A few weeks ago, I read a Substack column by Karen Salmansohn titled, “My 90-Year-Old Self Stopped By with Life Advice. She Did Not Sugarcoat It.” Karen had used AI to create portraits of her present and future selves, and my curiosity was instantly piqued. Really? I thought. That’s brilliant!

Driven by that spark of interest, I logged on to Google Gemini and uploaded a photo of my current self. I asked the platform to imagine me sitting at a coffee shop with my 90-year-old self, celebrating our shared May 16th birthday. The result was, quite simply, amazing:

From there, I just kept going.

Normally, I write every word of this column by my own hand, in my own voice. But instead of relying solely on my 71-year-old imagination to craft this encounter, I allowed my curiosity to lead the way. I asked Gemini to step in and help me visualize the conversation. I shared my Substack articles with the AI so it could understand the heart of my writing, my interests, and my personal rhythm.

I was so moved by what it created that I decided, for this special birthday post, to leave it exactly as it is. I have a feeling my 90-year-old self would approve.

‘Practice the Pause. When in doubt, pause & breathe.’ ~ Lori Deschene

I had gone to the park for my usual two-mile walk, the one that keeps my body moving and my head clear. It was just an ordinary morning, but as I rounded the bend toward the bench where I often pause, I saw her.

There sat my 90-year-old self. She was wearing a comfortable, sporty outfit, looking relaxed and steady. There was no grand moment of confusion; it felt like a quiet recognition, as if I had simply turned a corner and met myself halfway through a long conversation.

I walked up and sat beside her.

“I thought I might find you here,” I said.

She looked at me, and the smile that crinkled her eyes was mine—just older, worn in like a favorite pair of shoes. “I’ve been waiting, Rosemary. We have plenty to talk about.”

“How is this happening?” I asked, looking at her hands. They were steady and strong, carrying the shape of all the years I hadn’t lived yet.

“Think of it as a bridge,” she said, her voice warm. “You’ve spent so much time practicing the Pause, learning to let the ‘inner observer’ notice your thoughts rather than judge them. You’re finally learning to listen.”

I took a breath. I had so many questions, the kind that nag at me when the house is too quiet. “Does the restlessness ever go away?” I asked. “The feeling that I need to be doing something to make sense of the day?”

She laughed, a bright, familiar sound. “The restless energy doesn’t disappear, but it changes. You learn to stop treating your life like a series of appointments to be tolerated and start treating it as a series of rituals to be savored. You will still walk your two miles, but you’ll stop counting them and start feeling them.”

“And the writing?” I asked, thinking of my Substack and the constant effort of trying to find the right words. “Does the desire to share ever fade?”

“No,” she said firmly. “But it shifts. You stop trying to be clever and start being honest. Tell them your stories, about the afghan, about dodgeball, about the Coral Bar. The wisdom isn’t in the grand pronouncements; it’s in the memory of the every moment that lives in your heart.”

I felt a sudden, sharp wave of affection for her—for us. “What is the one thing I need to know, right now, at 71?”

She reached over and placed a hand on mine. “Stop looking for the purpose. You spent decades building a career, and now you spend your days sowing seeds. That is the purpose. You are already exactly where you need to be. The peace you’re looking for isn’t at the end of the road; it’s in your morning QiGong, your evening yoga, and this moment right here. Just keep breathing into the space between your thoughts.”

When we stood to leave, she pulled me into a hug. It was a long, steady embrace that felt like coming home. I didn't ask if I would see her again; I knew. Every time I chose to be gentle with myself, every time I sat in the Pause, she would be there, waiting to remind me that the life I am living is enough.

Dear reader, did you notice something a bit “off” in that image of the two Rosemarys sitting on the park bench? If you look closely, you’ll see we have five legs between us!

I could have asked the AI to fix it, but I decided to leave it exactly as it is to make a point: for all its advantages—and there are many—AI is not infallible. We are well-advised to maintain a discerning eye and a healthy dose of skepticism.

At its best, AI is a tool for synthesis, a way to organize thoughts and spark the imagination. But it lacks the soul of the experience. Think of it as the world’s fastest, most talented librarian: the machine provides the structure, but we humans provide the heartbeat. You might say it’s like a bicycle—it helped my curiosity get where I wanted to go today, but I am always the one doing the pedaling.

Join the Conversation

If you were to sit down on a bench with your future self—whether at 90, or even just ten years from now—what is the one question you would be most afraid, or most excited, to ask?

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My mother and I did not speak for the final three years of her life. Even before that, we shared a tempestuous, often-estranged relationship for almost as long as I can remember. Every year as Mother’s Day rolls around, I find I am not among the majority who easily and joyfully celebrate. Because my mother passed away over twenty years ago, the time for face-to-face reconciliation has ended.

