My mother is dying. When my dad passed away a few months ago, we all thought she would die of broken heart syndrome. Turns out, her maternal instinct is way more stronger than her broken heart.

Growing up, she always said, “Your father comes first. After all, when you kids are grown and off on your own, I shall still have your father. He will always be first.” We knew how much they loved each other. They showed us every day, in the little things. The way they said good-bye to each other as Dad went off to work. The way they greeted each other when Dad came home. The way they would look at each other and the little signs of affection they shared.

But, as my mother has slipped into the last leg of her journey these past two weeks, we have seen her love for us roar quietly as she has resisted the call of the other side. When she was still able to communicate with us, she said, “I know I am dying and I need to let go.” She spoke to each of us expressing her love and making us promise to be strong when the time comes. But her instinct to shield us from the hurt and pain of losing her has been evident as she has resisted the pain medication that would ease her suffering, knowing it would make it impossible for her to communicate with us. Even as the dying process has continued, she has refused to let it take over, and is still holding on. We know it’s because of her love for us. Without having anything to eat or drink for over a week, she is still holding on. Through feverish days and nights, she is still holding on. She wants to spare us this final hurt.

But it’s OK, Mama. We are strong. We are your children. You have taught us well. And yes, it will hurt and the pain will be intolerable at times, but we will be OK. We have each other. We shall turn to each other and find comfort and solace in the love you have shown us. In the strength you have passed on to us, even in these last few days. We love you Mama. Godspeed. Let the angels bring you the joy of taking you to your place in heaven. With Dad. Together. And we’ll see you on the other side.

It’s the first day of Summer 2017. There was no spring to speak of.  Rainy, damp, foggy, cool. Days and days and days without the sun shining. Blankets and sweatshirts in the house because you just cannot turn the heat back on when it’s late May. Who does that? Well, I admit, I did. I turned the heat back on for a few days because it was just too damn cold for May. What can I say?

My garden beds are a disaster. Except for the phlox and lilies and butterfly bushes that come up every year, there is hardly any color. I have not planted one annual. There are still leaves needing to be raked out. Trellises needing to be pulled back up. But, somehow, I just cannot find the wherewithal to go out and take care of these things. I look at them as I walk from my car to the front door, and think, “Yeah, I should rake those leaves out. I should get a few petunias. Those weeds need to be pulled.” But I have lost my motivation.

I haven’t walked in months. Both me and Tucker need to get back into the woods. My woods. The woods where I used to feel safe, but now not so much. The early morning air that used to wake me up feels uninspiring.  Watching a hummingbird at the feeder moves me, but not to the joy I once felt. I haven’t even been to the canal once this year. I know I need to do these things, but I have lost my motivation.

I feel certain that this all has to do with the grieving process, but it’s so foreign to me. These feeling of deep sadness and pain seem insurmountable at times. I am a happy person. I am a grateful person. I find joy in everyday things. But these days, I seem to have lost that spark. I pray I find it again.

It has been 5 weeks and 5 days since my father passed away. April 7, 2017. It was so unexpected and so fast that it still does not seem real to me. Every day I wake up, in sweet innocence for a split second, thinking it was all just a bad dream. Then the heaviness in my heart reminds me, it is definitely reality. My dear, loving father, the rock solid man of integrity and honor and unconditional love in my life, is gone. And he is not coming back. I shall never get to hug him and feel the warmth of his return hug again. The twinkle in his hazel-green eyes will never shine on me again. The dry wit and humor of the million jokes he took the greatest pleasure in sharing with me has been silenced. And I feel adrift in an unsafe world.

Even in my darkest times, I knew I could find a safety net in my father. Just hearing his voice on the phone, or sitting on the front porch watching the traffic go by – not saying a word – could bring me back to safety. My father was magical that way. He taught me so much without having to say all that much.

