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It’s going on eleven years since my parents were killed. Most nights my dad comes to me in dreams.  He doesn’t really do much, just shows up and hangs around doing whatever I am doing in the dream.  I don’t dream about my mom much, but when I do she is always at the beach.  And she always seems happy. 

At first that didn’t make any sense to me.  My mother was raised on the shores of Northern Ireland and had almost died in a riptide as a child. She had a fear of the water and bathed in inches of water.  She was terrified of the ocean. So why is she always near the ocean in my dreams?

In real life, I only saw my mother at the ocean once. It was in Mexico and I’m not sure how old I was when we went there on a family trip. In the photos I was still a head taller than my brother and had a little girl body in my bathing suit.  

It was my first trip to the ocean. I swam out to the waves that would break over my body. The first time I was caught by a wave I felt like I had gotten caught in the spin cycle of a washing machine of epic proportions.  I was drowning, but fully aware of my coming demise.  I remember saying goodbye to my dog, my brothers, my parents, and my grandpa. Then the wave was gone and I was lying waterlogged in inches of sea foam and hard-packed sand.  I struggled up and went and sat on my towel by my mother.  She was reading a magazine.  I thought about telling her that I almost drown, but figured she wouldn’t let me back in the water, so instead I took a sip of my Pepsi and ran to the water’s edge to tell Kevin.  He had embraced being swept up in the waves and said it was body surfing and he showed me to turn to face the beach and then to paddle like mad to stay on top.  He was younger, but never had any fear.  

Our hotel in Acapulco had a swimming pool with a cascading waterfall at the deep end.  My brother came up with the idea of climbing to the top of it and diving off.  He coaxed me to the top to take my own plunge.  He even got my father to do it.  And talked my mom to come into the shallow water and we held her hands and let her use our swim floats.  She was shaking, but she sat on the steps with the water up her knees and splashed water over her arms and neck.  Kevin and I thought we had won a prize getting our mom in the water.  

That vacation in Mexico was my best childhood memory.  Dad used his Spanish to find us the best food and got us into places tourists didn’t go. Mom wasn’t cooking or cleaning or trying to get me to be a girly, girl.  She didn’t let her fear stop us from experiencing the seashore, or the epic pool. My brother was beside me, making me a little braver and pulling me into his adventures. That’s when I fell in love with the exact place where the sky meets the ocean. 

I realize that now when I see my dreams of my parents at the beach it is for my comfort, not theirs.  I see my dad deep sea fishing and my mom relaxing in the sun with the horizon before them, and I am at peace.

Maybe that’s what love does after it has nowhere left to go—it rearranges itself into something you can visit. Not as it was, with all its edges and fears and unfinished conversations, but as something wider, softer. A place where the things that frightened us no longer have power.

My mother, who once feared the ocean, sits easily beside it now. Not because she changed, but because I needed her to. Because somewhere in me, I am still that child coming up for air, still wanting to turn and say, Did you see that? Am I going to be okay?

And in these dreams, the answer is always yes.

She doesn’t have to speak it. It’s there in the way she faces the water without flinching, in the way the light rests on her shoulders, in the quiet permission to come closer to the edge of things.

Today, she would have been ninety-five.

I imagine her there—on that endless shore where the sky meets the ocean—unafraid, unhurried, and whole. And I understand now that the gift she gave me wasn’t just that one perfect trip, or even the courage to wade in. It was something steadier: the ability to return, again and again, to a place where love outlasts fear.

So I meet her there.

And for a little while, I am not missing her.

Philadelphia is one of my favorite cities to visit. Every place I travel has energy–Alaska is majestic–Oregon is wild–the Philippines are generous–and Philadelphia is vibrant. It is a city of history and art. People talk fast and loud and offer up opinions unsolicited. Maybe it seems brusque and busy, maybe a little dangerous and dirty, but Philadelphia makes me feel alive and awake.

