A life remembered...Our family's hands...what we have in common...

  I am to be a wound-tight neurotic dreamer, depressed one day and striving to produce the next, with not quite 20/20 vision, sensitive ears

and noisy fingers and mouth. Since I was a little girl, I’ve been on a kind of mental metamorphosis contemplating how each generation was supposedly built on the accomplishments of the last. I’ve decided

I got my courage, my sense of self, and all my primal values from my mom. I got my imagination, my sense of humor, and my creativity from my pops. Also, like

them I am not brilliant, prolific, or have unwavering talent. My best quality is my stubborness. Second best is my

gift of wild wonder I never seemed to lose. There are many things we just couldn’t wrap our heads around like politics, math and failure. It takes a lot

of hope and “let’s try anyway” to live in our world. 

When bogged down with should and shouldn’ts, as well as do and don’ts, our will and imagination takes over. We lived like magicians who rejoice in making the invisible visible.

              This is one of my own sculptures.

I sculpted her out of my own gried when she died. My hands were like remote controlled. I had no idea I was sculpting my mom till I began seeing her features.

My mom's was a seamstress and my pops

was a mechanic and inventor. Nothing came in between even me. It was my job to make them happy when they weren't working.

I started writing when I was too sick from chronic depression to do anything else.

Getting the right words in the right sentence at the right time can be can be healing emotionally. I’ve found passing time thinking, researching and fulfilling my own potential makes my heart sing and my eyes bulge with excitement. This

labor of love is like being wrapped

in the arms of mom. Like I finally got her approval. Like she was here watching me. She always told me she wanted to write a book. I wonder if when I wrote my book I was satisfying her dreams or mine. 

I am encouraged by Pablo Picasso who tells us, “Every child is born an artist.”  Maybe, just maybe, I am an artist, too. Although I am master of none, I do seem to be "jack of all." Peace and happiness for many of us does not always depend on faith, moral virtue, still less on money. Although wealth and all the delightful things money can buy makes us happy, it cannot keep us happy like bringing our true purpose to fruition.