The purpose of this article is to describe two books that, although each therapeutic, are different from each other in significant ways. The books are Nest, by Debbie Baxter (https://debbiebaxter.com/) and No Sticks No Stones, by Ricia Fleming (https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09B4HP329/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tkin_p1_i0). In the interest of full disclosure, Ricia has been a tap-dancing friend for several years. Our common link is the classes we have attended through local senior centers. I have also participated twice in deeply moving experiences led by Ricia, creating and walking labyrinths on a beach.

Debbie, on the other hand, I met only last week, somewhat by chance, when she visited Massachusetts from Oregon for work related to her Nest project. (See below for the backstory.) That project is the subject of her recently published book, based on her work of the past four years. Her work is focused on her recognition of the many people, including herself, who suffered physical abuse when young, without recovering from it. Debbie has designed a technique for self-healing, then shared it with hundreds of others around the country.

It centers on making a person-sized nest, yes, just the way you’re imagining it, made from twigs and branches to form a bowl shape. Then she — and later, many others — shed her clothing and her hurts, entered the nest naked, curled into a comfortable position, and relaxed into safety. Photographs taken from above the nest captured the moment for the survivor to savor later.

This work became her book, Nest, an incredibly beautiful work of art, consisting of survivors’ first names, pictures of each in a nest, and their own words. Unlike many of the pictures of naked bodies that we have all been exposed to, none of these pictures is sexual or suggestive. Every one is beautiful, not because of perfect weight or shape, but because each displays an extraordinary innocence, calm, and serenity.

Let me contrast Nest with Sticks and Stones, Ricia’s book, which is available as an ebook on Amazon, for the small price of 99 cents. Ricia, a retired therapist, wanted to give it away, but Amazon wouldn’t allow that. Her desire was to share the information openly. The basic premise is that sometimes trauma develops, not from a particular event, but from ‘chronic covert trauma.’ One of the results is that the survivor doesn’t understand that it is not only physical assault or abuse that causes trauma; chronic actions from a loving person can unintentionally cause trauma, as well. There is no blame being placed here, simply acknowledgement that trauma has occurred and that it can be healed. Ricia calls this chronic PTSD or cPTSD, to differentiate it from the PTSD that is more familiar to us. One part of Ricia’s important message is simply this: it is not necessary to identify a particular physically traumatic event to realize that you experience trauma. The second important message is that it can be healed.

Ricia’s experience as a therapist and her clear writing enable her to present these ideas accurately and succinctly. I believe her book to be of potential value both to other therapists or to survivors of cPTSD, for their own understanding and healing. The strength and calmness that I have experienced from her personal presence, either tap-dancing or leading a group of us creating and walking a labyrinth, comes through clearly in her book.

These two books each share healing modalities, though in quite different ways. Nest is intended for survivors of physical abuse; No Sticks, No Stones for survivors of chronic, non-physical PTSD. Their prices are $75 and 99 cents. One is available only online, the other in a gorgeous hard copy book. I commend both authors, Debbie Baxter and Ricia Fleming, for their good intentions, excellent work, and successful outcomes.

Backstory on Nest

My husband and I have a lovely upstairs space that, prior to Covid, we rented through Airbnb. Now, we make it available to friends and family visiting the area, who need a bed for a few days. Several weeks ago, I got a call from my friend, Stephanie, who asked if I would make it available to another woman who would be flying in from Utah and would need a place to stay for four nights. After confirming that she had been vaccinated and did not smoke, I agreed.

The other information Stephanie provided was that my guest would be here to participate in a healing process designed for people who had been physically and/or sexually abused when they were young. Although Mindy offered to pay for the use of my space, I declined her offer, asking her to consider it as my contribution to the worthy Nest project. Mindy had flown from Utah without actually knowing anyone here, other than on Zoom. She had met some of the other participants during on-line writing with Donna, who uses writing as a healing modality.