Musical theater took me to Philadelphia on this trip. First off, I am not a musical theater freak, but I have a healthy appreciation born from my experiences in high school. I never performed, but I spent a lot of time backstage painting sets and helping with the design elements. In fact, I used to dream that one day I’d move to Broadway and paint sets. So when a friend of mine from high school co-wrote the musical “Starstruck,” there was no question about flying out for the world premiere in New Hope, PA.

My friend, Mary Ann Stratton wrote “Starstruck” with a Tony award winning actress, Beth Malone. One of the Indigo Girls, Emily Saliers wrote the music. While the musical has only been on stage for about two weeks, it has already made a huge splash in the New York Times. All of this is impressive, but I am not surprised. I have known Mary Ann since I was four years old, and she has big energy and I have always believed that she could make anything happen.

When we were in high school, she’d pull up in my driveway in her ghetto fabulous Pinto and we’d set off for a movie or fries at McDonald’s and a whole adventure would unfold that was always unexpected and usually hilarious and unbelievable at the same time. Mary Ann carried drama with her the same way others bring snacks or sunglasses. Through all those adventures, we formed a bond that years and miles never erased. Seeing her name up on the building marquee made me feel so proud. I know how long this road has been for her and it is an honor to see her dazzle in the light.

Even more exciting than the musical to me was just being able to hang out in my favorite city with my friend. In a typical Mary Ann and Michelle fashion, it got off to a weird start. She put in the address to pick me up without a city and Google Maps took her to New Jersey, then back over the bridge and through the heart of the city out to the suburbs before we connected. While I was waiting, I left my wallet in a flowerpot and had to backtrack to get it. We just laughed because this is exactly how we roll when we are together. We saw the Liberty Bell and the Love sign, checked out all the fun booths and food at Reading Terminal Station and marveled at the murals decorating the skyline. We talked the whole time, but never finished a conversation because we kept interrupting ourselves to ogle over what was right in front of us.

Hours after she dropped me off at the airport, it occurred to me that we might have been in a big city, celebrating big accomplishments, but we are the same two small town girls just spending time doing what we always have done–wandering around, talking over each other, laughing at our own chaos, and soaking up whatever happens to be in front of us.

Maybe that’s why Philadelphia feels so right to me. It’s a city that doesn’t try to smooth out its edges. It’s loud and messy and full of history, but also full of people chasing big, improbable dreams. Standing there looking at my friend’s name on a theater marquee, I realized that the distance between a small-town driveway and a city stage isn’t as impossible as it once seemed. Sometimes it’s just a long string of strange adventures, wrong turns, and good stories with the right people.

Blogging on the road is usually part of my travel plans. I was in Philadelphia in October and didn’t write about it, and I am in Philly again, and writing about New Jersey. I came this weekend to see my friend’s musical that she co-wrote. Another friend of mine from high school also lives out here, so it’s like a mini reunion, but I am squeezing in one or two solo road trips.

Just in case anyone is confused about geography, Philadelphia is an hour away from the beach. If I can get any chance to go to a beach, I am going. When I told the bus driver I was going to the beach, he gave me a look like I was crazy. It was cold, misty, rainy and there is still mounds of snow piled up from a recent storm. I did not care, the ocean is the ocean.

I rented a car and headed on the expressway toward the Jersey shore. Again, I found myself in this place of total nirvana–behind the wheel with the radio up is like church for me. A peace settles in and the possibilities seem as endless as the sky, except in Jersey, the fog creates a dense tunnel framed with pine trees–more of a misty portal than a wide open vista. The landscape doesn’t matter. It’s concentrating on the road ahead that sets me free.

There are lots of beach towns in New Jersey and they all have their own personality. I had my sights set on Asbury Park, because well, Bruce Springsteen. I pulled right up to the old building with the murals where the carousel was housed and I knew I had arrived.

Here is the great thing about being an all around the year beach lover. No crowds. When I stepped out of the car, I could hear the Atlantic. It was roaring. The tide was coming in and big waves were forming and breaking over dark, black rocks and had a moment of hesitation–the historic boardwalk, or the sand?

