never really worked well for me. Even with the help of Naltrexone, I have been going overboard with alcohol this summer - an easy thing to do during beautiful summer days on the pond, especially.

But summer is gently turning into Autumn now, with its red-tipped tree branches just starting to peek out here and there along the backcountry roads that I travel most days. It is that magical, transitional time of year when tomatoes are still perfect, but there is a briskness in the very early morning air. Fall is my favorite time of year in Maine, nudging just slightly ahead of how glorious a Maine summer can be. It seems like a fine time to get back into my recovery - to recommit to sobriety. Again. <sigh>

Recently, during one of our conversations, Fr. P said that this was a ‘graced time’ for me. I began digging into what this means today. AI says:

To be in a graced time means experiencing a special, unearned period of spiritual favor, healing, deep reflection and new opportunity.

And Richard Rohr, a Franciscan priest and spiritual author referred to graced time as a ‘liminal space - the uncomfortable transition between an old phase of life and a new one.’

This is all right on the money for where I find myself at the moment. This ‘graced time’ in my life is one of much personal change. Of mental tussling, searching and quiet, often painful, slow growth. It feels as though I am an animal grappling to shed its old skin and reveal a fresh new coat.

This period is proving to be very spiritually and religiously challenging to me. Accepting God’s love into my life and into my heart is difficult in an emotional way that I have never experienced before, and I struggle to capture it properly. It is about trust, blind-faith and choice. My soul is being pulled in two directions at once right now. Triggering past challenges with the church as a child still smolder in my memory, as well. But sometimes, just sometimes, as with giant sequoia trees, fire is actually needed for new growth. Possibilities can then open up. Fingers crossed that happens for me as well in this phase of my life!

…

I took a break from writing this entry to go to church this morning. I went early to say the rosary communally, using my missal for guidance. I was there along with the other more experienced Catholic early birds who come every Tuesday for this purpose. I fumbled my way through it, using my new rosary that an old friend recently sent to me. It came from the Franciscan friars at Mission San Luis Rey, and I love the way the wooden beads feel in my hand - like Buddhist meditation beads. As a bonus, the rosary’s small size allows me to carry it in my pocket, which somehow feels reassuring to me right now.

Saying the rosary with a group felt warm - like a hug. Although I am just beginning to learn, and still making mistakes, I am trying. I am also desperately trying to find out what I actually believe, and what choices I want to make in support of those beliefs. If there is a God somewhere out there, and if Jesus was the son of God, then I am sure that they both notice and appreciate my efforts. But as a former scientist, my evidence-based mind is struggling to have blind-faith. If nothing else, the meditation of the rosary is good for my mental health, according to my therapist.

After the rosary, we had mass and Eucharistic Adoration; I stayed for all of it. Sniffling, and teary-eyed, I snagged a tissue from another parishioner. People I know sweetly gave me hugs and asked what they could do for me when it was time to go. But I chose to stay in the empty church, after everyone left, with the lights turned off. (Was I really alone?)

This church is so beautiful when it is only lit by the late morning light and the sanctuary lamp which signals to believers that Jesus Christ is truly present in the Eucharist kept within the tabernacle. All the stained-glass windows lend the church a dreamy, poetic quality. I especially love one window that looks like a phoenix - a bird known for rising out of the ashes. Maybe I will keep rising up out of the ashes, too. Pray for me - okay?

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

P.S. My orchid is still going strong. She has four - soon to be five - flowers now!

I don’t write about my partner E very much because he is such a private person. But I am missing him since I have been away working in Maine all summer. So, excuse me if I get a little mushy. Here we go…

E is someone who you can work with for years and not really know him well. He takes a long time to open up personally. We met when we worked together, and while the restaurant concept didn’t last very long, we did.

We are an unlikely Chef pair - a baker and cook - as we usually have such different working hours. For years, I was getting up as he was coming home from work. He made me coffee as he had a beer. Somehow, though, we have made it work for almost two decades.

First off, E is thoughtful. Very thoughtful. It will often be wrapped in a last-minute Tasmanian devil looking whirlwind, but he is a fantastic giver. From gifts to meals, he is unerringly generous with his limited free time.

E goes to work before the sun rises and usually doesn’t return for at least 12 hours. Yet when he gets home, he cooks us dinner. He will always cook my favorite dishes when I am at home. Linguine with clam sauce. Vegetarian dishes of all ethnicities. Eggs Benedict. I mention wanting a dish and it appears within days. E is truly magical in this way.

And E is whip smart. I’m no dummy, but I knew I’d met my match when he blew through the NY Times crossword we were doing together early on. He’s more politically astute and active than I am, and I admire that about him. Though I worry about him at protests because he is a man of color.

E is the best travel partner! With his careful planning, we have traveled all over the world together. He’s fantastic at finding those special, out of the way places that you remember forever.

E also has great style - something he inherited from both his parents, I believe. From his kicks to his caps, he always looks fresh.

I could keep going, but in short, I love and miss him dearly. :)

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

At the moment, for work, I live in an apartment directly below the priest’s office in the rectory at a Catholic church. Never in my adult life did I think I would be drawn back home, much less back to the church. It feels like a story of redemption. Of rebirth.

But also, of insincerity. Do I really believe? Do I actually have faith? Why do I feel so drawn to go to mass when I feel no personal connection to Jesus? I feel torn apart. Like I am searching for something to fill the hole in my heart. The aloneness.

I continue to fill the God-shaped hole in my heart with all sorts of unproductive habits. And still, I knelt down this Monday morning at mass, hoping to feel a connection to something. A reason for being there. A reason for being myself. A reason to be.

