Mother’s Day

Part I

I wrote about Mother’s Day, but the draft was lost.

Perhaps the Universe was suggesting I release the hurt, anger, and disappointment that so often accompanies these parents’ days?


Part II

I am neither mother nor wife.

I do not need these roles

to define me,

to structure my existence,

to validate my being,

except when I do.

Part III

I am ok,

as is.


“Are you ok?” worry infusing each word.

Perplexed, “I’m fine”.

“Well, I read your blog.”

Mind racing, screaming silently, “What alarm was triggered?”

“Oh, that was just….” and I provided context – the trickling, incessant daily minutia eroding joy, its rubble blocking light and air.

For years, scribblings have been furtive – stashed in drawers, boxes, guarded, inaccessible. Judged inadequate, self-indulgent, and valueless by author and reader wrapped into one.

And now, this.

Exposed  (published !?) on the web.

Outing myself as wannabe writer.

Trusting that this part of me – only recently witnessed by my one love, friends, and strangers – will not wither in the light.

Fearing that my judgments of inadequacy are accurate.

Praying that such damnation is wrong.

Scribbling furtively and furiously, still.

No worries, I won’t quit my day job.

© CMD 2015



Still.                                                    Get Busy.
Body quiet.                                    Do Something Important.
Mouth silent.                                 Listen!
Eyes resting.                                  Watch!

                  You didn’t get anything done today?

You wasted an entire day?!

You can’t accomplish anything that way!





As. Is.

Quietly. Me.

So long silent…

So long silent.

Though part of me aches to put words to light — those thoughts and emotions yearning to feel the sun,
another part hides in everyday shadows.

Buried by everyday – the rubble of busyness, the cacophony of electronic assaults, the paralysis of despair.

Ok, so that’s a bit of hyperbole.

I want to spend time in thought, weave thoughts into words, put forth these afghans for others to toss upon the ground for a stolen siesta, wrap up in for warmth and comfort, spread across the sand and lounge in the sun’s brilliance.

To achieve such,    I    Must     Write

for me, for you, for life. (First hyperbole, now melodrama — sounds like English 101. How trite.)

Regrettably these lofty thoughts seem contradictory to the compulsory academic writing that demands my attention and haunts me … for at least another year.

But perhaps, I will nurture this wee rebellion, this self-indulgent (or self-fulfilling, depends on one’s perspective) escape from should do.

Tapping out thoughts once more – from me to you.

(c) CMD / Creekside Whispers 2015

Loss and love

Loss – that deep, heart-wrenching, unfathomable loss – cannot occur without love.

Love – that unconditional choice to care with commitment, platonic or romantic (not the obligatory family-so-I-should love) – risks all.

Great love, great loss.

My best friend’s birthday is July 4th. She died eleven years ago; Angie will always be my best friend. We shared our worlds for two decades. We were by each other’s sides literally and figuratively through loves and betrayals, health and diagnoses, laughter and tears. Her passing still hurts my heart. Great love, great loss.

My longtime companion died three weeks ago; I took her to the vet and let her go. For over thirteen years that little dog and I were inseparable. Each night she cuddled against me, expanding to sizes far greater than expected of a wee pup. When we road tripped, she slept between my neck and the headrest. We played, walked in the woods, snuggled, shared popcorn. She kept all my secrets – telling no one of my dreams, fears, sorrows, or disappointments. She cast her vote on the people in our lives, sharing long-term attention only with those deemed worthy. The last year or so, she slipped in and out. But when she knew me, we were happy together. At this moment, all I seem to do is cry. Great love, great loss.

And now, there’s a person with whom I want to share the next 49 years; we had one year already. This year together has included love and loss. Though they’ll not meet, I imagine that Angie would have approved, and they would have shared many a laugh at my expense. The little dog did approve, happily lavishing attention upon this new person in our life and walking all over the big dog who is part of the package. The legend of romantic love always perplexed me – its authenticity unsure, its capriciousness unrelenting. Courageous or foolish, maybe both, I took a chance to open my heart to that possibility. Great love.

Blessings – so much love, joy, caring.

Selfishly perhaps, I want only love, no more loss, please.
But neither exists in isolation.

So, knowingly, I choose to risk my chances on friendship.
I choose to risk my chances on the next 49 years and this romantic love.

And, most likely, I will choose to risk my chances on another little dog.