Bohemian

On a frigid autumn evening in Prague, I wandered the nearby hillsides, gathering inspiration for dances yet unwritten. Mountainous clouds drifted across an azure sky, the sun bright as an August moon, illuminating every star in the firmament and vibrating off Saturn’s rings for our eyes to behold. Songbirds chirped merrily while caterpillars feasted on fallen leaves. I wrapped myself in the shawl I’d knitted by hand, awestruck by the beauty before me and losing all sense of time in my quaint, worry-free world.

Since losing my beloved Griffin, everything has stood still. Our wedding day remains embedded in my dismantled heart as the most precious moment of my life. We had dreamed of filling our cottage with children’s laughter but agreed to wait until the blood-stained Franco-Prussian battlefields had healed. My poor Griffin never returned from that nine-month war. Our home remains cold, our children unborn, and the warmth we longed for forever out of reach.

Empty and alone, I sometimes struggle even to tread the magnificent Bohemian hills that surround me in this unclaimed territory. My cottage is my only shield against the bristling winter nights—without it, I would not survive. Yet in my darkest hours, I still plead for release. Penning memories of what might have been has become my sole means of survival. Within nature’s embrace, I dream of dancing with my darling husband once more.

This evening, as I sip tea on a wooden bench before a crackling fire, I glance over my shoulder at an unknown man asleep between the front door and the kitchen. It astonishes me that I welcomed him inside, yet something in his weariness stirred my compassion.

Back to back, I hear his deep, labored breaths. I recall the exhaustion in his eyes when he arrived. He couldn’t speak before I stepped forward, offering him shelter. He thanked me in a foreign tongue, but our shared language of kindness was clear. I gave him a bowl of stew, and he devoured two. After stoking the roaring fire and laying a blanket and pillow on the cot, I returned to the dishes only to find him already fast asleep. I sit quietly, watching him breathe and wondering what life he fled.

He is broad-shouldered but gaunt, his face aged beyond his years. Tattered Turkish fatigues cling to him, once-bright colors dulled by hardship. I suspect he’s a soldier gone AWOL, perhaps through no fault of his own, seeking his way home.

Staring into the flames, I imagine his family—his wife waiting for his return, their hopes and dreams blossoming like the spring I once knew. My heart twists at the thought, for I still ache to believe Griffin might one day walk through that door. Yet I feel deep pity for this young man, carrying his own sorrow beneath each shallow breath.

When I look back again, I briefly envision Griffin sleeping soundly in my arms, his rhythm pressed against the melody of my heart. Why can’t this soldier be my husband? Why have I become guardian to one who belongs elsewhere? Questions hover unanswered between us. And still, this stranger has made me feel less alone, granting me purpose I have never known, however fleeting.

Before dawn, I gather a few canned goods and a jar of well water, placing them beside his cot. I wrap the blanket softly around his shoulders and bid him a silent farewell.

It has been seven years since Griffin looked into my eyes, yet each day stretches longer than any faint heart should endure. Morning arrives, and I step onto the porch, searching for footprints drifting away. My thoughts wander over frosted hills and through distant woodlands carpeted in fallen leaves—paths I’ve never dared follow. In my heart, I know he’ll find his way home.

As within, so without—and so it is.

Past Life Regression

Center Peace

My favorite city park in my old neighborhood is filled with ancient trees and bordered by a music hall. Sometimes musicians sit beneath the boughs, their melodies drifting through the leaves. Back then, I visited almost daily with my puppy Holiday, wandering among the trunks as the seasons shifted. On days when my heart felt heavy, I leaned against a tree and simply sat, listening to the distant song of singing bowls.

After a week of storms, Holiday and I returned on a sunny autumn morning. I expected the ground to be carpeted with fir, pine, cedar, and bay leaf branches. I needed them for my annual solstice table decoration—a ritual passed down from my grandmother.

As a child, my grandmother and I roamed forest floors gathering just enough fir to frost-protect tender shoots, winterize the garden, decorate ancestral graves, and craft holiday centerpieces. Though we never spoke aloud to the land, we always harvested sparingly.

Now, through daily meditation and affirmations, I’m learning true reciprocity with the land and its nonhuman neighbors—caterpillars, dragonflies, and every living thing. These practices help me reclaim my humanity and heal the harm society inflicts. I’m certain my grandmother would have felt the same harmony.

That morning, I began by circling the park and greeting every tree and plant I hadn’t seen in months, inhaling the crisp, storm-washed air. Then I sat on a bench, grounded myself, and spoke aloud explaining my purpose and asking permission to gather what had fallen.

