Journey

Of Angels, Miracles and Open Hearts – 12/15/25

This Christmas season has found me standing still in gratitude. As I continue to heal from open-heart surgery, I cannot help but look back in awe at the generosity, compassion, and steadfast love that carried me through. I was humbled—truly overwhelmed—by the outpouring of care I received. It reminded me, powerfully and tenderly, of the goodness that lives in people: the quiet kindness of family, the unwavering presence of friends, the grace of those who showed up without being asked.
Charles Dickens captured this truth so beautifully in A Christmas Carol: “But I have always thought of Christmas as a kind, charitable time. The only time when men open their shut-up hearts and think of all people as fellow travelers to the grave and not some other race of creatures bound on other journeys.” In my own way, I have seen this to be true. I have learned that angels are everywhere, if only we care to look for them—appearing in ordinary moments, in small mercies, in the simple but profound kindness of others. Miracles, too, live quietly among us, woven into everyday acts of love.
It is easy to lose sight of this truth amid the relentless noise of an often unkind media, which so frequently paints our world as cruel, fractured, and devoid of hope. Yet I still believe in the magic of this season. I believe in its light, and I long to learn how to carry it with me throughout the year, long after the decorations are packed away.
This year, above all else, I am thankful simply to be alive. And as the new year approaches, I will endeavor—imperfectly, and with humility—to be a better sister, a better friend, a better aunt, a better cousin, a better version of myself. I know I will stumble. I know I will fail at times. But I will keep trying.
My hope for you is this: that you find the wonder and joy that still exist in this world, you hold them close, and you keep your inner light shining—even when the world feels dark. May this season be filled with peace, love, and quiet miracles.
A very blessed Christmas to all—“God bless us, every one.”

Threads of a Human Heart

As I prepare for open-heart surgery, I find myself both sobered and profoundly grateful. Reviewing my end-of-life papers has a way of bringing life into sharp focus—each choice, each joy, each person who has walked beside me. What I see, looking back, is not fear or regret, but an extraordinary abundance of blessings.

A beautiful daughter and two wonderful grandsons who fill my life with pride and laughter. Six beloved sisters—ages 72 to 84—still vibrant, still here. In all our years together, we have never allowed a quarrel to wound the bond we share. Ours is a family stitched together with old Italian traditions, music flowing through every gathering, song and laughter rising like prayer.

I have been lifted and sustained by a big, loving, extended family who have stood beside me through every chapter—including the dark ones, when cancer came close but did not claim me.

My life has been shaped and defined by the performing arts. Theater and music are not simply what I do—they are who I am. The thrill of collaboration, the quiet exchange between performer and audience, the alchemy of directing, producing, and coaching—it has all been sacred work.

And beyond the stage, I have found joy and purpose in service: in my church, in my neighborhood, in my art communities, and through years of volunteering—from AIDS Action Committee (1981–1995) to AIDS Worcester, and later at the pediatric oncology hospice with my beloved therapy dog, Ella, for ten precious years.

Who could ask for a more rewarding 40-year career in high tech—traveling the world, experiencing new cultures, learning new languages. Realizing, with every encounter, that our humanness is what binds us. How small this world truly is, and how deep the yearning runs to save each other—and this earth that continues to love us, even when we do not love her back.

So, as I face this next step, I am not afraid. My heart—literally and figuratively—has been full to overflowing. I have lived richly, loved deeply, and been loved in return. For all that I have, and all that I have done, I am profoundly grateful.

Woodstock – August 16

Woodstock

We came barefoot into the fields,
the sky dripping music and rain,
our bodies pressed close in the mud,
hearts warm as the campfires
we believed could burn away
the old world.

We thought love was a weapon
that could dismantle empires,
that every guitar chord
was a law rewritten,
that every sunrise
was the first day of the new earth.

We shouted peace until our throats bled,
until the flags frayed in our hands.
We thought we would inherit
the halls of Congress,
reshape the courts,
turn power into a public trust
for everyone,
not just for a fortunate few.

But the years are long and merciless.
We have lived to see
the gap between mansion and shelter
widen until it swallows the horizon.
Social justice is a banner
faded by wind and rain,
while politics is wielded
for grift,
for empire,
for the quiet corruption
of men in robes and women in power suits
who bow only to the wealthiest one percent.

