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I am a lover of beauty, a seeker of truths in myths, lies and fairy tales, eking out knowledge in even the most painful parts of life. Feel everything. Survive.

Battling ghosts and an isolationist propensity during quarantine

It’s hard, I’m sure, for many to understand why I am abandoning conventional cancer therapy.

It’s not a choice I wanted to make.

In fact, with every new page I read on PubMed, The American Thyroid Association, Cancer.org, or elsewhere across the Internet — regardless of whether or not it agrees with my intuition — I find myself straining to remove my emotional responses so I can simply understand and integrate the information.

The effort is exhausting: I don’t want to have this cancer; I don’t want to be doing this research; and I generally disagree with doing things one…


The Beginning

A chattering crow lives out nine generations of aged men,
but a stag’s life is four times a crow’s,
and a raven’s life makes three stags old,
while the phoenix outlives nine ravens,
but we, the rich-haired
Nymphs
daughters of
Zeus the aegis-holder,
outlive ten phoenixes.

Precepts of Chiron, Hesiod

Is it that these three months passed so swiftly, or that I’ve lived so many years within so short a time? It must be the latter, for I feel weary so often; and it’s not the cancer. Not yet, anyway.

Since the beginning, I knew I needed…


Why acceptance is more powerful than forgiveness

For many years, well-intending friends advised me to forgive those who abused me, who took me for granted, who disrespected me.

Every time, rage bubbled in me; every time, I caught it just after a flash of anger sparked in my eyes and scorched my features. “I’ve forgiven them enough times; I forgave them so many times, from the beginning. I’m done with forgiveness. It does nothing more than give them freedom to harm again.”

So, I won’t forgive them; but I understand my friends’ concerns: The hate and rage is killing me…


Part I of The Gift of Mortality

One of my first-and-favorite memories is of visiting my great-grandmother at her enormous farm, lined at the back and on one side with a great patch of woods and on the opposite side by thick, green cornstalks and facing a long, black, oft-empty road. My older brother and I played in the yard, picked blackberries and raspberries from tangled vines growing in the back, climbed into the old barn that smelled of hay and animals-no-longer-in-residence . …


Memories of waiting for a bus on a wintery night

I stood in the frigid darkness, white banks of snow piled behind me, looking across the plowed, black asphalt of North Service Road at The 403 as cars sped back-and-forth. Earbuds pressed into my chilly ears, I listened to Björk’s impassioned music, embracing the pain and sorrow riveting my heart — without fully acknowledging myself.

I wanted, needed love.

For whatever reason, I don’t remember the feeling of being cold, though I remember that I was. I remember the strange fondness of constantly being chilly in the office where I worked all day as a temporary data entry clerk, needing…


Give me a break. Nobody’s asking for it.

‘Write what you’re afraid to,’ I’ve read over-and-over.

Yes, I’m afraid. (And I’m writing.)

Because, how many times have you seen (or written!) on dating profiles the phrase, “NO DRAMA”?

When I first saw it plastered under the faces of men (who were often not good-looking enough for me to want to know, anyway), I found myself ashamed for the still-rippling drama in my life; I swiped “NO,” feeling — nonetheless — like a mangy, crippled dog slinking off with her head tucked low. …


Why I won’t turn writing into ‘a job’

Once-upon-a-time, not-so-many-years-ago, a man whom I believed to be the greatest fan of my writing tried reverse-psychology to push me to publish more on my new blog.

“Is that all you can produce? One piece a week? Two in a month? Maybe that’s all you can do,” he goaded me.

It didn’t work.

In fact, it backfired: I stubbornly shielded my mind and wrote only when I felt motivated, inspired by beauty and sensuality.

My output diminished to sporadic bursts, once-or-twice every two-or-so months. And then: NOTHING. For YEARS.

His words echoed in my mind as I struggled to find…


Speaking out for survivors of domestic violence

I awoke and made coffee today, chatted for an hour or so with long-distance friends, as I do nearly every morning. I opened my Facebook app and found a girlfriend’s profile picture changed, encircled by a purple filter stating:

“Domestic Violence Awareness Month.”

Thank goodness, I thought. It’s about time they dedicated a month to this.

Little did I know that October was determined in 1987 to bring awareness to a problem affecting 1/4 of all females and 1/9 of all males in the United States, a shockingly-high number I learned only months…


Because, one day, death will claim us all

Some weeks ago, I laid in an ER hospital bed for over ten hours, waiting to learn if I needed a life-altering, potentially-life-threatening operation.

Ten hours is not a long time to mull over one’s mortality — particularly when one is in one’s prime. Less than two months from my forty-sixth birthday, a rare, clavicle pseudoaneurysm throbs in a small vein off my jugular, its origins unknown.

In late 2018, I required two vascular procedures in three weeks. My surgeon and his team placed eleven metal coils near the pseudoaneurysm in an attempt to cut off the blood flow to…

Sage Bohemian

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