Suddenly, a little squirrel appeared and watched Holiday and me with bright eyes. It chattered as it darted among the trunks, scampering up a tall oak and shaking brown and gold leaves onto the path. We followed its playful dance until I found a handsome fir branch. As an offering, I placed some dried alfalfa I’d grown last year beside the stump.

We moved on, picking up litter and stray droppings as we gathered a few more branches. I noticed the finest sprigs often lay beside discarded wrappers—yet I remained mindful, taking only what was freely given.

Finally, we reached a holly tree, its scarlet berries gleaming in the sunlight. None had dropped, and though I considered asking permission to cut a small spray, I chose to leave it untouched. Then the squirrel fluttered around the trunk, and there, among the leaves, lay a single perfect holly branch. Elated, I whispered my thanks and knelt to scratch Holiday’s chin.

Back home, I arranged the branches with care, using just enough to cover the plate. Holiday curled at my feet beneath the table as candlelight danced across pine needles and holly berries. It was the most beautiful winter decoration I’ve ever made.

I’m deeply grateful for my daily meditations, which guide me through this wondrous world with awareness of my responsibilities and my interconnectedness with all life. I honor my grandmother for instilling this family tradition and give thanks to my wild friend Chirp the squirrel for its playful guidance.

Giving special thanks and dedication to Dr. Conny

Remanence

As a sultry summer breeze wafted through the house, a figure emerged from the shadows, his gaze blazing through the haze of intoxication. His unsteady steps threatened to send him sprawling, yet he pressed on, heading toward some unseen destination.

I dashed down the hall to my bedroom, heart pounding as his heavy footsteps thudded closer with every breath. As they neared my door, I yanked the covers over my head, feigning sleep.

He lurched inside, grunts vibrating against the walls as he pressed into the doorframe. A jumble of slurred words tumbled from his lips. The air filled with the acrid sting of stale liquor and scorched tobacco.

I lay still, heart hammering, begging him to leave. Instead, he muttered on, oblivious to my silent vigil. At last, he grunted, spun on his heel, and staggered away, each thud sounding like a bowling ball rolling across wood. When his door slammed shut, relief flooded me. Stillness returned, broken only by the lingering stench of his inebriation.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, fierce and unbidden. “Oh, how I wish Mommy were here,” I sobbed. Nights like this had become routine since she left us. Daddy was a hollow shell, his love locked away behind a wall he built the day she passed to Heaven. Occasionally, I felt her warmth—a soft murmur in my heart—but it never chased away the emptiness she left behind.

In class, I drifted into daydreams, gazing beyond the windows for comfort. The walk home was a slow march, each step weighed down by the stifling summer air.

Each step through our empty house felt like glass cracking beneath my feet, recalling those afternoons when I’d burst in from school and Mom’s chocolate-chip cookies were already cooling on the counter. Now I could almost taste that warm sweetness in the stale air, but only a phantom aroma remained—bittersweet and cruel. A fractured photograph on the wall caught my eye; her gentle gaze held a quiet promise, urging me forward through the broken silence.

I curled on the couch, a relic of happier days, and let my gaze wander ceiling patterns, conjuring flashes of our past. A sudden gratitude welled up for moments once taken for granted, moments that slipped away like water between eager fingers.

When twilight’s final glow winked out, slender shadows slid across the ceiling. In their shapes, I saw my mother’s silhouette, her gentle smile etched into the curves. Her spirit settled over me, and sleep came swiftly, bringing dreams of my father and me chasing a life she once dreamed for us.

A sudden creak split the darkness as the front door swung open—Daddy’s return. His absence had stretched painfully long, and now he stood framed by night, exhaustion pulling at his shoulders.

I sprang upright, determined. Rather than shrink behind my bedroom door, I met him in the hallway, ready to be his anchor.

Gently, I offered my hands beneath his arms, steadying him. His skin was rough now, carved by worry and loss, but I felt the faint warmth of the father I remembered—his voice once a refuge against the world’s storms.

He rasped in protest, insisting he didn’t need help, but each faltering step told otherwise. Bit by bit, his strength returned, and I sensed hope stirring in the gloom. Soon, silent tears fell from both of us, our grief mingling as forgiveness bloomed between us. By dawn, he was gone—his nightly promise dissolved into the gray light, leaving me to face another day without knowing when or if he’d return.

Life is not measured by time, but by moments.

The Drift Pool

To the stranger in a sun hat.

Some weekends unfold like a spell—soft and shimmering, stitched with laughter and light. Ours was one of those rare ones, wrapped in golden sunsets and crowned each night by a full moon that watched over us like a lion at its gate. We spent it at Kah-Nee-Ta, a hidden oasis tucked deep in the Oregon desert, where the river winds through sage and stone, and the air wraps around you—golden as the hour, ancient as the land.

