Twenty years ago, I joined a memoir-writing class to process the grief of my mom’s death. Much of what I wrote back then only still exists in printed handouts, like this recounting of September 24, 2004, the day she left me. Miss you, Mom.

Join me late summer on the Poetry Trail.

Beware of alluring hiking trails and woods with stories, especially if you are unprepared to reconnect with voices from the past.

Can not fracture be even more beautiful than wholeness?

Stinking Willie, a stunned swallowtail…falling into yellow.

Emerging from the mountains of Costa Rica.

An ode to dreams and sustenance.

Becoming a fiction writer, one chapter at a time.

Mother and daughter.

An escape into nature meanders into memories of the past and one man’s incredible journey.