Thank you for reading.

xo,

Rhonda

I was alone, in a friend’s beautiful stone cottage in Maine. I was sober and really struggling to stay so. I was wayward and unsure where to set my sails next in life. It felt like I was having a mental breakdown. I was overrun with anxiety. I needed help, but I didn’t know who to turn to. That’s when I fell to my knees and sobbed. Guttural sobs so deep that I couldn’t catch my breath in choking gasps. Forehead on the floor, I was hunched over into a ball of utter desperation. It was the lowest point that I can remember in my life. I was broken. That’s when I cried out to God for help.

I am not sure why I turned to God; I was not religious. But I was at the very end of my rope, and if God existed, maybe they could help.

‘Help me, God. If you’re there, please help me carry this burden'

It was at that point that a sense of deep calm fell over me, and a feeling of pure love flooded my heart. I felt connected to the nature around me. Joyous and loved. Everything seemed to sparkle with vitality. I understood then that there is actually divinity within me. My life is an opportunity for God to experience their creation through me.

At the same time, I had a thought come into my mind that was not mine - that is the best way to describe it.

‘It doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter.’

What relief this gave me! When it comes right down to it, little really matters in life. Worrying about trivial things is worthless. I needed to relax and seek peace for my limited time on earth. Change my priorities and moral compass. Get off the NYC hamster wheel for a bit. This was also the turning point whereby I knew I needed to start therapy. I didn’t know that I had Complex PTSD then; I just knew that I was not okay.

Images of fire flooded my mind during my experience, too. I became obsessed with wood-fired ovens after this. Now, I can’t help but think of fire as foreshadowing my journey to working within my hometown’s Catholic church this summer. The wood-fired oven is what drew me into this baking residency initially, but I have found so much more than just bread here. Returning home, I have found respite rooted in a community that nourishes my spirit. I feel blessed.

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

Right now, I am writing in the basement of my childhood home - my father’s previous domain. Since purchasing the house, my cousins A and K have painstakingly transformed the sad, neglected ranch into an enviously chic, breezy home through their shared vision, grit, talents, stubbornness, respect for my parents, and sheer guts. They kindly let me hole up in the basement to work and write here.

I love the basement. While it has been gussied up a bit now, it still feels like the basement where my dad spent all his leisure time when he was alive - tuning skis, listening to classic rock and smoking pot. In fact, the wooden box holding the remainder of Dad’s ashes is still in the basement, propping up some vinyl records, on a shelf just above two sets of speakers. To the other side of the box is Dad’s favorite red corduroy Rossignol baseball cap; if you knew my dad, you have seen him in this hat. The shelf above all that holds pint glasses from Ski Depot; my dad was a fiercely loyal customer of this hometown ski shop. The whole scene is a perfect ode to my father, who died one-year ago last week; it feels like just yesterday and forever ago, simultaneously.

On Father’s Day this year - the first for me without Dad - my cousin L. thoughtfully took me on a motorcycle ride through the mountains of Maine; we cruised down roads that my dad would have ridden many times on his own bike in his better days. It was peak lupine season, and both sides of the road were carpeted in lush purple, pink and white blooms as we rode over the hills. Monarchs flittered along the road. It was magical. The sun sparkled behind moody clouds that threatened rain all day. But the rain never really caught us. We joked that Dad was looking out for us on our ride, holding off the rain except for a few sprinkles until we got back to town. In fact, I do feel like Dad was with me during several parts of that day, but that’s a longer story for another time.

When someone, like me for example, is seeking answers to spiritual questions, one direction to take is meditation. Another is prayer. Another is to talk to someone. I am not consistent with any of these practices myself, by the way, but I am trying harder recently. This morning after coffee, I did a mishmash that I will call a ‘walking meditation/conversation with God’. I walked alone, at a comfortable pace, on a quiet, familiar path, so I could focus my mental energy on asking God questions and listening with my heart, while my body just carried me along knowingly, like a faithful old horse that knows the way home. At the same time that I was asking a God somewhere ‘out there’ these questions, I found that I was also turning to the tiny spark of the divine within myself and asking what we can do together to find answers. This feels like progress somehow.

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

It has been a while since I last wrote, so it’s time for a little update.

I am back in the western mountains of Maine working for the summer at a bread baking guild in my hometown’s Catholic church. At the moment, I am only two weeks into my residency, and I am really enjoying the change of pace from NYC bakery life. In addition to normal bread production, this past week we threw an ‘end of school’ wood-fired pizza party and I’m gearing up to start teaching bread classes next weekend. With the bread-loving priest’s help, I’ve also baked my first batches of wood-fired bread. Oh, and there is a huge garden at my disposal behind the church. So far, so good, I’d say.

I am also spending a lot of quality time with my family. My cousin Kenny who I’ve written about before, is the official loon counter of Round Pond for the Maine Audubon Society. The big news over this weekend was that two baby loons already hatched on the pond; it is a source of excitement for everyone living there and the talk of the pond during our sunset pontoon boat cruises.

When I was a kid, I didn’t appreciate where I am from. I wanted to run as far away as fast as possible, so when I went to college, I never looked back until last year when my parents got sick. Growing up, there were two paper mills in town, belching out sulfurous smoke that made the whole town smell of rotten eggs. That industry is gone now, along with the high paying jobs that accompanied it. So, while town smells nicer, there is a lot of poverty and population decline now. I have been impressed how much the Catholic church has stepped in to lend a hand to those in need - Catholic and not.

So that’s the short story of what I’ve been up to lately. Thank you to those of you who have checked in, wondering how I am doing.

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

I store my coffee in their mid-century kitchen storage containers that I have always loved. I drink water out of their yellow plastic glasses that still reek of cigarettes and say, ironically, ‘Have a Happy Day!’ with a smiley face because they make me grin. I feel strangely sentimental about a wooden clothespin that my dad would use to close up his crackers. It is certainly peculiar what I decided to cull from my parents’ home when they passed. I let go of a dumpster full of things, and yet I kept esoteric items that are full of nostalgia. Trinkets full of memories. I wonder what people will keep from my own belongings when I’m gone. What about you?