The ocean won and I headed down to the water. I walked for a couple of hours, just marveling at the waves and the sand and the rock. The tide was coming in, so each wave came in closer and higher. There was one brave surfer taking advantage of the high water and one photographer trying to capture the dolphins that were jumping far out in the gray. For the first time in a long time, I wished that I had a better camera with me.

On my return trip, I took in the Boardwalk. I always can imagine what beach places are like in the summer by their winter bones. Asbury Park isn’t completely hibernating. The music history keeps it drowsy, but not asleep. The Paramount auditorium is massive, ocean weathered, but gothic, impressive, echoing with grandeur and greatness. I saw the Stone Pony and the Wonder Bar and all the amazing murals. There was a band playing, even though the crowd was more like a smattering of dog walkers and locals out for a lark. I could feel the crowds around me though-it’s like spirit of people gathered to see the Doors and the Stones never really left.

I didn’t take the same route back to Philadelphia, instead I went through Atlantic City. I thought I might drop into a casino and play a dollar or two for mom’s luck. Instead, I just parked in the heart of the city and returned a phone call to one of my cousins. We’ve had a couple of deaths in our family and just because I am at the beach doesn’t mean my family isn’t in my heart.

I cannot deny the road is pulling me. There is something about the freedom and the ocean that fills my soul that nothing else ever has. I used to think my family anchored me to a place, but I am questioning that now.

Maybe my family isn’t an anchor at all.

Maybe they are more like a series of buoys, guiding me in and out of the currents.

The expression is…March comes in like a lion…well, I never loved that expression. It implies turbulence and storms. Lions in reality lie around in the sun a lot gathering strength for their one best shot of a good hunt. But I have to say, this March is living up to the old expression.

First of all, I started the month off by painting a store window. In a previously written blog, I mentioned the new location of a local yarn store. The owner asked if I would paint the windows because it may take a while to get a new sign. I love painting windows, so no problem. But I got a slow start because I have lost my rhythm for painting big projects. My truck is not working, so I have to approach the job without my ladders and gear. And, in general I wasn’t sure how it would it would all come together. I decided just to start with cartoon sheep–simple, fun, whimsical. A man came up and asked me if the new shop was a mattress store. I stenciled in “yarn shop.” I painted tassels across the top of the windows and stood back and looked at it and decided it had a faint Asian flair–maybe a Chinese mattress store, but I didn’t have time to fix it because I needed to drive up to Boulder.

About a month ago I wrote a script for a production for a literary show entitled Listen to Your Mother which is a live show in Boulder. My script was chosen for an in-person audition. I was excited, but the trip to Boulder was bizarre. In Colorado Springs, the rain started. My windshield wiper was showing signs of needing to be replaced and the other one wasn’t working at all. I had no idea why. When did it break, anyway? I didn’t stop and try to fix it; my weather app said the rain was going to stop, so I kept going and made it to Boulder early. I drove around a bit in an area now called NOBO. Boulder is SO pretentious. I started remembering some horrible things that happened to me while I was in college. I actually flashed on this image of myself in a black t-shirt standing on a corner with a plastic hospital ID on my wrist, trying to figure out who to call to pick me up when I didn’t have a quarter in my pocket and I wasn’t sure where my car was. I don’t think about college much, and to be transported back in time like that, felt really real, both upsetting and scaring me a bit. I almost started crying, but it was time for the audition. I felt so off my game. Even though I was supposed to stay with a friend afterwards, I just drove home. I drove straight into a swirling, wet snowstorm with a floppy windshield and almost zero disability. I don’t know what it is about going on road trips and ending up in dark weather vortexes that make me wonder if my last will and testament are up to date. I did make it home safe once again.

I didn’t get into the show. I got a nice rejection note, blah, blah. I was a little disappointed, but also okay, because driving up to Boulder a few times might have been a big commitment and maybe a show like that isn’t where my writing is supposed to take me right now.

I did start wondering about WHERE I am supposed to go though. I feel like I have been retired three months now and a direction should be coming clearer. Why isn’t it, though?

Then I got on a plane to Philadelphia. One of childhood my friends wrote a musical. I didn’t want my confusion to diminish how proud I am of her success, so on the way to Philadelphia, I tried to prepare myself for being in the moment for my friend.

