bread 2In mid-March, as the number of positive cases and deaths from Covid-19 continued to rise, our governor put our state on lockdown. Life came to a near-standstill. Confined to my home, I spent hours at the computer, bearing witness to the devastation and massive loss of life caused by this virus as it rampaged without mercy through local communities and across the globe.  I watched doctors, nurses, and other healthcare workers step up to the front lines, putting their lives and the lives of their families in danger to care for the people stricken by this disease.

They’re your people! You should be working alongside them. 

These thoughts pushed at me, penetrated my dreams. I had been a nurse for fifty years, and even though I’m retired, my deep impulse is still to turn into the danger, to respond without hesitation to a crisis. It’s what nurses do; it’s in our DNA.

But now I’m a 76-year-old woman with a bad back. My responsibility in this pandemic is not to put on my scrubs but to stay home. I get it. I’m in the elder, high-risk category, and by sheltering in place, I am less likely to put my life and others in jeopardy, causing an unnecessary burden on our health care system. But it felt inadequate. 

What to do? How could I support my community from the confines of my home? 

It came to me. . . Sourdough starter! 

I’ve been baking my own bread for years, and since the quarantine, more and more people are learning to bake bread as well. It’s become a thing, and it’s hard to do because there is no yeast in the stores. Well, who needs yeast when you have a sourdough starter. 

I put a notice on our Nextdoor Neighbor website: Giving away sourdough starter. Message me if you are interested. It took less than five minutes; the requests started to flood in! 

For the next two weeks, scheduling arrivals every hour, hordes of masked people poured into my backyard garden. First, they picked up their bag of goodies—a jar of sourdough starter; printed sheets with instructions on how to care for it as well as recipes and other informational tidbits; a baggie containing organic flour for the first feeding; and a sample double-edged razor blade to score the bread before it goes into the oven. Then, they listened as I stood on my patio and gave them the transmission.

This starter has lineage; it’s been passed down from person to person for 100 years. It’s alive and depends on the wild yeast and bacteria from the air, the flour, and especially your bare hands. Do not use spoons or your Kitchen Aid! Your relationship with this starter will be intimate. The bread you will make from it is simple and hardy, made with pure ingredients. It will sustain and ground you. It needs minimal attention, but it does need your trust. It requires time and your faith that it knows what it is doing. You don’t knead this dough in a traditional way; you stretch and fold it upon itselfthen leave it. Stretch and foldthen leave it. Like that… Now, go forth. Be safe. Wash your hands. And bake!

Clutching their goodie bags, they departed—happy, little, prospective, sourdough bread bakers. I felt like a neighborhood drug dealer!

It was suggested by some that I should consider going into the sourdough starter business. That never crossed my mind. This was not a monetary transaction; it was an offering, a small thing I could safely do for my community in the middle of a pandemic. 

And, as with most offerings, what goes around comes around. The rewards I received in return were bountiful: connection, warm engagement, a feeling of solidarity among neighbors—not to mention fresh cookies, bouquets of garden flowers, more jars, toilet paper, and even a cherished bottle of Lysol spray!

People shared their stories. . . 

This starter was a birthday present for my 20-year-old son. Here is a picture of his first loaf. He said it was the best gift ever. 

My family is thrilled with this bread. Already I have received requests to share my starter with others. I’m mailing some to my cousin in Michigan. 

I was inspired to get a mill to grind my own flour. I will bring you some.

I’m baking so much bread now, I have enough to give away. 

My heart needed this moment of exchange. Neighbors helping neighbors.

This is a scary time. There’s no map for how to navigate it. I’m relying on science and data, but I am also leaning into our common humanity as my compass: kindness, generosity, respect, good-will, the basic goodness in people. My faith in this anchors me. And because I care about my neighbors, I wear a mask; I keep my distance; I smile with my eyes; say hello, and. . . give away sourdough starter!




metro busEvery day when I go to work, I take the #13 bus. It’s a brief ride, but long enough to accommodate what I have loosely come to call my “five-minute bus practice.” Instead of looking at my phone or the scenery out the window, I sit quietly and tune in to the passengers. 

Breathing in ~ I try to imagine their lives and the burdens they might be carrying, wishing I could lighten their loads. Breathing out ~ I mentally offer them warmth, safety, ease, shelter, food, a cup of coffee—whatever they need. It’s an ancient practice called Tonglen—giving and receiving. It rides the breath and helps to keep me present, with my heart open, especially during times when I witness the struggles of others and don’t know how to help, or I want to turn away and check out. 

