“My grief counselor thinks I might be acting promiscuous on dates.”

My hiking friend (we’ll call her Suzie) was walking fast, just slightly ahead of me. When we hike we talk freely, much more so than if we were sitting face to face in a restaurant. There’s something about a sunny trail in the woods to get a conversation rolling.

Suzie is an open book on most subjects. In fact, she’s one of those refreshingly honest people in the world. What you see is what you get. But still, this comment stopped me.

“Well, you’d know…” I suggested cautiously. …

Several weeks after the crime tape had been removed, I went to my deceased daughter’s apartment to retrieve her things. When I took in the fact that many pieces of her artwork had been destroyed, I came face to face with the destructive nature of her boyfriend. I also understood the desperate fear she must have been living under.

But there was something larger at stake. I’d been wrestling for months to put a finger on it.

Destroying art is more than wrecking kitchen cabinets, which he also did that last night. It’s an act both more personal and public than throwing plates in anger or punching a hole in a wall. It makes more impact than breaking glass and tearing up a mass-produced poster, although in the heat of the moment it may feel no more than equally satisfying. …

The hollow thunk, then the snarl of the firecrackers comforted me last night. The sounds signaled the end of the year my daughter died, which was a miserable year for so many, not just me. The new year didn’t wash me with relief, though, and I didn’t expect it to. I didn’t celebrate in the usual way.

I stayed up until midnight, yes, checking my phone for the precise moment, and reading nature essays by some botanist whose book was reprinted several times in the early 80s, so at the time he was famous, at least in botany circles, but no more. …

After two years of inner debate, I bought a subscription to Masterclass. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s the learning platform that features lessons from famous experts in their fields; authors, artists, historians, scientists, and economists (among others) share their unique perspectives on their craft. Over three hours, they teach neophytes how to do what they do… masterfully.

For my first courses, I selected mostly authors. I am a writer who hopes to eke out a book someday, so even if I only watch classes taught by the likes of Margaret Atwood, Neil Gaiman, Malcolm Gladwell, and Walter Mosely, the cost of the subscription will be worth it. …

July of 2019 seems like a lifetime ago.

One summer morning that month I lay in bed and emailed an eclipse tour guide company out of the UK. In less than 17 months I’d be in South America chasing the eclipse. Since I knew I’d be traveling alone, I figured it would be more fun with a bunch of eclipse groupies. I inquired about their December 2020 eclipse packages.

Within hours, I had booked myself a spot and made a downpayment on a ten-day trip to Argentina, Chile, and the Patagonia Islands. …

Indeed, here it is the Friday after Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, or at least it was until this year. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, so I prepared and visualized the day — or the non-day — like an athlete training for an event.

Yet another exercise in my year of magical thinking, as Joan Didion so aptly described her year following her husband’s death, I knew I would have to get through this day somehow. In some sort of imagined mindset, I both prepared for the inevitable day and avoided all memory of our traditions at the same time.

Miraculously, it wasn’t even like I had to muscle through it. …

As a thinking person, you will inevitably reach a point in your life where you evaluate your future legacy. What difference did you make? Will anyone remember what you did here?

You may lose sleep over it. Or, who knows? You may be so exhausted from doing amazing things every day, that you sleep like a baby.

As a woman in my early fifties, these questions have been sneaking into my consciousness these past few years. After my 21-year-old daughter died last February these questions became less personal. Now my thoughts about the quality of a life take on more philosophical weight. I stopped being so focused on the difference my life would make and began to try to define the difference Katie’s short life made. What difference does any life make? …

When you first discovered that you liked to write, were you typing at a keyboard, or were you holding a pencil? If you took to writing as a child, it was the latter.

You may not have been aware then that handwriting made your brain agile and creative. All you knew was that you enjoyed words, both reading and writing them.

Maybe you were that kid who was given a writing prompt in grade school and got lost filling a page with words and ideas. When the time was up, you easily had a few complete pages.

Maybe, like me, you were given a blank journal as a birthday gift and you began writing a book all your own. Whatever else happened in life, you knew at a young age that putting words to your intimate reality was something that only you could do. You identified as a writer. In fact, you were a writer. You had a book to prove it. …