Embedded Files
Listen to Your Heart
Published in the Circleville Herald February, 2026
We say to, and hear from, each other that we should listen to our heart. Those moments when I really listen to my heart are God moments. And I’m not only speaking of this figuratively, but literally as well.
I’m reminded of a day years ago when I was on a boat on the Atlantic Ocean. A whale swam up and paused for a short while alongside our boat. The passengers all grew quiet as we stared at the beautiful creature. Its movements were small and silent as it treaded water on the surface. We could see every detail, every barnacle that clung to its side. Out there, in the middle of the vast ocean, God had granted us with this life-altering moment. Of course, I could not hear the whale’s heart, but my soul was stirred by the memory of the whale’s siren that I had listened to on recordings before.
When we lay our head upon the chest of a loved one, we can clearly hear the beating of their heart. Sometimes our own hearts beat so loudly we can hear the pounding. But there is another way we can hear the song of our heart – a way parallel to the siren of the whale.
The first time I heard my heart in that way was when, with no earlier indications, I had a heart attack at work. I remember after my surgery, the cardiologist showed me the screen where I could see where the microvascular failure had happened. My heart looked like a topographic map of blue and red rivers and streams except for this horrific deep, and black area – a void, a desolate desert. Even though the impacted blood vessels were too small for stents, they consumed enough space that it was easy to understand why the experience had been so painful and terrifying.
The next day, I was wheeled down to diagnostic radiology for an echocardiogram. The process can take a little while. The first half of the procedure is silent except for the brief exchanges with the technologist – “Doing okay?” “Yep.”
And then there was the moment when she turned on the sound. Make no mistake, I do not have some sort of separation disorder with my heart, but at that time I gasped, “There she is” and I cried. It was the complete recognition of survival. It was the whale alongside the boat. It was a God moment.
In the five years since that day, I have had quite a few echocardiograms. And the experience has never lost its joy and divineness. My days continue to be filled with chest pain, cardiac spasms and some shortness of breath due to microvascular angina while the recurrent pericarditis with myopericarditis/myocarditis seem to have calmed down. I oftentimes pat my chest and talk to my heart, “we will be okay.” My cardiologist has assured me that is true – in fact, she has said that I will run again one day.
As I am writing this, I am preparing for another few days up at the Cleveland Clinic. Perhaps not a reason for taking vacation from work that most would be thrilled about, but I am. This is the long-awaited visit where I will undergo test after test with the goal of determining we are ready to start tapering into the next phase of medications – the ones that will hopefully send me back to me – back to my bicycle, my hiking boots and running shoes. While at the Cleveland Clinic, I will have that moment again. Once more I will lay on that table with the electrodes connected to my chest, look at the screen with blue and red rivers and hear that song, the one that reminds me of the waves of the ocean and the siren of the whale – the one that always brings me to tears, “There she is.”
My story is not all that unusual – someone who had no indications of heart issues, and yet there they were. I encourage you to have regular check-ups with your medical care team to ensure your heart is healthy. Among the ways you can learn more about heart health and CPR are to visit the American Heart Association at https:heart.org/en/
Black History Month - American Dreams
Published in the Circleville Herald February, 2026
“Sun and softness / Sun and the beaten hardness of the earth / Sun and the song of all the sun-stars / Gathered together / Dark ones of Africa / I bring you my songs / To sing on the Georgia roads.” The words from Langston Hughes’s poem “Sun Song” leapt from the page to embed in my heart when I recently revisited his poem. In such a short space of words, he said so much. For me, the poem conveys deep sorrow interwoven with hope and unity.
I have the same emotional response to Hughes’s poem “Let America Be America Again,” a poem where he boldly shared a message of what America never had been for him, but, again, interwoven with inspiration and hope. “O, let my land be a land where Liberty / Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath / But opportunity is real, and life is free / Equality is in the air we breathe.”
American writer and social activist Langston Hughes lived from 1901 to 1967. His mixed heritage included slaves and slave owners. It’s hard to fathom the stories his parents and grandparents shared with him and to also consider all that he saw and experienced himself. Decades have come and gone since Hughes’s passing, but in some ways, what should have been a linear passage of time appears to be circular and moving toward an ending once thought to be a starting line left in the dust.