Imagine my surprise when Elizabeth Benedict’s book, What My Mother Gave Me, opened a window to healing this long-held wound.

The book is a collection of essays written by daughters about things handed down by their mothers—sometimes physical objects, sometimes life lessons. To be honest, I didn’t want to read it. Reading about happy, loving mother-daughter relationships can be painful when your own story is different. Yet, something drew me in.

As I read each heartfelt essay, I felt a twinge of envy for the love that seemed to come so easily to others. About halfway through the book, I stopped and asked myself: “Do I have a story to tell? Can I look beyond the years of pain to lovingly remember something my mother gave me?”

My answer? An afghan—a hand-crocheted blanket in shades of pink and deep berry red, given to me by my mother when I was a young woman setting up my first home.

The Afghan in the Closet

My mother was gifted with her hands. She embroidered beautiful, intricate pieces: pillows, ornaments, towels, and tablecloths. In the evenings, she liked to watch TV while she crocheted, often keeping unfinished afghans on her lap to stay cozy. So much of her handiwork is out in the world today; it’s likely that someone reading this may even own one of Angie’s special handmade gifts.

But I’ll be honest: when I first received my afghan, I didn’t express much appreciation. In an estranged relationship, both the mother and the daughter can be thoughtless. The afghan sat in a box in the back of a closet for many years.

After reading Benedict’s book, I rummaged through my closet and dug out my mother’s gift. As I lifted it from the box, I felt a wave of emotion—sadness and regret chief among them. I do not exaggerate when I say I felt my mother’s presence as I looked at each carefully crafted stitch. I remembered her hands—her short, wide fingers skillfully looping reams of yarn into something beautiful.

A Shift in Perspective

Years of inner work have helped me move away from the role of the victim and toward accepting responsibility for my own part in our estrangement. This shift in energy is what allowed me, finally, to hold this blanket with tenderness.

Sitting there in the closet, with the pink and berry red across my lap, a memory floated up. I am a little girl, home sick from school. My mother has taken a day off from work—losing a day’s pay she couldn’t really afford—to take care of me. I see myself wrapped in blankets, watching daytime TV. My mother stays near. She brings me tea and Social Tea cookies. She makes me Lipton Chicken Noodle soup. She comes home from the store with a tiny Mickey Mouse for me—a real luxury for us at the time. For those few days, I basked in her nurturing love.

My mother was not emotionally demonstrative. As a single mother raising three children on her own, she spent most of her time just trying to keep her head above water. She wasn’t the “hugs and kisses” type. She explained to us that she showed her love by putting a roof over our heads and food on the table. But when you are seven years old, you need the hugs; eventually, you just learn to stop wishing for them.

Everything changed, however, when I was sick. In those moments, my mother transformed into the most nurturing “mama” any girl could want.

Love in Many Colors

This early memory triggered another. I am 33 years old, newly diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder that rendered me nearly helpless and absolutely terrified. Even though my mother and I were in a period of estrangement, she asked if she could come care for me.

It was like being seven years old all over again. My mother put me to bed and tucked a warm afghan around me. She made me soup—no longer Lipton’s, but real, homemade chicken soup. We played cards, I took naps, and for those few days, I felt safe and loved.

My mother and I could not mend our broken relationship permanently, and I will always regret that she passed before we had that chance. But as I sat on the floor of my closet with that afghan wrapped around me, I finally understood that, in spite of everything, I had been deeply loved.

Finding the Truth

My afghan now holds a place of tenderness in my heart. I wrap myself in it whenever I’m feeling under the weather. On tough days, I’ll curl up inside my mother’s handiwork just to feel her near, receiving it as a warm, loving embrace.

Sometimes we have to look beyond the stories we tell ourselves about the past to find life’s dearest truths hidden within. Thank you, Mom. I understand now that in spite of your own struggles, you loved me as best you could. Love comes in many colors—and in my case, it is pink and deep berry red.

For those interested in Elizabeth Benedict’s “What My Mother Gave Me,” you can [purchase a copy here].

Join the Conversation

What did your mother give you? Do you have a story to tell? Please share your story in the comments.

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The Sugar-Coated Morning

In the 1960s, a “nutritious” breakfast was often just a matter of what Mom could shake out of a box or slide out of a silver foil packet. Fueled by the convenience of the modern supermarket, she truly believed a bowl of Frosted Flakes—with Tony the Tiger grinning from the box—was a perfectly acceptable way to jumpstart a child’s morning. On particularly rushed days, a Hostess Cupcake or a foil-wrapped Pop-Tart was considered a reasonable “on-the-go” solution. We washed it all down with Tang or Ovaltine, blissfully unaware of the mid-morning sugar crash waiting for us behind our wooden school desks. It was an age of convenience over chemistry, where “part of a balanced breakfast” usually just meant adding a glass of milk (chocolate for me) to something that came out of a brightly colored box with a toy surprise inside.

