my handsWhen I look at my hands they don’t let me forget that I am aging. The skin is thin and adorned with liver spots and wrinkles. The veins stand up tall and proud. They were never my best feature, beauty-wise, but they have always been capable hands and have served me well for many decades. I wear a star sapphire ring that belonged to my mother, and it reminds me that I come from a lineage of women who have strong hands and know how to use them. We come from good Serbian peasant stock.

Years ago I was a midwife at a birth that was attended by a young girl of seven. She watched intently as her baby brother was born. Later at the first post-partum visit, she handed me a picture she had drawn about her experience. I looked at it, puzzled. “It’s a picture of your hands,” she patiently explained. “They are so smart and know just what to do.”

I hear that women can go through an entire pregnancy now without a human hand ever touching their bellies, just an ultrasound transducer schlepping over their gel-covered abdomen every prenatal visit, impersonally recording data about their babies. A dear young friend of mine had her baby in an Asian country some years ago, and when I inquired once about how many centimeters her belly was measuring, she said she had no idea; no one had ever measured her. When she asked at the next visit for them to do just that, they gave her a look of incredulity. Seriously. That is so old school now and very inaccurate. Really? Since when? Assessing the size and position of a baby in utero using one’s bare hands and a measuring tape has worked for hundreds of years, not to mention the fact that women love to have their bellies touched.

The further away I get from the source, the more out of touch I feel. When I garden I want gloveless hands in the dirt, making direct contact with the plants, taking their pulse. I love the sensual feel of earthy bread dough, feeling its life force and suppleness beneath my fleshy palms and fingers. I’ll choose bare hands over spoons any day when mixing most things, especially heaping bowls of potato salad. I do best when very little comes between me and my immediate experience, and when I can get away with it, I eat without utensils!

A western, female Buddhist teacher counseled me once: “What you think you need, is what you should be giving!” So sometimes when I am wishing for a sympathetic soul to come forward and address the pain and stiffness in my shoulders and neck, I’ll go to someone nearby and ask if they would like a little massage. And as their tension dissipates under these strong, capable hands of mine, and I hear their audible moans of relief, I actually do feel better.

It turns out that grandchildren don’t mind these aging hands. They like to affectionately caress them and squeeze the thin skin between their fingers when they curl up for a snuggle, like having a familiar, comfy blankie to rub on. . .



long island soundI sat on a bench outside her house, staring at the liquid gray sea that was tightly framed by heavy, dark clouds. It looked cold and lonely. Gulls flew overhead, their plaintive cries echoing the sorrow in my heart. My friend had passed away the day before. It all felt wrong and it also felt perfect. I began to sob. Emotions that had been carefully tucked away for a week now demanded expression. I felt the ripping pain of loss and grief because I love her and will miss her, as will so many others whose lives she so lovingly touched. I also rejoiced because I was deeply moved and inspired by how graciously she lived and how auspiciously she died. I thought… she has shown us how to do this. Pay heed.

She embodied the compassionate teachings of the Buddha throughout her life – in her work and in her relationships…

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Rustic setting with spring flowers and homemade breadCelebrating my birthday has always been a big deal to me, and how I have done that has gone through many incarnations over the course of my long life. When I was a child my birthday took on a particular significance: It was a day of amnesty, a “cease-fire,” a reprieve from being scolded… or worse. It was my special day, and I remember each year feeling giddy with anticipation. I looked forward to it even more than Christmas. I got to choose the dinner menu (fried chicken and mashed potatoes) and the dessert (Betty Crocker’s Chocolate Cake). I felt quite la-di-da. Parties, however, were problematic. You ran the risk that the cease-fire would get called off. Once—when I turned thirteen and had my first boy/girl-afternoon-dance party—it didn’t end well. My father had had one too many libations by 2:00 and ripped the record player out of the wall, sending my friends packing. “No kid of mine is going to listen to Elvis Presley. He’s a goddam pervert. Jesus Christ, someone should cut his hair!” Having a party was always a crap shoot.

