When You Say Nothing at All

Ours was a whirlwind romance. Timing in the form of meant-to-be.

I opened the big wooden front door in my apartment building and there he was, my husband of now twenty-five years. He was there because a co-worker (now my sister-in-law) was graciousness enough to show up to a Christmas party thrown by an eager twenty-something. Our first date was two days later, and we’ve been together ever since. 

It’s hard to remember most of the formative moments of those years. But there are some that are etched deep. Like the first time we heard Alison Krauss’s When You Say Nothing at All on the radio while driving. We both knew the words, sang loudly, and from then on it was our song.

We danced to the song at our wedding. It’s probably my most played selection on Spotify. When it’s featured in a movie, I rewind. The song is about what the title implies. Not needing words to communicate. 

You say it best when you say nothing at all.

Which is kind of funny because Rob and I rarely are at a loss for words. We’re analytical to a fault. Rob’s family calls the unique form of perseveration, Howleyizing. The practice is alive and well in our branch of the Howley clan. No subject is too small or too big for a good old-fashioned breakdown. It’s one of things I love most about us. It can also be quite exhausting when life, as it often does, requires a decision to be made. 

Which is also why it was a small miracle that after finding each other, we just decided. We were a we from the very beginning. We worked, what-ifs be damned.  

The totality of our two plus decades has not been a seamless fairytale dance. Marriage is a push-pull endeavor. But it’s humbling and extraordinary to live alongside your best friend who puts you on a just-high-enough pedestal so that tumbles aren’t catastrophic—and you’re equally excited when the other walks through the door. Also, our sons are fantastic. Better versions of us in every way and so on days and years when we’re hot messes, we have proof of our best selves.

I’m incredibly thankful for all of it—but especially for you, Robbie.

Try as I may I can never explain

What I hear when you don’t say a thing.

Happy anniversary to us.

Courage Reborn

I love things that hold things. Bags of all shapes and varieties. Boxes with top that have compartments on the inside. Ceramic anything, the brighter, the better. Glass bottles. Baskets. Tiny trays. Wooden trays. Vases. Pitchers. Clay pots. 

 

Of all the vessels I’ve amassed over these many years, my collection of notebooks is the most impressive. Some are colorful, purposefully adorned, other more muted; it hardly matters. Their value is in their readiness.  

 

In my early adulting years, I collected notebooks in preparation for the days when my thoughts would crystallize into profound formations. They sat unopened for a long time. Hopeful beacons on a wooden pedestal shelf. 

 

As time wore the path of perfectionism away, the notebooks were eventually opened. More were acquired—filled—with coffee-stained notions, lists (so many lists), and thoughts that later become sentences. 

 

I used to worry that when I was long gone, someone would open these containers of truth and see me. How embarrassing to be fully exposed. Like being naked in a picture window. Took quite a while to understand. That was the whole point. To see and be seen. Also, how grandiose and silly of me. 

 

Read away, I say now to the soul(s) who will someday sort my left behind treasures. Good luck making sense of the disconnected musings. I spent a lifetime happily trying. 

 

A recent article in The Athletic section of the NYT describes Michael Phelps’s ritual of journaling. His practice has two guiding principles. 

 

1) No limits. No prompts, no planning, just riffing.

2) Document everything.

 

According to the article, Phelps uses this practice to put the puzzle pieces of his life together. He sees trends and picks up on threads by re-reading entries, noticing patterns. It’s clear in the piece by Elise Devlin that Phelps’s Olympian commitment extends to all areas of his life, including journaling. The only similarities between my practice and his are the paper and pen. But the outcomes are much the same. 

 

The gratitude found when recording life’s details. The growth that materializes when you value thoughts enough to write them down. The power in releasing fears, hopes, and dreams onto the page. Allowing the notebook to help carry the weight along with the wonder.

 

There’s a quote by Anne Frank. “I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.” 

 

Courage reborn resonates with me. The world feels increasingly unrecognizable and it’s going to take courage not to sink into a deep hole of despair or look the other way. To figure out what to do. How to help. How not to stand by, but in the way. 

 

Thankfully, the world is chockfull of notebooks. It's time to fill them up. To see what courage can be found.

Happy Birthday to Us

Mom and Me, 1970s
The Holly Hobbie Years

It’s our birthday month—Mom and me. Two weeks apart to the day. 

 

October is a grand month for a birthday. Falling leaves. Sweater weather. Apple pie. Sunflowers. A return to inside by the fire. Holiday glow on the horizon (before the to-do lists). 

 

This year, lots will happen in October. A weekend in NYC to watch our oldest perform. Our youngest coming home from college in Texas for a jolt of fall. Wordsmithing with cups of tea nearby. Cozy dinners with friends. Presents! A trip to see my mom. 

 

She—the other October birthday gal—would like my assistance picking out carpet. I’m looking forward to the visit but not so much the carpet part.

