Category: NEXT: An Empowerment Series

Which is your favorite?   We deny it’s possible. The parent of her children. The movie fan of films. The bibliophile of books. A clear preference demands comparison, and how do you compare a crème brulee to a chocolate pavlova? (Can you bring an extra plate so we can share, please?) Hopefully the other 11 months won’t take it personally if I pick one to top my list. Surely they know I love them all. There’s Joyful January when I’m ridiculously enthusiastic about grand goals.  Or Fabulous February when my romantic heart overflows and we celebrate five family birthdays. Oh, and

Back in Beantown to visit, a blue-sky morning invited me on a walk to see the fall foliage New England is famous for. I walked for miles.   I admired the muted purple hydrangeas. I bent over to sniff a lone white rose in front of the three story with gingerbread trim. I scanned each street in search of the yellows, oranges, and reds I’d remembered.   I applauded the small ivy-covered patches that passed for yards. I paused a pocket garden that I mused I could replicate.   It was autumn. But instead of the vibrant shades of favorite season, more flowers flourished than leaves fell.  The climate crisis was cleverly disguised.  Returning to Nebraska, the global news focused on Glasgow where world leaders debated and negotiated why some country other than their own should do more to put the brakes on the speedway to continued

The 93-year-old former physicist didn’t make the trip. He was now living in Germany with his third wife, having outlived two. The former mayor of Durham did, however, as did the Harvard psychologist. Ann was tired from working on an immigration matter late into the evening before but coaxing from her classmate convinced her to overcome her shyness and join the celebration. I’d booked my flight from Omaha to Boston; booked before I had gotten my booster, but I knew we’d all be vaccinated. This was a group that had been thinking about others for decades. Since before the pandemic,

“He said he’d beat the crap out of me if I didn’t.” After a celebratory dinner of fried chicken, beans, and tortillas the room fell silent as Maureen* told her story.  She proudly showed the progress with glossy photos of sessions one, two, three, and four. She explained how Mario was removing her tattoo. Soon the mark made on her chest would no longer be a daily reminder of her abuser and her trauma.  Mario, a short muscular man with a giant curly ponytail, spoke next. He choked up explaining how he used to tattoo gang members. How he heard Blanca talk

First I was confused. Later I silently disagreed. Then I started to question. “You support a lot of people,” my friend said. The conversation moved quickly past my subtle bristle, but my recurring trait of wanting to be right itched like a prickly tag inside a sweater. My children are grown. My parents are dead. I am not a caretaker for anyone. My love Kevin is as much a support to me as I am to him. My mild annoyance and urge to argue lingered. Margo visits our terminally ill friend Joyce week after week. Mary Helen has fed the

“Either somebody who loves you did it or something mystical is going on,” Megan said, turning her head to the side as if to say, “You tell me.” My coworker had noticed what was happening in front of our office. “Either way, I’m glad,” I smiled. While doing repairs last fall, the utility company pummeled the flower box in front of our office. Gratefully, they emptied all the soil, placed new blocks with precision, and replaced perennials I’d planted over the years—-roses, coneflower, salvia. Weeks later, in a corner of the box,  large heart shaped leaves appeared out of nowhere.

He gave up his hippie acreage with gardens to move into the middle of the city with me and mychildren. There he planted tulips and tomatoes anew. When the kids were grown and we movedfrom house to apartment, he grew kale in raised beds on the rooftop and raspberries andpumpkins in the country. He spent one summer managing a community garden for fun. Johnalways grew a garden. He took breaks from digging and watering to sit and savor the multitude of shades of green. I’dwillingly weed nonstop in the Nebraska heat I’d grown up with. I completed chores, crossingthem off

For months I knew it would arrive, and now it has. It would be special, sad, and I wasn’t sure what else. Now that September’s here, I escape my procrastination at looking.  It’s my month of many anniversaries. The major milestones and markers of my life’s journey make a list that includes:  Became a lawyer   Became a mother  Became a widow  The universe seems to know that the impending arrival of autumn is my special time for a change of seasons.  In falls past I could see neither their full meaning nor their foretelling of my future. How being admitted to the bar would lead to founding a wholehearted

She reached for a second tissue. “Sorry about all the tears,” she said. Some people pour their morning joe for a pick me up. I go for my Megan. Our always steady and ready office manager Megan isn’t ruffled by a crashed computer or an overflowing toilet. Still, on this morning, she dabbed the tiny silver ring in her nose as the drops kept falling.  It was Lily’s first day at a new school. Across town. Where she knew no one. A school where she would be different and feel alone.  While Megan knew all was well for her child, crying could not be avoided. Soon she let out a deep sigh.  This week social media fills with shining faces of innocence leaving us for places unknown.  Caretakers capture the moments to

Choosing to be alone for days is not an obvious extrovert choice. Yet for over a decade I’ve taken a solo annual retreat. I don’t go far, but I do go away from home where I am tempted by the dazzling distractions of unorganized drawers and the unfinished anything. My yearly ritual is usually in winter, the season of slowing down, anticipating the new year, and hoping the arrival of spring can be trusted. As usual, I marked my calendar for January. But the universe had its own plans. I postponed until summer. This time away is to look back,