Silent Heroes

Silence. All around me right now, I hear the quiet of my dog stretched out on the rug. The breaths in and out as my husband sleeps in the chair. The fake fire flames quietly dancing in the light. The sun filling the space behind me.  

It is a comfort, this silence. 

In our world filled with chants and gun fire, this silence feels blessed. Like a pause before the next shocking burst of evil. Evil that must be stopped at all costs. I have marched many times in my life for peace and equal rights. I thought we’d all won. I am so mad and sad to see other’s fears kill innocent loving people. 

It is grace, this life.

I sit here heartbroken and hopeful. Terrified and tenderly listening to life with gratefulness. My husband is alive and recovering. A few weeks ago, I was sitting on the floor, begging him to open his eyes. Tapping his face in desperation while I dialed 911. 

He was just making breakfast. I was pouring juice when I felt a nudge, a tingling, an alarm. I looked up and his face was losing color as he stirred the eggs. I went over, put my hands on his upper arms and guided him down. Down to the floor, where he slumped. 

It is strength, this breath. 

They came in with calm strength and went straight to work. Oxygen brought breath back. Monitors checked the beating heart. A woman in uniform asked what happened while others revived him and asked him questions. 

Soon, we were on our way to the hospital. They talked to him in the back. I could hear him respond. They took him to emergency. I was told to go to the waiting room. Soon we were together again in a small room with beeping machines. 

It is relief, this help. 

Of course, there were tests and waiting. But he was awake, talking and getting fluids. He tested positive for RSV, this year’s flu. They found a ‘blip’ on his heart monitor and they wanted to keep him and check it out. So he stayed overnight.

I went home alone. But we texted. He had a good salmon dinner. I managed terrible microwaved eggs and cheese. I cried tears of relief. 

It is still scary, this recovery. 

But we are ok. He eats and reads and walks around the house. Each day picking up the pace and doing stairs. I take his blood pressure and he has sent in his heart monitor. He’s been to his PCP and all is going as expected when you have this flu. 

I am the one who cooks now. We’ve traded off on this task over the years due to work schedules. He’s a much better breakfast cook than I am, but I’m learning. Last year, he had to do it all for me and now, I do it all for him. We’ve always shared the home turf equally.  

It is horrible, this violence all around us. 

But it is it also wonderful, this help from strangers. 

These dedicated men and women who save lives everyday. They are the true heroes. They are true Americans. They are the ones who show us who we truly are with their compassion, courage and strength. 

2026 Word of the Year: Relief

I’ll be the first to admit, this new word of the year seems odd. Especially considering the times we are living in right now. Or rather the time we are enduring right now. 

It’s chaotic. 

It’s awful. 

It’s scary. 

It’s the exact opposite of relief. 

The opposite of the word relief is: distress, extreme anxiety, sorrow, or pain.

Yeah. I know I feel it. We all do. 

So why in the world did the universe send me the word: relief?

I do not know. All I know is it’s there blinking at me: Relief. Relief. Relief. 

Now it’s up to me to figure it out. My best guess, like maybe all of us, I want and need relief from all of this crazy. But it feels deeper, like a touchstone, a power or maybe a place to land.

Rest and relief. 

The last few years have been filled with doctor visits, antibiotics and pain. What was diagnosed as a bladder issue was, in fact, a colon issue. This required major surgery and, also, major recovery. I’m not good at resting, but I had to do it anyway. 

The challenge was to find ways to create as I recovered. I couldn’t throw on the wheel but I could draw and paint and crochet. So that’s what I did and it helped me heal and thrive. I took a free online drawing/painting session and had fun with crayons and watercolor and ink. When we were showing what we did at the end of class, one person said my painting felt to her like relief.

Real relief. 

On my way through recovery, I found my way back to where I started. Years ago, I made clay, metal and screening masks and showed them in galleries around town. I loved mask making and even taught classes for children and adults in schools and at a local art museum. 

One day in my studio, I realized while I couldn’t throw clay, I could roll it out into a slab. I made a small face and set it aside. More faces appeared and grew into flowers. 

It took me a while to figure it out but I finally got it. I was creating clay reliefs. My need to rest and recover had led me back to what I’ve always loved. Faces and Masks. 

And my new word of the year: Relief. 

My hope is that this year, in this country, we will all recover from this chaos. 

And that would be a real relief. 

Thank you 2025 Word of the Year: Thrive

 

I’ve had a hell of a few years from 2022 to 2025. Here’s a recap:

2022 - 4th of July flood in my house, damage took a year to repair. 

2023 - My husband got laid off. We lost income and health insurance. It took 6 months for me to get Social Security and Medicare. 

2024 - The year of Misdiagnosed Illness that ended in major surgery to repair. 