It can be difficult to hold onto hope during trying times, so I absorb inspiration from Hughes’s poetry to help. In his poem “Dreams,” he wrote: Hold fast to dreams / For if dreams die / Life is a broken-winged bird / That cannot fly / Hold fast to dreams / For when dreams go / Life is a barren field / Frozen with snow.”
As I am writing this, I am taking moments to gaze out my window at the clear blue sky and the brilliance of the sun’s rays reflecting off the deep and frozen snow. I see birds of a vast variety of feather fluttering back and forth dancing around the feeders my kind husband, Gary, keeps filled always, but especially during these dangerously frigid times. And I am filled with hope and am grateful for the poetry of Langston Hughes and the encouragement to hold fast to my American dream as I remember it when it first became a part of me.
To the Unknown Artist
Published in the Circleville Herald January, 2026
I bought it several years ago when Gary and I were wandering through a local garage sale. It was setting in a space that appeared to be reserved for those things that were not to be considered for purchase. It mattered not to me, for I was smitten. One of the sale hosts asked me if I liked it. I nodded I did. She responded with something like “I never really liked it.” And so it came to live with me.
It appears as though the artist heavily painted the entire canvas in midnight blue and then hurriedly splashed on the rest of the scenery in white with brushes large and small. The former created a sense of a winding river or perhaps a road covered in snow. One pine stands in the front with a small forest of same behind on the other side of the river road.
My mother was a painter, and I spent years watching her create worlds on canvas. This painting is not like that. It seems as though the artist rushed through the scene either because they didn’t care or because it was of a memory they wanted to put on canvas so they could move past it as quickly as possible. Perhaps it was their tears that caused the white drizzles floating down morphing the pines into melting “treesicles.”
The piece looks rushed and so uncared for that the creator did not find it worthy of their initials customarily found in a lower corner skirting the frame. I wish they had signed it. I would like to tell them what the painting means to me.
This winter scene sets on one of my bookshelves in my office. The walking pad I visit for short breaks throughout the day faces it. While I shuffle along my faux forest path I see the trees before me. I’m warm despite the snowy scene – not just my body, but my thoughts as well. I’m consumed by the pines weeping snow in the midnight hour. I’m reminded of a moment years ago when I was in a place just like that. I was on a ski trip and it was the first night driving to the cabin. The moon was full. The snow was deep and pristine. And in that silence that only snow can bring, I knew in my heart that God is always near and that the sadness I felt then would not last – that one day I would be content. It was a moment. Only one. And it was long ago. But it lives with me still. One brief moment that has lasted through the decades. And this artist who seemed to think nothing of their painting brings me to visit that beautiful moment every day. Whoever and wherever you are, thank you. And to all artists out there, know that your creations may not always be worth the criteria you set for them, but to any of one of us out here, they can be priceless.
If you love art and books like I do, I suggest you visit the ArtsaRound gallery at 135 West Main Street, Circleville and at www.artsaround.org
What it Looks like
Published in the Circleville Herald January, 2026
It’s not what it looks like. It’s how it feels.
As I am writing this, we are in that place betwixt Christmas and New Years. The Christmas tree and decorations give the perpetual look of the holidays, but you can feel the new year on the front steps. A favorite addition to our seasonal cheer is a bright red, green and white snowman adorned bedspread. White not being a particularly good color for dogs, we are constantly wiping off little mud balls. It’s not the look of the dirt as we clean it off, it is the feeling of happiness knowing that Gary and I have been privileged and blessed to be chosen to rescue our dogs, Rusty and Shelby, from a local shelter. The mud-spattered joy they paint the quilt with is evidence that they no longer have worries.
And it wasn’t what it looked like the other day as Gary and I bundled into multiple layers to meet our friends for a motorcycle ride. Sure, we looked like Randy, the little brother in “A Christmas Story” who whined “I can’t put my arms down” when his mother dressed him to go out in the cold snow. But we were uttering no whining at all. We were feeling a sense of euphoria, thrilled for the gift of wind therapy, albeit a chilly treatment.