Philadelphia is only about sixty miles to Atlantic City. I always want to see the ocean if I can and I had the first day alone. I thought I could get myself to the beach, delight in waves and sea foam, walk in the sand and then get to the musical. I didn’t know trains don’t run until the afternoon during the week, so I found myself on a bus. A very slow bus. After about two hours, I’d only gone half way. I realized that I would not be able to get back in time for the play, so I decided to return to the city. It reminded me of Demon Copperhead, when the character tries to get to ocean, but crappy things keep happening to him.

As I was looking out the bus window at endless strip malls and row houses and graffiti, it felt like being in a music video I had seen back in the early nineties. Out of nowhere I remembered that Bruce Springsteen is from New Jersey and all of a sudden, I realized I didn’t want to go to Atlantic City anyway.

I thought about college and Boulder again. I spent hours listening to music, trying to figure out my way back to myself. One summer I discovered Bruce–not the Born in the USA Bruce–the gritty, unfiltered Bruce. I bought all his music at an Albums on the Hill and then deep dived into his lyrics. I had a Springsteen t-shirt that I wore for so long that it became a rag. I still have it folded into a plastic bag, because for some reason holding on to that scrap of fabric was an important reminder of my survival. I googled how to get to Asbury Park.

So maybe March really does come in like a lion. Not the dramatic, roaring, charging, killing kind, but the real kind. The lion that spends long hours stretched in the sun waiting for that one, decisive moment.

So far this month has felt a little like that–cartoon sheep–painting on glass, a surface that is streaky and difficult–a strange drive through a city I no longer recognize to unbury painful memories of a forgotten time–a kind rejection letter–a drive toward an ocean that I didn’t see. None of it felt like progress if life is measured by neat accomplishments or tidy plans.

But somewhere between the swirling snow, the Jersey strip malls, and the memory of that worn-out Springsteen t-shirt, I remembered something important. There was a time in my life when music and words helped me claw my way back to myself. Back then I didn’t know where I was going either. I just knew that surviving meant listening closely to the voice that said keep going.

Maybe retirement isn’t about immediately discovering a clear new direction. Maybe it’s more like those lions in the sun—resting, watching, remembering who you are, and waiting for the moment when the next right thing appears.

For now, I’ll paint the windows. I’ll write the stories. And if the ocean wants to wait for me a little longer, that’s okay too.

When I was growing up, we had a den with a stone fireplace. In the evenings, we’d gather together as family in front of one of those great family sit-coms-like Happy Days or The Jeffersons. My dad would usually lie on the floor with his feet up on the couch and fall asleep, and my mom would sit in the corner of the couch, her hands busy with something, embroidery or knitting. I loved watching the glint of the firelight reflect off of her flashing needles. I always thought I’d learn to knit, but fiber arts was never really my jam.

When I inherited an art classroom, the yarn was a snarly mess and and I didn’t really know what to do with the cardboard looms, or big, plastic needles, and for awhile I decided that yarn stuff was craft, not art, and I ignored it.

Then I went on a field trip with the fourth graders and learned how to spin wool. I realized that spinning wool, making yarn, and turning the yarn into something beautiful and useful was an opportunity to connect art with history and I began a weaving unit. I knew the basics of weaving, but I just had to be better than a fourth graders.

About a year or so ago, a few of my friends talked me into a knitting class at the local Yarned & Dangerous store. I’d been in the store, because I like color and pattern and texture, but in my head I didn’t consider myself a fiber artist. I went to the class more to be with my friends than to learn a new skill; I didn’t know that the store would change my life.

Yarned & Dangerous is not just a store; it’s a live colorful, warm, inviting community. You are greeted when you walk in the door and welcomed into experiencing the space. There is a big table where people gather to knit, crochet, weave, or just sit a moment and take in the vibe.

The owner of the store, Tammy Cox, has built a rich inventory of all things fiber and she is kind, patient and helpful. She personally helped me knit a sweater, because I always have to start big with everything I try, so I picked a sweater that was made in pieces and stitched together. It took me five months to figure it all out, but I had help at every turn. I call it the village sweater, because it took “the village” to grow it. It’s not perfect, but I love it because I became part of the community during its creation.

