Author: Kathie

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Back in 2018, when I chose Thursday as the day to write This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, I didn’t think about it always falling on Thanksgiving day. I’d like to take credit for that as a moment of brilliance, but I didn’t. It is pure happenstance. But ultimately, it’s a good thing.

I can tell you that, after the year we had in 2024, it hasn’t been easy to feel thankful. Michael’s horrible accident and death, and the deaths of other family members that followed, has created the most difficult time of my life. This blog has helped. And so did what happened last Saturday.

I was in an event at the Waukesha Public Library, a fundraiser for the Friends of the Library. The event was dubbed, “Author Maggie Ginsberg In Conversation With Author Kathie Giorgio”. I was happy to do it. Maggie had been “in conversation” with me twice already, at the launch of Don’t Let Me Keep You and at an appearance at Daydream Believer Books in Lake Mills. She was the interviewer, I was the interviewee, and this time, we were switching roles. I got to ask the questions, rather than answer them.

During our conversation, and then the Q & A that followed, someone asked about the meaning behind the title of Maggie’s novel, Still True. Maggie told this story:

During a difficult time in her life, one of those times where you feel like the floor is out from under you, the world is an alien place, and you just might never recover, a friend came to see her. The friend verified that Maggie likely didn’t want to talk about this time, so she asked instead about Maggie’s children. About her career. About other things in her life that Maggie loved.

Then the friend said, “Well, those things are still true, aren’t they.”

Maggie was gobsmacked. And as she told the story, so was I. I was very glad we were in the Q & A portion, because I was simply stunned into silence.

So here then are the things in my life, which has felt like the floor was taken out from under me, the world is an alien place, and grief so hard and deep, I thought I might never recover, but that are still true:

*It is still true that I have four amazing, loving children. Christopher, Andy, Katie, and Olivia. I also have the woman I call my daughter-by-proxy, Rayne, such a part of our lives that we have to, want to, include her as part of the family. They have all circled around me, as I have reached my arms around them.

*It is still true that I am surrounded by friends, students, and clients, some people who embody all three roles, who have stuck with me. The students and clients, in particular, have put up with my uneven schedule as emergencies happened while Michael was still alive, and personal crashes happened to me after his death. During that time, my life became about teaching in the morning, running to the hospital or rehab or taking Michael to appointments in the afternoon, then teaching in the evening and reading manuscripts into the night. These students and clients formed a meal chain. When I finished with my last morning client and ran out of the house to go to Michael, I always found a lunch already packed for me in a cooler by my garage. And I also found dinner, which I’d only have to heat up when I got home. Students also cleaned my house. I have never felt more cared for. During this entire time, AllWriters’ has not suffered. Everyone stayed beside me, making sure I could continue to do what I do best.

*It is still true that I have a roof over my head, even though it’s only me now that keeps it there.

*It is still true that during the time since Michael died in June of 2024, my novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You, was released, and my poetry collection, Let Me Tell You, Let Me Sing!, was released. It is also true that another poetry collection, dedicated to Michael, The Birth Of A Widow, will be released in early 2026, and my next novel, Unique In All The World, will be released, likely in 2027, but the date is not determined yet. Which means that, despite a 3-month period where the only thing I could write was this blog, once a week, and even that was a challenge, and this was the only time I ever found myself in my entire life unable to write, it has returned to me. It is the part I identify myself as more than anything else: writer. And so it is still true that, despite all that has happened, I am still here.

I am so grateful for Maggie’s words, that allowed me to realize this, and encouraged me to look at what is still a constant in my life, instead of focusing so hard on what has been lost.

However.

I have not become the embodiment of a Hallmark Christmas movie. I decided, a bit ago, that we would have our Christmas tree in the condo this year. I did not put it up last year – I simply couldn’t. Michael loved Christmas, partly because his birthday is two days after Christmas, so he pushed that all the hoopla was about his birth, not…well, you know. But this year, I said, we’ll do it.

Earlier this week, late at night, when I was getting ready for bed, I sat on my seat in our reclining loveseat, and looked at the spot where the tree would go. And I realized this.

The last time the tree stood, an orange plump cat named Edgar Allen Paw, he of the multiple toes, took his place under and behind the tree, a place he declared as his own for fourteen years. In front of the fireplace, a small gray cat, whose size did not keep her from being queen of the household, took her place under the stockings and in front of the heat. Muse’s spot was there for twenty years. Huddled by my feet because she was scared of the Christmas tree, so scared she wouldn’t even grab her favorite food, French fries, that I put under it for her, was Ursula, our dog. Only with us for 7 years, she nonetheless had her own spot too, and is also solidly wedged in my heart. Beside me, in his seat on the reclining loveseat, was Michael. Alive and well. Writing on his computer, playing a word game on his phone, listening to an old time radio drama, watching the television, and smiling at me – all at the same time.

Instead, this year, when the tree goes up, there will undoubtedly be two young cats, Oliver and Cleo(catra), who I have named The Orange Terror Twins From Different Mothers, trying to climb the tree, batting the ornaments, and causing havoc. Which means I’ve devised a plan to put a hook in the exposed rafter above the tree and tie the top of the tree to that hook.

All of this means that my life is very different now. But it also means this:

While the floor was pulled out from under me, there is a new floor there. It’s different, but it’s solid. While the world is indeed alien from what I used to have, it’s becoming more familiar every day, and has many familiar parts to it that are still here. And while I am still sad, while there are still moments that literally knock me to my knees, I am recovering.

Above all, I am still me.

One foot in front of the other. I’m aching, but I am moving forward.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

From the past:

The present:

 

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

All four of my kids participated in music activities during their time in school. Three took piano lessons. In birth order, Christopher played the trumpet, Andy played the drums, Katie played the flute, and Olivia played (and still plays) the violin. She also took part in guitar and ukelele lessons, and for a bit, in middle school, was in chorus. Of the four, three actively listen to music today. The one who doesn’t prefers to listen to video game podcasts.