As I get ready to pack for a summer job back home in rural Maine, I have started considering my own stuff. What do I really need to bring? What do I want to live without? What can I shed? I will be working at a baking guild within my hometown’s Catholic church and staying in a minimally equipped apartment in a college town a few miles away. It is such a wonderful opportunity to peel back all the stuff and just keep things simple for a time. Maybe not monastic but at least considered. Quiet and focused. Good for writing.

I am excited to bake and teach within a totally different environment and value system than the NYC restaurant industry where I built my baking career. I am also thrilled that I have an opportunity to learn how to bake in a wood-fired oven finally! For almost three years, I have had fire on my brain. Strong visions of fire came to me after I had a wild experience with God that I have yet to write about. (Someday I will.) Working with fire then became an aggressive itch, and I am glad that I will be able to scratch it soon.

Baking bread within the Catholic church of my youth is so full circle that I have not totally processed it yet. Voluntarily back to where I started. The same but very different simultaneously. It is a tremendous opportunity to rewrite, replace and renew parts of my life journey through serving my hometown. And I am excited! Summertime in Maine is also just magical, and I am very lucky to enjoy it this year.

This summer will be a chance to delve a bit deeper into my spiritual beliefs and explore the Catholic faith with fresh eyes as well; I wonder what I will see…

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

Two years ago, when my life started to unravel, I got a memento mori tattoo. This seemingly macabre reminder translates to ‘remember that you must die’. But when I see this stylized skull on my arm, it makes me stop and appreciate how I am spending my limited time. Am I watching TV? Am I out enjoying nature? Am I at a museum? Whatever it is, I reflect on the activity I am engaged in, in relation to my ever-draining hourglass of life. Being reminded that we will die gives us the opportunity to go out and live now.

My dad did not need a memento mori tattoo; rather, he embodied it by living his life fully, and exactly as he saw fit. Dad wrung out every last drop of able-bodied time that he had left by skiing, or riding his beloved motorcycle, until he got benched; I started to think about celebrating dad’s you-only-live-once quality that I admire as a way to say goodbye to him. To do that, I would get back on alpine skis - something I had not planned to do again in my lifetime.

How do you want to be remembered after you die, anyway? Have you even thought about it? Do you have funeral arrangements already made? Perhaps you have a more casual celebration of life in mind. Or maybe you just do not care if you are remembered at all; my parents fell into this last category. However, when my dad was alive, after my mom passed, I had the opportunity to very seriously ask him one last time what I should do with his ashes once he was cremated. Dad and I agreed that it would be appropriate for part of him to be scattered at Sugarloaf - a mountain that he loved skiing on more than any other. It didn’t really matter to dad how or even if it happened, but it mattered to me. I wanted a way to say goodbye once he was gone - a suiting closure for the budding relationship that we were developing last year. This is when my cousins Anna and Kenny helped me yet again with planning a proper sendoff for my dad.

The weekend started with dinner with the out-of-town people who’d come in to celebrate. We went to the Chuck Wagon - a hometown favorite where my mom and dad spent many meals. We ate in the Red Eye Lounge and had a ball. After dinner, the festivities rolled over to Anna and Kenny’s home - the house they had purchased from my father and renovated beautifully.

Along with being a realtor and a carpenter, Kenny was also a ski industry professional in his previous life. This came in handy when Kenny used my dad’s old ski tuning room to prep dad’s last pair of skis for me; I would be using these skis and poles on my first ski day in over 25 years! Kenny’s son would give my dad’s ski boots one last spin as well. Dad would have been thrilled that his immaculately kept equipment got some use.

When Kenny was adjusting my bindings, he asked if I was ‘more of a pizza pie or french fry skier’. Without hesitation, I answered ‘french fry’ because I liked to point my skis straight down the mountain and fly in my youth. But honestly, I had underestimated the amount of snowplowing I’d be doing the next day; my legs were on fire as I moved in a wedge shape more often than I would like to admit.

We chose a weekday in March for scattering dad because it is when the true diehard skiers love to ski. They hold on to the season, choking out every last bit of skiing while accepting various weather and snow conditions as they come. A day of bad skiing is better than a day of no skiing. The diehards enjoy March’s increased sunshine and fewer crowds; and they all seem to know each other. My dad was one of these people.

The next morning came early as we made our way up to Sugarloaf for dad’s last ski day. It as a bluebird day, with a light wind and ‘boilerplate’ snow - fairly decent for March conditions. As one guy who used to ski with my day said, ‘Mike should blow around real good today!’

We were going to meet more excellent skiers who knew my dad on the mountain, and once I snapped my bindings on, I got nervous. I had never even skied on shape skis, let alone my father’s fancy ones. I shouldn’t have worried, though. Everyone was kind and slower than usual while I was with them. And while I did get some shit for leaning back more than I should - ‘Nothing good happens in the back seat except for one thing, Rhonda! Get forward!’- I hung in there for half a dozen runs without injury. Dad would have loved that I got back on skis again for him. Even if he probably was somewhere yelling, ‘Juice the boot!’ - urging me to squeeze an imaginary orange against the front of your boot with my shin, leaning me further forward.

I loved listening to people reminisce about skiing with my dad as we went up the lifts that day. For all the hell my father liked to raise, he was a technically skilled and beautiful skier. Dad was neither a ‘french fry’ or ‘pizza pie’ guy. Rather, he carved perfectly controlled, symmetrical turns all the way down the mountain; he was so good that you could look up the mountain while on the ski lift and pick him out from far away. Dad was elegant on skis. If you knew my dad, you know he also liked to share the devil’s lettuce with any willing party. It was fun to hear all the various stories. I hope that somehow, somewhere, some way that dad could hear them, too.

