Welcome! What's this human’s life like? Just like yours: too much to handle gracefully. Here you’ll find writing on the epic theme: What now? I post weekly-ish. Except when I don’t.



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Readers, the flow from the Muse seems to be going into my dancing feet instead of my keyboarding fingers. Post pending.

Meanwhile— Woot! Woot!— guest posted on Later Bloomer, a lively and inspiring blog by Debra Eve aptly subtitled: Inspiration For Your Creative Second Act.  Check it out!


April Fools!

my back yard lilac and forsythia

Spring Forward? Give thanks for the time change? Not me. And that's not the only reason I don't like spring. Let me count the ways. 

  • All that bright light gives me a migraine.
  • Between the sun beating on my eyelids, the birds hollering, and the young-married whippersnapper next door d-i-y-ing it with hammer and  chopsaw, who can sleep in?
  • When the snow melts, the yard is— an eye sore. Gardening. Some people love it. Which reminds me.
  • Mud. Tracked in the house. Daily.
  • One day it’s cold. One day warm. I’m either under-dressed or over-dressed. Shivering or sweating.
  • Mid-March, the sky dumps a foot of snow the day I dance with the troupe for the first time at a fundraiser. Wearing heavy weather boots and down coat over ankle length costume, I trip on all that fabric climbing the steps into the building. Almost tossed my wig catching myself. I have a temper. Especially when I’m a red head.
  • Passover, and ten days of matzo. Which morphs to concrete in the colon. That’s why it’s called the Bread of Affliction. And/or a guilt-by-association Easter plunge back into chocolate/jelly bean addiction. Well, relapse is part of recovery.
  • The first of two (global) peak incidences of depression (the second in fall). Sicker patients at the office. More patients paging after hours.  That’s why shrinks practice medicine. God forbid I get out of practice.
  • Spring cleaning.  I found myself slogging  through six years’ worth of paperwork mounded on my home “desk.” Why? Act of God? Brain blow-out? Who knows. I couldn't stop. Hours of decisions ended up shredded in five garbage bags. It was horrible. When the desk grows another paper pustule, I'm not touching it.
  • Taxes.
  • People EVERYWHERE, faces turned up to the sun, biking, jogging, walking around, cluttering up the landscape.  

On the up side, spring too shall pass. Besides, it’s not all bad. There’s the student dance recital coming up. And Son’s May Day birthday, his twentieth. Talk about spring green.

The troupe’s next gig, we’re the half-time entertainment at the May “bout” (a.k.a. game) of the local, all-girl, roller derby club. That ought to be wild and clashy. Like spring.

Spring snow—

Kids in shorts and sneaks,

no socks


Tripping Over The Light Fantastic

Opening into emptiness

One belly dance performance and I was smitten. fell like a load of dirt off the back of a dump truck. Forget being fifty and my little insecurities. I had to do it.  

Seven years later of twice a week classes, I’ve improved. Given I'm a geezer with no dance experience, that’s not saying much. 

Still. I can do hip drops, figure eights and hip circles, mostly on tempo. I can slide my ribcage side to side. I can pod my belly in and out, no problem. My arms are way better. But undulations, those snakey torso ripples that are so cool and so belly dancerish, no.

I'll figure it out over the next few years. After that, I’ll take on walking while undulating, in time to the music. The project is worthy of deep thought, as fascinating an intellectual challenge as any. It’ll keep me busy in my old age. 

In January, my teacher up-ended this retirement plan. She invited me to join her troupe as a junior member. Effective immediately.

I didn’t see it coming. But being mature, I blurted: “But. But. Am I good enough?” 

Simultaneously, inside, a dancing child sprang out from under five decades of sludge and shouted, SHUT UP! She’ll change her mind! She’ll take it back!

That dancing child didn’t care it didn’t make sense. Her heart’s desire was affirmed.

And here I thought my heart’s desire was to write. Turns out, that’s a fairly recent aspiration, say three, maybe four decades old. To dance, that’s the primal longing. And I didn't know it. Or more accurately, had forgotten. Till now.

My Self hissed, Way to go! Question the teacher!

A troupe member saved me, “Well, do you want to dance with us or not?” 

Duh. “Yes!” 

I can't believe my good fortune and my new role in life: the slow one. Smarts are useless and words fail me. I am so lost. And found.  

~Not a shred of evidence exits in favor of the idea that life is serious. Brendan Gill 



Wintertime And The Cooking Is Easy

When I throw a couple cups of beans in the slow cooker insert, along with a chunk of meat straight from the freezer (or not, if I’m in a vegetarian mood), salt, a bay leaf, and water; cover and set it to Low (8 – 10 hours), that’s Phase One. 

Slow cooker cooking delivers food so tasty, it’s hard to believe it’s so easy. 

Phase Two:  Sauté diced onions, garlic, savories and spices. Add the sauté to the beans/stock.  Do this sooner or, later.  Doesn’t matter. 

Phase Three: Go about your business for six, eight, ten hours. Return to mouth-watering aromas. Eat.

What’s not to love? No effort: quick prep, no babysitting, quick clean up. Perfect, whether you’re busy or lazy. 

No recipe. Of course, you can use one. But use it as a guide and reference, rather than a mathematical formula. Less planning equals more playing with your food. 

No worries. Whatever you do, it’s always right. How can that be? You’ll see.

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