Some of the people I see on the #13 are regular commuters, slipping on and off at the same stops every day; many of them have sadly seen better days, and a few seem to live in a reality I am unfamiliar with, having conversations with beings unseen by me. Each of these passengers has a story, no doubt a fascinating one. And over time, I have discovered that sometimes—even though I am a total stranger—when I am receptive and give them my full attention, they will open up and give me a little glimpse. 

Meet Jackie. . . 


I was standing at the bus stop, my hands stuffed in my pockets. It was a cold night. I had just gotten off work and was heading home. A woman shuffled up to the stop, nodded, and then dropped down onto the metal stool. She wore a grey hoodie sweatshirt that hung low over her well-worn blue jeans and had wisps of red hair peeking out from a blue, knitted cap. She seemed to be missing her upper teeth. 

I smiled. “Good evening.”

She looked me up and down. “Well, good evening to you,” she replied. “God damn, this getting old is the shits, but I guess it beats the alternative.”

“Ain’t that the truth!” I agreed, holding her gaze.

“Hey… I’m not afraid of dying,” she clarified. “Don’t think for one minute I’m scared to meet my maker. In fact, when I get to heaven—honey, I’ve been celibate for a while—but when I go through them pearly gates, I’m praying heaven’s gonna be a place where I can have lots of sex. I tell you; nothing beats having an orgasm! Better than drugs any day—that shit will mess with you—but a good orgasm… well, that’s my idea of heaven.” 

She stood up and, seeing as how I was a captive audience, began to pace in front of me, gesticulating wildly to make a point with every turn of her story. “Now, I wasn’t a whore or anything. I had my principles. I had to like the guy. I didn’t care if he was a looker, but he had to be sweet and treat me right. Ya know what I’m saying? Ooh, the memories! Honey, let me tell you… the pleasure was brief, but right in that moment, this ugly, hard world would fade away and BAM, everything was perfect, for a little while. Damn, how I miss orgasms!”

The bus pulled up, interrupting the flow of her recollections. I got on, paid my fare, and sat down. She parked herself in the seat across the aisle from me. Leaning over, she whispered. “Don’t you ever forget what we were talking about back there. God wants us to have euphoria in our lives. I believe that with all my heart. Say… are you from that church?”

“I’m not,” I replied. 

“Are you sure? Cause if you’re not from that church, why are you being nice to me? Tell me that? I’ve been blabbing your ears off, and not once have you judged me. . . Thank you. You are a fine, decent woman. Say, my name’s Jackie,” she said, reaching over and sticking out her hand. 

“I’m Candace,” I said, taking her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Maybe we’ll meet again someday. I’d like that.”

She grinned. “This is turning out to be a great day. Normally, I have to sleep outside, but I ran into a friend downtown who’s letting me stay under her roof tonight, where it will be warm. Hot shower, here I come! It may not be as good as an orgasm, but I’ll take it!  

“Well, this is my stop,” I said as I reached up to pull the cord.

“God bless you, Candace.”

“God bless you, too, Jackie. I hope your dream comes true before you get to heaven.” 

I saw her wave through the window as I turned to begin my walk home. I gave her a thumbs up and went on my way.

 ~ When we are truly seen and heard, that is a holy moment. ~                                                                            



I’ve been spending time on the city transit lately, using my Senior Pass to ride the bus to work. Besides saving money and sparing me the daily hustle of finding a parking place on the street, it gives me an opportunity to connect with fascinating people, folks that I don’t normally encounter on a day-to-day basis as I scurry from place to place, shut up in my car, windows rolled up, eyes fixed on the road ahead.


There was Betty. She sat catty-corner from me, wearing a bulky, leopard-print coat. A flaming pink, wooly hat on her head partially covered a mass of red curls that spilled out onto her shoulders. Yellow and orange striped socks and purple converse sneakers completed her ensemble. A couple of large bags rested on her ample lap.

She made eye contact with me and leaned over, whispering conspiratorially, “I have treasures in here that you could never imagine.” She winked as she patted her overstuffed sacks. I smiled and winked back. “You know,” she continued… “I’m an amazing person, and I’ve decided to run for Mayor. Seriously. I want to do something important with my life. Help people and make a difference in this world!”

“Right on,” I replied. “I’d vote for you! We could use good women in public office.”

She mused, “I might even run for President. Why not. ‘Go big,’ my Mama used to tell me!”

“Absolutely! We definitely need a female president right now. You’d get my vote.”