Music plays a big part for me as well, and always has. Like my son, I played the trumpet. I sang in chorus through high school. I wanted piano lessons, but because my brother was a talented organist and we had, first, the not-really-mighty Wurlitzer in our living room, and then the mighty Hammond, my parents said I could learn the organ, and my brother could be the teacher. I wanted no part of that. But when we were at the showroom, my parents contemplating buying the mighty Hammond, the very smart salesman saw me looking in the showcase at an autoharp. I told him my music teacher at school played one, and she let me strum it sometimes. When he told my parents that he would throw in the autoharp for me, if they purchased the Hammond, it sealed the deal. I strummed and sang with that instrument for years. But somewhere in my adult life, it disappeared…I don’t remember how. A few years ago, I found one that looked exactly like mine on a used instrument website. Michael bought it for me for Christmas, and so I have the comfort of it again.

I took piano lessons for about a year. But then there was Michael’s accident, and I ended up quitting due to lack of time and extreme stress. Since Michael’s death, I haven’t yet returned to lessons, even though my teacher has encouraged me, and I look longingly at my piano every now and then. Maybe it will come back, as time passes and memories soften.

But this week, years after I watched my kids in concert, I watched my granddaughter, Grandgirl Maya Mae. She’s in her second year of playing the viola. I watched her last year too, in her first year, and I was thrilled to see her focused concentration, followed by the smile of accomplishment after every song.

I had a client right before this year’s concert began, and I knew time was going to be pressing, but I was determined. I said goodbye to my student on Zoom, ran (carefully) down the stairs, grabbed my purse and keys, and took off. My son Christopher, Maya’s daddy, and my daughter Olivia kept me aware of the minutes by messaging me: “They’re warming up!” “The 7^th grade orchestra is on the stage!” “Mom’s gotta go fast!” “You got this, Mom!”

I got there right before they started their first song. The lights were already out in the auditorium. I spotted my kids and took off down the aisle, only to discover that the sloped aisle wasn’t sloped; it had steps. I stumbled, but didn’t fall, slid into my seat, and breathed a sigh of relief.

What Grandma Kathie wants, Grandma Kathie gets. I didn’t miss a note. And my granddaughter was easy to find – she was front and center, first row, right in front of the director. I saw every facial expression, a lifted eyebrow, a toss of the hair, the way she lifted the viola and tucked it under her chin, the other arm rising, poised, graceful, holding the bow. And then the smooth back and forth as that bow, under my granddaughter’s spell, made those strings sing.

The smile of accomplishment. And the joy.

The joy is the most important thing of all. I saw it on all of my kids’ faces. And I remember feeling it. That moment when all of the music, all of the parts, blend together and become one big harmonious sound, which is only possible because you are playing with others. You are cooperating with others. You aren’t showing off, you aren’t not giving enough, you are adding as a solid group to make a sound, to play a song.

It’s teamwork, without being in a sport. And you can hear the result all around you.

This is one good thing about getting older. I can see the generations, literally see the connections, and watch as time goes on, and influences continue to trickle down. The generation before me, in my family, loved and participated in music. My brother and I participated. My kids have. And now…my granddaughter.

Two of my students recently joined a choir, and they just had their first concert.

Maybe I’ll take a step toward my piano.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness, despite the news.

There are times I am phenomenally grateful that I’m a Waltons fan. I can recite every episode along with the actors. I’ve visited the real Waltons Mountain, which is in Schuyler, West Virginia. I met Earl Hamner’s sister, who happily showed me what a trailing arbutus is. I corrected the museum tour guide. Earl Hamner himself friended me on Facebook, before he died. I own the Waltons Barbie-esque dolls. I own the lunchbox, the game, the books, and on and on. And I met Richard Thomas, who played John Boy, a few years ago, when he came through playing Atticus Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird. I own the book of poetry he wrote while he was still on the show and he signed it. I gave him a copy of Hope Always Rises.

Yes, there’s a point here.

This week, today, in fact, I got slammed with a shock. About a month ago, I received a letter from the Social Security Administration. After Michael died, I was stunned to find out that there is something called survivor benefits. Basically, a widow or widower receives benefits from the spouse’s Social Security. I’d never heard of such a thing, and I’m grateful to the funeral home, who informed me of it. I visited my local office and was amazed and grateful to find out that it’s a real thing, and so I began to receive benefits.

Because I own a small business, my income is up, down, and all around, at best. Now that I’m totally self-supporting, having this help means a lot.

Then this letter came. I earned too much, it said. I have to pay back almost five thousand dollars.

What?

I figured it was a joke, but I made an appointment and went in to the local office again. A very nice, and sympathetic, woman explained to me that I have a cap as to what I can earn, and I earned just under five thousand dollars too much. We went over my taxes and my profit and loss statement.

And so, well, yeah. Gotta pay it.

And the kicker? If I was 67 years old, instead of 65, it wouldn’t matter what I earn. They no longer insist you only make so much.

I staggered out of the office.

This was combined this week with a discussion I had with a non-writer. We were talking about the goals I’ve had in my life, and I told her that my number one goal, for pretty much as long as I can remember, is to be on the New York Times Bestseller List.

When I was a kid, you really weren’t taught to read until the first grade. So I read Dick and Jane and Sally and Spot and Puff, and then immediately zoomed upward in ability. I was reading at an adult level. My first grade teacher used her lunch hour once a week to drive me to the high school library to search out books that would be at my ability, but wouldn’t have topics that I wasn’t emotionally ready for yet. Mrs. Knuti was amazing. So was the librarian at the public library, who helped me search out the same thing. Because of reading these books, and the authors’ bios, I was only six years old when I learned about the bestseller list. I began to write and dream, and that list became my lifelong goal.