Since he passed away, when I walk in my woods out back, breathing in the succulent scent of the pine trees, feeling the crunch of the pine needle carpet underfoot,  listening to the birds singing, I am reminded ever so poignantly, that the joy I find in these simple things is my dad’s doing. From the time I was a little, little girl, he taught me to appreciate and to feel deeply the beauty of the gifts of nature. From the running water of a stream to the crashing waves of the ocean, from the spring peepers chorus to the beauty in the changing leaves of fall, he taught me to find peace and solace in all of my surroundings. I always believed he was part Native American because his reverence for Mother Earth was such a deep part of him. And he took such joy in instilling that reverence and love in me.

My father was my biggest fan. He loved nothing more than to sit and listen to me practice the piano. And when I started writing my own music, he was so proud of me. He used to tell me that when he died, he wanted to be cremated and he wanted his ashes put into an urn on top of the piano so he could listen to me and my sisters play for eternity.  He most loved it when I sang “The Rose”. It was his favorite song and I sang it just for him.

It is the strangest feeling in the world not to be able to pick up the phone and call him. I have dreaded this for quite some time. After all, he was just shy of 94 years old, so I knew the time would come, sooner, rather than later. Still nothing prepares you for the words, “I am sorry. He’s gone.” Nothing prepares you for the knee-buckling grief that wraps itself around your entire life, and will be there for the rest of your life. Some days it’s worse than others. Some days, I can get through without crying. But grief is a funny thing. It will hit you up the side of the heart and head without warning, and spill from your eyes, down your cheeks when you least expect it.

There are eight of us grieving the loss of our father. And he loved each of us in his own way, for our own gifts and abilities. Then, there is the one, grieving the loss of her soul mate of over 70 years…my mother. She is the one he loved best of all. Murmuring in her ear each morning before he left for work. Looking to her for a kiss hello at the end of the day. Working together to raise a family with a depth of love and understanding that we all have felt. We have been so lucky.

Dad, my life has been blessed to have had you as my father. I am a grown woman now, but in my heart I shall always be your little girl, believing you hung the moon, stomped the grapes with your bare feet, and loved me more than it was humanly possible until the moment you died. And I feel your love every day, even though you are gone. I love you.

Being a parent is one of the toughest jobs in the universe. Which is why, until I found I was pregnant with my first child, I was adamant…I was not going to have kids. Period. I was not tough enough. I was too selfish. I was unable to take on that kind of responsibility.  But that all changed when my son was born. And then my daughter. The feelings of unconditional love and joy that I felt, and still feel, are all consuming. Both my kids are adults now, but there is not one minute of any day when I don’t think of them…Even if only for a fleeting second.

One of the things I found after I had them is that I had the capability of being a ruthless, fierce protector. Capable of serious mayhem if I wasn’t careful. My babies were off limits to anyone or anything at any time that might do them harm. I wasn’t exactly a “helicopter” parent, but I was watchful and vigilant and the meanest mom in the neighborhood because I set limits. They had curfews. They needed to let me know where they were and who they were playing with. There were places they were not allowed to go. Of course, there were times the curfews were broken. And I am sure they didn’t always let me know where they were exactly or who they were hanging out with . And I know they went to those forbidden places on occasion, thinking I didn’t know.

Watching them grow up was a joy and a blessing, heart-wrenching and painful, all at the same time. Watching their struggles created the deepest wounds in my heart. Feelings that ran as deep as my DNA, and made me ache to my very soul. Especially as they became teenagers and young adults. I had brought them up to be strong and independent. But that didn’t mean I didn’t want to grab them in a bear hug and try to fix  whatever was broken when they were hurting. I still have to stop myself from pulling them into my lap and rocking them if I think they are hurting.

The hardest thing I’ve had to do as a mom is to let them figure things out for themselves. Even when I can see that there is clearly something wrong, I have learned not to offer unwanted advice. Not to ask too many questions. When to back off with my “interrogations”….when to just sit and listen. But really I just want to know what’s going on in their lives. Even if it’s something that is hard for me to hear. I just want to be a part of their lives.