We shared a small joint before disbanding and scattering some of dad’s ashes around the mountain. I eventually made my way alone over to Tote Road, the mellow trail my dad and I would often end the day on. It was empty and peaceful; just me and dad for most of it.

My legs were thankful when we all met for lunch at The Bag and Kettle; it was one of dad’s favorite lunch spots when we skied together. More people joined the festivities. Of note were Anna and her son who showed up wearing my dad’s thick wool ski sweaters from the 60’s that he saved up to buy himself; this gesture warmed my heart. We all joked about how dad’s remains had never skied down the mountain that straight and fast before today. It was perfect.

We had one last party for dad the next day at Anna and Kenny’s, catered by E and his fellow chef friend. It was a carbohydrate-packed pasta and red sauce spread that dad would have adored. We listened to classic rock and shot the shit. My parents never had parties when I was growing up, so it felt festive and full circle to have a really fun party in that same space. I’d like to think that dad was tapping his foot and eating rigatoni somewhere out there right along with the rest of us before saying goodbye.

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

By mid-January, I had a referral to an intensive outpatient (IOP) psychiatric program. IOP treatment - I learned - is a part-time alternative to full inpatient hospitalization, allowing patients to live at home during therapy. Suffice it to say that I was also not doing well mentally. Again.

Of course, there are waitlists for the two IOP programs that take my marketplace insurance in New York City. In the meantime, my care team agreed that it would be okay to keep my upcoming travel plans while I waited for an opening; so, in mid-February I went back home to Maine to take a break from New York, waving goodbye to Queens until late March. I really just needed to get off the hamster wheel of life for a moment and take care of myself.

Now, my cousins Anna and Kenny (see Parts I & II) purchased and renovated my childhood home with every intention of selling it. But once they were finished renovating the house, they liked it so much that they decided to move into it rather than flip it! And because they are such wonderful cousins, Anna and Kenny thoughtfully allowed me to stay in their home - alone - once more during my trip North. But this time, I was staying in a happy, reinvigorated home - what an opportunity I had been handed!

Spending several weeks in the restored home helped me to heal in a way that therapy and mental health drugs had not moved the needle. I found myself talking to both of my deceased parents - a lot. I wrote. I cooked. I read. I baked. I found community within my hometown. I talked to my parents some more. I did not get any response from them, unsurprisingly, but I do think just vocalizing some of my thoughts and anger out loud, in that home, helped me to release it.

Holding onto anger only hurts the person doing the holding. And life is too short to keep unproductive grudges against my dead parents. Afterall, I am grown up; the house is rejuvenated; my parents are gone; and it was time to forgive them. And perhaps more importantly, I finally started to forgive myself for not becoming who my parents wanted me to be when I grew up. The deep parental disappointment that cut me like a knife no longer exists on this plane. I found my own way through life as I saw fit, and for that, I am proud now.

My time in Maine culminated in throwing a two-day party in celebration of my dad. It was filled with skiing, laughs, pot, and carbohydrates; dad would have adored it. As Kenny and I hugged goodbye at the end of the weekend, he told me, ‘Smiling looks good on you!’ He’s right. I left Maine this past weekend a whole lot better than how I had entered it. It felt good to close the book on a hard year of my life. Here’s to starting a new chapter with many, many more smiles.

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

Each spring when I was a small child, we would drive out to the greenhouse owned by family on mom’s maternal side. Before it was a greenhouse, the building was used to raise chickens. I loved to go into the warm space filled with flowers and smelling of rich, damp earth rather than chicken shit. My favorite was daffodils, reminding me of the ‘mahna mahna’ muppets in appearance. My mother would purchase large hanging plants with big red flowers for the house. We would hang them and wait for the hummingbirds to arrive.

My mom was a tough personality, though, and found fault with most everyone, including herself. One person she adored, however, was her niece Kathy. Mom would call Kathy and have long conversations in her better days. When Kathy was not available, her youngest sister Anna often fielded the call. This is the same Anna who would go on to purchase my childhood home, and about whom I never heard mom utter a bad word.

Anna would listen as my mother recounted dreams wherein Anna’s dead father - mom’s brother - would come to her; in life the two siblings were close. A young Anna would listen as my heart-broken mom rambled.

Fast forward to now: I am positive that my dead mom was somehow speaking to Anna once more, throughout the renovation of my childhood home. The colors and styling of the home a la Anna are exactly - creepily so - what my mom would have chosen for herself. Greens, blues and yellow transformed the formerly sad house into a happy, vibrant home.

My dad did not live long as a renter, dying in mid-July 2025, but he was tickled with his living arrangement while it lasted. Dad got to see Anna and Kenny daily as they worked tirelessly on the house after their day jobs. My blue-collar dad loved socializing with the kind local workers who came and went. Even more exciting for dad were opportunities to dip into his impeccably organized tool collection when one of them needed something he had; Kenny would later go on to inherit all these welding and millwright tools.

I am still unable to grasp the sheer amount of work required for Anna and Kenny to rehabilitate my childhood home themselves. I was not brave enough to even fight back the nicotine stains, to say nothing about the rest of the decay. Yet, day after day, Anna and her industrial steam cleaner battled the wicked nicotine residue. The nicotine was so thickly caked on the walls that streams of brown would run down her steamer arm, dripping off her elbow. Yet, Anna persisted, cursing her aunt/my mother as she steamed every last speck of nicotine from the entire house; I am in awe of her determination. And that leads me into briefly discussing Anna herself - which she will hate. Sorry, not sorry, Anna!

