Greetings, my lovely feral, dark, and bright ones,

Magic bean potion in hand, I was prepared to face another day.

Well, not really, but I could dream, couldn’t I?

As I sat out on the patio this morning, I could see clouds hovering overhead, and I hadn’t even bothered asking Siri what the weather was supposed to be. Ronnie asked Alexa on the last Echo Dot we have left, and she cheerfully announced that we had a fifty-five percent chance of rain that afternoon. Looking at the sky, I believed her. At this point, the birds, Alexa, and my left knee all seem equally qualified to predict the weather, so I figured the odds were as good as they were going to get.

It was only five-thirty in the morning, and I had been trying to write another post for this Permission to Live series. The harder I pushed, however, the more the words refused to come. Then, while sorting laundry, the answer finally arrived. Actually, several answers arrived all at once. Inspiration is a funny thing that way. It behaves very much like a cat. The more determined you are to chase it down, the more it ignores you. The moment you give up and start folding towels, there it is.

Perhaps this post was about grief. Perhaps it was about healing, identity, or change. Or perhaps it was simply about giving myself permission to stop performing.

It has been three months since Mom passed away and one year since her stroke. I thought I had more time. I think that is one of the cruelest things about grief. No matter how much time we are given, it never feels like enough. We had plans for the future because we both believed there would be more tomorrows waiting for us somewhere down the road. There weren’t.

Even now, there are moments when I find myself thinking that I should call her, only to remember that I can’t. My heart aches for her in ways I still find difficult to describe. I would give almost anything for one more conversation, one more cup of coffee, one more laugh, one more story, or one more ordinary moment that I would almost certainly have taken for granted at the time.

I would tell her that I love her. I would tell her that I understand more now than I ever did before, and I would tell her that I miss her. Then I would sit quietly and listen because hearing her voice one last time would be enough. I’d probably ask her where all the family stories came from, too, because mothers and grandmothers somehow know everything. They know who said what, who married whom, who held grudges for thirty years, and precisely who brought the disastrous potato salad to the family picnic and nearly started a civil war.

I keep myself busy. I work, write, clean, organize, feed the birds, and find little projects to occupy my hands because moving feels easier than standing still. The trouble is that the moment I slow down, I miss her.

Goddesses, I miss her.

I miss her so much that it hurts.

Arizona Is Trying to Kill Me

As though all of that were not enough, this is also the time of year when the former Sussex County Fair is running back home in New Jersey. I still think of it by its old name, even though it has changed. I miss that. I miss all of it.

Summer in Arizona is very different from the summers I knew growing up. There are no giant amusement parks, no drive-in theaters, and very little you can do outside without feeling as though you have opened the door to an enormous oven. Summer was something to celebrate. Here, summer is something to survive.

I swear the sun wakes up every morning, takes one look at Arizona, cracks its knuckles, and says, “All right, let’s see what you’ve got today.” Even the lizards look annoyed. I am fairly certain the birds are offended, and I know for a fact that I am.

Back home, summer felt alive. There were county fairs and street fairs, lakes, fishing trips, camping adventures, amusement parks, and evenings spent outdoors until darkness finally settled over everything. Summer smelled like sunscreen, charcoal grills, freshly cut grass, and rain drifting in on the wind.

There were thunderstorms rolling across the mountains, lightning bugs dancing in the dark, and nights cool enough to leave the windows open. You could sit on the porch and simply exist for a while without feeling as though you were participating in an extreme survival challenge.

Here, I step outside, immediately question all my life choices, and retreat into the house before I burst into flames. I love many things about Arizona, but the weather and I are currently involved in a long-term disagreement.

Of course, nostalgia has a funny way of working. It edits things. I remember the beauty and conveniently forget the humidity, the mosquitoes, and the fact that winter occasionally tried to kill us there, too. Even so, I would gladly trade a hundred-and-ten-degree day for the sound of thunder rolling across the sky.

I miss the rain. I miss the breeze. I miss opening the windows and letting fresh air wander through the house. Most of all, though, I miss New Jersey.

August and All Its Ghosts

Then there are the birthdays.

My brother Mickey’s birthday is August 17. My grandmother’s birthday is August 18. My birthday is August 19. Mom’s birthday is August 22. August used to feel like one long celebration. Now it feels as though I am walking through a hallway filled with echoes.

Ronnie and I have always said that May belongs to him and August belongs to me. Rather than celebrating a single day, we have always turned the entire month into a celebration of the person whose birthday falls within it. At least, that was the plan.

May never really happened this year. Mom passed away, grief settled into every corner of life, and suddenly time itself seemed to become something strange and unfamiliar. Now August is here, and I find myself wondering what exactly I am supposed to do with it.

The funny thing is that August has actually been rather kind to me so far. Work has been good, life has been relatively peaceful, and little moments of happiness have been appearing when I least expect them. The problem is that grief is sneaky. One moment, you’re perfectly fine, happily sipping cucumber lemonade and going about your day, and the next moment you’re crying because somebody mentioned a county fair, a particular song came on the radio, or a memory appeared out of nowhere.