So now I’m 65 and I haven’t yet hit that goal. I think about that and sigh a lot. The non-writer reminded me that I have 16 books published, #17 will be out in early 2026, and #18 is sitting on my publisher’s desk, waiting for an answer. I’ve won awards. Yada, yada, yada.

I shrugged. Shrugged!

The non-writer asked what percentage of writers make it onto the bestseller list. I didn’t know, and so I did a little research.

To be on the bestseller list, you have to sell 5000 books in one week. Of the published hardcover books released each year, .5% (that’s POINT 5 percent, not 5 percent) will land on the bestseller list. Of all the books, from all writers, all genres, and all methods of publishing, of the 3 million books published each year, less than 6240 will land on the bestseller list.

In other words, it’s next to impossible to accomplish this. And I’ve been holding it as my lifelong goal for, well, just about sixty years. All but the first five years of my life.

It was the first time I staggered this week.

After I stumbled home from the Social Security office, counting dollars and cents in my head, figuring where this almost five grand was going to come from, I sat down at my desk and stared at my computer. I turned in my chair and I looked at my shelf of my own books. They stand proudly between the A to Z bookends that Michael gave me for Christmas one year, after I told him that I coveted the bookends featured in Dr. Bob Hartley’s office from the old The Bob Newhart Show, where he played a psychologist.

Just above this shelf is another shelf, holding the photograph of me with Richard Thomas, the signed poetry book, the Waltons board game, and the Waltons lunchbox.

And I remembered an episode of the Waltons. It was called “The Prophecy”. In it, John Boy is in college, and a professor stops to talk to him, asking him what else he’s planning to do besides write. He tells John Boy that, at that moment in time, there are 10,000 unemployed writers in the United States. John Boy is stunned. Kinda like I was today.

He comes home and sits on the front steps. With a stick, he writes 10,000, in the dirt. His youngest brother Jim Bob comes up, reads the number, and the following conversation takes place. (Yes, I own a copy of the script. I have several.)

Jim-Bob: Ten thousand what?

John-Boy: Ten thousand unemployed writers in this country today.

Jim-Bob: That’s silly.

John-Boy (exasperated): What’s silly about ten thousand unemployed writers?

Jim-Bob: Just because you’re nineteen years old, doesn’t mean everyone else is dumb.

John-Boy: I never said you were dumb.

John-Boy: Well, the way you tell it, a writer is somebody who’s supposed to be somebody who thinks things up and puts ’em on paper.

Jim-Bob: Well, what’s that got to do with anything?

John-Boy: Somebody like that is working for himself, isn’t he?

John-Boy: Of course he’s working for himself, he has to work for himself.

Jim-Bob: If he’s working for himself, how can he be out of a job?

John Boy looks into space for a moment, and then kicks the number 10,000 into oblivion.

I thought about this episode, looking into space, just like John Boy just did. And then my eyes dropped back down to my book shelf.

16 books. 8 novels, 2 short story collections, 1 essay collection, 5 books of poetry. Another book already on the way, and hopefully, one more.

And what can’t be seen: all the short stories, poems, and essays in magazines and anthologies.

Maybe, maybe, maybe I should kick the New York Times Bestseller List into oblivion. Maybe. Some habits are hard to give up. Some goals are hard to give up. And sometimes, you just have to look at a problem dead on and take care of it.

Do I still have to pay Social Security back? Yes.

Am I on the New York Times Bestseller List? No.

But I feel better.

Thank you, John Boy. And Earl Hamner. And Richard Thomas.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Recently, I was at an event here called China Lights. It’s held at a botanical garden, and it’s an amazing visual spectacle of huge lit sculptures. There is also a live show, showing Chinese acrobatics. It’s all outside, and it’s cold, but it’s worth it.

I was there with a few of my kids and my granddaughter. Right before we left, I decided I had to get one more photo. Near the beginning of the spectacle was a display of Chinese zodiac, that included lit signs of what each one meant. I was born in the year of the rat, and the very first possibility of a career listed was Writer. I wanted a photo, just to show I’d fulfilled expectations, and that sometimes, being a rat isn’t so bad. I told my kids I’d be right back.

We were in a dark area. I didn’t see a set of three stairs that led up into the exhibit. There was no railing, no reflective paint or tape, and no one went in front of me, so I could have seen the movement upward. I tripped on the stairs and went down. Hard. My head snapped forward and bounced off of a brick sidewalk.

Oh, the blood.

A man yelled, “Are you okay?” and came running toward me. My kids came running too. My glasses were broken, but luckily, the glass remained intact. I had a gash in my forehead, my knees were wobbling, and I was pretty much a wreck.

Eventually, we got sorted out. As we went through the exit, two employees grabbed a first aid kit and taped me up with butterfly bandages and handed me an icepack and a handful of gauze. We headed off to the closest Emergency Department.

I was put through a CT scan (that was interesting) and an x-ray. I received 6 stitches in my forehead, a diagnosis of whiplash from the force of my head snapping and hitting the brick, a bruised bone in one finger, and badly bruised knees. Other than for surgeries, I’d never had stitches before. I can’t say I want them again any time soon. They hurt going in, and they ITCH.

And with all of this, you’re probably saying, “Where the heck is the Moment of Happiness in breaking your head on a brick sidewalk?”

The Moment came when the woman arrived to take down all of my information, with her little rolling laptop. We went through the usual; name, birthdate, address, phone number, email. I was very relieved I remembered them all. I also told her the year and who the president is. And then she asked me the question I hadn’t yet been asked since June 19^th, 2024.