Mindy arrived on Thursday evening and the local hostess for the outdoor healing event invited me to attend the $100 per person fundraiser as her guest. The book’s author, Debbie, was to be there from Oregon to describe the process, to read from her book, and to photograph participants in one of her nest creations. When I arrived at the sound-healing event, I was surprised to see someone I’d taken tai chi lessons from thirty years ago and for whom I had great respect. His current partner was the person in our center leading the sound-healing, using chimes, bowls, bells, gongs, and natural horns to create tones and sound patterns which induce natural healing, while we, as participants, laid down and deeply relaxed on our yoga mats surrounding her. I’d been part of sound-healing previously and knew that I loved the deep relaxation that I’d experienced.

In another part of the yard was a tent with Debbie’s nest and lighting set up, to be used the next day. So, we got to see a human being-sized nest and imagine it in use.

After the sound-healing, Debbie read to us from her book and answered questions before our hostess offered us wine, sparkling water, and beautiful, delicious pastries. When I left for home, I was completely relaxed with a full belly and awe at Debbie’s nest process. Mindy left my house for Utah a few days later, leaving me the book, as a thank-you gift.

It is more than a book. It is the personal record by dozens of people, men and women, who experienced healing of decades-old emotional wounds by climbing into a nest. Somehow, seemingly by chance, I got to bear witness to its power.

Copyright © 2021

The assignment was to write three paragraphs, each one focused on a word beginning with an initial of my name.

C is for Criminal

My name is Carole and I am a criminal. I am not a bad criminal, but a good one, who causes good trouble, the kind of trouble recommended by John Lewis. I was arrested for climate disobedience, for trespassing at a coal powered plant. The first time I was there, I removed buckets of coal, which were very heavy, by the way, but the police ignored the fifteen or so of us who were present. So, we alerted the police to our return date and invited our supporters to be there with us about a month later. There were hundreds of us present in September of 2019 when about seventy were arrested, including me. We were all handcuffed, transported in a police van, jailed for an afternoon, then released on bail. Over a period of months, I attended several hearings, at first in person where many friends joined us, all wearing red for solidarity. The last in-person hearing was on Valentine’s Day, 2020. After Covid emerged, the hearings continued on Zoom, where friends also joined us. At my last hearing, some months ago, I accepted the opportunity to present a personal statement to the judge, was found guilty, appealed, and am awaiting trial.

Y is for Yes

My middle name is Yolanda and my often-used word is Yes. I respond yes to many invitations — some from individuals, some from organizations, and some from inside of myself. Let me present examples of each. The invitations from individuals will probably sound the most familiar. They include invitations to meet family or friends for coffee, dinner, a show, or to go for a walk. I like to say yes and will make every effort to accept most invitations, which I believe many people do. The next kind of invitation I believe is less often accepted by many. They include invitations by organizations to be involved. I like to be involved and am in climate and social justice groups, in Quakers (my religious group), in political groups, including supporting favorite candidates for office, and in social groups, such as writing and book discussion groups. The third kind of invitation is from within myself, perhaps my heart or soul, and is often in alignment with other invitations that I welcome. My newest one is to begin a bible study, for the first time in my life. I have accepted that internal invitation and will soon begin. Once again, I have said Yes.

R is for Reinvent

My last name in Rein, now pronounced the same as rain. When I was growing up, my family pronounced it with two syllables, as in reinvent. I have always loved that word and have sometimes reinvented myself. When I was young and had no idea what I wanted to be or do when I grew up, I always knew that I didn’t want my life to be boring. To me that meant my life would involve change, that I would reinvent myself periodically. I have done that in various ways, as many people do, including religion. After growing up Catholic, I spent decades following an Indian guru and meditating for two hours a day. For the past thirty years, I have been an active Quaker. My career has also been varied and, I am happy to say, I have loved every job I’ve had — selling blueberry muffins at Jordan Marsh, selling children’s photos by phone (remember Olin Mills?), reinvented as a systems analyst, a computer specialist, and corporate technology management, ending as a special ed teacher, teaching algebra. Now, I am happily retired, a criminal, still saying yes frequently, still not having enough time for everything I want to do!