On our kitchen counter sits an apple pie. It’s imperfection gives it the look of a dessert made from scratch, but what it feels like is a warm kitchen where a husband and wife laughed and danced while listening to Christmas Carols as he prepared the apples and she rolled out the dough, carefully created per the instructions on the old, stained recipe card and baked in the vintage dish, both relics of her mother’s time here on Earth.
This week we will step into a new year, and the front lawn will no longer don the modern, yet traditional, Holiday fiberoptic deer and snowman and the inflatable Santa Claus, Grinch, Polar Bar, and slightly less traditional cocoa drinking dragon with flapping wings. There will be no blinking lights of blue, red, green, and gold flashing time to the whimsical sounds of Christmas songs. In their place will be grass and trees bleak in their brown dormant state. Intermittently there will be snowflakes drifting in the chilly air. It will look sad. It will look like all the reasons for cheer have left the world, but it will feel new and hopeful. Each week the sun will visit a little longer and we will inch a little closer to warmer weather. And until then, we have permission to feel comfort in hibernation. The pajamas can be donned earlier in the evening than we would ever imagine doing in the summer. We will give ourselves permission to watch movies and read books. Perhaps we will meet some indoor goals like finally cleaning out that closet and organizing the bookshelves. And the feeling of hope and the satisfaction of resting as well as placing checkmarks on the To Do list will carry us into the spring - the time of year when the sun will shine through the windows and the kitchen table will host a vase of wildflowers. The yard will be adorned with a lush green blanket of grass shaded by trees heavy with leaves and blossoms. It will look like life anew and it will feel the same.
Earthbound Flight
Published in the Circleville Herald December, 2025
It’s been decades since my first dreams of flying. It matters not how many years have flown by subsequently, I still dream of taking wing. While earthly bound, my imagination gives me a sense of life without gravity. I feel it on my motorcycle as my head collides with the very air I breathe, as Neil Young sings in “Unknown Legend.”
It is also a feeling I get when I run. Somewhere in my stashes of photos from my early days of long-distance runs, a friend captured that moment near the finish line where both of my feet were in the air – an indication of flight to a certain degree.
I fell in love with running, or my earthbound version of flying, when I was 15. It was stolen from me over four years ago when I had a sudden and unexpected heart attack followed by these last several years of flare-ups of related heart conditions. It’s been a lot of work, and I’m not done yet, but sometime next year I expect to become asymptomatic and move into the medication maintenance mode. As I have been moving toward that finish line, my motorcycle has kept my mental health in line, but my legs became weak. That is until now.
A couple months ago, I began running again. I have threshold heart rate and heart pain levels I am not supposed to exceed. So I’m at a very, very slow pace, a glide perhaps, but I count it as flying again. Back to my childhood dreams. Those dreams that are as old as some of the decorations on our Christmas tree, although some decorations are even older.
I was thinking about running, flying and other dreams I’ve had since a young girl while Gary and I were decorating our Christmas tree. So many memories hung by little hooks on the branches covered in tiny, colorful lights. There are the ornaments I made when I was young, but even better there are the ones that my mother made when I was a little girl – and the best yet are the ones she made when she was a young girl. Then there are the ones from her mother and her mother’s mother. Yes, I have ornaments that my great grandmother once hung on her tree. They are hung high so that no doggie curiosity might threaten them.
As I gently hang my great grandmother’s little fabric drummer Santa elf way up high on the tree, I wonder what my great grandmother’s, my grandmother’s and my mother’s dreams were. Maybe they didn’t dream of flying or running like I do, but I’m sure, like me, they had dreams that made their hearts soar. And as I wrap the short string of faded, fragile glass beads on the tree that all three generations hung before me, I quietly whisper “fly high my angels in heaven, and I will too down here on earth.”