My son is living on his own, and has been for a while now. My daughter has moved in and out a few times while at school, but I think it won’t be long before she leaves the nest for her own kind of independence. And I am glad. And sad. And lonely for the days when they would rush in from the school bus, drop their stuff on the floor, wrap their little arms around me and clamor for a snack-their main concern being “what’s for supper?”

As they continue to grow up and face whatever life has in store for them, all I want them to know is that I am always here for them. No matter what. Unconditionally. Always their ruthless protector. Always their biggest champion. Always.

I did not make any New Year’s resolutions this year. I find that they are an exercise in futility. Lose weight. Don’t procrastinate. Walk more. Write more. Play the piano more. Blah. Blah. Blah. What is that saying? The road to hell is paved with good intentions? Well, I am the goddess of good intentions. The queen of making resolutions and not being able to follow through. Yes, I can run with the best of them, making promises and resolutions and having all the best intentions that sound really good.  It’s the follow-through that I have a problem with.

So on some random morning last  fall, as I sipped my second cup of tea, I looked at the words engraved on my turquoise blue tea mug, “rewrite your script”. I really looked at these words and it was like all the lights in the theatre came up.  Suddenly it all made sense. “rewrite your script”. White letters against the turquoise blue. “rewrite your script”. That is all I have to do. It’s that easy.

As I thought about this I let the script that blurts out from the tape that’s been running through my head all my life become clearer. I stopped and really listened to the script that has been in control of my mind and I thought, “Seriously? Where did this come from? Why have I taken it as gospel when I know it’s not true? Why do we do this to ourselves?” “How can I change this?”

The answer, I have found, is staring me in the face each morning. Simply rewrite your script. You don’t need resolutions. You don’t need promises. You don’t need good intentions. You need action.Part of this process is letting go. Having faith. Taking baby steps. Jumping in with both feet and believing the water will be warm. Start slowly. Look at your script and change one sentence. Or one word. Even just becoming aware of your script and slowing down the tape is a good start. Have no expectations. Make one little change.

And so I am rewriting my script. To the voice that says, “You are too old and fat and you have too many wrinkles” I say, “Seriously?” To the voice that says, “You should give up playing music because you can’t stay up until midnight anymore, ” I say, “Seriously?” To the voice that says, “You should stop writing songs because nobody wants to hear what you have to say,” I say, “Seriously?” To those voices I say, I have been working on changing my way of eating and am being more active. I have formed a duo to play music and in doing so I have found a way back to my true self. I have written a couple of songs that I really like and frankly I don’t care if they don’t resonate with anyone else.

I have discovered that I don’t need to make a grand gesture in order to make a difference in my life. Simply rewriting my script is making a difference. I can’t change the past. I can’t hold on to the past. I can’t predict or worry about the future. But I can let go of the voices that have kept me stuck. I can decide to eat less sugar. I can take the dog for a walk. I can go to the gym. It’s like editing a story or changing a chord or a melody line in a song. Sometimes a tiny, simple change can make a huge, huge difference. And you won’t know that until you step out of the routine and trust that you can rewrite your script.

This month I turn 60.  I say those words and I think, “Seriously? I mean, SERIOUSLY?” How the…. Anyway, I wonder what have I done with my life? What could I have done? What should I have done? What will I do? All of these questions keep me awake at night. Sometimes there are more intense questions. Why did I do some of the things I did? How could I have hurt someone I love so much? Why did I make that decision?  Hopefully I’ll find the answers. Or maybe I don’t need the answers anymore. Maybe it’s time to let the past go.  I am rewriting my script. And it feels good.

I am one of those people who abhors air conditioning. It throws off my sense of balance. It’s summer. It’s hot. It’s supposed to be hot. My mind and body feel schizophrenic when I go from air conditioning to outside, back and forth, from the car to the store to work to home. Yes, this summer there have been some really uncomfortable days when it was hard to breathe. But that is nothing new. After all, it’s SUMMER TIME! Part of the problem is that we (and in saying we, I really mean they, someone other than me) cannot deal with discomfort. Ok, maybe the sun is hotter than it was when I was younger, but I believe that if we gave our bodies time to adjust to the heat and humidity, it would.