Copyright © 2021

Following is the formal presentation I prepared for my court hearing on January 14, 2021. It follows, exactly as I spoke it. We have many methods of self-introduction and this is one of mine:

Judge Kelly: During the early 80’s, I applied for work in a large company as an industrial engineer. After an extensive interview process, the hiring manager told me that although I was the best candidate for the job, he could not hire a woman. He presented it as if he were doing me a favor by being honest. I was polite, then left his office.

At that time, what he did was legal, so I had no recourse for an action that seemed to me to be absolutely unfair. I got another job, then worked for women’s rights. After a successful career in the corporate world, I earned a Master’s Degree from Harvard, where I was surprised with the Derek Bok Public Service Prize, in recognition of the extensive work I had performed to benefit women and girls.

Later, I became a special ed teacher and taught for 11 years before retiring. I loved those years! When I was younger, I would not have had the patience — or the kindness, to be a good teacher. I am different in many ways than when I was younger, but one thing has not changed — my desire to improve the world and to make it a more fair place.

My focus has shifted over time from women’s rights to include broader social justice issues. When I began to get involved in climate justice, I thought of it as just that — climate and the changes so important for life to continue as we know it on this planet. Then, I recognized that climate IS a social justice issue! Why?

As our climate degrades, the people immediately affected are those who are least in a position to change their circumstances. When there are storms or fires, they have no second homes, nowhere to go. When they live near a chemical plant or a coal-powered plant, they don’t have the resources to relocate. If they develop asthma, the personal consequences are severe and unavoidable.

The purpose of this allocution is to let you know a little about me. Simply, I am a Quaker and I am a nonviolent activist.

Judge Kelly, I request an unconditional discharge.

Postscript: Last spring, during the two breaths when it looked like the Covid situation was improving, I planned a trip to Egypt to celebrate my 75th birthday. Since then, our trip has been canceled and I await inspiration for what celebration will feel both safe and special enough to honor this milestone birthday. Suggestions, anyone?

Copyright © 2021

We all have many memories. In this writing, I share specific remembered moments from throughout my life that are special for various reasons. I begin with my earliest memories and include just enough information to place them in context.

My earliest memory is sitting on the toilet being toilet trained by my grandmother, Josephine, with whom we lived. I was not her first grandchild, but her first granddaughter. I must have been between one and two years old and remember her with much love. What I have remembered so strongly during the past few years is that she showed me how to count out three squares of toilet paper, saying that was what I should use. When I remember that now — every time I use the bathroom — I consider the importance of conserving natural resources, to which I was oblivious for more than half my life.

Another early memory happened when I was six, with my first pair of eyeglasses. Near the bathroom of my first memory was a set of three steps, leading to a large room. With my new eyeglasses, really seeing clearly for the first time, I fell down those steps. No harm was done, but a lifetime memory was created.

Of course, I have innumerable memories of my son. One that may exist because of a picture that I haven’t seen for decades comes from his first haircut. Jack may have been four or five years old and had full, rich, dark brown hair. He was an easygoing kid and we looked forward to taking him to his father’s barber. The barber provided a booster seat for him and wrapped a large white smock around his neck. For some reason, as soon as the scissors were near him, Jack started screaming. I don’t remember how the day ended; I simply remember him screaming, not wanting the barber anywhere near him.

One travel memory is from Mexico, involving a watermelon. We spent two months in 1974 traveling in Mexico in a Winnebago, shopping locally for food, which we then prepared. One very hot day, as we were driving along a remote road, we saw a small watermelon stand. I asked Dick to stop and we briefly discussed our bartering strategy, before I stepped outside to bargain. A few minutes later, I went back inside with a watermelon and described why I hadn’t bargained, had paid their asking price. They had asked for one peso for a whole watermelon. One peso then was worth about eight cents!

Another memory was formed in the seventies concerning my first wedding gown. I loved that dress so much! When I ordered it, I chose to have fabric covered buttons in the back, instead of an ordinary zipper. The dress had a gorgeous train. My memory is not about choosing it or wearing it in 1966. Instead, it comes from the seventies, when for some reason I realized for the first time that, other when I was getting dressed, no one got to see the beautiful buttons, because they were covered by the train!

