Eyes close. Darkness absorbs. Quiet envelopes. Stand aside. Release the threads that bind. A glimpse of freedom. A taste of honey. A curling lip of a smile. Leaves flutter, birds twitter.

To let go of a bedroom, cluttered, dusty under dresser and bed. To move these things around and out. How impossible it seemed just weeks ago.

Dirt, dirt, dirt—globs of orangish clay in piles next to my front sidewalk. The plumber with decades of experience rides a mini front loader digging down to address the problem, How can I live here all these years and not see these pipes? He scoops out large piles of dirt and looks to his hefty helper guy to dig further with the shovel. I am in awe.

I am relieved to be here. Everything going on in my life drifts into a backdrop and this scene comes to the front. Simple, beautiful, the rhythm of walking. Nothing matters, everything matters. I don’t have control. My role is to align and surrender, to be willing to give with generosity and to sacrifice whatever limited ideas I have about right or wrong, good or bad.

The ocean sparkles as we stand on the open beach on this blustery cold day.  Winds whip our faces as we feel the breath almost pulled out by the force of it. Carmen in her 8-year-old self, wrapped in winter coat runs towards the water, waving her arms here on Assateague, a National Seashore. A wave comes up and sloshes into her shoes. She screams and runs back to me, face beaming. How can the sea melt so many dusty thoughts in an instant?

“OK, I will take the four chickens in my back yard. That means you make sure they have a secure place and provide food. I will keep an eye on them.”

 This is a gesture to my 30-year-old daughter, Meli, a way to support her in a stressful time.

My father’s 97-year-old face brightens with recognition when I stop in to see him after dinner. He starts off with, “What’s going on?” since dementia wipes clean the short-term memory. But he relaxes when I plop down on the couch next to him. “How about a poem, Dad?”

Night falls gradually this winter evening as five-year-old Carmen and I step lightly out of the woods. We try to feel how it happens, the coming of night, so subtle, yet distinct. An owl hoots across the meadow. Carmen hoots back and the owl hoots again; she looks up and smiles at me..

The Little Red Lighthouse sits on the rocky shore of the Hudson River at the north end of Manhattan. Since the early 1940’s he was dwarfed by the “great grey bridge” also called the George Washington Bridge. My younger brother at five years old loved the children’s book called The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Grey Bridge. He was so taken with the story that when we rode a boat on the river around Manhattan, he called out to talk to the Little Red Lighthouse as we drifted past. Reading the book recently to my granddaughter, I was struck by the way this story speaks to those of us who, like that lighthouse, have been around for a long time. We wonder about our relevance.

Washington, D.C. is so close to Baltimore, yet I’ve rarely been there by myself. The urge was overpowering on a recent sunny Sunday in October when I had no other responsibilities. I’m working on a writing project which needs blocks of uninterrupted time. I also need thinking time while moving. I always carry at least a small notebook and pen in case I have a good idea. Walks in the woods are often fruitful. This time I could have stayed in my study to write, but the pull of Washington got the better of me.

“Grandma, let me do it.”

I pause and turn towards Carmen, who, at age 4, loves to help me with chores. She sees me throwing in laundry and runs over.

“Get your chair to stand on and you can throw things in too.”

After one year of college I decided I needed a break. I wanted to stop paying some entity to educate me and take responsibility for educating myself, to experience the world directly and do something tangible.

The light from the stage spilled out over the audience and illuminated the faces of my companions. I was there with my Dad, 94, and his friend of many years Dilys, 93. We were settling in after intermission. As the music started, I could feel each of them sit up a little straighter, alert to the familiar Mozart. I wondered how many times each had heard this symphony. I glanced at the two of them, their faces rapt in full attention. Their eyes gleamed and each of them smiled slightly. Bliss!

I stand at your door and ring the bell. I don’t know you. I pause to look around while I wait. The sun shines through the clouds and I appreciate the breeze. Your name is on my list. I am here to share. With me are pieces of information about a candidate or two running for office. I will remind you to vote and tell you about the person. 

The Cloisters sits on dark granite at the north end of Manhattan and overlooks the Hudson River.  My 94-year-old father, 3½-year-old granddaughter, and I are driving south. I realize we can stop at the Cloisters on our way. My crew will be happy for a break.  The Metropolitan Museum of Art houses medieval European works in this place. The Cloisters is a serene oasis, originating with bequeaths from artist George Barnard and philanthropist John D. Rockefeller, Jr. 

I picked up Dad first, or Grandpa Jerry, as Carmen calls him. He’s 94 and can remember many poems by heart. But short term memory is going. He’s cheerful though. I wake him up and he smiles with minimal teeth. “We are going, Dad. Today is the day.” 

I watched a student from the Florida high school give a speech just days after the deadly shooting on February 14, 2018. Her words were measured and clear. Her expression was steely-eyed and strong. She went on, at times wiping a tear from her eye. She didn’t hesitate. I listened, stopped what I was doing, turned my head to the side in awe. She spoke the truth, with verve and courage. She spoke the obvious, shaking in resonance from their traumatic experience. As a grandmother and a young elder, I was moved to stand with her, behind her in support.

Seasonal gatherings provide a way to attune together in a group. We write from prompts related to the season and element.  Stories emerge from each person that awaken us together. Universal truths shine through and we laugh and sometimes cry at the poignant or delicate truths that resonate.

It was 3:30 a.m. and I woke with a start to the cell phone.  My 93-year-old Dad was on the line. “Hey, Jen, I’m having chest pain and shortness of breath. I threw up a while ago. Should I do something?” “Yes, Dad. Let’s get the nurse [in the retirement home] to come and check you.”

The words and music of the hit musical Hamilton make me laugh, cry and stare straight ahead with dropped jaw as I drive north on a trip. The story is riveting, the music seductive. I smile and shake my head. Later, I pull out a $10 bill, "the ten dollar, founding father,” and there he is, Alexander Hamilton. He’s been in my life all along, and I never knew his story.

So much noise. So little silence. Our inclination to listen is so easily shattered.  Listening builds the muscle of sympathy and the ability to understand and resonate with another person. 

Within each of us is a lot of mud, a rich mix of life experience that includes pain and suffering as well as happiness and joy. How to benefit from this mix is dependent on our ability to be awake and conscious.

It seemed like a good idea. I was 19 and always wanted a horse. I could get $200 for my car and buy the horse for exactly that amount. Done. I made the deal.

We walked her away from the farm down the road towards our house. She was a beautiful Palamino mare. Her year old colt whinnied and ran along the fence as we walked out of sight. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of that young colt. Little did I realize then what a long ride it is to the grocery store on a horse