Recently, the store has moved across the street. Tammy and her husband Aaron have worked countless hours reburbishing the Old Taggert building downtown into the new yarn space. From the ceiling to the floor, they have stripped, sanded, painted, refit, redid, re-everything and transformed a cold, cavernous skeleton of a warehouse into a kaleidoscope of color. I have been in the building a few times during the transition, but I walked in on opening day and was completely blown away with the beauty. Even though the merchandise hasn’t really changed the space is big enough so all the colors and textures really command their own spotlights. It’s honestly kind of magical. It reminds me of those cozy evenings I had as a kid, surrounded by people I love, where everyone knew my name.

During this time of transition, while I am learning to breathe and heal and listen to my heart, Yarned & Dangerous has become my refuge. Even though, I still consider myself more of a painter or mosaic artist, I’ve come to understand that community doesn’t have to be rooted in one medium, or even one place. Yarned & Dangerous isn’t about just yarn, or any single form of making; it’s about connection, courage, and the shared act of creating in a world that often asks artists to work alone. It allows for restlessness, for movement, for new landscapes both literal and internal. Rather than anchoring me, it travels with me—an open table instead of a fixed studio, a gathering point instead of a destination. In this way, Yarned & Dangerous becomes exactly what I need in this season of life: a creative home that leaves the door open, invites others in, and still lets the road call my name.

I am so grateful that I stumbled into this place. Yarned & Dangerous has helped me realize that I can still grow and learn and thrive. I feel fortunate and proud to know that it is part of my community.

I feel like I am living in a kaleidoscope of emotion. Each day, the dial spins and everything mixes up and I land on a mood of the day. One day is despair. One day determination. Another day is elation. It would be nice to land on a pattern that isn’t a complete surprise everyday.

My son and the orphaned pitbull moved out. I realized what a huge responsibility a dog is. I guess since most of my adult life I have been caring for multiple people at any given moment, a dog seems minor–food, exercise, affection, a vet visit now and then, maybe a trip to the groomer’s a few times a year. But for a schizophrenic man who struggles on the daily with basic life skills, I realized paying attention to a dog might be asking a lot. But my son says, it’s been good. The dog forces him out of bed; he has to go outside with her and he has to take her everywhere so it makes him think about where he is going and how he is spending money, and just in general living more purposefully. I am cautiously optimistic that the dog is a good decision. I am not going to lie, feeling like I have my house back feels like a victory. And my cat is thrilled.

So about the despair. I have continued to visit my friend in the nursing home and lately it’s been rough. When I arrived at my last visit, she was in tears and said that she wanted to die. I did somethings to help her be more comfortable, but I hated leaving her. I went home and was absolutely destroyed. I hate being witness to the breakdown of her body.

I remembered when I was seven and had an appendix attack, she came over and helped my mom take me to the hospital. I was in so much pain that I couldn’t walk and she carried me from car to the hospital. When my parents died, her number was the first I called, because she has always been so strong and known the right thing to do to fix things. And now I am doing nothing for her, just watching her suffer. It is soul crushing.

Sometimes throwing myself into an art project or a writing project can cheer me up, so I did both. I have picked up weaving and I am in the middle of making a pillow and a pair of shoelaces. The pillow at least will make a good gift, but the shoelaces? I don’t even think I actually have shoes that tie. I wear boots, flip-flops, or Vans. But warping the shoelace loom was surprisingly calming. In theory, I can make other things on it–bands, belts, guitar straps. I was wondering about horse halters. I could make decorative show halters and name my brand–Showing on a Shoelace. I know this isn’t an idea to carry me into retirement. I have no desire to be one of those women dressed in tie-dye muumuus and big hats chatting up customers at craft fairs, but I do like weaving.