To say Anna had a tough childhood would be an extreme understatement. On her own way too early, Anna is nothing if not resilient. She was my red Camero driving, band t-shirt wearing, hell-if-I-care cousin and I always looked forward to spending time with her when we were kids - and I still do now. She is my cool cousin.

Anna is a raven-haired, sassy beauty who, like me, is straightforward to the point of seeming aggressive sometimes; but underneath the roar, she is a teddy bear and deeply empathic. She will give you the world until you cross her and then watch out. Anna is the cousin I will call if I ever need to get rid of a body. In fact, Anna will be there with me when I scatter my mother’s ashes this summer.

In short, Anna and Kenny are one hell of a renovation team with Anna conceiving the design, Kenny doing the construction, and both adding a whole lot of elbow grease. Upon purchasing my childhood home, they had intended to renovate and flip the house, but that is not how things worked out…

Stay tuned for Part III!

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

My life fractured into a before and after when my partner E got a call from Maine Adult Protective Services that my dad was home alone, and that my mom was in a hospital ‘somewhere’ after a stroke. The fact that I was not the first call gives you a lot of insight into my relationship with my parents. My mother had been in the hospital for a week before E got the phone call; a social worker found his number on a slip of paper in a drawer at my parents’ home during a wellness check with police. I did not get called because my dad did not know my phone number, and it wasn’t written down anywhere.

Fast forward to early March when my mom passed away. Shortly afterward, my dad told me that he wanted to sell the house. It was too much for him. My dad had a rare syndrome akin to dementia that led to calcification of the tissue in his short-term memory center; we both knew it would get worse with time. I wanted to get the house sold and respect his wishes while he still had his faculties. But, oh, the house.

The house, the house, the house. Oh my GOD - the house! I was not mentally prepared for the state of my childhood home when I got there in February. I knew the house must have been in bad shape because my mother wouldn’t allow me home for the last couple of decades. But I never expected to find it in the state decay that it was in. The home was like a physical manifestation of my mother’s poor mental health.

The filthy wallpaper was peeling away from the dining room walls. The naked surface beneath looked pristinely white compared to the dark brown ceiling, stained from tobacco smoke. The light fixture hanging over the oval dining table was covered with a thick layer of dust, dulling it.

The large table itself served as my mother’s makeshift filing system; my parents stubbornly did not use computers or cell phones at all, so their entire life was on that table. There were piles and piles of paper. My dad - alone for a week, scared, not knowing where my mother was or how to find her, and not knowing what to do - started dusting.

My father had no idea what these stacks of pages contained - mom managed everything for the household - but he knew that they were going to be important soon. So carefully, he painstakingly removed inches of dust with his handheld straw brush and a dustbin he’d fabricated at the mill long ago. He said it took him days to complete, but it was good because he needed something to occupy his time so he ‘didn’t blow his brains out.’

The biggest shock to me as I moved through the house were the 2 spare bedrooms. Dangerously dusty and absolutely hoarded with great heaps of debris from our lives, the bedrooms took my breath away - quite literally, in fact. E and I sniffled and sneezed our way through the mess. I would go on to find family heirlooms like a quilt that was handmade by my grandmother for my mother during my excavation. Important papers like my brother’s death certificate that I casually pulled out of the horde, as though it was an old magazine. I found my very Catholic grandmother’s bible in its wooden box beneath a pile of dirty clothing. Empty flasks and toppled rocks glasses, their sticky contents spilling out over the carpet, reminded me of how severe my mother’s alcoholism was at the end of her life.

The whole house was carpeted, including the bathroom. The carpet was so old and worn that it was lifting up from the floor itself. I had to staple gun the carpet down so that my father who shuffled when he walked wouldn’t trip. Dad made me staple the dirty wallpaper back up as well because ‘it can be washed’. The bathroom also had no shower at all. So, my 78-year-old father with questionable balance was still taking baths by himself; the slip and fall hazard of this blew my mind.

And the entire house wreaked of cigarette smoke. The smell was confronting as soon as you opened the front door. My mother was a dedicated smoker since high school, and my dad didn’t kick the habit until later in life, either. The smell was so stifling when you entered the home that it almost had substance, feeling thick as it draped itself like a blanket all over any entrants - not that my parents had guests.

The roof needed to be replaced. The windows were fogged. Doors on rotting frames needed fixing. We would later find out that the septic also needed to be entirely redone, because it had not been pumped since the 1980’s! In short: the house and my parents’ state of affairs were a disaster that I inherited, along with solo eldercare responsibility for my father. We both wanted this house gone from our lives. We did not have a plan for where dad would live, but we both wanted him out of the chaos.

This is when my cousin Anna and her partner Kenny entered the chat. I had reconnected with them while my mom was in hospice. Kenny is, among other things, a realtor, so I gave him a call.

Now, something I should tell you about Kenny right off the bat is that my dad thought Kenny was the best thing since sliced bread. Dad didn’t just like Kenny, he LOVED Kenny. Whenever my dad saw Kenny, he’d immediately perk up and start smiling. Dad and Kenny both shared a true passion for skiing, in addition to motorcycles. Kenny had also worked in the same paper mill as my father years ago, and he has an encyclopedic knowledge of our little hometown’s history. So, they had a lot to talk about despite their 20-year age gap. They were both rascally, too.

My dad had a low mischievous laugh - a sort of heh, heh, heh - that was fun to hear. The most that I have ever seen my father gleefully laugh with his shoulders shrugging in unison was when Kenny visited. I believe that my father felt pure joy whenever Kenny was shooting the shit with him. Just the way his whole face would smile with delight; dad really came alive with Kenny. The time Kenny spent with my dad near the end of his life especially, helped him forget about all his physical and mental impairments; dad could be his old self for a just moment, with an old friend he thought of as a son. Kenny really is the son my dad would have picked out if he were able to do so. The son he wanted and missed out on.