In the eighties, on a trip to Hawaii with a friend, we signed up for a surfing lesson. We didn’t know it, but a photographer was taking pictures, which were later shown to us, for sale, of course. Well, I was not a talented surfer. However, the photographer captured a picture of me ‘surfing’ in about a foot of water, perfect position, that made me look like I knew what I was doing! I bought that picture and it is a perfect memory!

Another striking travel memory came from Scotland, searching out a remote location of ancient standing stones. We found the location at a pasture identified only by a simple sign, instructing us to enter, ignore the sheep, walk toward the stones, then asking us to please shut the gate as we were leaving, so as to keep the sheep from roaming outside.

One sad memory colored by wonder was created on the day of my mother’s death. She was very Catholic and loved saying the Rosary. On the afternoon of her death, as I entered her peaceful hospital room, I heard a chorus of voices repeating, “Now, and at the hour of my death, Amen.”

Two strong related memories come from a medical encounter in 2018. The first, after feeling exhausted during a tap-dancing class, then seeing my doctor, was watching her enter the exam room holding the printout from my EKG and announcing, “You’re having a heart attack. I’ve called an ambulance.” The second, about a week later, immediately after the anesthesiologist told me she was about to put me under for my bypass surgery, was saying to her, “Wait! I need to tell you that I love my life.” Her instant response was, “Well, we’re going to make sure you have plenty more of it.” Fortunately, they did and I continue to make memories.

Copyright © 2021

After being shamed in my sixth grade music class and not being allowed to sing with the class, for years I avoided singing unless I was by myself in the car or could hide my voice in a large group, like at birthday parties. Even then, I sang softly, so as not to offend anyone. Generally when I write, I describe success; this is not a success story.

Decades after that sixth grade class, I attended a weekend workshop by master musician and cellist, David Downing, offered for those with any level of expertise with any instrument, including voice. It invited me with a promise of improvement, to which I happily responded by enrolling. It was not that I expected to become an excellent singer; it was simply the thought of being with musicians and sharing music with them that excited me. I thoroughly enjoyed the weekend, spent with a group of people with hugely different skill levels. David was able to guide each of us, miraculously, on many instruments, with skills ranging from none (me) to professional level. Between listening to him on his cello and being guided to sing simple melodies as others played their instruments, his clear gentle style of correction and encouragement resulted in success for all of us. By the end of the long weekend, we performed a concert that ended with generous applause by the audience and joy for each of us. And for me, hope.

Some years later, I signed up for a week in a Costa Rican resort with Claude Stein, described as the Natural Singer, specifically saying that anyone could learn to sing. How could I pass on that?! At the beginning of the week, we were each asked to sing a song of our own choosing, so he would know our skill levels. Among the others, there were several beautiful voices, two with professional skills. When I sang for Claude, his response was that I couldn’t hit a barn with the right note.

During the week, we learned several songs that we all sang, a few sung by only the most skilled individuals. Claude recognized our varying skills and chose music that allowed each of us to learn and grow. He assigned me melodies with a narrow note range and voice exercises that encouraged a narrowly directed focus. It was a difficult week, much more difficult that I had expected, in part because when we hear an excellent singer, there is no evidence of the work of it. It looks effortless. Somehow, when I see ballet, I understand that both an enormous amount of effort and a certain amount of natural flexibility are required for a good result. But for voice, I had no innate awareness of the work that is involved. That week, I learned about some of the work required.

Among the songs that we sang was one that we sang in pairs, each of us singing directly to one other person. That song was, “How could anyone ever tell you,” always leaving me in tears. At the end of the week, we performed a concert to genuine applause and I returned home believing I had learned something important. But, away from Claude and without constant feedback, practicing the routines he had suggested became nearly impossible.

