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October 5, 2017, Prescott-

It’s peaceful, in my neighbourhood,

once again.

The disquiet soul has found his quiet

inner voice.

He came to the grieving family’s  matriarch

and apologized.

Being a woman of faith,

she accepted,

and they shared stories,

of pain and struggle.

So many times, the angry voice

is a wayward vehicle.

When we see the abyss ahead,

and right our course,

all is fine again,

at least for a time.

Seeking Family


March 2, 2016, Prescott- I drove two friends, mother and daughter, to the airport, early this morning.  They left cool Prescott for mild Phoenix, then headed for frigid Milwaukee.  The  quest was simple- to see family, including a newborn child.  Perhaps, with enough positive energy, they will bring milder temperatures to southeast Wisconsin.  In any event, I wish my friends and their family a safe and pleasant time together.

This brings me to the fact that we are each, in one way or another, seeking our true family.  I am fortunate, biologically, to have a large, nurturing family, whose matriarch is still very much alive and well. I am also fortunate, spiritually, to have a larger, more nurturing family, spanning the globe.  Besides making my tendency to wander actually bear some meaning, when I do go further afield than my Southwest home base, my greater family helps me build a solid foundation, for those times when I am rooted here.  To be sure, I don’t stay put nearly enough to suit many of the people here, but I put that time to good use.

That is what being part of a family structure does- it orients, helps ground a person, and nurtures- always nurtures.  What it must not do is stifle, suppress and cause stagnation.  I wish, for my spiritual family, both here in Prescott, and across the planet, to ever seek the first path.


The Road to 65, Mile 116: Chains of Roses, Chains of Thorns


March 24, 2015, Prescott- I became further acquainted with two families today. One, whom I’ve known in cursory fashion, for nearly thirty-four years, is saying goodbye to their matriarch.  The other, of whom I only know what is told me by one member, is comprised of about seven remnants, each living fiercely separate lives, until very recently.

A.  was strong, opinionated, but deeply loving woman, who guided her children, without being overbearing.  She prized her independence, in that way resembling my own mother.  Only gradually did she give in to the inevitable and let one of her children take her in, for the rite of passage to a more equitable realm.  The scent of this veritable chain of roses will waft gently into that good night, though A. did her share of raging, during the dying of the light.  Now she knows there is a much brighter light, lying beyond.

The Y’s, (not their real first initial), were raised by an overbearing woman, angry at having been dumped by her restless, knockabout of a husband and left with the three kids. The lives of all assumed a rootlessness that scarred each and every person in the family unit, in two cases fatally. That husband and father, never knowing the meaning of either word, has been in and out of his children’s lives ever since, thus far to no good end.  He is reaching the end of his days, and may yet reconcile with his two remaining sons.  The process of such a mending, though, will be lengthy and most likely incomplete.  The tale told me this evening, by one of those sons, is a story straight out of Edward Albee, or Tennessee Williams, a chain of thorns, whose roses have long since wilted and fallen to the ground.

I was one of the lucky ones.  My parents were devoted to each of the five of us, in the right measure, according to what they could see of our needs.  Mother is still with us, and still of acute mind.  My only wish for her is to remain so, for as long as she can maintain her own chain of roses.  Our family has a bond that will endure, whether across the miles or across the street.  It’s what we do.