When I was a kid (oh, here she goes) we didn’t have air conditioning, well most people I knew didn’t have air conditioning. We had a fan. We went swimming if we were hot. We put a cool cloth on the back of our neck and relaxed under the comfort of a shade tree. I remember my mom packing up however many kids there were at the time into the back of the old 62 Chevy station wagon, and driving down to the town pool on a hot afternoon. She’d sit under the trees and let us cool off in the man-made pool that was fed by a natural stream. Sometimes, if it was really hot, we’d go back after supper. If not, we always had popsicles or hoodsie ice cream cups. There was a huge maple tree in the backyard that offered a canopy of leaves to keep us cool. In the morning and early afternoon, the front porch with it’s cool concrete floor, was the place to sit and read a book. By three or four in the afternoon the sun would have come around and it would get very hot on that porch, but still we would stay there and play or read or talk. Somehow we got used to the summer air and the heat and humidity that went along with it. Our bodies adjusted.

I miss those days, however, I admit, there were days this summer I was grateful for the one little air conditioner that kept the dining room and kitchen relatively cool. On those really hot and humid days I walked into the house with a sigh of relief. But always, after a time, I longed to throw open all the windows, shut off the air conditioner, put a cool cloth on the back of my neck and sweat it out.

I know. I know. What about the elderly? What about our pets? To that I say, use the air conditioning to bring some comfort and relief. But does it have to be set at 68 or 69? Can’t it be set at 73 or 74, enough to keep it comfortable without having to pull out the afghans and blankets just to sit in the living room?

Here’s to September and October. I can’t wait for fall.

My love of Mother Nature is one of the most important loves in my life. It sustains me when I am sad. Speaks to my soul when I least expect it. And is one of my main connections with my Higher Power. My intuition. The Universe. God. Over the years I have surrounded myself with ways to heighten my connection with my Earth Mother by being more present, more observant, and creating a tiny paradise out of my yard that is inviting and comfortable and safe for the creatures with whom I share it.

Just last week we discovered a baby bird while Doug was mowing the lawn. I was in the house when I heard Doug calling my name and when I got outside he was standing there looking down. On the ground, at his feet, and just inches from certain death at the hands of the lawnmower sat a noisy, insistent, baby bird. I looked around for a nest, for his mama, and found nothing. My instinct was to save him. So I reached down and the little guy ran as fast as his little legs would take him, flapping his little wings in an effort to fly. I laughed and finally was able to scoop him up and cradle him in the palm of my hand. After a minute or so he stopped struggling and settled down. He was soothed by my voice and snuggled in. All I could think of was Dr. Seuss and I wondered if my new friend was thinking, “Are You My Mother?” He was clearly hungry and I had no idea what to give him. My intuition moved me to get a fresh strawberry, mash it up, and offer it to him. He gobbled it down as best he could, clearly loving it. I was in awe of this little miracle. I watched him and tried to picture what he might look like as an adult and again, my intuition kicked in and whispered, Baltimore Oriole. Sure enough, after checking with Google, I found a picture that looked just like him. Still, I had no idea how to care for him. So I called my friend Joan, a wildlife rehabber, and she came and took him to her house to care for him. He is doing very well and will soon be able to be released. This little guy brought such joy to my heart. My connection with Mother Nature personified.

All around me I find these kinds of reminders of my connection with the Universe. Saturday, I was driving home from food shopping and as I came around a corner I caught a glimpse of a young doe standing on the side of the road at the edge of a woods. I slowed down to watch her. She looked at me. Blinked. And with two graceful bounds, disappeared back into the woods. I wondered if she had a fawn waiting there.

This morning, I stepped out on my front stoop and breathed in the cool, moist air. The sun was up, promising a gorgeous day to come. As I sent up a silent prayer for such a stunning morning I heard a loud humming noise. Suddenly, right in front of my face, a ruby-throated hummingbird stopped and offered me the gift of his breathtaking beauty before flying over to the feeder set up in the garden just two feet from the stoop. He drank from the feeder for not more than 20 seconds, but it felt like another miracle from my Earth Mother.