When I grew up, I still wanted my birthday to be my “special day.” I couldn’t drop my expectations, and this was a big, fat setup for disappointment—again and again. There were times when I waited… not saying anything, certain that any minute someone would surprise me with a cake, or maybe breakfast in bed, a flower, perhaps a card… and nada. When no one noticed, it broke my heart.

It took years, but then I finally woke up: I took charge of “my day.” No longer did I leave it to chance. Never again would I be vulnerable to disappointment! I planned weeks in advance about how I wanted to spend my day, what I wanted to do and who I wanted to do it with.

And over time… what I discovered was that my “special day” started to become less about me and more about the people I loved; less about what I needed and more about contentment for everything I already had. Instead, I wanted to give presents to others or cook for them on my birthday.

As I age, I feel my edges soften. The clock is ticking. I don’t have time to cling to what no longer has meaning in my life. As someone said, “If it’s not a hell yes, it’s a no!” Each morning when I wake up and find myself still breathing, I rejoice. I might have another day. I am filled with gratitude for the bounty in my life. I am infused with joy more often than not. Every day is starting to feel like my birthday!

I turned seventy-three on my most recent one. I felt full to spilling over—spending hours on the phone with old friends and family, receiving congratulatory texts, emails, and the usual birthday wishes on Facebook. In the evening I went with my daughter to a performance of the Playback theater in our local community. The topic was Growing food, Eating Food, Sharing Food. I shared my story of coming full circle: from having once been a farmer who grew pumpkins for the kids in the county and nourished my family with the food I grew and the bread I baked—to planting no food for twenty-two years—to now feeding my family once again with the harvest from my huge backyard garden and fresh, homemade bread. When I was done telling my tale, the actors “played it back” to me. It was an enactment of my life before my eyes, a coming home to an essential piece in me that I had put on hold for a long time. The evening culminated with a concert from my granddaughter of her favorite songs from the film Moana. It was a glorious day.



I went to see a new doctor today, an ENT specialist. A month ago, when I saw my dentist for my checkup, he saw a white lesion where my tonsils used to be and thought vintage flowers, coffee, bookI should have it looked at. So, there I was, patiently sitting in the exam room with my mug of steaming hot coffee, absorbed in a good book (which I always remember to bring for times like this when I may need to wait).
The doctor quietly slipped in the door. I was so engrossed in my story I didn’t notice him for a minute. He cleared his throat, and I looked up. I lay my book on the chair next to me. “Good morning,” I said, as I reached out my hand to greet him.
He was a distinguished looking gentleman, perhaps in his sixties; he wore horn-rimmed glasses. It was a beautiful morning and the sun was streaming through the window, illuminating his face in a soft golden light.
“Good morning,” he responded, as he shook my hand. He looked at me for an uncommonly long minute, then cocked his head. His eyes were twinkling. He turned to stare out the window, then looked back.
“Are you a gardener?”
“Uh… yes I am,” I replied, “Why do you ask?”
“Well, looking at you just now, it came to me that it all went together somehow: coffee, a book, gardening. . .” His smile was warm.
“Yes, absolutely. They do go together!” We both chuckled and then proceeded to chat about vegetables. Eventually, he proceeded with his exam.
“I don’t see anything there now,” he said. “Must have been schmutz.”
“I’m good with that. Schmutz. That was exactly my diagnosis. I wasn’t worried.”
We grinned and shook hands. “Have a great, rest-of-your-day,” he said as I departed.
It was no more than a fifteen-minute visit, but in that brief interlude, we touched. He saw me. I am exactly who he thought he saw. And he knew that I knew that. And he felt seen, knowing that I knew that. It was a “moment.” A simple but exquisite moment. Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D., says in Kitchen Table Wisdom: “The places where we are seen and heard are holy places. They remind us of our value as human beings.”
This is what a friend of mine calls “mini-pleasures,” those times during the day when we pause and show up for the little things, wherever we are. Some are deeply human moments, like this, where people come together momentarily—like birds on a telephone wire—touch in, and then go on their way, feeling fuller, plumped up with good juju. Other times, it may be the flight of a hawk, the dew on a leaf, a grocer’s kind words to an elderly woman fumbling in her wallet for change, or the miracle of a spider’s web that makes us pay attention and rejoice.
As a hospice nurse, I have been at the bedsides of dying people who have lamented: “My life is over and I missed it.” It’s a heartbreaker. Yet, how many times throughout the day are we unconscious, missing what is right before us, waiting for life to be more, holding out for something bigger?
So, thank you, Dr. R. I don’t have throat cancer, and you made my day.






