Cleaning chore day here at our house. My husband mowed the lawn while I cleaned the house. I deep cleaned the living room — sweeping, mopping, and straightening up. I redecorated the mantle with seashells from trips to the beach. Hard to believe summer is over.

 I love the living room with the original wood floors that have lasted a century and a half. The floor to ceiling windows are nice too. 

I first saw the living room when I first saw this 1880 house. It had a dead lady’s things in it, but Aunt Billy (I refer to her as Aunt Billy because that is how a neighbor introduced her and it stuck). I have her grey Royal typewriter that I bought from her nephew. Aunt Billy was a writer and a chain smoker. #typewriters #cleaning #oldhomes #historichomes #chores #seashells -#oceanmuse #nauticaltheme


It Splits You Open

“Let go of everything when you write, and try at a simple beginning with simple words to express what you have inside. It won’t begin smoothly. Allow yourself to be awkward. You are stripping yourself. You are exposing your life, not how your ego would like to see you represented, but how you are as a human being. And it is because of this that I think writing is religious. It splits you open and softens your heart toward the homely world.” — Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

Maybe Someday

I recently went to a funeral. It was my roommate in college’s dad. He was very good to me in college, in fact he was good to all of us. He had a generous heart and made everyone he met feel at home.

I have been thinking about my friend, trying to find the right words to write on her bereavement card. The card is sitting in my journal. I’ll get to it when the time is right. The important thing is I went to the funeral. I flew up to Boston.

I don’t like death. I have lost both my parents. My father when I was 30 and my mother when I was 38. I wrote this poem over ten years ago and stumbled upon it tonight. I thought it was fitting to share.

Maybe someday I’ll get 

through this

Maybe someday I

won’t be so sad


Your death seems loud

like too many sounds

like a desert in a hole


Maybe someday

I’ll just be proud

that you were my father long

Thirty years forever gone

There is another poem on the page before in my The Poet’s Notebook Journal dated 5/4/05, which would have been about a year and half after he died. My dad died November 23, 2003.

Dear Dad,

Thinking of you

thinking of you 

thinking of you 

inside my shoes


the birds sing

the plants dance

the noises negotiate

inside my lance


My pen writes

what I cannot say

that I miss you

and you won’t decay


I see you in the

green leaves too

inside every city



Your smile and face

haunt me whole

dance in every

little hole


I miss you great

I miss you more

I miss you like

never before