Walls are Just Walls
Published in the Circleville Herald December, 2025
I’m sitting at my desk in my office at home. I gaze out the window at the trees now barren and yet grand and beautiful in their nakedness. The leaves have gathered at the base of the grand maple once split in the middle by one of the small tornadoes that spun through here a few years back. Like the tree, I’m broken as I look at the spot favored by our Mosey for resting and contemplating our stretch of woods. He has been gone for several years, and other rescue dogs have moved into my heart, but Mosey, and all the others before him still own a part of me.
Amanda Shires singing “You are My Home” is playing and I think “Yes, it’s like that.”
“My address is your name. High ceilings, grand halls, walls are just walls. You are my home,” Amanda sings.
The people and animals who have shared time and space with me in the past are with me still. They join those who have moved in since their departure. And they are all my home.
‘Tis the Holiday season when we all sing “Home for the Holidays,” but we all know that it is more than traveling to a place. Whether our feet never left the home where we were raised or we journeyed across the globe, home is more than a house. Home is where the heart resides. It’s where our memories are preserved and time is a conundrum. The once was, the now, and the will be are all wrapped up in one and I’ve bought a ticket on that sentimental journey.
Like so many others, Gary and I come into this Holiday season missing loved ones. But their vacancy does not leave the room empty. Memories swirl and dance in the colorful lights of the Christmas tree. Our house is filled with love.
Amanda sings. “You are my home wherever you go. Anywhere you stand is my piece of land. You are my home.” And I think while I take up space here on earth, part of me is already in Heaven with those I miss. And while they are in Heaven, they float around me here on earth.
Just as Amanda Shires sang, “Walls are just walls,” a home is significantly more than walls. It is the intangible frame, walls and rooms that embrace our hearts and minds and fill us with everlasting, bittersweet love.
Time
Published in the Circleville Herald November, 2025
It seems like only a few weeks ago we were dipping our toes in summery pools, streams, or lakes and now we are wearing heavy sweaters and coats. Yesterday’s barbecues and fireworks have given way to plans for Thanksgiving and Christmas; some plans already launched. We are planning and making memories while basking in the warmth of Holiday seasons past. In a mysterious rhythmic rhyme, time moves slowly, quickly, backward, and forward all at once.
Gary was witness to this chronological choreographic conundrum over this past weekend when he volunteered as the Grinch for the Pickaway County Community Action (PICCA) Season of Giving Bazaar. In true Gary style, he went above and beyond. Not only did he arrive in full furry green Grinch attire, he also brought a Whoville backdrop, lights, music, holiday chocolates and, of course, an animated Max who stood about four feet tall. He made a statement. He was there to support PICCA and all who needed a little cheer.
One of Gary the Grinch’s early visitors was a very small boy. This little one was so young he had barely mastered the art of walking and was not yet showing the skills of talking. He clearly communicated his fear of the very tall and very green Grinch. So, Gary did as Gary does and began making friends with the little guy. Through the course of time, at each of the multiple visits the boy made to the Grinch’s “booth,” Gary was able to slowly encourage the little boy to evolve from showing real fear to stepping up to give the Grinch a little kiss on the cheek.
While this little boy, and others like him were moving forward in time, others were moving back. Many adults sat down next to the Grinch to tell him stories of their youth and how much they have always loved the green creature. The memory sharing would have made the real Grinch’s heart grow three sizes. Gary’s heart is already that large as evidenced by the joy he had in participating in the charity event.
I keep thinking about Gary’s stories and the people he met. Whether facing a true fear of a holiday green giant or of being vulnerable to share childhood sentiments, the guests at Gary the Grinch’s booth showed us that while time does in fact move at different paces and directions, there is always that one special moment where the world stands still while one memory is made and another one is revisited.
Judging Others is How You Define Yourself
Published in the Circleville Herald November, 2025
In his poem “Why Not Be Polite,” Sufi Master, Hafiz wrote “Everyone is God speaking. Why not be polite and listen to him.”
What beautiful music might we hear if we choose to listen and know and believe that every voice is not only worthy, but vital to the song of all our lives. Afterall, we are all sharing this planet if only for a while.
And yet there are those who choose to miss out on the concert, foolishly brandishing their dull and rusty swords at others, shunning them because of the clothes they wear, the company they keep, or some other nonsense.