Honestly, our brains are ridiculous creatures.

I know what everyone would say. Mom would tell me to be happy. Mickey would tell me to celebrate. Grandma would tell me to find joy wherever I could. The women in my family have always been remarkably good at enduring difficult things. Stubbornness, apparently, is hereditary.

The difficult part is not understanding those things. The difficult part is believing them.

Now I have to allow myself to celebrate. I have to allow myself to laugh, to look forward to things, and to experience joy without feeling as though I have somehow abandoned the people I love. That is a much more difficult task than it sounds.

Perhaps that is what this entire series has been about all along. Not learning how to pretend, endure, or simply push through one more day, but learning how to live honestly, grieve honestly, love honestly, and, perhaps most importantly of all, be myself honestly. ✨

Bras, Laundry, and Existential Crises

Then, somewhere between sorting clothes and wondering whether the rain would ever arrive, I found myself standing in the middle of the bedroom, staring into a laundry basket and questioning my entire existence.

All right, perhaps that is a slight exaggeration, but not by much. I know what you’re thinking. Surely there was some grand spiritual revelation waiting to unfold.

There was not.

There were bras.

I looked down at the pile of clothes and realized that I own four bras, a handful of old T-shirts with holes in them, four or five pairs of shorts, some jeans, a few pretty tops, plenty of tank tops, and, thanks to my monthly Splendies subscription, an assortment of pretty underwear. I even have plenty of socks. What I don’t have, apparently, is enough clothing.

The bras themselves fit beautifully. The problem is that every single one of them is heavy, padded, full coverage, and about as comfortable as medieval armor. I have reached the age where I want my clothing to feel less like a fashion statement and more like an apology to my spine. Frankly, if a garment requires an engineering degree to put on, I am no longer interested.

Then I realized something else. I don’t own pajamas because I sleep in tank tops, and I am simply going to leave that statement right there.

I also realized that I need pajamas and a few other things before my trip to California. I have already purchased five new bras from Amazon, and I may have to make a trip to Kohl’s for a few tops. Somewhere along the way, I seem to have become the sort of person who gets genuinely excited about comfortable clothing, and honestly, I am making peace with that.

The more I looked around, the more I found myself asking ordinary questions instead of profound ones. What do I actually like? Not what everyone else likes. Not what I am expected to like. Not what I have convinced myself that I should like.

What do I like?

The answers came surprisingly quickly. I don’t like dressing up. I don’t like heels. I don’t like foundation. I do love mascara, eyeliner, lip gloss, sandals, sneakers, boots, and, apparently, auburn hair.

Today I wore a long yellow skirt and a tank top simply because I wanted to. There was no special occasion, no audience, and no reason beyond the fact that I liked it. I loved the way it felt, I loved how comfortable it was, and I especially loved the fact that I had chosen it for myself. There were no stockings involved, either, despite being raised to believe that women were supposed to wear them.

At fifty-six years old, I have finally reached the point in my life where I simply do not care. There is something wonderfully liberating about realizing that comfort wins the argument. I may end up buying more skirts—long ones, flowing ones, and perhaps a few that make me feel as though I should be wandering through a forest dispensing wisdom and confusing the villagers.

Perhaps that is how we find ourselves again. Not through grand gestures, but through hundreds of tiny, honest decisions that slowly lead us back to who we have always been.

Or perhaps it all begins by finally admitting that we hate our bras. 😄

The Council of Goddesses

Then, as though I had not already given myself enough to think about for one day, I found myself thinking about goddesses.

That sentence probably sounds strange to some of you, but there it is. As many of you already know, I have always been fascinated by mythology. When I was younger, I was especially drawn to Greek mythology, so perhaps I should not have been surprised by what happened next.

Hestia was the first name that appeared, which honestly made perfect sense. She is the goddess of the hearth, home, family, hospitality, and the sacred fire believed to exist at the center of every home. Meanwhile, I spend an alarming amount of time thinking about coffee, birds, candles, blankets, books, gardens, and whether we have enough snacks in the house to survive the next trip to Costco.

Frankly, it was inevitable.

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Lately, I have been thinking about home more than almost anything else. Not simply the physical structure itself, but everything that makes a place feel safe, welcoming, peaceful, and warm. A house, after all, is just a building. Home is something else entirely.

Then there was Hekate, the goddess of crossroads, transformation, boundaries, magic, and hidden knowledge. Looking back, I could not help laughing because crossroads seem to be exactly where I have found myself lately.

I can practically imagine her standing in the middle of my bedroom while I stare into a laundry basket.

“You have reached a crossroads.”

“I know,” I reply. “I need more tank tops.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I also need pajamas.”

“We are discussing the meaning of your existence.”

“Fine. Put sandals on the list as well.”

It seems entirely possible that the gods and goddesses have a sense of humor. I certainly hope they do, because I appear to be providing endless entertainment.