Now, looping back to selling the house: Kenny found dad and I the best buyers we could ask for - him and Anna! Of course, Dad was thrilled to hand over responsibility of his property that ‘was falling apart inside itself’, as Anna said. But what do I do with my father? Where does dad live? Anna had the answer.

At the closing, Anna handed my dad a lifetime lease that would allow him to stay in the home he knew for as long as possible while they begin renovations. This generous gesture deeply respected my father’s dignity and, as a person with a memory disorder, it meant not needing to learn the layout of a new home environment. Last Spring, with some in-home assistance, my dad happily began renting from his niece and her partner who just happens to be one of his favorite people. He was thrilled.

Now, let me tell you about my cousin Anna…

That’s the end of Part I. Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

My depression cloaked the anger, tricking me into believing I was wistful for what could have been with my mom. But in truth, I am indignant for what actually was with her, and frankly what still is. Now that my depression has lifted, I can see this. Me and my inner child are mad. Still. And we don’t want to be anymore.

I am staying in my childhood home, and I find myself asking the ether why I deserved to inherit my parents’ myriad problems when I tried to help prophylactically. In their later years when my father was ill, my parents became a creepy, co-dependent unit controlled entirely by my mother who spent most of their last chapter together overindulging in their individual drugs of choice. Their home fell into decay, disarray, and disrepair. Their affairs were disorganized or unconsidered. Their health suffered. My father got sicker. My mother got drunker, etc. In the end, I was left to pick up the pieces and clean up the mess they wouldn’t let me help with when we had a fighting chance to do it together. So, I took care of it. I took care of it ALL. The perfect, dutiful, responsible, compliant, only-child daughter. I got you.

I am not revealing anything private when I say that my mother was a truly miserable person for most of her adult life; I believe this stems from losing my brother when she was in her mid 20’s, 1.5 years after she had me, at a time when mental health was not discussed. She was also brilliant, until the alcohol she used to cope dulled it. And apparently creative. Sifting through the debris in the rooms she previously hoarded here, I found beautiful partially finished quilts, delicate embroidery and sewing supplies from the 1970’s. This leads me to believe that she had interests other than drinking at one point in time, but I don’t remember those days personally.

My maternal family did an intervention on my mother for her drinking way back in the 1980’s before such things were common in these parts; I have no recollection of this. It is hushed family lore how horribly my mother received the intervention. I would try years later to talk to her about her drinking myself only to fail repeatedly. But I always wondered what she would have been like sober. There were glimpses of a spark, some life beyond the bottle, in her from time to time. A flutter. But those glimmers became fewer and fewer over the years. Eventually extinguished. Poof.

It’s unbelievable to say, but my mother looked better than I had seen her look in years when I saw her in the hospital last year after her stroke. She was, in fact, sober - if only for a week. Her skin had color. Her eyes were bright. Mentally she was present. She was physically compromised from the stroke and her lifestyle, but sobriety looked good on her. My dad agreed. I am glad that the last days we all had together, my mother and I were both sober. But, ironically, one year ago tomorrow is also the day that I broke my 6.5 years of continuous sobriety. I poured myself a drink almost immediately after I got off the phone call with hospice letting me know that my mother had passed.

What a waste. What a drunk. Just like your mom. And your grandpa. Both sides of your family tree are soaked in booze.

Was my mother’s death a convenient excuse to drink? I do not think it is that simple. Was it the gravity of inheriting a full-grown human as a dependent at 50 years old? Maybe the truth is darker and even harder to admit still. Maybe I was glad that my first bully was finally gone. And how do I look at myself after I realize that I might just have been celebrating my parent’s passing with that first drink?

Phew, it’s finally over. We made it.

Good thing I have Lucky to work all of that out with me.

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

Yesterday I spent the morning baking bread to benefit the baking guild at my old hometown church. It is Lent now, and while I am not sure where I stand on religion, I do like the practice of almsgiving emphasized during this time. So, I am using my ability to make bread as my gift.

As a professional chef, it feels humbling to be given full, unsupervised access to someone else’s kitchen; an intimate offer rooted in deep trust. The gesture made me feel very seen somehow. I worked alone, made a manageable quantity of bread, and left plenty of idle time for reading and reflection while the dough rested. The contemplative solo baking session, punctuated by friendly visits, felt more additive than reductive to me. And it felt rejuvenating to be making a product for a good cause within the community.

At the end of yesterday’s bake, I cannot say that the loaves were Michelin-level perfect, but they were baked with positive intentions and love. Personally, I am just proud that I gave myself a bit of grace for once. Chasing perfection is just exhausting, and I am ready to stop. I count this as growth.

I brought one of the loaves I baked over to the neighbor who had graciously plowed out the driveway after the snowfall a couple days ago. I hope that he and his family like it. It always feels vulnerable to me when I share such a seemingly simple, old-fashioned gift like bread.

But I suppose gifting a loaf of bread isn’t about the bread itself for me, really. It is more personal. When I gift sourdough bread especially, I am trying to share a tangible demonstration of my very best efforts into a process that I cannot control. The bread tells stories of my choices, my values and my patience. It is an obvious allegory of life, and I hope it speaks for itself - and that it is tasty.

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

I went to church yesterday, out of curiosity as much as anything. I made arrangements to pick up some sourdough starter from a member of the congregation, so I decided to go to Mass as well. It had been a very long time since I’d been at a Roman Catholic service, but it was reassuringly the same as I remember, but also a bit different. Dare I say a bit socially conscious and progressive? Coincidently, there was a bread motif to the liturgy. What timing, huh?