I was a part of the “condemned” section of the choir recently because the company I was keeping was a group of bikers. We showed up on our motorcycles to show love and support for one who needed us. Some of us rode bikes that reverberated steady guttural beats and others were on bikes that purred. The cacophony was accompanied by attire that ranged from chaps to jeans, leather jackets to sweatshirts, and bandanas to helmets.
We were judged unworthy of the occasion to support our friend. In other words, we were condemned because of our modes of transportation and the clothes that we wore.
Ironically, we were kinder to the one in need of support than those who passed judgment.
But that is neither here nor there. What is important is that we should never assume we know certain things about someone because of the way they look. It’s kind of like judging a book by its cover. The jacket sleeve might look mundane, but the words inside might tell an incredibly enlightening and inspiring journey.
In my opinion, I think our “covers” looked mighty interesting. And what was inside was equally compelling.
While we were judged as being a bunch of ne’er do wells, the truth is that among us there was a variety of college degrees and professions. Our group includes nurses, EMS, law enforcement, veterans, those who serve veterans, fathers, mothers, educators, business owners, artists and a writer.
If you knew the person we were there for, you would understand why we were there. She knows no strangers, treats each of us like family and is what my husband calls an Earth Angel. We didn’t like how some others were treating her or us, but we took the higher road and did our part to help all of them during a difficult day. Our angel and others thanked us for the role we played.
As to those who judged us, perhaps Wayne Dyer said it best when he said, “When you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself.”
Good Grinches Finish Last
Published in the Circleville Herald October, 2025
They say good guys always finish last. While I know that isn’t to be taken literally, that was the case during the 2025 Circleville Pumpkin Show. And the good guy was disguised as a bad guy, the Grinch.
I had the pleasure again this year to be included among CanAm Spyder and Ryker riders to participate in the Pumpkin Show Parade – costumes not required but highly encouraged. That was all Gary had to hear before he tapped into his skillful internet searching for just the right costume. He knew he wouldn’t be riding his Goldwing, so the coveted disguise he sought would be just fine even though he wouldn’t be able to see out of the mask very well - that green, furry, scary mask. He scored his treasure and, in his excitement, asked me what I would be wearing, to which I responded, “my helmet.”
“Well, that will not do, it will not do at all,” Gary answered (imagine those words spoken by the original story narrator, Boris Karloff).
And so that is how I was surprised with a costume of my own, a fairy tale queen’s robe-type dress and my very first ever tiara. We cleaned the bugs and road grime off our chariot, the dark green CanAm Spyder Sea to Sky with the white wings on the frunk and angel wings with paw prints on the sides and embarked on our journey as Pumpkin Show parade participants.
Admittedly, I nearly questioned Gary’s choice in costume. Gary is the furthest one can be from qualifying to be a Grinch. I should clarify that I mean the version before his heart grew three times larger. But I have learned that wondering about any of Gary’s decisions is just a silly waste of time. They, and he, never surprise me, but always impress me.
So, the magical nights came. I may have been the one with the tiara and royal dress, but Gary, as Grinch, was the star on our ride. Kids of all ages loved him, called to him, fist-bumped him, and gathered around the bike before the parade started so they could have their picture taken with him. Along the parade route, laughter and cheers continued. On our last night, Saturday night, I believe we were toward the very back of the parade. I couldn’t help but to think about that phrase, “nice guys finish last” and how true that was, even for a tall, lime green, furry one.
What If?
(Published in the Circleville Herald October, 2025
“What if?” is oftentimes a rhetorical question with a broader horizon than the mind can fathom. But what if “What if?” was not rhetorical? What if “What if?” was the first step on a glorious path to anywhere your heart desires? It would not be a question anymore but rather a dream that metamorphosized into a goal to one day break free from its cocoon and take flight as a reality.
Rumi said “This place is a dream. Only a sleeper considers it real.”
What if the sleeper is right?
If your “What if?” could become your “what is,” what would that be? It’s a beautiful thought to ponder, yes? And one best considered when sitting in a quiet and peaceful place sipping on a glass of Pinot Grigio while serenaded by soft strumming of guitar strings and gazing at the sun and moon as they exchange greetings in passing when the day comes to an end.