“Marital status?”

The letter M came out of my mouth, and then I stopped. She turned to look at me, and my face, besides looking like I’d met a brick sidewalk, must have looked shell-shocked. I clenched my fists, and then replaced the letter M with a W. “I’m widowed,” I said.

As if there weren’t enough tears already on this night, now there were more, from a very different sort of pain.

I’d never said that word out loud.

She abandoned her laptop and came to sit beside me. She took my hand, being careful to hold it lightly, as it was the hand with the bruised finger. “How long?” she asked.

“One year and four months,” I said.

She gave me a hug. She didn’t ask for any more details. But she did say, “Despite what I have to put on the form, you can still be married, you know. You’re married to him for as long as your heart says so.”

Kindness. Absolute, pure kindness.

I’d like to say it took away all the physical pain I was feeling, but it didn’t. That would be too Hallmark TV. But it took away the sting of that word, and I felt a strong sense of relief.

 

Her words have stayed with me. I am still married to Michael. My heart says so.

On an evening a couple nights ago, right before getting ready for bed, I turned off the television. I had one orange cat on my lap. The other orange cat was sitting on my right, on the little console between my recliner and Michael’s. I looked at his recliner, which was empty. I looked at the floor in front of our coffee table, which was my dog Ursula’s favorite place to lay when I was in the living room. It was empty too.

Out loud, I said, “How did I get here? How did I become a 65-year old woman who lives alone with cats?”

Just a short time ago, I had a dog.

And a little longer of a short time ago, I had a husband.

The tears welled again, but then I remembered the woman’s words. I am still married to Michael as long as my heart says so.

It says so.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

A miracle happened. Just yesterday!

Wednesdays are typically my busiest day of the week. I have three clients in the morning, from 9:00 to noon, followed by setting up the classroom for a class that meets from 1:00 to 3:00, then typically a chiropractor appointment at 3:30, back home in time for clients at 4:30, 6:00, and 7:00. The rest of the evening is spent reading manuscripts for the next day. Often, by the time I’m done setting up the classroom, which involves making the coffee, setting out the snacks, and setting up the laptop for those who are Zooming in, I have a half an hour left to make my lunch and eat it. This usually includes checking my email on my phone, just in case there’s a fire to be put out, and then, with whatever time I have left to chew and swallow, I read whatever book I’m currently reading for fun.

But yesterday, the miracle started to unfold when my 11:00 client was finished early. I set up the classroom, only making one pot of coffee, because I knew those students that were attending that day would not drink decaf. I got back upstairs to make my lunch at just after noon. I sat down to eat, discovered I didn’t have any new emails, and so I opened my book and read.

When I finished my last bite, I closed my book and glanced at the time, prepared to leap off the barstool and rush through putting my dishes in the dishwasher, refilling my water, yelling goodbye to the cats, and hustling downstairs.

But…it was only 12:30. 12:30!

I had an entire half hour…thirty minutes…1800 seconds…

…to simply READ. For FUN.

In the middle of the day. In the middle of the week. At a time that was not a day off or a vacation.

I grabbed my book and reopened it.

And then I noticed I was still sitting at the island, even though I was no longer having lunch. My eyes slid to the left and I saw my recliner. No cat was upon it. Then my eyes slid to the right and I saw my gas fireplace.

In seconds, I had the fireplace on. I was in my recliner, footrest up, blanket draped over me, a fresh cup of hot coffee within easy reach, along with four orange Oreos, and my book, my glorious, glorious book, open in front of me.

The cats looked shocked.

This. Never. Happens.

It was particularly delicious because this novel, which I’d been waiting for and waiting for, showed up at my doorstep the day before. I was already having an absolute ball with this book. That may sound odd, having a ball with a book, as opposed to having a ball with company or at an event. But books for me are just…Oh, heaven. Some books are a joy to read. Others are work, but worthwhile, rewarding work, to read. And some are a joy and work.

And others…I just put down. I used to insist on reading every book to the end, even if I wasn’t having a good time with it at all, because, obviously, I love and respect writers. I honor them. And I honor their work. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that life is too short to read a book that you’re not totally committed to. To read a book that is not totally committed to you, the reader.

This is one of those books that I am not only committed to, I am besotted. I would read this book straight through, if only I had the time.

But for now, on that day, a day that I typically don’t even have time to breathe before I’m off to the next thing on my to-do list, I had 30 glorious, unexpected, unplanned for, minutes.

I could have wept, except I didn’t want to waste any of the minutes by not being able to read through the tears.

And so, I read, in the middle of my Wednesday. I read, I sipped, I munched, and I smiled.

The smile continued for the rest of the day, long after I set the book down to go downstairs and teach.

(I read some more, in bed, before I went to sleep.)

Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(By the way, if you love books like I do, the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books is coming up on November 7 and 8! I will be there both days, moderating, presenting, talking, signing…come on out! It’s a free event, and the largest Wisconsin book festival under one roof! www.sewibookfest.com)

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Just about fifteen minutes ago, I was stomping around the house, muttering, “What the hell am I going to write about this week?” I’d just finished lunch, and this being Thursday, this meant that the next thing on my to-do list was not to come up to my office and work on my latest book, but instead, I was to write my blog. This blog. About a Moment this week that made me happy.

Some weeks, that’s a taller order than others. This is one of those weeks.

I live a busy life, which is fine with me. I had a client tell me this morning that I’m one of those “lucky people” who has a job that she loves. And I do. But for some reason, October and November have turned out to be months of extras, where I’m involved in things that add to the general and consistent busyness of my days.

I’ve just had a book released.

I have another book coming out in early 2026.

We just had banned book week, and I presented with a panel on banned books, as I am a writer whose books have been banned.