People talk about getting called back to something beyond themselves and being careful to look for the small signs of it in their journeys. For me, it feels as though ‘God’ has put up a billboard with flashing neon along my highway of life that says, “Rhonda! Welcome!”, accompanied by one of those ridiculous inflatable tube men in a baker’s cap flailing about urging me to take the exit. I wonder if I’m arrogant or just plain stubborn enough to ignore it still.

Since I am writing publicly about all this religious exploration, I want to talk about going to confession last Saturday, too. Wowzah. Insane, but true! And I will tell you, it seems to have helped my mental health a bit! There is something cathartic about actually speaking the dark bits that one doesn’t usually discuss with anyone out loud. Talking about those moments in my past that dwell in shame felt quite empowering afterward. The memories are still there, but the sting has lessened. And in short, it is just reassuring to essentially be reminded that we are all imperfect and that I am not a bad person after all.

One especially nice point the priest made about the act of confession - and I am paraphrasing - is that it is an opportunity to reflect on the past so that one can also focus on the present and future. I like that forward-looking perspective on life. Maybe I can just adopt it and fake it until I make it.

As part of my penance, the priest asked that I read “The Hound of Heaven” by Francis Thompson; thankfully there was no Hail-Mary-Our-Father marathon to get through this time. Instead, this assignment has given me something to reflect on for the past couple days. Especially interesting is that Thompson wrote this piece as a recovering addict, something I personally relate to on a deep level.

The subject of this poem is God’s loving pursuit of the human soul. God is portrayed as unrelenting and steadfast, as a hound in pursuit of a hare. Ultimately, the soul surrenders and accepts God’s persistent love. But what does God’s love look like for me if I surrender? Does it come as peace in my life, at long last? Maybe an evolving greater purpose? A way to have more goodness rather than darkness flow through my days?

And backing up further, what do I even mean when I say the word God? I’m not really sure. Right now, the label feels like a clumsy form that I attempt to wrap around something humanly unknowable in an attempt to make it more graspable. Despite not being religious per se, I do believe that God’s love is tangible and something that I have felt suffused throughout my life at times of immense challenge and surrender. But who really knows anything about God for sure, right? Guess I might have to stop running to find out.

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

The kitchen in the church’s community center basement that I remember from casserole suppers as a kid, now has a fully functional bakery component, put together by a priest who loves baking as much as I do; he kindly showed me around.

Serious artisan bread baking is a small community, made smaller through social media. So unsurprisingly, the priest and I know some of the same people. It felt surreal to talk shop with a member of the clergy in a place I haven’t seen in 35 years. Maybe that’s because it is not the same place now, any more than I am the same person I was back then.

Before I knew it, the priest handed me copies of their bread formulas, handsomely organized in professional-level spreadsheets, right down to noting nerdy details like the friction factor and baker’s percentage. That’s when I really knew that we were of the same ilk.

To make the moment more unbelievable, in walked the woman who has been handling sourdough production for the guild - and I know her! We hug. We hug again. I hug her husband who recognizes me after I say my first name. I remember happily hanging out at their home when I was dating their youngest son way back in high school. The quality of their hugs make it feel as though everything and nothing has changed at the very same time. Life is a trip.

This morning, the landscape is cloaked in a thick frosting of fluffy, fresh snow. It is the type of crystalline snow that twinkles in the early morning sunshine. Soon, the wild turkeys will trudge through the powder, reinstalling their super-highway through the backyard. But for now, it is dead silent as the faintest snowfall continues to flutter down just before dawn. A sparkling new snow, like a new perspective, can often freshen up old branches of thought - softening the hard, ugly edges.

Perhaps just being curious about that tiny voice within - that sense that we are connected to something unexplainable - is enough. Being open to the wonder of a fresh snowfall is enough. Maybe even I am enough, too.

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

When my father was still alive last year, I made a mental plan to spend Christmas ‘25 and awhile afterward with him up in western Maine. Dad loved the winter, and I knew he was lonely after mom passed last March. And while he had to stop skiing in his later years, I thought that we could still bundle up and go ice fishing - or maybe even dog sledding when he was having a very good day. I believed that he had one last winter left in him; that we had time to head over to the community ski slope and watch kids snowplow down the bunny slope. Then we could laugh together as we watch the rope tow claim new victims, dragging inexperienced riders of all ages up the hill one way or another.

Life had other plans, of course, but I decided to gift myself the extravagance of keeping this time off to lick my wounds after a tough year. An opportunity to tell myself what I need to hear through writing. A chance to get off the merry-go-round of everyday life for a bit.

But what to write about? I might never share these thoughts with anyone else alive, which feels luxurious, liberating and decadent. I can just write the raw truth without a need to dress it up for public consumption. I can leave the stink on it, if you will.

I have time to go chasing the darkness that is still stubbornly stuck down deep, to carefully cut it out like a cancer, and examine it. I can attempt to capture the unresolved anger that corrodes me from the inside out. To tussle with my demons. To remember the past in a balanced way, with a mature eye. Then I can burn it all down and rise out of the ash anew, like a phoenix. Fingers crossed.

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

Not to be a bummer right off the bat, but for the last of couple months, depression has plucked the wind from my sails, setting me adrift on a sea of negative thoughts and exhaustion. But recently, with the help of medication and therapy, the intensity of the depression has abated a bit. I feel as though I’m back online with life, so let’s try writing a little again!

Yesterday morning, I learned that ‘Amigo’ passed away. If you have been following my journey here, you might remember that Amigo was the moniker for the distinguished elder Jack Russell terrier I lived with at the apiary in upstate New York. Once a rambunctious pup full of pep, Amigo had aged into a wonderfully dignified, nap-loving senior by the time we met in 2024. And yet, this old man was still always up for an adventure around the farm, happily shuffling along with the gang. I truly loved that spunky little guy.