From the time I was little, a love of the Earth and its creatures has been an integral part of who I am. Even though there have been times when I was pre-occupied with other things, I have always known the importance of getting back into the woods, or walking along the ocean, even weeding my garden as a means to soothe my soul and connect with the essence of life. I thank my parents for sharing their love of the earth with me and pray that my kids feel the same. Thank you God for another beautiful day.

I grew up in a very closely-knit neighborhood in small town America. All the kids played together, no matter what the age. We looked after each other. Kept watch over the littler ones. Climbed the big old pine trees, right up to the very top, where we could see for miles. Played tag and hide-and-go-seek. Had neighborhood baseball games. Played marbles and jacks. Ran through the woods. Had picnics in those same woods. Played outside all day long. Went home for dinner, then headed back outside until the street lights came on.

Everybody felt like family. And, like any family, we had our disagreements, our little fights. But nobody took them seriously. There was no drama. No knives or weapons or beat-downs. We’d run home, sometimes in tears, sometimes angry. Sleep on it. And go right back to playing the next day as if nothing had ever happened. All being forgiven.

As we got older, we kept each others’ secrets. Who had tried a cigarette. Who had ventured beyond the acceptable limits of the neighborhood and snuck down to the pond and stream down the street. Who had played spin-the-bottle for their first kiss. Nothing too serious and nothing too dangerous. We had all the innocence of the time to keep us safe and secure. It was pretty idyllic.

I know now that our parents had a lot to do with this. They were all pretty consistent with what we could and could not do in each others’ yards. They set limits and we listened. They had rules and we followed them. We listened to and respected each others’ parents as if they were our own. It was just the way things were in those days.

Over the years, some of the families ended up moving away. In fact there are only a few of the original families still in the old neighborhood. The elders are all in their early nineties and had been doing pretty well. Until this spring. This spring we lost two of them. It’s like losing a part of your heart. Part of your childhood. With each passing I’ve come to realize how precious time is. I look at my mother and father and think…they are amazing. They look fabulous….but I know, time will soon be catching up with them as well. As long as the others were still on this earth I could imagine that none of them would ever leave. I could imagine that they would live forever, keeping my sweet childhood memories, and thus, my heart, intact.

I know the time will come when it will be me and my siblings facing the loss. And, at this point, it will be sooner rather than later. That’s just the realty of life. I can feel the sadness well up inside when thinking about how our friends have to grieve, feeling a keen sense that it is more than just sadness for their loss. I am feeling my loss before it has even happened. Wondering how will I ever make it through a day without the familiar sound of my mother’s musical voice when she answers the phone. What will I do when I cannot talk to my father with his twinkling Irish eyes? How can life possibly go on?

At the same time, I know it will. And I know I will be OK. Because if I am not OK, they will kick my ass. From wherever they are. Heaven. Another dimension of life. It won’t matter. They will kick my ass. Trust me.

One of the reasons I so love living where I live is that I am so close to the Cape Cod Canal. I love that body of water. You can’t swim in it, but if you are lucky enough to have a boat you can trail along the calm water from Buzzards Bay to Sandwich and enjoy the beauty from the deck. I am not so lucky as to have a boat but I really don’t mind. I am content to walk along the paved service road and get my fix.

My love affair with the canal started about 25 years ago. We used to camp at Bourne Scenic Park and spent hours walking through the park and down to the water. With a cooler and a couple of chairs we’d spend the day people watching, boat watching, napping and leaving the world behind. Once the kids came we’d take them down to the base of the Bourne Bridge at low tide and look for sea creatures like stoic starfish and scuttling crabs. We’d collect rocks and fill the sand bucket with our treasures. The living creatures we always put back but the rocks and stones became part of our family history.