I still hear the music sometimes,
faint, behind the static.
It smells of wet grass and patchouli,
of hope before the fever broke.
We were so young.
We were so certain.
And now,
the mud has dried to dust.

The Quiet Geometry of My Birthday

There is something oddly reverent about waking up on your birthday. The world doesn’t look different—no sudden shimmer in the air, no mystical alignment of clouds—but the day feels stitched with a quieter thread, as if time is whispering your name through the fabric of everything. I woke up today into that softness.

It’s not that I expect balloons or fanfare. In fact, as I grow older, I crave the opposite. The loud parties of childhood—frosted cake, torn wrapping paper, sugar highs—have faded into the background like the static of an old radio. Now I find myself drawn to the stillness between the moments, the subtle arithmetic of having lived another year. What did I learn? What did I let go of? Who did I become?

My birthday has become a kind of private ritual. A checking in. I notice things more keenly on this day: how the morning light folds gently through my window, how my face in the mirror carries traces of every version of me I’ve ever been. I smile at the child I was, the one who thought being an adult meant answers. I nod respectfully to the teenager who scribbled dreams into the margins of notebooks. I hold a kind of quiet companionship with the recent me, the one who survived some things I didn’t see coming.

This day no longer feels like it’s about celebration so much as it is about gratitude. Not the kind shouted in social media captions, but the private kind. Gratitude that I’m still here. That despite the jaggedness of time and the occasional loneliness that comes with living in a human body; living alone, I keep unfolding into myself. I keep arriving.

I’ve started a tradition. Each year on my birthday, I write a letter to myself. Not full of goals or resolutions, but reflections. What was I afraid of this year? What surprised me? Where did I feel most alive? These letters become time capsules of truth, written not for who I hope to become, but for the person I already am—worthy, unfinished, real.

Birthdays, I’ve come to believe, are less about marking time and more about inhabiting it. Today I don’t need a party. I just need a long walk, a cup of coffee, a moment to breathe and remember that life is not made of milestones alone, but of mornings like this—quiet, slow, brimming with meaning.

Another year. Another layer. Another unfolding. And for that, I am deeply, simply grateful.

Happy Beltane 2025

“Beltane Morning”
Mist drapes the hills like a forgotten veil,
and the first birds speak in soft, urgent syllables.
The air tastes of green things returning—
not just grass, but the memory of growth,
the promise of ripening.
At the forest’s edge, a fire waits to be born.
It remembers the hands that struck the flint,
the breath that urged it into being.
Women braid flowers into their hair,
not for beauty,
but for invocation—
as if petals could persuade the gods
to linger a little longer.
The men gather wood
not with silence,
but with laughter sharp as flint,
as if joy itself is kindling.
Somewhere, a drum begins—
steady, low,
older than language.
It calls to something beneath the skin,
something that once walked barefoot through dew
and knew the name of every bird
by the rhythm of its wings.
Beltane is not a date.
It is the body’s remembering—
of light before harvest,
of fire before shadow,
of touch before reason.
And in the darkening grass,
two figures step through the smoke
as if walking into a story
that has waited
a thousand years to be told again.

A Farewell to Francis: by an Ex-Roman Catholic, Still Listening for Grace

I left the Church years ago—quietly, without ceremony. Not out of hatred, but weariness. The weight of doctrine, the fractures of scandal, the silence where I needed words. Still, when I heard that Pope Francis had passed, something stirred in me. Not guilt, not obligation. Something else. A sort of reverent grief.

Francis was not perfect—no pope is. But in a world roaring with division, he dared to whisper mercy. He reached for the hands others recoiled from. He spoke not just to the faithful, but to the wounded, the doubting, the wandering. People like me.

He washed the feet of prisoners. He kissed the faces of the disfigured. He reminded us—daily, stubbornly—that love does not ask for permission before it embraces. That compassion, real compassion, has no border.

I never went back to the Church, not in the formal sense. But I listened. I watched. And when he spoke—about climate, about poverty, about the sacredness of every single soul—I found myself leaning in.

Now he’s gone, and somehow, I feel it. Like the dimming of a soft but steady lamp in a long corridor. He may not have lit my path home, but he lit something in me that still burns.