Shortly after returning home, one of the local chorus groups whose performances I had attended for years advertised for additional singers, saying that no audition was required. I was so excited! I joined, religiously attending every rehearsal, and after several weeks, gradually increasing my voice volume, then buying the requisite long black skirt and white blouse. The week before our first concert, the concert mistress asked to speak to me. She asked me to sing alone for her and, after hearing me, suggested that I should join a different chorus, one that sang simpler music. She attempted to soften the blow by saying that their complex music was challenging, but I got the message. I returned home crying and broken-hearted and never attended their concerts again.

So, you may be thinking, why don’t you try a musical instrument? Here’s my musical instrument history. When I was about thirty, I bought a guitar and took lessons for about a year. It felt like so much work, with little to show for it. Then, when I was about sixty, my son, at my request, bought me a concertina, a beautiful instrument like a small, round accordion. I bought a lesson book and learned to play a couple of tunes, then, for some reason, stopped practicing. Why is it that, during my life, I have done the work of securing a degree in physics and math, plus two masters’ degrees, yet have not done the work of learning to play a musical instrument, when I love music so much? Is it related to an innate talent that I am missing? I have no idea.

There’s still another short chapter to this story: private voice lessons. When I was about seventy, I learned that a friend of mine, Isabella, had given voice lessons for years. I gave her a little of my musical history and asked if she would be willing to give me lessons. She said yes! We met at her house, next to her grand piano, while she asked me to feel how my body, mouth, throat, and diaphragm, moved to make sounds. She was totally encouraging as I sang, ‘Ahhhh,’ ‘Eeeeee,’ and ‘Ohhhh.’ She provided exercises for me to practice between lessons and I bought a small recorder, so I could record and play back my melodies to aid my learning. After about six months, I realized that it was more work than I wanted to do and ended my lessons.

So, this is probably the postscript: Last month, at a folk festival, one of the vendors had handmade instruments for sale. I bought a soprano ukulele made from a South American cigar box, just because it was so beautiful. I thought that I would just strum it, enjoying the sound that it makes. But now, I’ve found online simple lessons for playing it. So, who knows, maybe …?

Copyright © 2021

There is much that I do not understand in life. One such mystery is any human being who is indifferent to music. I don’t remember when I first realized that music mattered so much to me, but several minutes of my life stand out, as they relate to music. I’ll try to recall them chronologically.

My parents weren’t particularly appreciative of music, though I remember one of their record albums with a slender woman on the cover, Peggy someone. The first song I remember singing along to was, I can’t quite grab it, but it was at the beginning of rock n’roll, maybe Chuck Berry. I remember my first portable radio and taking it to the beach, loving every song I heard, knowing every word to every song, and singing constantly.

One of my favorite stations was WMEX with DJ Arnie Ginsberg. I won a sweatshirt and was so excited when my dad took me into Boston to pick it up!

In the sixth grade, I got the first significant disappointment of my life when Mrs. Sherman asked me not to sing, because I couldn’t carry a tune. During music class, she had me write the notes, with my mouth shut, while the rest of the class sang. So, the lesson that I learned was to sing softly in a crowd, so others wouldn’t be offended. And, to sing out loud when I was in the house by myself.

About ten years later when I was married and a new mother, being home with my baby was heaven for me, because I had music blasting all day long, while I sang along with no complaints from my son.

A strong memory was getting a new stereo when my son was 8-10 and sitting in front of it with the speakers to our right and left, enveloped by the sounds. What were we listening to?

We moved to Pennsylvania in the 70’s and I discovered the Philadelphia Folk festival. My husband was indifferent to music, but I had friends who loved it. To camp out for three nights and hear singers whose music I loved, plus discover new musicians who made me laugh and cry with their tunes, this was indeed heaven.

Along the way, I ended up with a folk singer as my lover, who wrote love songs to me. Sounds corny, I’m certain, but what a delicious time of my life!

That was decades ago. My 30-year husband loves folk music as much as I do, though he doesn’t write songs for me or for anyone else. For years, until Covid, we enjoyed live music at least once a week. That is one of my biggest sadnesses right now. Zoom music is better than nothing, but doesn’t quite do it.