I also have been learning a bit about screen writing. Here is the truth, I have movies in my head. I have never felt like I could admit that before, but why not? Putting stories with images seems like a nice blend of all my skills. I started a short story a long time ago about a stagecoach driver hiding from the Civil War by coming West. He meets some characters on a trip and learns that courage isn’t about waving flags and men shouting about what they’d die for. Courage is quieter, more about moving ahead and keeping the wheels turning. I never felt the story was done, but I had an idea about it being a film and all the missing pieces fell into place. I finished my first draft of the screenplay and I was so pumped afterwards. It felt like finding the right road after years of searching.

I am not sure how all this relates, other than I don’t think any of it is random. The dog leaving. The quiet house. Watching someone I love fade. Learning to weave, to write for screen, to imagine all the things that haven’t existed yet. I am holding endings and beginnings at the same time.

This is what making space look like. It’s not junking everything out, it’s rearranging things so that I can breathe. I am learning grief doesn’t cancel creativity, but creativity doesn’t erase grief. They sit side by side, turning slowly like colored glass in a kaleidoscope. I don’t know what will show up tomorrow, but, I’m here moving forward, keeping the wheels turning.

Some one told me yesterday, “It’s your year, horse lover.” I don’t know about that, but the first day of the Year of the Fire Horse was full of absolute good fortune.

First off, I just flat out asked Shayne’s landlord if he could keep the dog at his apartment. She didn’t say no, instead she said she’d need to meet the dog. That immediately worried me because I can’t disguise that Stormi is a pitbull. I seriously considered some kind of safe sedative because she is so crazy when she meets someone, all excited and exuberant with tail wags and barks, like she is has been starved for attention her whole life. But instead I had a talk with her and told her to make a good impression. Shayne had a talk with her and took her for a two hour walk and we gave her dog biscuits. I honestly don’t know if she made a good impression, but the landlord said they could try. She asked for a big deposit, but Shayne and the dog are moving out. My cat will be relieved and I can have my house back.

I know the voices are hard for my son and living alone is challenging, but the dog is good for him and he needs to be independent and believe in himself. I would appreciate any good vibes or prayers for this arrangement to be successful. I am worried Stormi isn’t an apartment dog, but so far everything about her has surprised me, so here’s to her continuing to impress me.

The next amazing thing is–a script I wrote for “Listen to Your Mother,” made a first round of screenings and I was invited to do an in-person audition. LTYM is a pod cast/live show that is a literary event of original material about motherhood. I wrote a piece about hiking with my kids when they were younger. It kills.

When Shayne was doing stand up comedy before he got sick, I went to a lot of open mike nights and thought I could probably do it. I MEAN honestly, I stood in front of kids for thirty years saying inane things–I have been in training for comedy my whole life. So I am very excited to bring my best to the audition.

Finally, I was invited to spend the evening sharing a home cooked Chinese dinner with some people who became very special to me last year. I haven’t written much about my experience with the Chens, because it’s not my story to tell. But last year I had the privilege of helping out a family of four that were having difficulty with housing. I had watched them all grow up in my art classroom and knew about some of the struggles they had endured. I didn’t really do much, just offered them a roof for awhile and some transportation. It was an honor really because to witness their resilience and their strong love for each other made me realize that my problems were small. Sitting around the table and witnessing their growth and transformation filled me with pride and hope.

I once read that the Year of the Fire Horse is considered volatile–marked by upheaval and great change. Maybe this IS my year. At my core, I feel two undeniable truths: I’m burning away what no longer works, and I am choosing truth over comfort.

The Fire Horse doesn’t ask for permission–it runs. I’m embracing that untamed creative energy, carrying forward everything I’ve learned about resilience, strength, and love, and stepping fully into my own freedom.

I keep getting asked if I love retirement and why I am not blogging about my new life. The truth is that I am feeling a bit adrift. I know leaving the classroom was the right decision for me, but I didn’t leave because I was done working. I left because I was done teaching. I have literally worked since I was eleven years old (a paper route) and I am not sure exactly what comes next and it’s a little disconcerting. I am not regretful of my choice, just feeling a bit stalled or stuck at the crossroads.