As the world quiets down to rest and be ready for the coming day, our “What ifs?” are stirring, anxious to come out to play. To become real.
Admittedly, when the gate opens and the “What if’s?” come flying out, there are some that elude us, like Bob Lind’s’ “Elusive Butterfly,” which I remember best sung by Glen Campbell. “Don't be concerned. It will not harm you. It's only me pursuing something I'm not sure of.”
My elusive winged “What ifs,” include “What if dogs could live longer?” and “What if there were no bullies?” But there are other “What ifs” less armored – they are designed with loopholes, or windows to fruition.
One “What if?” with a wide-open window lit on my pillow as I was waking up one morning over this past weekend. It seemed to whisper “What if I could do anything I wanted to today?”
That was the first step. Another question quickly followed. “What does anything mean?”
My mind was flooded with ideas and so I settled on the first one that came to mind. “What if I didn’t have to limit my weekend to one day? What if I could take both days to play instead of just one, paying for it with the other spent doing chores, paying bills and doing other boring adult things? What if I could get on my motorcycle and ride again that day like I did the day before? It was a small “What if” in the realm of what all “what if” can be, but it was a big deal to me. And so I spent the day on a group ride with new friends and toured beautiful winding roads I’d not traveled before. And I felt my heart rate slow, my breaths deepen and my fatigue lesson while my worries were swept away in the wind. And though sated at the end of the day, I pulled into the garage and thought “What if…?”
One More
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September, 2025
“Give me one more minute, one more mile, one more curve on the winding road, one more song over the bike’s speakers,” I say to no one but the wind should it be listening and have the power to give me just one more.
I was talking to one of my fellow rider friends the other day about how a trip in the car that is two hours is too long, but if made on the motorcycle it’s not nearly long enough. In fact, we confessed to each other, trips or errands made on the motorcycle are intentionally made longer. Rather than travel the shortest distance, we add detours. Who wants to ride a straight line and get back to it, whatever “it” is.
But this is Ohio, and fall is knocking at the door while winter is tapping its cold fingertips, drumming up a forecast sure to bar us from the joy of the open road. Until winter wins, I keep reaching for just one more ride, one more day in the wind. Already the days are beginning with chilly mornings hinting winter is near, but they bleed into afternoons when layers are shed and my thoughts embrace a pretense of perpetual summer.
With all the grown-up things that need to be done, I’d rather be riding. Dust on the shelves, books waiting to be read; all things indoors can wait while I enjoy just one more ride.
In his poem, “Why Abstain,” Hafiz wrote “Why abstain from love when, like the beautiful snow goose, someday your soul will leave this summer camp?” And I’m reminded how fragile life is, how any moment can be the last. And so yes, I will water my plants, dust when I must, and give my job all I can. But I will also grant myself all the desired “one mores” that I can squeeze in.
Life is richer because of “one mores.” Mine are hours spent with my husband, Gary, with my friends and with our dogs, going on more walks and rides, and spending more time quietly watching dusk take over our little piece of land and listening to the songs of birds decrescendo into the chirping of tree frogs and crickets.
What are your “one mores?” I encourage you to recognize and let yourself have them. For we all know that we will miss them when they are out of reach and when our soul leaves this “summer camp.”
Never Alone: Suicide Awareness and Prevention Month
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September, 2025
On September 6, 2025, I had the honor of supporting my new, and already dear, friend, Belinda, as many of us gathered to participate in the 4th Annual Veteran Suicide Awareness Poker Run she organized. The event included live, silent, and Chinese auctions and live music at Alibis in Adelphi after the motorcycle ride and ended up raising over $5,500 for Mission 22.
Mission 22 (https://mission22.org/) whose mission is to fill the “…gap where traditional systems fall short and fight every day to reduce Veteran suicide” also had a representative there to share information about the resources the organization provides.