Thankfully, I had the opportunity to say a final goodbye to Amigo before he crossed over the rainbow bridge. Aging brings good and bad days, and that is no different for a dog or a human. Not long ago, Amigo’s thoughtful owners told me the time had come for a visit while his days were still mostly good, and it helped my heart to say goodbye. Wouldn’t it be ideal if we could all have one last chance to spend time with our favorite beings to give and receive love? A guaranteed little see-ya-on-the-other-side high five.

I am currently reading ‘Mind Over Mood’ by Greenberger and Padesky as part of my psychotherapy; so far, I am very impressed by this book. It utilizes cognitive-behavioral theory to suggest new ways for one to think or behave, with the aim of improving troublesome moods, in a lasting way.

Grief, anger and sadness are some of the feelings that I put off processing last year. I believe this is at least partially why depression came rolling back into my life like a thick fog, forcing me to take a break and work on my mental health again. This time I am listening. Soon, I will be heading up to Maine to be alone for a few weeks in the cold and snowy quiet. To winter. To work on my writing and myself.

It sure would be nice to have a dog like Amigo there with me in the coziness.

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

Instead, I have a simple, whole-hearted, humble THANK YOU for financially supporting my writing aspirations.

While I did not produce much written work product in 2025, I have gained a whole new …

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At the moment, I am walking a wobbly tight rope of moderation instead of absolute, rock-solid sobriety because I am using limited amounts of alcohol to self-medicate. I know I am not alone in this practice; it’s just not talked about in polite company, I suppose.

I am adjusting my medication this week, but for now, one drink does more to quiet my relentlessly loud inner critic than any other drug that I have tried so far. And don’t we all just want a little peace sometimes?

The negative self-talk and ruminations emanating from my internal hoard of shame have gotten even worse this year, as I made many tough decisions through the illnesses and deaths of my parents.

Did I handle everything the right way?

Could I have done more for them?

Was I a bad daughter?

Am I selfish?

Am I loveable?

Am I a bad person? Does everyone know?

Intellectually, I realize that this is all an overblown, spiraling figment of my imagination rather than reality. But what I feel deep down in my bones is another matter, and hard to shake. My negative self-talk spans many topics and is debilitatingly tiring. It is like I am infested with some kind of strange dysmorphia - I see myself differently than the world seems to. Then I ruminate on some other perceived deficiency I might have, and the cycle continues on and on.

Alcohol tones down the spiraling a notch at the end of the day when I find myself too much to tolerate. But this Russian roulette I am playing with alcohol comes with the responsibility to weigh my options honestly and making safe choices with accountability.

Now seems like a good time to share an art assemblage about sobriety that I have been plugging away at for some time. This piece began taking shape during my sobriety, and now I’m almost finished with it. Here it is so far:

A special thank you to my talented new friend Daniel “DAZ” Carello for spray painting the pieces of fallen bark that I collected and cleaned. Daniel’s arrows made me think of the how sobriety is a continual choice and were the inspiration for this piece.

Here are some details to point out for those who are interested:

• Using natural materials from the Maine woods like bark and deer bones connects me back to my roots, while the spray paint acts as a nod to my home in New York City. I especially like the shape of the deer jaw halves; they remind me of Daniel’s arrows.

• The origami cicadas - a symbol of renewal - are also dart shaped.

• I suspended a wishbone - symbolizing luck - from a braid like a noose to convey the sense of strangulation addiction feels like to me.

• I repurposed a burnt fragment of one of my paintings, as well as a Naltrexone prescription bottle, giving it a fuse like a bomb.

I hope that you enjoy the details below.

Thank you for reading!

xo,

Rhonda

It is truly ridiculous that I picked up this bad habit only about a year ago, using it at first as a poor replacement for my morning loosie from the bodega in Queens. I knew full well how addictive vapes were first-hand as friends became absolutely hooked during their smoking-cessation efforts. I bought vapes anyway. Then, driving more and more miles in 2025, I automatically reached for that security blanket to deal with stress until I found myself struggling to put it down over the past few weeks.

It’s got me thinking about vice. What is it about vices that make them so alluring that some of us take on varying degrees of risk to indulge in them? Why do some of us like to walk the very edge of vice - that tricky tightrope between way too much and not nearly enough?Do humans just naturally want to be naughty, indulgent or numb? I know I do.

I can only speak for myself, but I believe that deeply buried shame can make people touched by trauma more reckless simply because we just do not care about ourselves anyway so why not? I think that it is shame rather than simple arrogance or ignorance that enables me to knowingly place a risky bet on a difficult-for-me-to-manage vice like vaping or drinking alcohol time and again.

Fast forward one week…

I am vaping again.

Damn it.

I am not sure what made me crack and buy a vape once more. I was having a good day with no issues to report. It was a perfect, autumnal afternoon - full of crisp, colorful potential. Still, I just wanted to numb myself. To escape for a moment. To relax. To be happy. To know joy. To not be me, even when everything is just fine.

Of course, a nicotine vape won’t do all this for me. Neither will any other vice. But that doesn’t stop the nagging underlying compulsion within me to get out ahead of my happiness and ruin it. My brain tells me that if things are going well, that the corollary is soon to follow. The other shoe will always drop. It is the confusing, often irrational, self-sabotaging need to simultaneously numb everything and to feel something that seems to drive me to medicate myself with various things, time and again.

Maybe this will not make sense to everyone who doesn’t have an internal horde of shame. Or maybe it will. The nicotine vape is a small, legal vice, but it’s illustrative of how addiction can take all kinds of forms, sprung from the same font of darkness. Some people struggle with shopping, work, food, gambling, sex, et cetera.

Everyone has their own Achilles heel to navigate.

Thank you for reading.

xo,

Rhonda