We chatted a while longer while she reached into her bags to show me her loot. Suddenly, she interrupted our conversation and reached up to pull the cord. “Well, this is my stop. It’s been a pleasure,” she said, as she gathered up her belongings. Walking to the back door, she turned around and looked back. “Don’t forget me. My name is Betty. Who knows… you might read about me one day.” She laughed as she made her way down the stairs.


There was the stranger who got off at my bus stop one snowy, dark evening with his BMX bike. When the light turned green, I watched as he pushed it across the busy thoroughfare to the other side. I started to slowly follow, head down, clutching my walking sticks as I gingerly made my way across the slick, icy road.

“Madam!” A loud voice pierced the night.

I looked up to see him standing in front of me. He had walked back, and with a dramatic flair, he stuck out his arm. “Allow me, my lady.” I took his proffered elbow, and he proceeded to escort me across the road—whereupon he bowed, tipped his hat, wished me a good evening, and then quietly continued on his way.

“Thank you,” I shouted after him as I watched him disappear into the night.


Frank and the Buddha.jpgAnd then there was Frank. I boarded my bus and took a side seat near the front. I sat down and leaned back to rest. It had been a long day. I looked across the aisle and saw what appeared at first to be an apparition. Sitting directly opposite me was a man, mumbling to himself while steadying a tall, golden Buddha statue perched on the floor next to him. 

“Whoa. That’s quite an impressive Buddha you got there,” I said, smiling.

He smiled back. “Yeah, well you see… I first tried fifteen, then went for four, and back to eleven, and that didn’t work, so I changed up and decided on thirty…” He paused. “Yep, that’s right. It was thirty that did it. I won a whopping $1500 at the casino, and I got this here Buddha on sale for $250. I’m going to put the rest away in the bank.” He continued. “Basically, I’m a Taoist, but I think Buddha is super cool. I especially liked this one because he has flaws, like me. He’s made of wood, and there are some big chunks missing in the back, but I kind of like it. Seems more real that way. I can relate. What do you think?”

“Well, he’s a beauty all right. I think having your own Buddha could be a game-changer.”

An elderly woman, who’d been listening to this exchange, joined in, giving him a thumbs up. “Damn straight. Your luck is about to change. Yes sir, that’s what I think!”

He leaned over and offered his hand. “I’m Frank. You can take my picture if you want?”

Shaking his hand, I introduced myself. “I’m Candace. I’d love to take a photo of you and your Buddha.”

I left the bus at the next stop and walked home, my heart warm on this frigid day, a smile on my face.


These brief, but poignant moments on my short bus ride remind me that when I slow down, pause, and take time to notice… my life gets bigger. It’s enriched by diversity, by relating to the magnificence of humanity in all its shapes and colors. This helps me to become more present in my life, less checked out, and to see the sacred in everyone I meet. 



I recently came upon this story  one that I had written five years ago. And now, I live in Washington, where, curiously, my life has come back full-circle to my earth-mother days. I bake bread, grow food, feed the birds, and live surrounded by family and grandchildren. Yet, when summoned, I am still a hospice nurse, a midwife, sitting at the bedsides of loved ones, accompanying them as they pass from this life.   Pearls, indeed. . .


The world is your oyster still life

Sorting through a box of old photos last night, pictures I have not looked at for decades, I was surprised to uncover evidence of a past life so far removed from where I am now that the memory of it came back like a shock and left me unsettled.

My movement during those years had been very physical. My body was lean, and I could feel the strength in it as I moved across the land and throughout my world. It was a time of boundless, passionate energy that was focused on outer activities. Years were spent driving around the county helping to midwife new life into the world. Raising kids. Burying myself in the rich, musty loam of the farm, growing food to eat and sell at the market. Grinding wheat for baking bread in the wood-fired brick oven. Traveling the world teaching. Sharing birth stories to inspire others, reminding them that they are perfect and powerful and know how to push life from their bodies. I was an earth mother. Life was full and it was juicy. And it was also impermanent.

A death, a fire, a divorce. . . Seismic life-shifts that cracked my frame. Paralyzing sorrow and heartbreak followed — the kind that brings you to your knees and forces deep inquiry into the Big Questions.

I was a mess. Eventually, my journey led me to the path of the Buddha. Taming my wild mind, opening my heart, cultivating compassion, and living my life in service to others became my compass. It pointed me in a direction that felt true and made sense.