INo More Secretst was the early 80s. My colleague walked into the office at our women’s health care clinic where I was finishing the last of my charting. “I’ve decided to set up a domestic violence hotline,” she announced. “The phone will go in our clinic. I’ve wanted to get this going for a long time. The need is huge,” she added. “There’s a list of people who want to be volunteers. The training will be in two weeks. By the way. . . it would be good if you went to it.”

I stared at her. Hard. I felt my pulse racing. . . “NO! Absolutely not. I don’t want any part of that hotline or the training, and I certainly don’t want a phone in our clinic! What are you thinking? Innocent pregnant women come here. It won’t be safe. What if an angry man finds out and comes beating on our door.” I suddenly felt nauseous.

“No? What do you mean—no?  Our clinic will just be a physical location for the phone; the calls get forwarded to the volunteer’s number. This is not a big deal. What’s scary and really dangerous is having women and children being hurt and there being no one available they can reach out to for help.”

I took some deep breaths. She had a point. But. . . why does this feel like a big deal, and why does my chest hurt? Maybe I’m having a heart attack.
“Okay,” I finally allowed.”But, I don’t want to be involved. This whole idea gives me the heebie-jeebies.
“You don’t need to do anything,” she assured me, “but, it would be helpful if you at least did the training so you would know how to respond. You know—just in case.”

So there I was, two weeks later, in a conference room with other women, listening to an expert speak at length about domestic violence and child abuse. She shared heart-breaking stories. She went on and on and on . . .

I broke into a sweat and gripped the table. I think I’m going to pass out. I began to shake; tears streamed down my face. My colleague looked at me. “You’re white as a sheet. Come with me.” She took my hands and pulled me into the hallway. “What on earth happened in there?” she asked.
I found it difficult to breathe. “That woman is talking about my family!” I finally sputtered.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said: That woman is talking about my family. She just described my entire childhood like she had been peering through a window watching me grow up, documenting every detail. And. . . she said what happened to me as a child was wrong! And not only wrong but criminal! Like, against the law. I had no idea. I thought it was normal to suffer. No one spoke about it—ever. These were our family secrets, and we held them tightly in a code of silence: what happened behind closed doors, stayed there, and then you forgot about it. That’s how it was.

I felt like I had been hit by a logging truck. I’m over forty years old. I’m an intelligent, competent, professional, high-functioning adult. How could I not have known this?

My body knew, though. It never forgot. No wonder I was scared.


Revolver-Gun-Table in sunlightSixty years ago I almost murdered my father. I was only twelve years old, not your average killer. And yet, there I stood one night outside his bedroom door—a vulnerable young girl with a big knife in my hand. It wasn’t rage or revenge that lead to this decision. Rather, I felt a moral responsibility to kill him to protect the people that I loved.

It was never my intention to write this story, but last week I had two successive dreams that were exactly the same; every detail intact. Images from that night vividly appeared in front of me as if on a computer screen. I could hear the script typing itself out in my head, and I couldn’t make the narrator shut up. Some words popped up in bold type: KILLERS – GUNS – KILLERS – GUNS. I woke up drenched in sweat with my heart pounding. With horror, I realized that that could have been me. If there had been a gun in our house that night, it would have been so easy in that moment to pick it up and pull the trigger. I would have joined the thousands of others who respond to a heated moment, a confrontation, a difference of opinion by momentarily losing their minds, reaching for a gun, and blowing theirs or someone else’s brains out. Even a sweet, young girl like me—had a gun been accessible—would have felt justified in picking it up and killing my father. That truth is why I decided to tell my story: to use my voice to support gun control in this country.