Maybe sainthood is measured not in miracles, but in how much gentler the world becomes in your presence.

Pope Francis made the world gentler.

And for that, even from afar, I say: thank you. Go in peace, Holy Father. You were light.

Fading Away

When I was first diagnosed with cancer and was told that my time to live may be limited, I expected to feel despair or perhaps a kind of numbness, but instead, a deep sense of urgency flooded over me.

I wasn’t afraid of dying, but of what I had left to do, what I wanted to leave behind, and disheartened by the thought of being forgotten.

To me, being forgotten is dying twice.

Recently, an acquaintance of mine and an integral member of our local theater community suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. Tony was renowned throughout Southern New England as a teacher, theatrical director, actor and reviewer to hundreds of artists, theaters and supporters of the arts.

For 47 years, he was a beloved fixture in our lives with a quick wit, an ever-present ear to listen and a distinctive, spontaneous laugh familiar to those who knew him.

Between the local TV news reports, countless social media posts and conversations with friends about Tony, it’s clear to me that our friend and colleague will sustain a long and much-loved legacy.

Tony’s passing alerted me of how being born inevitably launches our life clock. Time’s never on our side. That feeling caught me off guard, once again. The thought of slipping away from the memory of those I hold dear filled me with sorrow.

I’m not writing about a life void of achievement or accolades, travel and enrichment. I’ve been blessed to have experienced these. But I often contemplate if I’ve had a quiet impact on others.

Did I show kindness or love? How did I make people feel? The legacy we leave is in the small moments: the shared laughter, the comforting words, the strength we offer in times of need—all are more important to me than any award, plaque or trip to an exotic place.

I love my only child, Lauren, my six sisters, their kids and one very special niece, Trish. I hope they’ll remember the small, intimate moments that made up our lives—the ones often overlooked, but never forgotten by those who experience them.

I hope my daughter will remember the way I made chocolate chip pancakes in the morning for her and her friends. How I used to sing or play the piano when I thought no one was listening, just to fill the house with something beautiful. And how I always tried to be present, even when life was hectic.

In order to remember, I’m focused on creating my blog—not of goodbyes, but of memories. I pen stories of my youth, the moments that shaped me, and the quiet wisdom I’ve gathered from others. I write about love, about loss, and about the beauty of fleeting moments.

I’m not writing for an audience, but for the people who will remain—my family, friends, loved ones. I want to ensure the lessons learned and the love given to me and the love I gave to others isn’t forgotten.

What I leave behind is not simply a memory—it’s the essence of who I am woven into the fabric of those I love and those who love me.

There is a kind of immortality, quiet and humble yet infinitely powerful, in writing it down.

I believe the true measure of a life is in the ripples we create, in the change we inspire, and in the love we leave behind.

The good we do lives on, long after we’re gone, passed from one person to the next like a flame that never fades.

Even in death, there’s a profound beauty in knowing that our light, however small, will continue to shine in the hearts of others.

Poetry is not my forte. However, in the wake of Tony’s death, this one wrote itself. Flowing out of my pen without effort. Thank you, Tony, for the inspiration.

Fading Away

In the quiet hush of evening’s glow,
I feel the softest winds below—
A breath, a sigh, as shadows creep,
Whispering secrets that the heart must keep.
The world will turn, as it must do,
While I dissolve like morning dew,
A fading echo, a fleeting sound,
A thread of light no longer bound.
I’ll leave no mark, nor trace, nor scar,
But in the sky, I’ll be a star—
A shimmer soft, too far to hold,
Yet burning bright as I grow cold.
No tears will fall, no voice will rise,
Just quiet skies and silken sighs.
And when the earth forgets my name,
I’ll be the wind, untamed, untame.
In every leaf, in every breeze,
In every moment that you seize,
I’ll linger still, though far away,
In echoes of a distant day.
For life, like love, is meant to flow—
And fading is the way we grow.
So, I’ll vanish, soft, serene,
A fleeting shadow, yet unseen.

The Journey

A book was sent to me by old-fashioned snail mail. To my work address. Unusual. The package wasn’t from Amazon (or any other online source). It was from the author.

