The folks at Farmer-ish recently reached out to let me know that they were nominating my essay, "Winter Song," for a Maine Literary Award. I'm grateful to them for their belief in the piece. The essay is about a dog, winter memories, and grief, as well as restoration and hope.

My November/December 2021 newsletter is here. It includes some new publications, my dear friend and author Carole Starr and her book To Root & To Rise, an epic knitting fail, and some tiger facts from Zoe. You can read it here.

My September/October 2021 newsletter can be found here. My dear friend Amy Jirsa is the featured writer, and there are publication updates, reading recommendations, a Maine Coon cat fact from Zoe, and more goodies to be found.

My July/August newsletter can be found here. It includes some updates, a blue whale knitting pattern AND a fact about humpback whales, and the featured artist is an old friend, B.J. Hollars, and his new book, "Go West, Young Man: A Father and Son Rediscover America on the Oregon Trail."

In July I was notified that I received an Individual Project Grant for Artists from the Maine Arts Commission. The grant funding will help enable me to work on my memoir over the coming year, and I'm so grateful for the support!

My March/April Newsletter recently out, and you can find it here. It has some publication updates, reading recommendations, grief writing workshop news, and Robin Clifford Wood and her new book, The Field House: A Writer's Life Lost and Found on an Island in Maine, are featured. Zoe's science/nature fact is about baby pandas as well!

I've decided to start an occasional newsletter (aiming for every other month for now), so if you'd like to receive updates on publications, hear about other writers and artists and their projects, and learn cool science facts from my fourth-grader, please sign up! You can find the sign up form here.

You can read the first issue here.

Thanks in advance!

Holidays can be times of great challenge for those wading through the days and months and years of grief. I can never quite tell which days of significance are going to be difficult and which will pass with ease. So, in a sense, they are just like any other day. I have been thinking a lot about gratitude lately, and about how much I have in my life to be grateful for and especially how grateful I am that my life seems to finally be coming together after so many years of hardship and loss.

After my last essay was published, numerous readers reached out thanking me for writing what I do. For delving into grief openly and deeply in a way that resonated with each of them. For letting them know that they are not alone in the vast world of grief that on occasion feels like it might swallow you whole.

In my current position as a brain injury advocate, I am constantly speaking of the value of support groups, of the significance of survivors attending support groups and almost universally discovering that they are not alone in their struggle and recovery. It's funny, because until this latest flood of messages, I never thought to compare grief writing to a support group, but it ends up with a similar result and the unequivocal message: you are not alone.

Here is what one reader wrote:

"I just wanted to thank you. For writing those articles about grief and for understanding me so well when it seems nobody else does. You touched a place very deep in me and wrote things I've been feeling but haven't been able express or put into words. I also lost my husband to cancer 7 months ago. He was 31. We have a now 4 year old son together. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your writings. It's comforting to know that I'm not the only who feels these things and that it's ok. Thank you."  -S.K.

This kind of response to my writing makes my heart swell. I started writing about my loss primarily as a way to work through my own grief and struggles as a young widow; single, grieving parent; mother; and woman, but as time has gone on, I try to also keep in mind the possible good that my words might do, how they might bring love and light to someone else in the dark place of early grief, in the bewildering days immediately post-loss, or the commingling denial and hope of anticipatory grief.

Please remember: you are not alone. Though everyone grieves differently and no one else can do the work of grief for you, you are not alone. Though it often feels that way, you are not alone. When in doubt, repeat to yourself: you are not alone.

A couple weekends ago, my daughter and I once again had the opportunity to attend Camp Ray of Hope, a weekend-long camp for grieving families and individuals held annually in central Maine.  It is remarkable the difference that a year makes.
 
Last year, my grief was still a raw and gaping open wound. Steve had been dead six months. I had recently restarted nursing school, Zoe was just beginning to process her own grief, and I was still recovering from a bout of the flu that was so severe it nearly sent me to the hospital. Honestly, I was exhausted and running on fumes. Our experience at CROH that year was so healing and supportive, and so terribly, terribly necessary at that point in our lives.
 
This year two other widows and I (who had all met last year at CROH) noted how far we had come in twelve months. We were still angry, sad, and grieving, but damn if we weren’t moving through life, starting to laugh again, to bring laughter to our grief (because sometimes that is just what you have to do), and even starting to enjoy life again. We talked about how much our children had grown, what was easier now and what still hurt like hell, and about the difference a little time and distance can make. We also talked about how we were now in a place within our grief where we could actually reach out and support others, a concept that seemed impossible a year prior.
 
On the second day of Camp I had the privilege of offering a writing/journaling workshop with Emily Swartz, a dear friend and fellow writer and widow. We brought some readings and writing prompts, and were prepared to talk a little about how writing had helped us with our own grief. We had journals (generously purchased by the Hospice Volunteers of the Waterville Area) and mandalas for folks to color. We worried whether people would come. We worried if we would have enough to offer them.
 
The sign-up sheet was full. More participants showed up than we had materials for. We gathered together in a circle and talked. I passed around a copy of Mary Oliver’s “Heavy.” We read and laughed and cried. Some who had never journaled before seemed excited at the prospect, some who had been away for a while vowed to revisit it, and others spoke of the therapeutic nature of getting words on the page. Some folks read their responses aloud, others sat quietly with their words, but everyone seemed perhaps a little more peaceful for the experience.
 
The next day we all participated in a short ceremony honoring the loved ones that we had lost and said our goodbyes. We made plans to connect, plans to stay in touch, plans to see each other in the same place next year.
 
I can tell you with great certainty, I’m already looking forward to it.