My father had returned from WWII a broken man, or so said others trying to rationalize his violence.  I only knew him as someone who drank too much and took out his rage on my brothers and me. It never stopped. Mealtimes were the worst. We were prime targets: sitting on the edge of our seats, backs straight, elbows off the table, mouths shut unless we were spoken to first. He controlled everything. Our plates were always stacked in front of him, and he doled out the food. If it was something you hated, and he was in “one of his moods,” he gave you double portions, and you couldn’t leave the table until you ate every last bite . . . or suffer the consequences!

Lima beans were on the menu that night. Uh oh. I glanced quickly at my brother who was ten. I knew he was in for it. Sure enough—soft, pale-green lima beans covered half his plate. He picked at the food around them and then just sat there staring at the green heap remaining on his plate. Tears welled up in his eyes. He put a small bite in his mouth and chewed and chewed and chewed. But when he tried to swallow, he gagged and retched.

“Don’t you dare spit them out,” my father shouted. “You eat those beans, you son of a bitch.” My brother began to sob as the pulverized beans dribbled out the side of his mouth. “You skinny, worthless runt. You’ll sit here and eat those beans if it takes you three goddamn days. I’m the boss here, and you will obey me.” My father’s rage reverberated off the walls as he continued to scream and berate my brother.

Something broke open inside me. For the first time—ever, I spoke. “Stop. Stop hurting my brother!” I blurted, my body shaking. I looked up at him. Big mistake. His eyes became hard as steel. I bolted from the kitchen into my room and cowered in a corner, making myself as small as possible. I heard his huge frame lunge up and knock the chair over. I’m dead, I thought. He stormed in and started beating me with his fists. “I don’t talk to my colonel that way. You don’t talk to yours. I don’t talk to my colonel that way. You don’t talk to yours,” he repeated over and over with each blow. When he finally stopped and headed for the door, he turned around: “You shut up that crying right now. I don’t want to hear it. If I do, I’ll come back in and whip you some more.” I curled up in my bed, whimpering softly. It was then that I decided: I had to kill him. This violence will never stop. My mother is too scared to protect us. It’s up to me.

Later that night, when I stood outside his bedroom door with the knife in my hand, listening to his snoring, I lost my courage. The knife was not that big, and I knew I would have one shot at this. If I missed, he would kill me. I froze. . . I couldn’t do it. I tiptoed back to the kitchen, returned the knife to the drawer, and quietly left the house to go across the street to sit in my safe place: the hidden wooden crotch of a giant fig tree. In that moment everything seemed hopeless. I knew I had nowhere to turn. It was 1956. Child abuse was commonplace and even condoned, especially in military families. I cried through the night and just before dawn, crept back into my room. He never found out. No one ever knew because I could not speak of that night for decades.

Eventually, I was old enough to leave and create a peaceful life and a home of my own. I became a Buddhist practitioner and try to do my best to help and not harm other living beings. Meanwhile, my father stopped drinking. He mellowed; his rage fell away. He took up fishing in a little boat. He became a respected and beloved citizen in his community. He believed in giving back. “There are takers and then there are doers. I’m a doer,” he would say. He was Santa Claus at the local school. He started watching reruns of Little House on the Prairie in the early hours of the morning because he said the show was deep and made him think about the importance of family. Well, that gave me pause. . .

I have come to realize that life cannot be reduced to simple, immutable tenets. People have layers of complexity; they change. He was more than just an evil person. I discovered he had qualities and goodness that were hidden beneath the surface of his cruelty. This insight does not in any way absolve him of the abuse my brothers and I experienced; it has taken a lifetime to work through it. But I am eternally grateful that I did not succeed in killing him. Who could have known that my father’s hatred of guns and his refusal to have them in the house would one day save us both.