I’m taking an active part in my town’s Big Read’s-esque program, Waukesha Reads. On Monday, I’ll be leading a writing workshop at the library.

I’m the program coordinator for the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books, a huge undertaking involving over 50 authors…and the closer we get to our dates (November 7 and 8), the more fires I’m putting out.

And of course, from a personal standpoint, I’m still dealing with grief. A student attending a workshop this weekend said that I am so “composed” whenever I speak about Michael, and she doesn’t know how I’m doing it. She doesn’t know about the nightly meltdown. And that meltdown is doubly hard now. It used to occur late at night, when I was done with my work, I’d watched one episode of whatever show I’m watching at the moment, and as silence and solitariness fell over the condo, my dog Ursula would immediately get up, come over, and sit on my feet. I could hug her and my tears would fall on her head. Now, there’s no Ursula. Now I cry for both my missing husband and my missing dog. Though the last couple nights, I’ve had one or the other or both of my cats come over and leap into my lap. They’re a help.

So there’s a lot happening right now.

Today, my mind was so full of schedules and deadlines and who’s where and what’s next that I made myself physically stop moving and take a moment to think back over the week to try to discover that Moment that I always look for now, that Moment when I smile involuntarily.

Nothing. I came up with a blank.

With a sigh, I went on upstairs to my office, hoping the routine and the sitting down at my desk would spur something. Sometimes, just writing a few words leads to a few more, and then more, and I’m off and running. But as I headed toward my desk, I stopped for a moment more to admire the two new blooms on one of my hibiscus trees. Ruby, this one is called.

And there was the Moment.

Over the weekend, and into Monday, I suddenly developed a forest in my office. Now, I’m not big on real forests. I have a lifelong fear of forests thick with trees, throwing dark shade. You’ll just have to trust me on this – bad things can happen in a forest.  When I’m outside, I’m most comfortable walking alongside the ocean with the trees in the distance. I never even used to have houseplants. I’ve only had plants in the classroom, not in my home.

But somehow, since Michael died, I’ve suddenly sprouted a plant stand in my office that holds seven plants. On the second floor, in front of the door that leads to a small deck, is a large monstera plant, and as of last week, I added the chrysanthemums given to me by my hair stylist on the launch of my latest book, which coincided with my 26^th wedding anniversary. In Olivia’s room, there is a palm tree. On a window at the bottom of the steps leading to the third floor is a plant called a hoya, given to me this week by a friend.

And then there’s the 3^rd floor deck, which over the last several years,  has become my at-home sanctuary.

And now…there’s this forest. Inside. In my office.

We had our first frost advisory this past weekend, and tonight, we have our first freeze advisory. My son came over the weekend and helped me move in the hibiscus. There used to be only one hibiscus. This year…there’s three. Lefty, who is two years old. Ruby, who latched on to me at the grocery store over Memorial Day. And Joe The Jolly Green Hibiscus, given to me by the same friend who gave me the hoya. It’s not uncommon now for me to have a hibiscus in my office for the winter, but this year, there were three.

I had to move a bookshelf to make room.

Then, I kept looking out my deck door at my begonias. It’s my second time having this type of begonia on the deck, and they do amazingly well. They grow into bushes, and the red blooms are just boisterous and nonstop. The first time I had these plants, I felt really sad, looking out as they died as the cold set in. They were, I thought, too big to bring in, even though I knew my mother wintered her begonias in the house all the time. But these weren’t just small plants. They were bushes.

I already had three trees in my office.

So…what’s two bushes?

I simply couldn’t stand to watch something else I really love die.

Borrowing a dolly, Olivia and I brought the begonias in. They are sitting in front of the hibiscus trees, and I imagine all of them chatting away. Across from them, directly in front of the window, is the plant stand with the seven plants, including the geraniums that were outside on the deck, but which I also brought in.

I have lots of company now.

Since coming in, two out of three hibiscus have bloomed. The third has buds, which I expect to open any day. The begonias have continued their party. The geraniums are blooming.

I’m living in a very lovely, very safe forest. A forest I can not only tolerate, but love.

And imagine all the extra oxygen I’m getting!

Sometimes, the Moment of Happiness is simply that – a Moment. A bloom from a friend.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Last Friday, when I turned on my computer in the morning, the first headline I was hit with was the death of John Lodge, bassist and singer for the group The Moody Blues. The Moody Blues were made up of five band members (at least the ones I count): Justin Hayward, John Lodge, Ray Thomas, Graeme Edge, and Michael Pinder. With John Lodge’s passing, there is only one member left – Justin Hayward.

I spent a large part of Friday and Saturday, wondering what that must be like for him. To be the last one standing. I imagine it feels much like I do, late at night, after I turn the lights out in the condo and stand for a moment, still so newly alone in my home.

I fell head over heels with the Moody Blues when I was twelve years old, the moment I heard the song “Nights In White Satin” playing over a car radio. I don’t remember whose car I was in or why, but I remember that music just cloaking me. It wasn’t just the melody and the harmony…it was the words, their particular rhythm, and the meaning. Even then, I loved music that told a story – no surprise there.

From that point on, I was a true Moody fan. I wrote fan fiction about them, in which I incorporated myself into their lives, creating a family of sorts, because of course, in the story, we all lived in a great old house outside of London. Of course, we all owned horses. Of course, the house was filled with music. And of course, I was the light of their lives. In reality, they were a very large light in mine.

I spent hours in my room, sitting in the dark on the floor directly in front of the speakers of my little stereo, singing with my eyes closed, and transported into the worlds they talked about in their songs and the world I talked about in my mind.