 

Me helping her to decide on a soft landing that is a) practical and b) pleasing to her, will go quite predictably, and only so well. Our brains work differently, maybe because while we share a birthday month, we are different zodiac signs.  

 

She’ll start by giving me all the criteria in her head for what carpet won’t work and why. I will then become confused because what she describes will strike me as contradictory. 

 

Then I’ll say something very Libra-like: which one speaks to you? And she’ll say something very Scorpio-like: the Berber because it’s easy to clean, but then again, the medium pile is so soft. You think I should get the Berber, don’t you?

 

My mother assumes that I have the correct answer always—a trait that she assigned to me at birth. “Convenient,” I used to think. Now I mostly marvel at the unconventional way she instilled confidence in me.

 

I will not, however, think she should get the Berber, because Berber is boring. I’ll suggest the one with the warm mixed hues that remind me of sand because I am craving a beach house and never paid attention to which one was the medium pile in the first place.

 

This process will go on and on, and likely end in explosions of laughter or possibly tears followed by a meal where my mother will ultimately choose which carpet she will buy. I will nod with confident approval even though in truth, by then I will have absolutely no opinion. 

 

We’ll feel self-satisfied and generally warm about each other and the chosen carpet. Then over apple pie we’ll retell our favorite stories. These stories will remind us of songs that kept us warm when the Volkswagen van had no heat and how snowy the world used to be. 

 

Then, the next day on my six-hour drive home, I’ll get a call where she’ll tell me she’s changed her mind about which carpet she’s buying. I’ll listen and think about reminding her how she arrived at the first decision, then decide better of it. It’s only carpet after all.

 

Two months later, almost to the day, I’ll traipse back to her house with my family for the holidays and see the carpet now installed and think how nice it—whichever carpet she goes with—looks. 

 

Mom will remind everyone to take their shoes off many, many times. And I’ll do as I’m told, until I catch my sister’s conspiratorial eye, then I’ll stomp on the new carpet with my shoes on (don’t worry, they’ll be clean) just to make a point. 

 

And what will that point be?

 

Happy birthday—to us. Love you, Mom.

Us, 2020s
Still Adventuring

15 Summers in the Garden

This summer marks my fifteenth garden.

To be specific, it’s been fifteen years since my new neighbor asked, “Want to share a garden?” Without his urging and faithful spring tilling there is absolutely no way I would have found the inspiration or time. I’m so grateful.

 

The garden has become connective tissue between life’s seasons. The ever-present backdrop at the edge of our yard bordering the now overgrown trees. 

 

Sleeping in winter. Bustling in spring. Overflowing in summer. Retreating under soft autumn leaves. The garden is always there. And I’m the lucky tender who’s learned a few things.

 

Beginnings are important.

The unofficial start to growing season is Mother’s Day. That’s when the planting engines begin at local farmstands and the big box stores. My experience? That’s too early.

 

Instead, I’m usually found planting alongside my neighbor during the last week in May. By then spring has done its thing, warming and soaking the soil. Summer is within whiff.

 

Then comes the really important factor: what happens in the two weeks after the plants go into the ground. Too much sun and the tomatoes are in heaven, but the zinnias and cucumbers suffer. Non-stop rain for days and even the most moisture friendly varieties are a soggy maudlin mess.  

 

The beginning is the foundation for the entire growing season. But it’s also a fleeting stage. Two to three weeks after planting it’s hard to remember the garden looking so organized. That’s when the weeds move in.

 

Weeds are complicated.

It’s easy to think of weeds as a straightforward assignment. An element that the gardener can control unlike the weather or when the tomato blight rolls in. They need to go! Now!

 

Truth is, I’ve ruined many a budding plant in the pursuit of weedlessness. In the early days especially, it’s not easy to tell the weed from the sprout. Weeds grow alongside the crop.

 

By the time the plant is established and pruned and staked, weeds are easier to spot but their roots run deep. One hearty tug can irreversibly disrupt the productive growth around it. But let them run roughshod and they'll take over. 

Luckily in moderation, they're mostly harmless.  

 

Some crops are too prolific. 

Once you plant a zucchini or pumpkin plant…there is no going back. They take over from the very beginning and long after their fruit is done.

 

In the early years, these varieties provided me with a certain confidence. Look, the zucchini is growing! Doesn’t that mint smell good?

 

But mint that I planted five years ago along the side of my garage is still flourishing. Despite yanking it over and over, it remains. We’ve enjoyed loads of iced mint tea over the many summers, and so its presence is not all bad. But make no mistake—the mint is in charge.

These crops are like extended family. They’re always there. When you need them and when you don’t. The trick is to draw effective boundaries and if that doesn’t work...who doesn’t love zucchini bread? 

All seasons are not created equal.

Each year is different and not all are victorious.

