The scream was a deep, miserable thing that flew out of my mouth, gushing into the room like rusty water bursting from a pipe. I gripped the edge of your crib and watched the graying of your skin; marveled at your beautiful lips, parted as if you were still breathing. My spirit ripped away, and suddenly, floating at the ceiling, looking down, the room filled with your silence and my screams.

Greetings!
I simply had to connect – and I’m trying something new, crazy hair day and all. Bear with me as I enter the world of video.
Virtual hug,
Vanya

If you’re like me, you’re sick of the news. Of the platitudes and scare-the-crap-out-of-you updates. You recoil at your own inner chaos or the belief that if you’d only accept the new reality, you wouldn’t struggle so much. That if you were a stronger person, you’d get off the couch and accomplish something. 

I stepped out of Bookshop Santa Cruz clutching my new purchase – a used book about shell shock. I hugged it like a baby, excited to get home and do research for my historical novel.  As I skirted a group of down-vested window shoppers, I saw a man huddled alone in the cold, holding up a cardboard sign: ‘Help a Vietnam vet?’  His face was hopeful, and his hands shook.

In the wee hours of the morning on a bitterly damp day in a train car hidden in a lush forest north of Paris, WWI came to an end.  It was agreed by Allied and German powers that on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, fighting would cease. Americans called it Armistice Day, the day impromptu parties erupted in city streets all around the world.

Spring, 1972 I ditched my math class, heading straight for the high school parking lot through the tall dry grass, in back of the science wing. Funny how our community cared so much about the manicured lawn and flowerbeds and left the hidden stuff uncared for. I slumped over onto the front seat of my…

What is it about our childhood home that pulls at us? Why the urge to step inside one more time? This is what went through my mind as I drove down the highway on my way to work, and impulsively turned onto the road that would bring me to the neighborhood where I grew up. What was I looking for? Some remnant of the past? A clue to something that I missed?

I sat with my hospice patient yesterday. There is no typical visit between us, but events might include any of the following: An energetic greeting followed by a short, confused chat, as my patient tries to recall who I am; I play music to spark memory; We hold hands and watch TV together. But it didn’t go like that yesterday.

I’m just coming down from a “work weekend” retreat with the fabulous Laura Davis, three full days of quiet, uninterrupted writing. The setting was a beautiful mountaintop home with windows that framed forest, mist, and sky. It’s the kind of view that muffles the chaos in my head and gives me space to dream about my next book.

Have you ever noticed music’s ability to transport you to another time or transform your behavior altogether?   This happens to me all the time.  I use music to mine for stories, to jog memories while working with hospice patients, and to lift the mood after a crummy day or when cleaning the house.