Then there was Hera. Strangely enough, I was not even trying to write her name. I meant to write the word hear, and instead my fingers typed Hera. I simply stared at the screen for a moment.

Well, all right then.

Lilith soon joined the conversation. Unlike the others, she comes not from Greek mythology but from Jewish folklore and later traditions. Over time, she has become associated with independence, autonomy, strength, knowledge, and refusing to become what others expect her to be.

That certainly caught my attention.

Then came the Morrigan.

Naturally.

Because apparently grief, birthdays, existential questions, Arizona heat, identity crises, thunderstorms, and mountains of laundry were simply not enough excitement for one summer.

The funny thing is that I never really heard the Morrigan at all. I simply thought of her. In Celtic mythology, she is associated with battle, fate, wisdom, prophecy, transformation, and sovereignty. By that point, I simply looked toward the sky and thought, All right. Message received.

I am not entirely certain what to make of any of this, and perhaps I do not need to be. What I do know is that all of these paths seem to lead me back to the same questions.

Who am I?

Where do I belong?

What parts of my old life should come with me?

And what pieces of myself have been patiently waiting for me to return? ✨

Learning to Stop Performing

Looking back, I think part of the reason all of this feels so important is that I spent years performing. Not only for other people, but for the version of God I believed I was supposed to serve. Nothing ever felt real to me. Everything felt conditional. Everything felt earned. Everything felt as though I had to say the right things, do the right things, believe the right things, and become the right person.

Frankly, it was exhausting.

I spent so much time trying to become who I thought I was supposed to be that I never stopped to ask who I actually was. Looking back now, I realize that I always felt as though I were standing on a stage somewhere, anxiously waiting for someone to tell me whether I had done well enough.

Ten points for obedience.

Five points for patience.

Three points deducted for asking uncomfortable questions.

I have to laugh a little now because the whole thing sounds absurd, but at the time it didn’t feel absurd at all. It felt important. It felt enormous. It felt as though I had somehow become responsible for carrying the weight of the entire universe on my shoulders.

As it turns out, I was terrible at being someone else.

Perhaps that is why this journey feels so different. I am no longer searching for perfection. I am searching for authenticity. I am no longer trying to become the person I thought I was supposed to be. I am trying to uncover the person who has been here all along.

Perhaps this series was never simply about grief, healing, Arizona, New Jersey, coffee, birthdays, thunderstorms, birds, yellow skirts, crossroads, goddesses, or the endless search for rain in the desert. Then again, perhaps it has been about all of those things because life itself is made up of hundreds of tiny moments that slowly become the story we tell ourselves about who we are.

Well, perhaps the magic bean potion deserves its own category.

And the birds.

Definitely the birds.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that I can miss New Jersey while continuing to build a life in Arizona. I can grieve for my mother while still allowing myself to experience happiness. I can honor the people I have lost without losing myself in the process.

Most importantly, I can stop pretending that I have everything figured out.

Because, between the two of us, I absolutely do not. 😄

Finding My Way Home

Tonight, Ronnie is coloring my hair, I am completely addicted to cucumber lemonade, and I will probably spend the evening watching Supernatural. Honestly, that sentence alone explains an awful lot about my life right now. Somewhere between the magic bean potion, the birds, the mythology, the yellow skirts, and Dean Winchester, I appear to have become exactly the person I was always going to be.

Tomorrow morning, I will step out onto the patio, coffee mug in hand, greet the birds, look toward the sky, and wonder whether the rain will finally arrive. I will probably glare suspiciously at the weather forecast as well because I have lived in Arizona long enough to know that the phrase “chance of rain” can mean almost anything. It could mean rain. It could mean dust. It could mean that a single cloud will drift overhead, laugh at all of us, and continue on its way.

Maybe it will rain.

Maybe it won’t.

Either way, I have a feeling the birds will have something to say about it.

The truth is that I am finally beginning to understand that home is not necessarily a place that we find. Sometimes it is something that we build slowly and deliberately, one tiny choice at a time. Sometimes it is built from people, rituals, memories, traditions, laughter, grief, gardens, coffee, music, books, animals, and all the little things that become so ordinary that we hardly notice them at all.

Perhaps that is what this entire series has been about.

Not becoming someone new.

Not discovering some great and mysterious truth hidden somewhere in the universe.

Not suddenly uncovering the meaning of life while standing in the middle of the bedroom holding a bra in one hand and staring into a basket of laundry.

Although, admittedly, stranger things have happened.

Instead, I think this has been about giving myself permission to change, to grieve, to celebrate, to rest, to laugh, to choose joy, and to stop apologizing for taking up space in my own life. More than anything, though, I think it has been about giving myself permission to be exactly who I am.

Of course, tomorrow I may decide that I have learned absolutely nothing and return to arguing with Alexa about the weather. That also seems entirely possible.

Until next time, my lovely feral, dark, and bright ones. ✨