Part 2: Childhood Memories Series

Exactly 62 days ago I posted my last piece for Medium and I believe it’s been a bit longer for WordPress. Looks like I’m not one of those people who can produce through trauma. It’s a work in progress that’s barely begun.

Alas, I’m finally finished part 2 of my series on Childhood memories. I hate to speak about onions but if I were an onion there would be numb atop numb atop numb atop bullshit and grief. My goal for this series is to address the bitter grief of my mother’s passing in a way that helps me remember the good times to assuage this cutting pain, to dull it’s tip.

Here is part 2.

Enjoy comment with any feedback.



We come a long way in life, hopefully, when we have lives that includes good times and bad. There’s something to learn.

What concepts of good will we have without the not-so-ideal? Not that I wish for bad because what is bad when the concepts of bad are not defined when there is no good? There’s a lot to learn.

What I wish is for everyone to be, and to get understanding of the world around them, and to be glad for the things that make them happy, and to morn for the things that hurt, and to acknowledge that all of these things have purpose.

Learning from every twisted ankle, every gopher hole in every wide boundless field of experiences, and here I am. Wondering at the wonder of all the things that I once found confusing and meaningless. To look upon these things with new eyes as the morning sunshine over that patch of grass where wild flowers bloom.

Taking a look outside early this morning, and seeing the same scenery that I always see, in a different light.

It’s freeing.

There’s nothing new per se but there is a new idea of what this space can be. So spacious and free from the turmoil of busy foot traffic and busy talk spoken into the air. Good intentions allow your dawn to be clearer to make way for your noon to be at it’s highest.

Here’s to the highest noon.




white framed glass window

Photo by Pedro Figueras on

this is not real

all an elaborate ruse

whispering horrible lies, at night


At dawn I forget, almost until

Bread bakes or flowers bloom or fresh coffee brews

this can’t be real, just tell me now


walk through the door and yell SURPRISE

explain your absence

you had to go away,


to save me

find me again

Quiet and disbelieving

Medium Post: The Duster

photo of classic car

Photo by Shukhrat Umarov on

A segment in a series of childhood memories that I’ll be exploring, a grief process, if you will.

Please enjoy.


View at

Wind and Rain

silhouette and grayscale photography of man standing under the rain

Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric on

The wind, and rain. Two powerful, and amazing forces that give me an energy that walks a fine line between fear, and wonder. Looking out at a hard rain, from a secure place, makes me long to be apart of the downpour to be completely drenched with it’s powerful purpose, and to be connected with every life giving aspect of the rain.

Every purposeful thrust of wind cleans away discarded cans and shards of paper from a quick snack or piece of gum. Mercifully, the wind comes in as our broom and our mother to cleaning up our messes.

Rain pours in a sweeping motion and the glances from strangers at the woman standing in the middle of the street, arms out stretched, and face upturned to allow each heavy drop to drench her skin.

That woman is me.

When I can watch the rain from a secure place. Like the window of my bedroom overlooking a busy intersection; where no one has time to enjoy a few seconds of complete abandon, and surrender to the elements so sweetly rendered to us by the mother because the bus is coming.

I’m am grateful. For the safe place, for being allowed off my leash of predefined social conventions to “come in out of the rain”. It doesn’t always make sense to come in out of the rain. Let it rain.

How are you guys doing? It’s been a while. 😏