As the kids got older we’d bike from one end of the canal to the other. They would bring their friends to camp with us. Campfires, s’mores, rummy, word games, chess, scrabble – our days and evenings were spent in a contented, albeit noisy and boisterous, haze. Nobody looked at the clock. Trips to the camp store were frequent culminating in a last walk down to get ice cream after supper. Bedtimes were random. Breakfast was sumptuous. It was truly heaven.

Nowadays the kids have grown. We’ve sold the camper. But I still find the canal to be a place of solace and joy. It can be cool and windy, sometimes it’s downright raw, but it doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t matter what season it is. This past winter I witnessed a rare sight when the canal was covered with ice floes. I had to get some pictures of that. It doesn’t happen all that often. Some mornings the fog is so thick you can’t even see the water. Some mornings it is so crystal clear that the sunlight dancing off the diamond-tipped waves is so brilliant you have to look away for a minute. In any case there are not many places I’d rather be.

One morning this spring I was taking a walk along the canal. The fog was a living thing blanketing the water in vaporous mists and the sky looked like rain. The bridges were as ghosts swirling in these mists. One moment there they were, the next simply vanished. The swoosh of ducks landing in the water made an eerie sound as you couldn’t see them in the fog. Although the campground was not yet open the scent of wood smoke from last fall lingers, a promise for the coming season. I walked a couple of miles that morning, breathing in the sweet salt air, the elixir of life. I watched the water almost stop moving as the tide began to turn. Watched a great blue heron, prehistoric in its beauty and form, stalk its breakfast with quiet determination. It was cool and I pulled my sweatshirt closer and began to walk a little faster. The air had changed. And just as I got to my car it began to rain. All I could do was smile.

There is something about collecting things that tugs at my soul. Books. Music. Rocks. Shells. Crystals. Broken hearts. Stray animals. You name it and I have, or have had at some point in my life, a collection.Throughout my home there are clear glass jars in all sizes and shapes filled with seashells and sea glass. I have books and CD’s on shelves, in bookcases, on the mantle of my fireplace. I have containers of sand dollars that date back 12 years or more, waiting for me to use them for a creative project of some kind or another. There are rocks, some smooth, some heart-shaped, some rough, but all caught at my heartstrings for some reason or another.  I have the shadows of broken hearts, some my own, some of people I love, stored safely in compartments in my soul. I started collecting crystals when I was in my twenties and have them displayed in glass pudding cups and ceramic ash trays and clear glass candy dishes on my windowsills and bedside table and anywhere else I can find  a spot where they will fit.

If my mom would have allowed it I would have had a collection of wild animals in my room. As a kid I was so desperate for a pet of my own that I would bring home leopard frogs and salamanders and toads, begging to be allowed to keep them. With a kind and gentle “no” my mom would make me return these creatures to the wild. She seemed to understand my need for something to take care of, but there were just too many kids and not enough room for pets in our house. So she never yelled at me or made me feel bad about wanting to keep my wild friends. She would just say “no” and that was that.

As soon as I could, after moving out on my own, I got a dog. But one dog was not enough. I got a female Bassett hound, knowing I was going to breed her and have litters of puppies. Collections of puppies. And deep down, I knew I would keep some of these puppies. And I did. When all was said and done, I kept two puppies from each litter and then bought a male Bassett hound to continue breeding. In the end, I had to give them all away.

Over the past few years I have become a collector of strays. Cats, in particular. We seem to live in an area where cats are dropped off and somehow, they seem to find their way into my yard. I have taken in four stray cats so far. Only one is still with us. A crippled, gray tiger who took quite a while to warm up to us, but is now the queen of the house. Beating up the dog, a rescue of course, then nuzzling up for affection, she is fickle but loves us.

I am not sure what it is that drives me to keep things as I do. I don’t believe I am compulsive about it. I don’t have my collections cataloged or set up in any particular order around the house. You don’t have to walk over or around my collections so I am not a hoarder. But when you walk into my house you know. You feel me. You can see my personality. The things I value. The things in which I find beauty. The things that bring me joy. I guess these things are just the outward expression of me. My life. My heart. My soul. And I am OK with that.