But after fifteen years of living and working at a Tibetan Buddhist Retreat Center, I became restless. I wanted to work with death and dying, something that had been at the top of my bucket list for years. I was sixty-seven years old and had been away from active nursing for many years. It was an insane idea — absolute craziness. But I took the leap, and a door opened. I walked through that door, and three years ago I moved to a coastal community to become a hospice nurse.

So. . . this is where I am now. I am not lean, and my body is not strong. I do not live a physical life. I do not resemble those old photos. I am quiet and contemplative. My inner landscape is rich. People tell me that I am calm and competent, but that is not always my felt experience. Sometimes, I feel anxious. I have doubt. I worry that I do not know enough to do a good job. I am being stretched, riding an edge that is not comfortable. I dance every day with the reality of change and transition. It is difficult, and it is also magnificent. Imagine. I have a job where I can be tender and touch people. Sometimes I cry with them. It is intimate, skillful work, and I love it.

I do not fully understand why I am where I am other than it feels like I am in alignment with my soul’s journey, and I trust that. And during the times when it is rough and gritty — like sand in an oyster shell — I wonder. . . Perhaps someday, over time, a pearl will appear. 



IMG_2278As I stood by the lake, it felt familiar—like visiting an old friend. The mirror-like surface of the water reflected the billowy white clouds and the stark ridgeline of the mountain that rose up sharply from the water’s edge. A breeze stirred, sending tiny ripples across the water. The aspens along the shore began to quiver; their delicate leaves that danced at the end of fragile stems shimmered in the dimming light. I stood quietly, drinking in the the stillness. It felt like medicine.

This was my first trip to the Yukon. Long ago, when I was young and strong, I used to dream of such places, of a life that was not soft and conventional. I would imagine homesteading on the shores of a remote lake, living by my wits and physical might; homeschooling my daughter; hiking supplies in on my back; hunting and foraging for food; experiencing the splendor of the northern lights, the break up of the ice in the spring.

In 1973, I pinky-sealed a deal with my husband. If I put him through his last two years of college, we’d move to the wilderness. He promised we’d point our truck north to Alaska when he had that degree in his hand. But instead—without my vote—he decided to sign up with the Forest Service to work in a mosquito-filled valley town in California. I went from my vision of mountain lakes to living in the middle of rice paddies.  

That wasn’t the first time I thought we were headed down one road only to find ourselves going about-face in the opposite direction. In 1968, hubby and I had completed Peace Corps training to go to Afghanistan. Our destination was Kandahar; I would be a nurse working with local health workers under primitive conditions, he would go on surveying expeditions. We had learned to speak Farsi; I was raring to go. But suddenly—twenty-four hours before we were to board the plane—he unilaterally decided we should bail… His reasons were all very vague. Something about not wanting to be part of a corrupt bureaucracy, though I learned later that his “go/no-go” decision process was always a crapshoot when he had to walk his talk.

These abrupt turns in the road were not easy for me. Both times, it was like my locomotive had suddenly fallen off the tracks, bringing me to a dead halt, while the wheels kept spinning in the air for a long time, going nowhere. As with any shock, it took a while to get upright and find my way again.

Those particular changes in course happened because I deferred to another’s decision for reasons that puzzle me now but seemed appropriate at the time. And even though there were many times when I boldly stepped through doors when they opened, not hesitating to take a leap, there have also been occasions when I myself have gotten scared and backed down from something, been unable to take the next step because I feared the unknown, had doubts, lost confidence, lacked faith, or just couldn’t summon the energy.

Sometimes it was impermanence—divorce, a death, a house fire—or illness, a change of heart that altered the trajectory of my life, sending me down roads I would not have imagined or chosen for myself. Once, it was a simple coin toss. I was with hubby at the airport in Port Moresby, New Guinea with two duffel bags full of all our worldly possessions. It was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments: heads we’d go to New Zealand, tails we’d go to Spain. Imagine the freedom of that! We’d been in the tropics for a year, and when the nickel came up tails, we headed to Europe in the middle of their winter and promptly got sick. One week later we were back to the US. I’ve often thought how differently our path might have unfolded had we landed in New Zealand in the warmth of their summer months.

Drinking in the beauty of that Yukon lake four decades later, I took a moment and bowed to that young woman who once yearned to live in the wilderness. I honored not only her spirit but also the spirit of who I have become. I have aged with grace. My life is simple and cozy. Circumstances have changed; I fully embrace the ease and convenience of indoor toilets, electricity, running water, warmth, grocery stores. I am content. And who knows…maybe that road not taken spared me from becoming dinner for a grizzly bear!



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.