The word midwife was formed from Middle English and means “(mid) together with, and (wife) woman.” It also means “to assist in bringing forth (something new).” Most midwives will tell you that midwifery is more a calling than a rational decision one comes to when pursuing a livelihood. It’s a response to something you feel in your bones—a stirring, a deep remembering, a sense of “coming home.”

baby and booksI first felt called to be a midwife when I was a nursing student in the beginning days of my obstetrical rotation. I was assigned to support a woman while she gave birth to a baby whose heartbeat had unexpectedly ceased three days earlier. I was nineteen and naïve; she was forty-two and devastated. I stayed by her bedside for twenty-four hours, locked into her dance of courage and grief. As the hours passed, I had a sense of déjà vu—that I had been here before. It was familiar: the sheer power of birth, the wild undulations of her body, the primal sounds that keened from her throat. I was young and inexperienced, yet, I felt calm and unafraid as I witnessed her suffering and raw vulnerability. I seemed to know intuitively what to do. In the early hours of the morning, she pushed out her dead baby, cradled him in her arms, and wept. Then she dressed him in the clothes she had made and kissed him goodbye. As she fell into my arms, sobbing, I held her and knew that I had found my life’s work: accompanying women as they gave birth to their babies, which I did for many years.

As I grew older, I felt drawn to accompany those who were now leaving this life. Working with death and dying is a common path for midwives because this, too, is a calling, and we are at ease in these realms of transition. In my sixties, I became a hospice nurse—a midwife for the dying—and found many similarities to attending births: the language, the encouragement, the calm support, the loving touch—We’re here; you are loved. You’re doing so well. It won’t be long now. You’re almost there. You’re not alone. . .

In my experience, midwives and hospice workers are endowed with similar qualities, particularly in their abilities to honor the uniqueness of each person they care for with respect and acceptance—whether they be wealthy or homeless, amiable or difficult. They are informed by an indwelling confidence and trust that every individual, when well-supported, will traverse their transition with dignity in their own way.

Now that I am even older. . . I have morphed, yet again, into another kind of midwife: the one who assists people in bringing forth something new. I have a freelance business helping them give birth to their stories, memoirs, books, blogs, etc. As I work closely with each client, I feel that I am back in my midwife saddle again, just with a different bag of skills, and the end result is not a baby but a book or some other literary endeavor. What has remained constant throughout my many careers, however, is an unshakable trust I have in people to find their own authentic voice; my job is to use my skills to support them in doing that.

For instance. . . I encouraged and helped a therapist go from a rambling, generic website to one that truly reflects who she is: a woman with qualities of wisdom born from her relationship with nature, and a kind and gentle spirit.

I held the hand of a woman who translated a Buddhist book of teachings from Chinese to English. We hewed it out together on the phone—sentence by sentence, comma by comma— until she felt the rendering was true and good. It was a long but satisfying birth.

I have embarked on a journey with a lovely woman who is writing a memoir about love and loss and the evolution of her spirit. We skype each week, and I am amazed by her deepening insight and her courage to go deep as her story unfolds. We are kindred spirits, and I am happy that my help and counsel is a support for her.

I work each week with a young man who has written a fantasy novel. We sit across the table from one another—computer to computer—and go over every word until he feels satisfied. He’s buried in school debt, so we worked out a trade: he has become my yard maintenance person, and I am his personal editor—just like the old days, where I always did a few births for my winter firewood.

Another woman writing a book, a personal trainer, struggles to find time to write amidst a busy schedule. I find myself looking for all the tricks one might employ in a labor that is stuck and not progressing—encouraging her to have heart and keep going. . .

I consider myself fortunate that my profession as a midwife continues to find so many remarkable and satisfying expressions. Everyone has a story to tell or needs a second pair of eyes. I invite you to peruse my website.