We were a cheery tribe: my three daughters, two granddaughters, two sons-in-law, and me. We made our home in a great canvas teepee, the kind that feels plucked from the pages of a storybook—stitched with adventure and dreams. The children splashed and played beneath the sun’s golden eye all day, their laughter ringing like wind chimes—bright, fleeting, and full of motion. Eventually, the chimes—our children’s laughter—faded, and the low call of a great horned owl echoed across the dusk, rising not from the trees, but from somewhere unseen—like a native horn, as if the land itself exhaled the day. One by one, the kiddos curled into sleep inside the teepee, cheeks kissed by the sun and eyes tinged with the sweet sting of chlorine, as if tucked in by summer itself.

In this enchanted pocket of the world, I had one daughter and her husband caring for their children, tending to their rhythm and needs. The other, though child-free, seamlessly blending her world with ours—supporting us both, yet still moving in step with her own life and love. And I was Taelor’s devoted companion—her shadow, her anchor, and her sidekick. Taelor, my eldest daughter, navigates the world with unique needs that require constant, intuitive, and loving support. I am her person—the one who knows her rhythms like the tide knows the moon.

And in those pools, Taelor found her rhythm, too. The water enchanted her. I’ve never spent so much time in a swimming pool in my life. We swam and laughed, looping through the warm currents again and again, like spellbound fish in a gentle stream. The kiddie pool sat off to the side, chilly and unwelcoming, so we left it behind. Instead, we found our groove in the warmer mineral-rich springs—a combination of a floating river, two steaming pools, and a shared pool nestled between them, each maintaining temperatures between 100 and 110 degrees at our choosing. We swam from light to dark, closing the resort without a hitch. The water was steeped with thirty-five minerals, like a potion brewed for healing. Dreamy, to say the least.

We roasted marshmallows, barbecued our meals, and played games. But mostly, we floated. Everyone settled into their own little orbit. At this particular time, Taelor and I—well, we were in the lazy river, circling endlessly. She moved with boundless energy, like a spark that never dimmed. I was growing weary, though I didn’t think it showed.

Then, out of nowhere, a woman wearing a sun hat and exuding a gentle aura approached us. She smiled and said, “You two look like nice people. I want to give you this.” She held out a floating device—a swimming noodle attached to a net chair. “You can sit in it and drift,” she said, her voice warm and friendly.

She offered it to Taelor, who snatched it up with delight. I helped her settle in, supporting her body and adjusting the net comfortably. The woman’s eyes softened as she added, “Just pay it forward.” We thanked her sincerely before she disappeared from our view in the winding stream. What seemed like a simple act held extraordinary meaning—a moment where my burdens were gently acknowledged, and where Taelor felt seen.

However, as swift as the river’s gliding, within minutes, Taelor’s attention shifted—not out of disregard, but as someone easily drawn to the next flicker of light or burst of laughter. So, I repurposed the float as a front buoy, letting the net trail loosely beneath me as I swam alongside my daughter. When we passed by the woman again, her face lit up at the sight of us using her gift in a new way. Her joy radiated unmistakably, spreading like sunlight catching on the surface of the water—effortless, touching everything and everywhere all at once. It was like a kaleidoscope moment—fleeting, intricate, and noticed only by us.

We drifted through the shimmer, still smiling from the stranger’s joy—still swimming, still circling, still playing. The current carried us for what felt timeless, yet I could feel myself beginning to slow, drifting toward stillness.

Spying a chaise lounge in the distance, I offered Taelor a pause—more for me than for her—but she waved it off. She was in her element: buoyant, radiant, and utterly unwilling to leave.

If you know, you know—no choice had I. A few more times around the pool had come and gone.

The woman approached us once more. “Excuse me,” she said softly, apologizing for not introducing herself earlier. “I’m Ruth.” Her sun hat tilted slightly as she smiled. “If you’d like to take a break, I wouldn’t mind staying with her and watching over her while you do.”

I felt a flush of embarrassment—she’d overheard our conversation. “I wouldn’t dare ask you to do that,” I said, trying to sound lighter than I felt. “I’m really fine, and I appreciate your offer.”

She nodded, still smiling. “I truly don’t mind. I can only imagine that a pause is needed more often than it’s given.”

Her words landed like mist—soft, kind, and glinting with something that lingered.

I thanked her again, gently declining, explaining that my other daughters and I take turns. We left it there—grateful, warm, and full of understanding.

