Blog, Memories and Memoirs

Searching for History in England

I just returned from my research trip in England and have been musing over history in all its forms. I realize all over again that I’m fascinated with history. Those who know me would laugh at that comment, as my choice of profession–therapist–is about personal history as is memoir writing. My books Becoming Whole and […]

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Blog, Memories and Memoirs

Newsletter – September 2007

Lord, it is time. The summer was very big. Lay thy shadow on the sundials, and on the meadows let the winds go loose. Command the last fruits that they shall be full; give them another two more southerly days, press them on to fulfillment and drive the last sweetness into the heavenly wine. – Rainer Maria Rilke Celebrating Becoming…

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Blog, Memories and Memoirs

Writing and Healing (Excerpt from Becoming Whole Writing Your Healing Story)

“One can enjoy the health benefits of writing without the emotional costs associated with writing about trauma. The physical benefits of writing about one’s best possible self were equal to or better than writing about trauma.” —Laurie King Writing and Healing Writing your true story can heal you, both physically and emotionally. Expressive writing, writing that integrates your emotions and…

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Blog, Memories and Memoirs

Newsletter – December 2007

I heard a bird sing in the dark of December A magical thing and sweet to remember. “We are nearer to Spring than we were in September.” I heard a bird sing In the dark of December. – Oliver Herford, I Heard a Bird Sing It seems impossible that 2007 is drawing to a close! Does time speed up, or…

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Blog, Memories and Memoirs

The Music Man (Excerpt from Don’t Call me Mother)

Mrs. Rockwell’s fourth grade classroom smells of polished wood, chalk dust, and pads of Red Eagle newsprint tablets lined with pale blue lines, a dotted line between the thicker ones to indicate where “t’s” should be crossed. About twenty-five of us are sitting in school desks, our books and papers tucked neatly or messily, as mine are, in the well beneath the desktop. The windows of the room go from the thick green radiators to the ceiling. The windows are raised and lowered by long poles wielded by the boys or the teacher. The boys are noisy, some have dirty fingernails, and their hair is cut in a flat top or slicked to the sides with Brylcream.

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Blog, Memories and Memoirs

Blanche: My Great-Grandmother – 1955 (Excerpt from Don’t Call me Mother)

Blanche and I are in her garden. The Iowa air is full and rich, redolent with the scent of thick black earth, green growing things, the sweetness of flowers. When I get close to her, I smell her sweat, see it running in rivulets in the multiple creases in her skin. Her brown eyes under curly eyebrows are fierce as she flails away with the sickle at weeds who have the audacity to grow in her garden and bury the potato patch. Her whole arm rises and falls, sails of flesh hanging from her substantial bones. I am fascinated by her, how she can be so old, her body with its variety of wrinkles and drapings. She is more alive than anyone I have ever known, passionate about weeds, about her tomato plants and her raspberries, her strawberries, her woodpile, and the fire she builds each day in her wood cook stove. Blanche is the hero of my life. Blanche is with me every day, even now.

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