 

There was the summer that none of my peppers grew and most of the tomato plants caught the blight. Another year, life’s obligations took precedence over pruning and the weeds took over. I gave up on the garden that year. 

 

But most years there is magic to be found. Such was the summer of 2021. That year I decided to mix things up. The world had fallen apart. Nothing was normal—why do the same old thing in the garden? 

 

So, for the first time, I dedicated half of the garden to cut flowers, the kind that grow back after you pick them for bouquets. I looked on in awe as the pops of color started to explode in early July. 

 

Then as the tomatoes and flowers reached full crescendo, I got covid. I was the kind of sick that made a trip to the garden about as likely as a European vacation. 

 

But thanks to the garden, the most glorious thing happened. As my amazing friends began dropping off support in the form of food and supplements and even an oximeter (that kindness I’ll never forget), we left a pair of scissors along with a note in the designated drop-off spot. It read: Help yourself to tomatoes and flowers!  

 

What followed turned out to be the best medicine a girl could ask for. Thank you texts and pictures poured in. Flowers on mantles and tables. Tomatoes transformed into sauces and salads. It was pure joy. And quite simply the most organic way to feel connected while not leaving my bedroom for two weeks. 

 

That’s how it is, in the garden. 

Each summer starts out with hope. Some years reap abundance beyond expectation. Others are a weedy mess. But all summers, in the garden, are a gift.

 

As Audrey Hepburn once said, “To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.”

 

And I do believe. One tomato plant at a time.

Summer 2024, In the Garden☝

CREATE-tivity: What The World Needs Now

Pool parties were a fun fixture in my growing-up years—a time before e-mails and texts. When party time rolled around, I’d dive into making the invitations. 

With a VHS tape of As the World Turns playing on a TV the size of a washing machine, I’d cut images from magazines and newspapers, then tape them on to a piece of paper outlining all the party details. Then (when ATWT was over, of course), off to the local drug store I’d go to photocopy my creation on just the right setting so you couldn’t see the edges of the tape on the copies. And, voila! Time to circulate the invites. 

I’m guessing the thirteen-year-old invitees didn’t appreciate all this effort, especially when a “Hey can you come to a pool party this Saturday?” in the school hallway or over the phone would have sufficed. But we all have our process.  

I’ve basically been making collages since. Not the photocopy pool party kind. But in other areas of my life—a lot of them.

 

In every writing workshop I’ve led, there’s always a stack of magazines for storyboards and brainstorming. I’ve kept a bottle of Modge Podge around for the spontaneous project for as long as I can remember. 

Recently, I re-upped my supply with new-fangled varieties. (When recuperation necessitated a lot of sitting, what better activity is there than decoupaging? I’m here to tell you, you can Modge Podge anything.)

Heck, my house is one big collage. The ‘eclectic’ style that began with ragtag garage sale acquisitions in my twenties, is now loosely curated around one principle: welcome in what you love and hope it looks good together. 

So, it shouldn’t have been a surprise when collaging found its way into my latest middle grade novel. I wasn’t thinking, I want to write about collaging. But somehow, I did.

Excerpt from LUCKY:

“We’re making collages,” I say.

“What are collages?” Claire asks.

“Disorganized art,” Tim says. 

I laugh before realizing he looks genuinely afraid of the art supplies in front of us.

That’s one of the many glorious things about writing—creating. All scraps are welcomed, or at least the parts and pieces ready for exploring.

Writing, painting, improv, music, quilting, coloring, doodling, sculpting, jewelry making, repurposed puzzling (yes, that’s a thing!). Any activity that puts something new into the world…is CREATE-tivity. And I’d say the world could use as much as we can collectively muster. 

 

A worldwide collage of inspiration. 

What CREATE-tivities are you into these days?

 

Shame On Trial

When I was a kid, shame was associated with something you’d done wrong. Or something that had been done to you, or something you should have done, or…
 
I wasn’t totally clear on shame back then, other than to say: it was not a good thing. Shame was the hot potato of emotion. Thrown away upon arrival. Best never to rub up against it, lest you fall into its fiery pit of damnation. The word—let alone the destination—was associated with bad things and bad people, and it was a very bad place to linger too long.
 
Fast forward to the 1990’s when I was in my 20s. My desires were seemingly simple. I wanted it all. To be loved and respected. Taken seriously but also adored. It was an idealistic time—the era of Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky.
 
Remember how judgey the collective universe was about the blue dress and Linda Tripp—and how both women were the punch line on SNL skits? I remember, as a girl around Monica’s age, feeling sorry for her privately while publicly nodding as she was rendered a deranged stalker of powerful men.
 
That was my own shame talking, or not-talking. To show empathy for a woman who’d— gotten herself into all that trouble, shaming her family not to mention the Presidency because, after all, the guy who held the title and all the power, was so brilliant, that we needed to discard anyone and anything that got in his way—felt risky. 
 