Still immunocompromised while in treatment for heart conditions, I avoided going into the establishments at the stop points on the ride and did not partake of the activities after. Although I stayed out at my bike during the ride stops, I was not alone. Among those who spent time outside was another new, and already dear friend, Sherry. Both Belinda and Sherry have known too well what it is like to lose someone you love. And despite enduring these overwhelmingly tragic life events, they have chosen to share love, kindness, friendship, and support for others. They made sure I did not feel alone.
On the ride, I felt a camaraderie with the other riders and passengers as well. And I always feel my angel dogs flying alongside me. On this day, there was also someone else. I could almost hear him.
Even though decades have passed since I heard that beautiful sound, I will never forget my stepfather’s laughter. He was generous with his kindness and smiles. He stepped in and became a father to me. More than a father, only ten years older than me, he was also like a big brother.
Ron was a kidder. He picked on me unmercifully. That might be why I like that so much still today. He was a barber and always teased that he could help me with my ponytail. I had a hard time convincing myself on the ride that it was the wind tossing my braid around and not Ron. Every time I heard a little clicking sound I would expect to see the sunflower seed shells that Ron was always spitting out. How he loved those sunflower seeds.
From Australia, but as an American citizen, Ron fought in the Vietnam War. Like so many, he did not come home alone. Among the demons that haunted him were Agent Orange, which ultimately led to Ron’s actions that ended his life. Although he has been gone for some time, I think of him quite often and feel him around me, especially so on this particular ride.
I’m sure I will feel Ron’s presence at the next Mission 22 event Sunday September 14 at the Circleville AMVETS. Belinda will also be there to present a check from the 9/6/25 event. For more information about Circleville AMVETS event, please look up the beautiful article written by Lindzay Mason that was published in the Circleville Herald on August 19.
In addition to Lindzay’s article and the Mission 22 site I provided above, and given that September is suicide prevention awareness month, I encourage you to also visit https://www.samhsa.gov/about/digital-toolkits/suicide-prevention-month to learn more.
Whether you have lost someone or are struggling yourself and you need to talk to someone, do not wait, call the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988. Even when it feels like we are alone, we never really are.
The Mysteries of a Rescued Dog
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald August, 2025
I asked our Echo device to play the song “Galveston” by Glen Campbell Saturday morning while I made omelets for Gary and me. She fired up “Til it Shines,” by Bob Seeger instead. It made me laugh and then sent my mind on an unexpected trip. It was a journey of questions about our rescue dog, Shelby. She’s been with us for about 6 months now and there are still so many mysteries with her.
“Take away my inhibitions. Take away my solitude. Fire me up with your resistance. Put me in the mood,” the song begins.
Shelby is a little over one year old and about 75 pounds of untethered enthusiasm. The bruises on my arms and legs are evidence thereof. Despite the endless energy, she has her inhibitions. And they break our hearts. We don’t know what happened, but through her cowering, growling and other defensive behaviors we highly suspect that a man with a flashlight was a serious threat.
The second stanza of “Til it Shines” ends with the lines “Deal me up another future from some brand-new deck of cards” and makes me wonder what it was like for Shelby when she was less than one year old and was surrendered to the dog shelter. Surely, she was confused. What happened? What would the future hold for her? And here we are in that future, but she is still tormented by a past that we will never know.
“Take the chip off of my shoulder. Smooth out all the lines. Take me out among the rustling pines, 'til it shines,” the song continues.
Shelby is trying so hard to be good. She’s recovering from her past, learning her present, and preparing for her future with us while she is still only a baby. Different triggers paint clues about a past that must have been terrifying for her. But every week we make some progress. And we know eventually she will realize that we are not quitting her and that she is safe. We will do whatever it takes to help her shine.
As Bob Seger sang, “Still, if we can make the effort, if we take the time, maybe we can leave this much behind, 'til it shines. Mm, 'til it shines.”
Just like people, rescued dogs can have wounds that need healing. The scars are physical and mental. We can help them heal, and in turn, they give us unconditional love, comfort and laughter. If you have room in your home, I highly recommend you adopt a shelter dog. She, or he, may need some extra help to adjust to their new life, but in time both of your lives will shine.