The heartfelt inscription inside informed me he’d read my blog. (Did he read my narrative as a cancer survivor?) He hoped his book would bring me both humor and lift my spirits.

The book’s slightly over 100 pages. Its subject is commuting – commuting etiquette to be exact. Sound mundane? It’s not.

Working for a large global company or self-employed, a significant amount of the working day is spent commuting. For me, that totaled four decades traveling around the world in planes, trains, boats, taxis and cars.

The author of the book draws from “…41 years of observations, mistakes and recollections I’ve made while taking that daily sojourn we call commuting. Whether it was on trains, buses, planes, cabs or cars. (There’s a chapter on those brave souls who ride a bike to work. And are still alive to talk about it.) Read it. Use it. Share it. Talk about it with your fellow commuters.”

So. Here I am. Writing about it.

Before I delve into my impression of the book, I’m compelled to articulate why receiving this book was so remarkable to me.

1. The author, in New Jersey, actually read my blog which I wrote from my laptop in Rhode Island.
That in itself elicits in me both joy and shock.
2. He signed the book, inscribed a personal note, packaged it, wrote the obligatory address and
return address on the package, paid for postage and mailed it.
3. I’ve never met him. And until yesterday, I wasn’t aware of him, his life, or his book (more on
that later).

As most of you know, this blog is about my life journey. My hope is that what I write will help or inspire others. And, to my amazement, this man “got” that. Which is encouraging.

OK, so now the book.

The title is PLEASE LOWER THAT: A Guide to Proper Commuter Etiquette. When I first saw the cover, I thought, “What an odd, yet intriguing title.” And, after reading the inscription and then the Forward, I was all in – hook, line and sinker.

The book’s 22 Chapters document the author’s many personal experiences of commuting. He offers an informative guide to maneuvering those people-to-people situations that could, and have, culminated into an emotional boiling-point.

The reading is easy and fun with enlightenment, humor, and comical illustrations. I found myself laughing out loud, vividly remembering incidents in which I’d been directly involved.

The author is completely transparent by apprising the reader of his own deviant role in some of these situations. So, I consider him an expert on this subject. And by this transparency, I discovered my own commuter lawlessness which made me feel as if we were immediate comrades.

Ah, but there’s more!

More than an instructional guide for commuters the book is a reminder of our own life journey and how our actions and decision-making impact those around us.

There’s no doubt we’ve become a society of abhorrence.

We’re all broken. The divisiveness is palpable in our everyday lives. We don’t always get it right. However, stepping back, breathing, counting to ten, reading this book – whatever it takes – and exerting more effort into being kind to each other lessens the contribution to this sphere of malice.

When we’re being imposed upon, do we decide to “give it back” to those who provoke us, or do we provide some consideration, exhibit some benevolence, knowing their brokenness is also our own?

There’s so much in this world for which we’re powerless. It’s no wonder we become overwhelmed and lose the perspective that peace comes with one person at a time. We do have the power to control our behavior towards others. The others who are on their own journey, their own commute.

Kindness is far-reaching. We never know how one act of kindness may alter a person, a moment, a year, a lifetime for the better.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, my middle-finger salute to the driver who just cut me off or my deliberate bump to the back of the fully reclined airplane seat in front of me – that’s still there. Perhaps it’ll always be. However, as this author reminds me, I do have a choice. And I would do well to implement kindness in an effort to transform the world around me.

I was truly blessed this week with this gift from author/creative director/copywriter, Ron Wachino. His book was a grace, and a much-needed confirmation of what life’s commute or journey is all about. Ron has many gifts, and I give him my sincere gratitude for sharing his writing, his thoughtfulness, and his generosity. I’m including his website in order for you to see for yourself. https://www.ronwachino.com

PLEASE LOWER THAT: A Guide to Proper Commuter Etiquette. Read it. Use it. Share it. Talk about it with your fellow commuters.

Epilogue: I must also give a heap of gratitude to my friend and “the luckiest man in advertising,” David Wojdyla. I almost removed my blog from my website thinking it was silly and a little self-indulgent. It was David who cheered me on to continue to write and add to it. Thank you for that, David. Without you, I may never have known about Ron or his book. I’d say I’m the “luckiest person in blogdom!”

Kindness is far-reaching – this week all the way from New Jersey.