As an adult, I don’t know how many times I saw them perform. When my big kids were 13, 11, and 10, the Moody Blues performed at Summerfest (1997) and the whole family went. Just this last Friday, when Lodge’s death was announced, my oldest son, 41 now, came on the family Instagram chat and said, “Oh, no, Mom. John Lodge died.” He then went on to say that he remembered that I had to drag them to the concert, but he ended up enjoying it.

Just the fact that he remembered what the Moody Blues mean to me, and came on specifically to commiserate with me, meant a lot. That he remembered the concert – even better.

Saturday night, I went with my youngest son and youngest daughter to a candlelight concert. It featured the music of Coldplay and Imagine Dragons, bands that I also love, and was held in Madison, Wisconsin. All the way there and all the way home, I played Moody Blues music, not from the car radio, but through Spotify through my speakers, in this new modern way, donchaknow.

But at the concert, I let myself sink into the candlelight. What a different feeling than a dark concert hall! It was soft and the flickering provided the room’s slowed heartbeat. The music was performed by a string quartet (two violins, a viola, and a cello) and it was so amazing to hear that familiar music in such a different way. I sank into it too.

When the quartet prepared to play Coldplay’s song, “Fix You”, a song I’ve played innumerable times since Michael died, one of the musicians talked about how singer Chris Martin wrote the song for his then-wife, Gwynth Paltrow, after the death of her father. The song is about guiding someone through the dark times. In my head, I heard the words as the song wasn’t played with voices, but with instruments. And those instruments sang with emotion. When I heard – and felt – the words, “Lights will guide you home,” I lost it in a silent way. Not sobbing. But impossible to stop tears flowing freely down my face. I didn’t want to draw attention by repeatedly wiping my eyes, so I just let the tears fall.

Lights will guide you home. What had I just said, and then written, two days before? On my wedding anniversary? That the only thing I wanted to honor that day was to see Michael come through my door, with the flowers he’d given me for anniversaries 1 – 24. To see him come home.

Lights will guide you home. And there I was, in the softest of light, and with a song meant to guide someone through dark times playing all around me, and in me, as I heard the words in my head.

On the way to and from the concert, the Moody Blues singing, bringing their familiarity and comfort to me, that had soothed me for so many years, starting when I was twelve.

I didn’t just sink in that candlelit concert hall. I relaxed. I let go.

I was so grateful.

I have, packed away in a closet, my hand-written fan fiction of my imagined life with the Moody Blues. I may have to revisit them.

Music soothes and it uplifts. This is a rambling Moment, as I’m trying hard to put into words just how that moment, and that song, and the music that surrounded me that whole day, made me feel. But I think the best way is just to show you.

Pick out your favorite song, the one that just makes you let go of the clench you didn’t even know you were holding. Play it in a dark room, maybe with a candle or two. And then just listen.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

To listen to Coldplay’s song, Fix You, go to:

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Lately, it seems like numbers have become very important to my life. I’ve never been a fan of numbers, and I truly don’t understand them very well, at least when it comes to math. When I was doing my undergrad work at the University of Wisconsin – Madison, I had to take a math class, and I took the simplest one I could find: Theory of Arithmetic. I earned a D. I have no idea how I produced a daughter who is a math whiz and teaches math (way higher level than Theory of Arithmetic) at the University of Louisiana – Lafayette.

But lately…numbers. I know exactly how many months it’s been since Michael was hit and run over by a passenger van. I know exactly how many months it’s been since he died. I remember when I had babies, and I wondered when I would go from saying, “He’s 3 months old…13 months old…18 months old…27 months old…” to “He’s three years old.” It seemed to happen around the three-year mark, maybe because the number of months grew steadily higher and, with my (lack of) math ability, I began to lose count.

I wonder now if it will be three years later that I finally lose track of the amount of months that have passed since Michael was forced down the path of leaving me, and when he left.

It’s become that way with writing too. A career that is made up of words, but now, the heaviness and importance of numbers has entered in.

Tonight is the launch of my 16^th book. My 5th book of poetry. My 17^th book, 6^th book of poetry, will be released this winter. My 18^th book, 9^th novel, is currently waiting for judgement on my publisher’s desk. These books have all appeared in the last 15 years.

At least I don’t know months.

It’s even taken over the actual physical act of writing. Look at how I wrote the numbers. I’ve always written out the numbers as words, which is appropriate for standard manuscript format – Sixteenth. Fifth. Etc. But suddenly, I am using numerals.

This is the sort of thing that can drive me batty.

So tonight, the launch of my 16^th book, 5^th book of poetry, as a kick-off event for the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books.

But it’s another day too.

On 10/9/1999, Michael and I were married. It’s our 26^th anniversary.

I’ve been struggling all day with how to say that, what words to use. Should it be, “Today is my 26^th anniversary.” Or, because I am now legally a widow, which means, I guess, that I’m no longer married, should it be, “Today would have been my 26^th anniversary.” Should I use “my”? Or should I use “our”? Today is our 26^th wedding anniversary. Today would have been our 26^th wedding anniversary.

Am I still married?

I feel married.

My gosh, this death and grief thing is complicated.

I just returned home from getting my hair cut and colored, in preparation for the launch tonight. The woman who keeps me red and spiky is Michelle. She gave me a lovely plant that she picked up for me this morning, because she knew about Ursula, my dog, who died 2 weeks and 4 days ago.

2 weeks and 4 days.

And Michelle gave me the plant just after I emailed someone, who asked me if I wanted to do something special to honor the anniversary after the launch is over tonight. I answered that all I wanted was to have Michael walk through the door, carrying the flowers he brought me for anniversaries 1 – 24.

A few minutes later, after answering that email, I held flowers.

I carried them to my car, placed them in the back seat, got behind the wheel, and burst into tears.

Oh, it’s a day.

It is also, by the way, the 2^nd book launch that Michael has not been in the audience. And it is the 2^nd anniversary without him.

