In the darkness of the pandemic, I received a gift—the gift of time. And with that gift, I began to declutter. So here I am, decluttering. And since I have umpteen boxes of old letters, journals, cards, and papers, and since I’m incapable of throwing away anything in writing before I read it, this process is doomed to take a longer time than I likely have left! Fortunately, between ancient report cards, repetitive diaries, and my children’s letters from camp asking for gum and money, some things I’m reading still resonate, like the blessing I gave to Tom and Lori at their Rocky Mountain wedding.

I know. I haven’t written you for a very long time. I guess there was a reason I named my blog “I Don’t Blog”! But recently, I saw a book titled The Tunnel at the End of the Light and thought, that’s where I’ve been for much of this year, stuck in that tunnel.

The winter solstice is approaching. Again. That time when the earth is tilted farthest from the sun, giving us the shortest day and longest night of the year, this year arriving on Dec 21st. It’s a dark time, a time when I remember my friends who have passed—especially Bear, who just left these parts with her amazing spirit still intact, and Sarah, whose wit and wisdom warmed my life and my book.

As promised, here is Part 2 of the interview with me in Light of Consciousness Journal. It begins when my first marriage was falling apart and I took off for an ashram. “Ashram?” my mother said. “You don’t need an ashram! You need a marriage counselor!”

Ever since I was a teen, one of the saddest moments of summer was when the fall magazines began to appear. “September!” they proudly announced. But beneath their cheery photos of fall fashion and crisp weather, there was an unspoken sadness: Summer is over.

It might have been winter, or even before, but there I was, stuck in a rut. So was John. And so, no surprise, was our marriage. It was a rut of our making, or rather, not making. Not making our lives and our selves the best they could be. Not doing more to see the divine – in the world and in each other. Not feeling the magic.

I have a confession: I love John Denver. When I first fell for this country boy, I was a city girl living in Manhattan, and I learned to keep it to myself — to avoid the scorn of musician friends I hung out with, who were into jazz, blues, and the hard rock of the sixties. They viewed Denver’s recordings as the musical version of Walt Disney movies (which, I confess, I also love.) But here I am, years later, still loving John Denver and ready to say it: He was a true poet, and his songs were gifts, as strong and bright as sunshine.