One unexpected pleasure that happened a few years ago when I was still teaching was this. Although I taught Algebra, a history teacher friend, knowing my reputation as an activist, asked me to be a guest speaker in a couple of his classes and describe the 60’s and 70’s through music. I had a wonderful time researching and designing the classes with music of Bob Seeger, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, and so many others. I loved it that many of the old songs were familiar to the high school students!

One of my favorite stories was about Bob Seeger, who had been invited to play behind the iron curtain and was given a list of songs that he was not allowed to sing. He followed the rules and did not sing those songs, the ones he was most known for. All he did was play the music. After a few beginning chords, the audience did the singing. Music is powerful and plays an important part in the world.

These days, one of my favorite pastimes is tap dancing. I never studied dance when I was young and started tap when I was 70. It’s through local senior centers and the music we dance to is from the 50’s and 60’s. Elvis’ Jail House Rock is one of our current regular tunes. So, is it the tapping or the music that keeps me there?

Music and My Life, Part 2 will be posted next week.

Copyright © 2021

These are stories of my fiftieth and seventieth birthday celebrations and the connection between them.

My mother was thirty years older than me, with our birthdays occurring the same week. So, a month before she was to turn 80 and me 50, I told her that I wanted to take her somewhere for 4-5 days, just us, to celebrate. She had wonderful memories of previous vacations in Bermuda with my dad when he was alive, so we picked that island as our destination. I’ve forgotten many of the details, but what I remember is the joy we each experienced during that trip and the fun we had appreciating each other, the beautiful weather in November, the beaches and the swimming pool, the delicious meals, and the shopping. She lived another 11 years and often mentioned how special that trip was and how much it meant to her. I still have a picture of the two of us on that trip hanging on my refrigerator.

Also for my fiftieth birthday, my gift to myself was plans for a Caribbean cruise two months later. I had never been on a cruise and, in general, they were not particularly appealing, but this one was different. There were to be several of my favorite authors on board, who were to be speaking throughout the 7-day trip. The common topics were psychic energy, near-death experiences, and creative visualization. Authors included Raymond Moody, Shatki Gawain, and tarot card designer, Jim Wanless.

My husband had no interest in the topics or authors and neither did any of my friends, so I took a chance and asked to be matched with a roommate. She turned out to be fine, though not someone with whom I continued the friendship. Another woman on board, Andrea, and I became close friends and remained so for more than twenty years, until her death last year.

I loved everything about the cruise – the food, the islands we visited, listening to the authors, and most of all, getting to know the authors and talking with them during meals and leisure activities. In fact, meeting the tarot card designer was the start for me of reading tarot cards, which eventually led me to doing ‘professional’ readings in Salem during Halloween season.

Thus, my fiftieth birthday and its celebrations were significant events in my life. Now, I’ll describe my seventieth and the connection between the two.

My son is twenty years younger than me, so when he was about to turn fifty and me seventy, I told him the story of going to Bermuda with his grandmother for our 50/80 birthdays. I asked Jack if he would consider going away with me for 4-5 days, assuring him that I would not be offended if he said no. He quickly responded that yes, he was interested, but where would we go? He and his wife live in North Carolina and he’s not much for travel.

After a little research, I suggested a week long Mississippi cruise, that would begin and end in New Orleans. There were no 4-5 day cruises available. I was thrilled when he said yes!

He took the train while I flew to New Orleans, boarding the ship late afternoon. My flight was uneventful and his train journey appeared to be, until he tried unsuccessfully to locate his luggage. He was assured that it would be located and returned to him wherever we were on our journey.

The challenge was that we didn’t have any idea WHEN! So, we went shopping for a couple of casual outfits for him, socks and underwear, then tracked down a CVS to purchase a week’s worth of his needed medications. What he was still missing was his CPAP machine, which eased his breathing while he was sleeping. He said he’d manage.

His luggage was returned on the fifth day of our seven-day cruise. He slept much better with his CPAP machine!