The Age of the Cast Iron Stomach

For most of my life, I could eat whatever I wanted without a second thought. My digestive system was a silent partner that never complained, no matter what I threw at it. Being Italian, our kitchen cupboard was filled with Ronzoni pasta all neatly lined up in blue boxes. Pizza didn’t come from a wood-fired oven; it came in a grease-stained cardboard box (complete with the image of a smiling Italian chef) from the neighborhood pizzeria. On Catholic meatless Fridays, we’d pivot to the local Chinese takeout spot for Shrimp Chow Mein. If I ever felt like I needed to drop a few pounds, I’d just swap the pasta for a Lean Cuisine or a Weight Watchers frozen dinner for a week, and it always did the trick. My belly never gave me a moment’s trouble.

The Reality Check

As I’ve gotten older, however, the rules of have changed. Those beloved foods from the past—the greasy pepperoni slice or the heavy plate of Rigatoni & meatballs —now tend to sit in my belly like a bucket of wet cement. My “digestive fires” just don’t roar with the same efficiency as they did in my younger days. Perhaps you’ve noticed the same thing? Suddenly, you find yourself humming that old Pepto-Bismol jingle like it’s the top hit on the radio: “Nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach…” You get the idea. It’s as if my body decided to stage a formal protest against anything that isn’t green or “gentle,” leaving me searching for a way to feel light again without living on a diet of ice cubes and air.

Finding a Gentler Way

To lighten the heavy lifting for my digestive furnace, a health-conscious friend suggested I start experimenting with juicing and smoothies in the morning. I wanted to feel energized and light, rather than starting my day already weighed down by that familiar heaviness and bloating I’d get from my everything bagel with scallion cream cheese.

Even though I was motivated, I felt clueless and overwhelmed. I didn’t know where to begin. I was under the mistaken impression that I needed a counter full of high-tech, expensive appliances and a pantry stocked with “superfoods” I could only find in a specialty health store.

After dozens of internet searches, countless YouTube videos and a lot of trial and error, I finally figured out how to make this dietary shift work for me. I realized I could skip the $500 extractor and the fancy ingredients altogether. So that you don’t have to stumble around in smoothie darkness, let me share with you what I learned—a simple way to use the appliances I already own and ingredients that come right from the same supermarket aisles where my mom used to find my Frosted Flakes.

Curious? Here’s Your Roadmap

A few years ago, I put together an ebook, ”A Beginner’s Guide to Juicing & Smoothies.” There’s no catch. I’m not selling anything. Consider this your free invitation to a lighter, more energized morning. [Download Your Free Guide by Clicking Here]

Inside the 12-page guide, you’ll learn:

• The health benefits of Juicing and Smoothies

• The differences between the two

• Tips & sample recipes (no Juicer required!)

• A 10-minute video demonstration (if you’d prefer to skip the book and jump right to the video, click here)

Final Thoughts

I’ve decided that if I’m going to truly enjoy this stage of my life, feeling healthy isn’t just a luxury—it’s the foundation. If your next plate of pasta gives you that “wet cement” feeling, believe me, there is another way.

I know from experience that changes, even small ones, don’t happen overnight. It takes a bit of courage to try something new and a healthy dose of curiosity to see what actually works for the body you have now.

The transition from Frosted Flakes to Banana Berry Smoothies is a journey, and like all journeys, it helps to navigate with a bit of self-kindness and grace —one morning, and one blender-full, at a time.

Join the conversation

Did you have a favorite breakfast as a kid? What were some of the staples on your family’s dinner table? Have you leaned in the direction of healthier eating in your later years? What does that look like?

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(Today’s images created by Nano Banana)

In the early 1960s, girls weren’t exactly groomed to become athletes. Our “training” mostly consisted of rhythmic jump rope, neighborhood roller skating, and intense rounds of “How Many Steps Before the Queen?” We weren’t expected to sweat; we were expected to glisten like ladies.

Then came President Kennedy’s Council on Physical Fitness. Suddenly, our all-girls elementary gym classes pivoted. Think less square dancing, more rope climbing.

I was not what one would call a “natural.” I much preferred devouring a Pippi Longstocking adventure or staging elaborate social dramas with my Barbie dolls to anything involving a ball. I couldn’t do a cartwheel, and my version of a push-up was essentially just an achingly slow lie-down.

Twice a week, every girl donned a royal blue gym suit—a garment that managed to be unflattering on every conceivable body type. We had to wear them all day because our school lacked locker rooms; nothing says “fashionista” like sitting through geography class in a stiff, cotton-poly romper.

