Here's mom giving me a few tips on writing
and other parts of my life
Photo by RH Sheldon
who
am I?
The most memorable year of my life, to date, was
1968. The deaths of Martin Luther King, Jr. and
Bobby Kennedy were tragic enough, but it was
also the year I lost my best friend. My brother
Bill died in Viet Nam. It was a year that dragged me into reality,
not kicking and screaming, but numb and
confused. I stayed that way for longer than I
care to remember. As you can imagine, all of
that worldliness was a heavy load for my
non-athletic teenage shoulders. I spent the next
few decades doing what many confused members of
our generation did—I survived—sometimes, just
barely.
My
first fifty years are best summarized with one
word—creativity. I created art,
music, poetry, an occasional relationship, and
as much kindness as I could muster because I've
been given so much. Despite my sparse social life, I
love people. I love our resilience, our promise,
our innate kindness, and the fact that no matter
how many times we get it wrong, we keep trying
to get it right. No matter how many fools come
along wanting to take control, we hold on and survive. There
is a lot to be said for surviving, especially if
you happen to run into your passion along the
way.
This is not a standard bio. My accomplishments
in the grand scheme would not generate much text,
but I am not my accomplishments. I am a person
who struggles to live and learn, and I laugh.
Actually, I laugh quite a bit. My
legacy is the list of un-extraordinary things
I’ve done and an even longer list of things I’ve
yet to do. I am a woman who discovered that the
first half century was preparation for the real work, or more accurately, the
real joy. I am a storyteller with many stories
to tell, and I have begun.