Other than that minor jolt to our plans, we had a delightful time. We probably had about half the meals and day excursions together, otherwise going our own way with plans to meet later. The cruise allowed us to maintain independent schedules, with plenty of time to enjoy each other’s company. In the mornings, we relaxed together outside our cabin, Jack with a coffee and me with a latte. In the evenings, we both loved the shows that were performed onboard.

Like the time spent with my mother twenty years before, the weather was great, the scenery appealing, the meals delicious, and, most important, the company incredibly special, deeply loved, and mutually appreciated.

Copyright © 2021

As Yehuda Amachai wrote, “the world is beautifully made for doing good.” When I consider all of the birthday celebrations that I have attended, including many of my own, one in particular stands out as truly outstanding. A second, very different, comes close, though for very similar reasons.

The very best one? It happened last month for Mary, as she celebrated her ninetieth birthday. Let me describe what made it so special. First, a little background is needed. I met Mary about five years ago, when I started tap dancing classes at a local senior center. Mary had been dancing for years, beautifully, and I was new to the art and not particularly talented. Mary stopped dancing with us shortly after, as age slowed her down.

Two months ago, Mary’s daughter contacted Debbie, our tap dancing teacher, to ask if we could surprise Mary on her birthday with a performance in front of her house, on her dead end street. Debbie asked if we would be interested and we certainly were! We had not done a performance since before Covid shut everything down. Before that, we performed occasionally at retirement homes and senior centers. During Covid, we’ve continued to practice on Zoom and this summer, at occasional outdoor sessions.

After Mary’s daughter called, we began to practice dancing to a tune that would be familiar to Mary, City Lights. We tapped to the lively music wearing silver top hats and performing a kick routine, just like the Rockettes. Well, maybe not exactly like them, but it made us feel like stars.

The week before Mary’s party, nearly thirty of us planned to attend, about twenty to dance, and another ten who no longer danced with us, but who remembered Mary and wanted to celebrate with us. Debbie called Mary’s daughter feeling a little embarrassed that there would be so many of us and offered to buy the cake. Her daughter assured Debbie that the cake she had ordered was sufficient for all of us and would hold ninety candles!

The day arrived and the weather was sunny, if a little too hot. We coordinated our arrival time to drive up together, then quietly gathered in her garage. About ten minutes later, Mary walked in from her house using a cane and wearing her tiara that proudly displayed ’90’, as we shouted “Surprise!” I think she actually was surprised and, if not, made a good show of it.

After many happy hellos, friends and neighbors gathered in chairs that had been set up in the driveway, ready for our show. We turned on the music and moved into the street, arranging ourselves into four dance lines, as rehearsed.

Just as we were about to begin our first number, an Amazon delivery van approached us, needing to get through to a house beyond Mary’s. We stopped the music and moved apart to allow the truck to move through. After performing our first number to applause, we moved apart again to allow the delivery van to exit.

We performed a few songs, then took a break for iced tea and delicious strawberry layered birthday cake, cut only after Mary had blown out all ninety candles with several breathes. We danced to a few more songs, ending with ‘King of the Road.’ We invited Mary to join us for this circle dance and she did! We enjoyed some more iced tea before leaving, each of us feeling wrapped in the love that had brought us together.

The other birthday party that I attended was for a two-year old about 25 years ago. My husband and I were vacationing in Turkey, then traveled to the nearby Greek island of Rhodes for a few days. As we arrived on Rhodes, there appeared to be a parade through the little village, so we joined it. A young man was marching with a small boy on his shoulders and I asked him what occasion was being celebrated. It was his son’s second birthday and he invited us to share the celebration and the cake. We said yes to both and thoroughly enjoyed the multilayer rum cake.

What these two parties shared, separated by 25 years and an ocean, was a foundation of love. For Mary, it began with Debbie’s dance classes, where all are welcome, regardless of talent. For Debbie does not teach only tap; she also teaches community and acceptance of others. It didn’t matter that Mary had not attended class for several years. The love was still there and we continued to share it.