It’s not like I don’t have things to do. I am supposed to be painting a mural on the river levee. I’d like to redo the mural at the church on 7th and Macon; it is looking shabby next to the new St. Cloud hotel rebuild. I have writing ideas and home projects to do. But what I have been doing is hanging out in nursing homes visiting old lady friends and witnessing what it is like to grow old and watch your autonomy and independence ebb away. I have been watching these women who were pillars of strength all my life be trapped in bodies that are breaking down. I see their rage and confusion. I show up with a bag of grapes or a handful of strawberries. I try to honor who they are at their core, but it’s depressing as hell. And then I think–is this my future–lonely days in front of games shows? I keep showing up because I hope that someone will be there for me, if that does happen. But then I come home, destroyed, and spend sleepless nights worried about the future.

I am not trying to hide from this depression or put a positive spin on it. I just ended a job I did for thirty years and it’s okay to have all the feelings about it. Aging is a reality and there all kinds of examples of how difficult and painful it can be. While I do feel that’s far in the future for me, it’s in my face right now and I am sad for my friends. And maybe a little for myself, because navigating this new path, is a bit like setting sail on a vast ocean with a life raft and a box of saltines. I am hoping it’s temporary and the right island is right over the horizon. I guess it’s my time to be still and discover what my heart sounds like and to follow the rhythm.

I am home from the writing trip. My return trip was harrowing. The weather in South Dakota is no joke. It snows–not deep, but the wind makes it drift. The wind pretty much makes everything worse. Fifteen degrees feels like minus a million below and the ice is a super weapon lying underneath the snow waiting silently for victims. I am not sure why the weather in South Dakota has not been on a list of America’s Most Dangerous. I loved the blowing snow when I was sitting in front of a cozy fireplace, when I tried to come home yesterday, not so much.

I wanted an early start, but backing out of a steep driveway with other cars parked haphazardly was my first mistake. The ice was so severe that my rented Jeep slid off the driveway into an embankment. Maybe if the area had been clear, it would have been easier to extract myself, but I landed inches from the electrical box, sewer clean out and rebar posts marking these spots. I got out to take a look and I fell hard on the ice, jarring my elbow, hip and head on the ground. I really did think my elbow was broken.

When the AAA driver got there, I could see him calculating the angles and the driveway before he even got out of the truck. He had chains for his boots. It took him a while to get my car off the embankment. He’d inch it and then check to see how close he was to all the electric/sewer boxes. He told me “this driveway is sheer ice,” so he landed the car in a safe spot for me. Two hours later than I wanted to leave, I was on my way.

My second mistake was that I took the shortest route back to home. Highway 85 goes through the beautiful Black Hills, over a mountain pass, except in the snow, it’s basically just a ribbon of ice. I had already fallen off one mountain, so I crawled along that highway for quite some time. I’d skipped breakfast, but had an unshelled boiled egg in my pocket. When I fell, the egg smashed, so it was in my pocket, the smell did not really mix with my headache, so when I reached civilization, I threw away the egg, aired out the car and got some food. I figured if I did have a concussion it was mild and I’d probably just be told to rest and I was sitting in the car, that’s kind of resting and I wanted to get home and watch at least one playoff game with my son, so I kept driving.

I had a lot to think about. First off, writing classes, writing retreats, and other writing communities might not be that helpful for me at this point. I know how to write; I just need to do it. Second of all, I realized in ten years, I have lost my parents, two dogs, a cat, my sister, my right breast, and my son to schizophrenia. He is still here, just the potential of his funny, bright, creative nature has changed. And my daughter. I can’t even write about how painful her silence is. The sky might be endless, but I am not sure about the capacity for human grief. I think I might be there. I don’t want to write about these things anymore. Ignoring them won’t make them go away, but not giving them anymore ink might take some of their power away.

The roadtrip and leaning into my voice really made me realize the freedom that I have given myself. It’s just as easy to acknowledge the good, the joy, the beauty in things. I made it home safely. I have nothing to do today, nothing to plan for, nothing to worry about. Nothing feels pretty damn amazing. So I am leaning into pretty damn amazing.