But after coming home, I came up to my office to work on this blog. My office has become a forest, because the nights have turned cold and so my son carried in my 3 hibiscus plants for me, so that they could stay warm and cozy through the winter.  I love hibiscus, going so far as to name them and make them a part of my family. I do talk to them, but hell, I talk to everything. So in front of me right now, lined up where I used to have a bookshelf, are Lefty, Ruby, and Joe The Jolly Green Hibiscus.

Seeing them reminded me of yesterday.

Yesterday was their first full day in the house. When I passed them in the morning on the way to my desk, I noticed that Lefty had a bud that was swollen to bursting. I took a photo, and then, throughout the day, when I had to run by en route to the next thing on my to-do list, I glanced at the bud, and took another photo. By evening, Lefty gave me a glorious bloom.

Out loud, alone in my office (except for 2 cats and 3 hibiscus), I said, “There are some lovely parts to life.”

And now, I’m sitting here, reminding myself that I said that. That I felt that. And I can see that bloom from my desk.

I can see the flowers from a friend, who thought she was memorializing my dog (she was), and didn’t realize she was giving me something that my husband would have given me, on our 26^th anniversary.

There are some lovely parts to life. A bloom from a plant. Flowers from a friend. Celebrating accomplishments.

A lovely husband, who was always there for me, and who would be here today, if only he could.

Even though my life seems to have become about numbers, I can feel the lovely parts again, when, a short time ago, I couldn’t.

That’s lovely too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(For those of you who are within driving distance, I hope you come to the launch. I need help to get through this day.)

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

In 2017, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I went through a partial mastectomy, 20 rounds of radiation, and I took oral chemo for 5 years. A year after the surgery, an inexperienced mammogram technician attempted to get a tight close-up of the surgical area. She clamped down too hard, pulling me for the first time up on my toes in pain and causing tears. Her inexperience left me with internal bleeding which went into a huge infection, requiring drains and specialists, which I hadn’t had to deal with after my surgery. It also caused what was left of that breast to collapse, leaving me grossly misshapen and, well, let’s just say my days of dancing naked on tables were over.

I believed that year to be the worst of my life, until the last 19 months. I definitely have a new perspective now.

I am eight years away from cancer now. I rarely think of the breast cancer anymore, but my once-a-year appointment with my oncologist and for bloodwork, and my once-a-year mammogram (so much better than every three months!) tends to bring it all roaring back. I guess the experience exists now just beneath my surface.

I had my appointment with the oncologist and the bloodwork last May. I didn’t even stop to think about my mammogram. So when I was visiting the Milwaukee County Zoo this past weekend with my son Andy and daughter Olivia, and I received a reminder email about a mammogram on Monday, my immediate reaction was to stop dead in my tracks and say, “No, I don’t!”

It wasn’t on my calendar. Which meant it didn’t exist. But yes, to my surprise, when I called on Monday morning, it was confirmed that I did. When the nurse asked me if I wanted to reschedule, I considered it for a hot minute.

My breast cancer happened because I allowed myself to be “too busy” and I missed it 3 years in a row. The type of cancer I had is called invasive ductal carcinoma. The tumor was in a milk duct. If I’d gone to my regular mammograms, the tumor would have been found there, and it would have been removed and that would have been the end of it. No further treatment. At that point, it was non-invasive ductal carcinoma. But because I unknowingly left it so long, the tumor grew and burst through the walls of the milk duct, possibly metastasizing or traveling to my lymph nodes or both.

All because I was too busy.

Did I want to reschedule my appointment? “No,” I said. “I’m busy, but I’ll be there this afternoon.”

Now I will admit that the five deaths I’ve experienced in 18 months, four of which required me to make the decision to let those lives go – one of which was my husband – is playing awful games with my head. I’ve begun to wonder who is next in line. Any time one of my cats sneezes, or one of my kids gets in a car or goes for a walk or doesn’t answer a text right away, I freak out. It’s truly not a comfortable way to live.

So of course, as I drove to the Cancer Center that afternoon, I began to wonder. Was it me? Was I next in line?

I’ve spoken with a lot of breast cancer survivors. All of them have told me that, whether they are a year out, ten years out, twenty-five years out, all of the fear and worry comes rushing back on mammogram day. And so I dealt with that again on Monday, but to the extreme.

Would I be next?

I very much remember, back in 2017, sitting in the room where I was to have my biopsy, waiting for it to begin. I picked up a People magazine from the table beside me. The cover story was on Olivia Newton-John. She’d just died, twenty-five years out from breast cancer. After doing everything right. She ate well, she exercised, she reduced stress, she did yoga and meditation. But a single cancer cell drifted during her treatment to her tailbone, where it “slept” for twenty-five years. And then it awakened.

I am a polite person, and I am a polite patient. But I threw that magazine across the room. As it thwacked against the opposite wall, the radiologist came in. He looked at me, then walked over and picked up the magazine. When he read the cover, he dropped the magazine into the garbage can.

“It’ll be okay, Kathie,” he said.

I wasn’t convinced. And once a year, twice, if you count the visit to the oncologist and the bloodwork, I’m still not convinced.

But I went to my mammogram.

I had a very experienced and very efficient technician. She chattered as she walked me through all of the steps. Then she told me to sit down while she showed the screens to the radiologist. This is standard. Where I go, you get your results immediately.

I sat in the chair. Amazing how time can stretch.

But she was back in five minutes. “You’re good to go, Kathie,” she said. “See you next year.”

I sat for a few minutes more before I got dressed. I let the relief and the gratitude just wash over me. Even though it is very, very, VERY hard for me to feel gratitude right now.

But I felt it.

It wasn’t going to be me. Not on this day, anyway.