It doesn’t anymore—I’m sorry, Monica. None of that was okay.
 
Now, fast forward thirty or so years to this week. 
 
I’m now a middle-aged woman who still wants it all, including walking without pain. Hence, I’m one-month post-foot surgery and in a recliner for 6 weeks. It’s weird and uncomfortable. And while I’m making the most of it, catching up with friends, reading, and writing…there’s been some serious TV watching too. 
 
Which is how I found myself captive on the first day of the Fulton County hearing in Atlanta to determine if Fani Willis is still eligible to be the District Attorney in charge of the election fraud case in Georgia.
 
I don’t know what I was expecting—except to say not much. However, when a friend called to check-in at the end of the day, I confessed immediately: “I watched CNN, ALL day!”
 
Then I struggled to describe why. What had been so interesting? Why had this hearing held my attention and left me on the verge of speechlessness? 
 
“Fani Willis is amazing,” was all I could think to say. “The timing of her choices stinks but she’s not apologizing and I’m here for it!”
 
I’d watch a grown, accomplish woman be grilled by a literal line of attorneys smugly asking questions dripping with condescension. All to see if she was worthy of bringing a case against a former President (and others) who attempted to allegedly “find some votes” to overturn an election. Oh—and that same guy has publicly smeared women for decades in broad daylight and owes one woman 83 million dollars for defaming her.
 
And then there was Fani. Not at all afraid of explaining her choices. Talking about how she defined relationships. How her private life was her business. How her father had been concerned for her safety. How she paid for things and why. Even why her relationship had ended with the person in question. She was grace under fire and unapologetic. Emotional in moments and steel in others. 
 
Her time on the stand was a masterclass in how to not to accept the shame that others are throwing.
 
Commentators after the testimony (women!) said things like: “She knew better as a woman of color. That she’d be held to a higher standard,” and on and on it went. 
 
But Fani wasn’t playing. And wow was it refreshing to watch.
 
Which led me to an overwhelming sense of hope…and why I’m choosing to write this blog about something other than my usual metaphorical musings.
 
Is it possible that the face of shame is actually changing?

At this ripe stage of life, I now know that shame is natural, even positive sometimes. Actions have consequences. When actions illicit feelings—in us—that encourage the soul, or heart, or mind to feel the pull toward self-correction, that in my opinion, is a productive kind of shame. The emphatic kind for ourselves and others.

But, when that correction comes from a large unyielding collective of people who don’t know us, value our individual experiences, and who may consciously or unconsciously harbor ill-will because “they’ve seen our type before” or “we should have known better”—that’s judgment.

Judgment is always going to be there. But how and to whom we respond is our choice. And there’s power in watching others make choices that we know from a lifetime of our own experience, are hard and hard-fought.

It’s possible, likely even, that it’s not shame that’s changing—but me. And I guess that should be enough. 

But it’s not. Shame isn’t owned by a political party or gender or decade—it’s everywhere, all the time and we’re all complicit in keeping the game of hot potato going. 

Fani’s not on trial. But we are. 

ISHspiration!

Little shiny gems of understanding. Sea glass in washed-up social media garbage. The universe saying: I hear you!

That’s how it feels when a resonating inspirational quote washes over me mid-scroll—and the reason I have so many of them saved in my camera roll. 

I know that many of these quotes are the marks of highly targeted messages of manipulation based on overheard phone conversations, massive amounts of data collected from clicks, and items purchased on Amazon. But it’s still nice to feel understood—simultaneously unique and part of a larger collective of humans experiencing loss, or hurt, or extreme gratitude, or fed-upness, or…

 

The -ors are endless. 

 

For me, internet quotes, just like their sarcastic cousin—the meme—have the power to alter the course of a day after reading what feels like world-ending news. Or while sitting in a meeting that’s spinning in circles. Or experiencing anything in the collective while wondering if you’re the only one feeling a certain way.

 

It’s comforting to know that a person you’ve never met is missing their newly launched college kid too. Or that the colleague who is pulling off engaged in that square on Zoom is also thinking: What are we even talking about right now?

 

Or that the rollercoaster that is middle age is a human stage that will not result in me melting into an actual menopausal puddle. (I could do without some of the images though. The detailed illustrations of apron belly, for instance, that now inundate my feed. No need, Instagram. I have a mirror.)

 

Actual human contact may still the best way to feel the community. But my happyish journey is also showing me that being seen and heard is not a zero-sum game. The well-timed quote, meme, or funny TikTok from a person I barely know can be the difference between feeling alone and aloneish.

 

It takes a village of connection to make sense of this longish journey. And this blog—and all of you—are part of mine. And so is the adorable kid in England who is Door Holder Number Three in his school nativity this year. And every Schitts Creek GIF ever made. 

 

Wishing you and yours a very happyish holiday!