2025 - Recovery from surgery both physical and emotional. Didn’t know about PTSD

But I’m here. I survived. And that’s why I picked Thrive as last years word of the year. 

Because I wanted and needed and hoped, now I’d be able to Thrive, not just survive.   

And I did. 

It wasn’t easy or fun. There was still pain and physical limits. And after I worked my way through all that, I got hit upside the head with trauma. Now, I’d had surgery before: 2 C sections, 1 broken wrist, 1 skin cancer removal. But none of them hit me like this surgery did. Every little twinge sent me into the fear zone. 

And I understand it now, thanks to support from others who’ve been through it. And books about it. And, most importantly, thank you, my  Substack friends who have been down this rough road ahead of me and were here to shine a light for me to see by.  

Art as therapy. Throwing is out. 

After the surgery, I couldn’t do my art the same way anymore. I used to love throwing clay on the wheel. But it uses my abdominals and it was very uncomfortable. I had to let it go and move on. Honestly, now I know, it was time anyway.

I was gifted a wheel and kiln from a wonderfully supportive couple decades ago. They loved my copper work, saw my clay work and gave me a huge gift. I was a failure at throwing in high school. (Cue embarrassing clay incident: clay sailing off wheel and hitting the wall behind me. WTF) Yeah. I went back to ‘school’ and learned to throw. I even sold it at shows and galleries. 

But I’m not a production potter. What I truly love is sculpture and faces and masks. And over the months, my surgery recovery led me back to where I’d began. I didn’t realize it at first. I was just ‘goofing’ around and trying to do whatever my body would allow. 

Relief.

It all started with doodling. When I was still unable to do much, I was gifted with a set of sparkle gel pens and a drawing pad. Some days, all I could do was doodle. Maybe swish some watercolor paints around. And crochet. 

But I worked my way back to my studio. I had a little clay left, so I rolled it out and played around. Here’s what found me: drawings and watercolors coming to life in clay. What a weird idea, right? 

I made one, then another and another. 

Then a face appeared. It sat on the shelf, alone. Until one day, I looked up at the sunflowers in my kitchen and got an idea. 

Soon, in addition to the sunflower, a poppy, gingko and oak leave reliefs appeared. 

I’m not sure how or where I’m going to be able to show them. But I’m hoping  somewhere, somehow, someone will help make it happen. 

That these new pieces, along with me, will thrive. 

Celebrating Health

 

For the last two years, I’ve spent my holidays recovering from procedures and surgeries. It’s not been fun or easy. But I’m here. Sitting in my chair writing and looking at the twinkling white lights on my holiday tree. 

I’m alive. Even though some young doctor told me, “You remind me of my mother, there’s nothing wrong with you.” Yeah. Right. Major surgery was required but it took almost a year to get there. 

But I’m here. Now. And today, I’m snacking on homemade shortbread, cherry cake and  chocolate candies. 

Letting the light in. 

Remembering staying up into the wee hours sewing Winnie the Pooh characters into felt tree decorations for my little children. (They officially came from Santa.)

Packing up race cars, paints, books and a very tiny ‘Hungry Caterpillar’ to put under the tree for my children’s little children.

Sighing with relief. All is well. (Maybe not in our country right now). 

But right here. Right now. In my small space on this big planet. 

All is quiet. All is bright. 

And I am well.  

My Christmas wish: For everyone, everywhere to have enough food, warmth and love. 

And Health.

Now that’s really something to celebrate. 

I’m alive. 

And I’m thankful. 

‘

Now that’s really something to celebrate. 

Lean in.

  

I got a strong message the other day from my ‘tree’. With all the swirling politics and anger and fear around me, I knew I needed some wisdom. So I walked into the woods, planted my feet on the ground around the roots of one of my favorite Cedar trees. 

And I listened.

As I felt the familiar warmth radiate through my legs, up my back and into my shoulders, I waited quietly for the message. It doesn’t happen quickly. It waits for me to settle into the ground, quiet my mind and honor its presence. 

So I leaned in. 

As my feet absorbed the energy from the roots, my back and neck relaxed and my mind opened, I could sense the message was coming. And as usual, it was simple and powerful. 

And I heard. 

“Lean into the Good.”

Yes. Simple and clear and difficult all at the same time. Especially now. With all the turbulence and threats and fear around us, it’s hard to see anything good. But that’s the point, isn’t it? They want us to be mired in it all, spinning and swirling in fear. They feed off of it. I know, I can’t let that feed my thoughts.

I leaned in more. Head. Shoulders. Back. Legs. Feet. 

And I felt the change. The warmth. The light. The breath of light air. 

I inhaled it all deeply. 

The Strength. 

The Calm. 

The Good. 

It is the energy of the planet. 

It is the wisdom of the trees. 

Lean in. 

Feel the good. 

It’s there for me. 

For you. 

For all of us. 

Lean into the good.