Her words weren’t just kind—they were fluent. The kind of fluency that only comes from being immersed in care. You don’t learn that attunement from watching. You learn it from being in it—from the endless loop of support, the quiet calculations, the way your body moves before your mind catches up. Ruth knew something. I don’t know her story, but I felt it in her timing, her tone, her offer, and in my bones. And that changed everything.

That moment stayed with me. Most people don’t see the full picture. They see the surface—the smiles, the routines—but not the weight beneath. When someone genuinely understands, they extend their hand. Even if they’re a stranger, that gesture, however brief, is heartfelt. It’s a kind of recognition—a quiet nod that says, I see you.

It reminded me of another time, years ago in Venice. We had just arrived, walking from the train station to our Airbnb. Taelor was crying, overwhelmed. My hands were full—luggage, backpack, and Taelor’s hand in mine. I was with a friend who waited at the bottom of the stairs, silent and still. She didn’t offer help. I understood—we were all tired—but I couldn’t help but feel let down by someone who knew my daughter far too well.

But we grow accustomed to brushing those moments aside. They happen more often than not, and we learn to carry on quietly, without expectation.

Then, suddenly—on this postcard-perfect tourist bottleneck of a stairwell—a woman turned around. She looked at us, not with judgment, but with something softer. I, however, braced myself for the usual stare.

But instead, she spoke. What emerged was something unexpected. She offered to help me with Taelor down the stairs. I declined—politely, gratefully. But her gesture stayed with me to this day: a stranger who saw the whole picture and stepped in.

My heart is full. Full because of the woman in a sun hat in a swirling pool, the woman in Venice amidst a chaotic stairwell, and all the quiet souls who extend their hearts to caregivers and those they care for. Whether it’s a daughter, a parent, a sibling, or someone else entirely, the role is sacred. And when someone sees it—really sees it—and offers compassion, it’s not just a bandage. It’s a balm. A quiet healing that lingers long after the moment has passed.

We don’t always accept help. Sometimes we simply can’t—not out of ingratitude, but because receiving requires a surrender we may not have space for. There are days when the routine is so tightly wound—meals, meds, transitions, moods—that even kindness feels like one more thing to manage. But the offer itself is a gift. A reminder that we’re not invisible. That someone sees the weight we carry and wants to lift it, even for a moment.

You don’t have to be a caregiver to offer that kind of grace. You have to be awake. Awake enough to notice. Sometimes it’s a mere holding of a door, or someone seeing the way you scan a room before settling in. Sometimes it’s a woman in Venice, whose face you can’t quite recall because your eyes were blurred with tears from a moment shared between you and your daughter. Or another, watching you float beside her, offering a net without asking questions. All it takes is genuine understanding—a kind word, a quiet gesture, offered without expectation.

To Ruth. To the woman in Venice. And to anyone who has ever looked at a caregiver and said, “I see you.”

In return, I see you, too!

You are part of the story now. Your kindness ripples outward, like the drift pool we floated in—round and round, together, forevermore.

You are the ones paying it forward.

To the stranger in a sun hat.

Honor

In a world that often rewards performance over presence, one woman chose a different path. Not loudly. Not all at once. But with steady grace, she turned inward—toward the quiet truth she had long carried.

For years, her voice trembled under the weight of fear. Speaking felt like drowning. Her thoughts scattered, her breath caught, her body betrayed her. Silence became survival. And as time passed, new fears crept of invisibility, of fading beauty, of being forgotten. She watched the mirror become a stranger. Her spirit dimmed. Her joy thinned. But beneath it all, something endured. A pulse. A knowing. A refusal to disappear.

She found sanctuary in stillness. Meditation became her doorway—not to escape, but to return. In silence, she met herself again. Not the version shaped by others, but the one untouched by judgment. She began to see life not as something to master, but something to honor. Each breath, each moment, each imperfection sacred.

She stopped chasing perfection. It had never belonged to her. Instead, she chose authenticity. She let her laughter rise from the ordinary. She began to care for her body—not obsessively, but with reverence. No longer a battleground, it became a place of memory, movement, and quiet repair. She tended to it gently, learning to heal rather than hide. She no longer sought approval. She sought truth. And in that truth, she found peace.

Aging became less a loss and more a deepening. Death, no longer a threat, became a companion—reminding her to live fully, love fiercely, and leave nothing unsaid. She lived with presence—not curated, not performed, simply chosen. Not polished, but real.

Her story is not one of triumph over adversity. It is a story about returning. Of remembering. Of honoring the life within. It asks nothing of us but this: to be who we are, without apology.

Let your passions move with quiet conviction. Let your life become something sacred. Let your story begin—not with noise, but with truth.

Self-reflection