For the two-year old in Greece, his dad was also spreading love and acceptance, even to people that he didn’t know, including us who had just stepped off the ferry. These were the best birthday parties I’ve ever attended, each served with plenty of cake and love to go around. 🎂 ❤️

Copyright © 2021

I have been excited about making a commitment for my first writing workshop EVER. I’m not a writer, but I have stories that I need to tell. This story is not actually one of the stories that I need to tell, but somehow, I always choose the story that is current, the most present, rather than the other ones waiting to be told.

Over the past year, during Covid, I have signed up and attended three different writing classes, one through a local senior center, one through a local library, and one long-distance, offered by a singer/songwriter, Nerissa, whose work I’ve enjoyed immensely for years. One meets twice a month, the second weekly, and the third every Monday afternoon. A few months ago, Nerissa announced her upcoming ‘summer camp’, to be attended either online or in person. It will be held two hours away from me, in Northampton, in the Berkshires.

The possibility waved in front of me, inviting, inviting. But, it also presented some obstacles: first the question of writing, itself. What do I have that’s worth saying that I need a week for? Who am I, pretending to be a writer? Next was the cost of staying in a BnB.

Finally, I arrived at my decision: I would attend three days in person, staying locally for two nights, and the other two days on line. I sent in my check for summer camp and felt confident that it was the right decision.

A few days later, at a party held for other local activists — see my blog entry for some details of my climate disobedience and arrest — another local activist announced that on July 1, she was moving to Northampton. I hardly knew her, but ten minutes later, I sidled up to her and asked if she would have an extra bedroom. After her ‘yes,’ I asked if I could spend a week with her in the middle of July. Another ‘yes!’

I accepted this as a blessing on my commitment to write for a week. Stay with me and you’ll see that I sometimes accept random occurrences as blessings, without accepting alternative occurrences as omens or warnings.

During the next few weeks, I gave my intended hostess, Amanda, many opportunities to change her mind, but she seemed completely willing to take me in. So, yesterday, after three meetings lasting from 10 am until 2:30 pm, I got into my electric car with a 115 mile capacity for the 122 mile journey.

I have traveled beyond my car’s mileage capacity before, but not very often, and I am always a little apprehensive about depending on an unknown location for a critical service. But, the Auburn Mall, the ABRP app’s suggested location for fast-charging, turned out to be reliable. When I arrived at Amanda’s, she greeted me with a hug and a warm smile, as she continued with a Zoom call with our climate disobedience group, as plans for an upcoming action were detailed. I briefly considered skipping tomorrow’s writing session, in order to participate in this action, then decided against it.

Have I mentioned that Amanda’s is less than three miles from here?! That feeling of blessing continues. Should I drive to Nerissa’s tonight, as a test run? No, it’s so close, it won’t be difficult.

I go to sleep and sleep soundly. I awake at about 6 am, my usual time, take a shower, and drive a short distance to a charging station near a coffee shop, plug in, then get a cappuccino and a croissant, before returning to my car to sit, enjoy, and do my daily online puzzles (see my recent blog entry, Puzzling Meanderings.)

Then, I take the lid off of my cappuccino and spill it all over my tee shirt. There’s plenty of time for me to go back to Amanda’s and change, but I’ll finish my breakfast first. Or, shall I just go to Nerissa’s like this? I think writers must be flexible and accepting, but is that generalization a reasonable one? This will affect their lasting impressions of me. Should I care?

I finally make the decision to go back and change my shirt, knowing I’ll be ten minutes late. I do that, then head for Nerissa’s, whose address I have written as 45, instead of 415. That’s because I didn’t take to time to put on my reading glasses when I scanned her notes. When I get to number 78, I see a parking space and decide to take it. I walk a couple of blocks and see a big yellow house and remember Nerissa called her house big yellow. But, when I get there, it’s number 47.

Confused now, I walk around and cannot find number 45. I finally get out the directions, put on my reading glasses, and see that I need number 415. I walk back to my car, get in it, and drive to the right place, parking nearby. I walk behind and see little blue, with Nerissa walking out to greet me. I’ve been a teacher and know how annoying it is when students show up late, especially for the first class. Nerissa doesn’t show that at all, makes me feel welcomed, promises intros at lunch, and I begin to write.

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