Whew.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

October, by the way, is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Get your mammograms. Don’t be too busy.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

It’s amazing to me how, when we wish to make a point or reach out to people, we often raise our voices. We yell. We shout. But at least in my experience, it’s often the softest voices that come through and have the most welcome impact.

It’s no secret that I’ve been having a challenging time. Since January 17, 2024, my life and my world hasn’t just been turned upside down. It’s been shaken, thrown repeatedly against a wall, dropped to the floor, and stomped on. Every time I think I’m getting my feet back under me, something new happens, and they’re yanked out again.

Which is probably why my dog Ursula’s horrible unexpected death has me thinking in every cliché in the world. The straw that broke the camel’s back. Also known as the final straw. The final nail in the coffin. The tipping point. The point of no return. The. Last. Nerve.

All are appropriate.

One aspect of all this that isn’t well known is that I actually stopped writing for a while. This has never happened before. Through every challenge, every fall-down in my life, I have shown up, first at the page, then at the screen. Writing is more than my career. It is my identity, my strength, my absolute source of sanity.

Michael died in June of 2024. From mid-February 2025 to mid-April 2025, I stopped writing, with the exception of this blog, though even that became gruelingly hard.

I lost my voice.

In my poetry book, The Birth Of A Widow, which will be released in early 2026, there is a poem from the day I sat down to write again, and it’s on the loss of that voice. I’ll include it at the end of this blog.

But it brings me back to soft voices. I took last week off of teaching, and this week too, because I simply found myself numb and unable to hold my attention on anything. With Ursula’s death, the fifth death I’ve had to deal with in 18 months, the fourth death where I had to make the decision to let those lives end, I found myself incapable of doing a damn thing.

And then came the soft voice.

I’ve written often about my high school creative writing teacher. I met him when I was a junior, and I’m now probably about 3 times his age when he taught me then. He was a relatively new teacher. I was new to the school, in the difficult position of switching schools midway through my junior year.

As soon as I began to write in his class, he lifted me up. Not that he made it easy; he challenged me in a way no other teacher had. By that point, I’d been praised to the hilt, and I was in that adolescent state of mind where I felt the world owed me something. Instead, he taught me that my writing wasn’t about what the world could do for me. It was about what I could do for the world.

In one note on a short story I’d written, he told me I had a responsibility. Not just a gift, but I had a responsibility to use that gift. And that would mean work. Lots and lots of work. But to not do it would be shirking my responsibility.

So I’ve worked and worked. I still have that story, still have that comment.

And then came the poetry unit.

He told me that fiction was my strength. My superpower. And poetry…wasn’t.

I was mortified. So my poetry and I went underground. I continued to write it, but never ever to show it. Never to submit it. As my career grew, I was asked often if I wrote poetry, because I make a point of making my fiction lyrical. I spend many painstaking, voice-robbing hours reading all of my work out loud, listening for the rhythm, the sound…the poetry. But I never admitted to it. I said I didn’t write poetry.

I don’t remember what led me to submit my first poem, well after my short stories and even my books started being published. But I did. And it was accepted. So I went from putting my toe in the water, to sticking in my whole foot. My leg. And now, I swim.

The poetry book that was just released, Let Me Tell You, Let Me Sing!, is my fifth book of poetry. The Birth Of A Widow will be my sixth.

I am still very much in touch with my high school creative writing teacher. We reconnected when he showed up at my first book launch. He has continued to be my sounding board, and he’s the one that tells me to get back to work when I waver.

But I didn’t contact him during that 3 months of silence. I didn’t contact anyone. I simply didn’t have the energy.

I dedicated Let Me Tell You, Let Me Sing! to my teacher. I said, at the end of the dedication:

So this is dedicated to you. I love you, and I’m so grateful for you. But sometimes…you were WRONG!

Last week, I went to the post office and mailed him the book. I put a post-it note on the cover, telling him to pay special attention to the dedication.

This week, for me, a card arrived in the mail. Inside it was a note from my high school creative writing teacher:

Well, I do have to admit that you were right (about poetry) and I was wrong. I do like your “story” poems a lot; I also like your short poems – which make me think.

That’s the beauty of your writing – you make the reader think. And you always have.

Keep writing.

And there’s the soft voice. Which has spoken to me time and again. From when I was seventeen years old, to now, when I’m sixty-five.

I wavered again these last two weeks.

But I am at my desk now.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

The poem I promised, from the upcoming The Birth Of A Widow:

5/16/25

ABSENT

For eleven months, you have been gone.

For three months, I have been silent.

I spoke for eight months

and it made no difference.

But after three months of my silence

nothing has changed.

I am still alone.

 

I have not been silent inside.

Inside, I have been screaming

and crying

raging

and pleading.

Outside, I open my eyes in the morning

move through my day

close my eyes at night.

But I hear the chaos within.

It comes out in dreams.

 

Dreams of running away.

Or chasing others.

Dreams of your voice coming from

a different face.

Seeing someone else I recognize,

but still know it’s you.

Dreams that are impossible.

And when I wake,

I face that impossibility.

 

One morning, I open my eyes before my alarm.

When I look over at your side of the bed,

I see a hole in the wall, just beyond.

A man sits there, a bald man, heavy,

reading a newspaper.

He looks at me and smiles.

Waves.

I wave back and return to sleep.

When I wake later, the hole is gone.

But I know it held your father

who died before I met you.

 

I feel he was telling me you’re all right.

And he was telling me that I’m not.

That day, I decide

to stay in bed.

I get up today.

 

I think about these poems

and about how I’ve gone silent.

My writing voice never silent before

but beginning to move away from silence

to missing.

Disappearing.

Dying.

Like you.

 

And I just can’t take another loss.

 

So today, I sit down to write again.

My voice is slow

and pain-filled.

But I think of your father

and I smile.