The Place My Heart Swallows
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald August, 2025
Do you ever listen to an instrumental song and hear lyrics even though you are not aware that there really are any? I do. The other day, when I was riding my motorcycle, the song “Losing Trails” by Year of the Buffalo came on. It’s one of those songs with strata of strummed notes that circle and swim in my heart and mind, hypnotizing me and bringing me to hear words from my imagination.
“Flying with the wind and the sun past the hills and fields I’m in the place that my heart swallows,” I imagine the words describing how I take in and become one with nature.
There’s something about riding that is an odd mix of senses on high alert while at the same time my spirit is in a state of Zen.
Conflicts, issues and other carriers of stress are left in the wind my bike and I collide with. I breathe deep. I decompress. And the worries that once occupied my mind are replaced with the serenity of the beauty that surrounds me. I become one with the earth, the sun, the fields, hills and trees. And the notes that I hear and the lyrics that I imagine twist and turn like the roads I travel.
I imagine the lyrics continue, “Gliding past the woods of pine and the flittering sun’s shadows, they embed in my being and fill my soul. It’s the place my heart swallows.”
I hit repeat and listen to the song over and over as the miles move past like the sweeping second hand on an analog clock. I feel the beat of drums. I feel the history of what the song could mean. I am one with my bike. One with the wind. One with the sun.
I continue to imagine lyrics to the song. “Deep in the woods, among the rocky streams, in the shadows dark and hallowed are the places that my heart swallows.”
I find companionship where there is solitude. I find rhyme and reason where there is no pen to prove their existence. With no one nearby, I shift down a gear or two. A slow choreography of wheels and curves ensues. My confidants are the song streaming from my bike’s speakers, the purr of the motor, and the imaginary words that stir in my mind.
My writer spirit concludes with the imagined words to the song, “These are the things that God has made. These are the woods to feed my core. This is the wind to breathe life into my soul. This is the place my heart swallows.”
For Those Who Leave Too Soon
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald August, 2025
On our headboard, just above my pillow, sits a porcelain angel. She is embracing a lamb and her wings appear as though she is about to take flight. She was a present from my niece, Jessica, many Christmases ago. Truthfully, the angel is a Holiday decoration, however I’ve never packed her away, but rather have kept her nearby every day of the year because she reminds me of my niece. While I still have the angel to help me remember, there are so many things I do not have. And I have been thinking about those missing things ever since that recent day when Jessica earned her own wings.
I think about the last time Jessica ruffled the fur on her two elderly dogs and I’m saddened knowing these sweeties will never feel her touch again. I step outside into the summer heat and wonder about the last time Jessica felt the sun on her face and the wind’s fingers tousling her hair. What was the last thing she ate? Was she sated by something sweet or something salty? What was the last song she listened to? Did she sing along or did she cry? Did she have a To Do list with some items now perpetually undone? When was the last time she told her husband and her sons that she loved them? What were her last thoughts as she laid her head to rest that last time? I don’t, nor will I ever, know. These are not things I’ll ever get to hold in my memory.
Because she lived out west, I did not get to see Jessica very often. But we used to share long phone calls and I did get to see her last year. I will always remember what she looked like that day. She looked healthy in her grey t-shirt and faded blue jeans. It was a tough day in a hospital waiting area down the hall from my father’s room. Her grandfather. Things were unpleasant then, but I remember before we parted ways, I stared intently into those beautiful brown eyes and I told her that no matter what, I have always, and will always, love her. Always. I spoke the words over and over wanting to ensure they would be etched in her core as something she would remember. And I’m grateful I have that to hold onto when the pain is so deep it shreds my heart.
I pray that those who are thinking of leaving this world too soon find a different direction. And when that is not the case, I pray for peace for them and those they leave behind. I pray for more time to make memories.
If you or a loved one might be contemplating suicide, please talk to someone. There is help and you are not alone. One resource for information about suicide prevention is the NIMH at https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/suicide-prevention. Per the NIMH, “If you or someone you know is struggling or having thoughts of suicide, call or text the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org . In life-threatening situations, call 911.”
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse