Writer

I know when to count my blessings.   My children are bright, healthy and successful.  My husband loves me in spite of the fact that I am not the PYT he married, and we are celebrating 30 years of marriage.  I have a job I love, and the children I work with entertain me and enrich my life. My mother still lives and still has her mind.  The world around me is a beautiful place, and everywhere I look I am astonished at the incredible artistry of creation.

Still sometimes I weary of this world.  On occasion it takes my happiness and grinds it under its heel. The nightly news depresses me so I try not to watch it–politics, killing, stealing, and so much pain. I have the sense of growing old, and feeling the time to accomplish my “bucket list” getting away from me (Ever at my back I hear/time’s winged chariot drawing near). My mother is aging and becoming infirm. My children are growing up and leaving home. And now I have to deal with the betrayal of my own body, which is insisting on getting older in spite of my instructions to do otherwise.

I have always found respite in the creations of others in all its forms–TV, movies, books, art, and music–but those worlds are gone at the end of the book, movie or TV show.  I need worlds that I can disappear into and stay.  Places where I can stay focused on what is good, beautiful, heroic and wonderful.  That is why I write.

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