For my birthday a few years ago my sweetheart made me a poetry box for our front garden. It’s surrounded by an old lavender bush and is a weathered thing of beauty, all wood and amber glass, with a window to view the poem from the sidewalk. I make sure the font is large enough to read when I place a new poem out each week.

It never ceases to amaze me the things my third grade students have been exposed to. Not a day goes by when I’m not asked something that forces me to respond to their worry. “Where do homeless children eat?” “Why do cell phone companies destroy rainforests to mine for tungsten?” “Will we all die if fossil fuels continue to be used?”

Baby Emily lay on the hospital bed, dwarfed by a sea of crisp white linen. I held my breath, my fingers gripping the cold metal railing by the side of her bed, relieved to be this close after my isolating hours alone in the small “family room” outside the morgue,

Sometimes I’m not sure if I can make it through the night. Or the hour. Or even the next 30 seconds. The pain behind my left eye is a raging clamp of hot metal on muscle, merciless in its persistence, waking me in my sleep.

Yesterday I officially told my school district that I’ll be retiring in June. For months now I’ve been purging, each week carrying a box or two of beloved things from my classroom to the faculty room for others to adopt; consulting with my accountant; researching the endless possibilities of what comes next. I’m ready.

The cover of Time Magazine with its horrific black-and-white image of a sinking ship and billowing smoke, anchored me to the spot. I snatched it from the rack, the last issue available: PEARL HARBOR – 75 YEARS LATER.

I just read that human beings are hard-wired to play hooky. Man, I feel so much better about myself now. Don’t get me wrong, I am one hard-working person, but there are times when I’m fed up with my own expectations.

My dear friend Marni lost her big brother to brain cancer this week. In my experience, there is nothing as devastating than watching someone you love crumble under the weight of loss. The ripple effect of his death sent shockwaves through me, and I shuddered at each successive text from Marni.

I grew up bouncing between our home in the San Francisco Bay Area and our ranch in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Ever since, I have loved the contrast of these places – the energy of the city with its theater, music and art and the silence and beauty of the mountains.

My life is loaded with events that shake me to the core. Sometimes when deciding on one to write about, my topic is so deeply personal, I wonder, What am I thinking? I can’t speak about this!

Exposing the truth is an ongoing battle raging in my gut, every single day. But I know that if I can somehow manage to get it down on paper, something will shift inside me. There is power in words arranged in just the right order, that help us heal. They comfort and underscore our fragile hold on existence, reminding us that life can change in an instant.