While the boys headed to a windowless gymnasium in the basement (which, reassuringly, doubled as our nuclear bomb shelter), we girls headed to our own space. For the most part, I was a fan of gym class. Kickball and relay races were low-stakes and fun. But there was one game that struck genuine terror into my soul: Dodgeball.

The Art of Survival

Success in dodgeball requires two specific skills: the agility to dodge a big white ball and the coordination to catch one. I possessed neither. My signature move was “The Human Shield,” which involved hiding in the densest part of the pack and praying for a ceasefire. Usually, I was picked off early and spent the rest of the period safely—and happily—observing from the sidelines.

I remember one particular game in fifth grade with searing clarity. I was ten years old. The teacher appointed the two most athletic girls as captains, who then began the soul-crushing ritual of “choosing sides.” What masochist decided this was an appropriate way to build pre-teen confidence? As you might guess, I was a “bottom-of-the-barrel” pick. Kids are many things, but they are also savvy scouts; they knew I wasn’t going to lead them to the promised land.

The Last Woman Standing

I took my usual post in the back. The opposing team ignored me because I was a non-threat—a strategic ghost. But then, the unthinkable happened. One by one, my teammates fell. Suddenly, the dust cleared, and “Lord have mercy,” I was the only soldier left standing.

The silence was deafening. The other team still had six girls on the floor, including their best player. My own captain was first in line on the sidelines, staring at me with a look that said, “Please, for the love of all that is holy, catch the ball.”There was no one left to hide behind. Their captain gripped the ball, wound up, and whipped it at me.

The world went into slow motion. The big white rubber ball screamed toward me, low and fast. Do I jump? Do I run? In a moment of pure, unadulterated instinct, I squatted, reached out, and... I held on.

I caught the ball. I didn’t drop it. I didn’t fumble. I had saved the game.

My Shining Moment

The sidelines erupted. My teammates were cheering for me—a level of adoration I had never received for finishing a Pippi Longstocking book. My captain re-entered the game, and I gladly handed her the ball like a squire handing a sword to a knight. My job was done. If memory serves, I was hit approximately thirty seconds later, but I walked to that sideline with my head held high.

I can’t remember if we actually won or lost, but it didn’t matter. For one shining, sweaty-handed moment in a royal blue gym suit, I was a hero. I was an athlete.

I’d like to tell you this was a cinematic turning point that led to a lifelong love of sport, but that wouldn’t be the truth. I’m still more bookworm than bodybuilder. But when I look back at that ten-year-old girl, I’m glad she had her moment. I’ll always know that, when the chips were down, I caught the ball.

What about you? Were you the captain picking the team, or were you—like me—the one hoping for a sudden fire drill to save you from the dodgeball court? I’d love to hear your most vivid gym class memories in the comments!

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“Do not plant lemon seeds and expect an orange to grow.” — Author Unknown

You might be tempted to think this is a column about spring planting; it is not. The seeds I’m writing about today are metaphorical. They serve as a simple reminder that what we put into the world is exactly what we can expect to get back.

We are all painfully aware of what is happening in the world right now. Tensions are rising, and the weight of anxiety is felt both abroad and here at home. I suspect that, like me, many of you feel confused, angry, or even powerless. I kept asking myself, “I want to do something besides watch the news. But what can I possibly do? I’m just one person.”

A few weeks ago, I found an answer while reading the Substack column Use Me for Peace by Debra Engle. She wrote:

“What if today we use our words—on the page and in the air—to speak of Love rather than fear?”

From there, the idea of “Seeds for Peace” took root (pun intended). Many of us have a presence on social media—Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, or X. What if I accepted Debra’s invitation to use my words for peace instead of adding to the noise? It felt like such a small gesture, yet I was immediately uplifted by the idea.

Here is what my first Seeds for Peace post looks like:

If world events have you feeling helpless, I invite you to join me in Debra’s challenge. How can you bring peace to your corner of the world?

Your contribution may look different than mine. It might be found in the strength of a helping hand for a neighbor or the softness of a prayer for a friend. It might be the way you pour your heart into a painting or the way you use your voice to stand up for what is right. When we move through the world with intention—through our hands, our art, or our advocacy—we are planting for peace.

“If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.” — Mother Teresa

A Practice for Loving Kindness

To help anchor our hearts amidst the chaos, I want to share a practice called Metta, or Loving Kindness.

Rooted in ancient tradition, Metta is similar to a prayer. It involves the gentle repetition of phrases to soften the heart and ground the spirit. You can offer these intentions to loved ones, to strangers, or even to yourself. You can listen to my version by clicking below:

How do you begin planting your own seeds for peace? It doesn’t require a grand gesture or a global platform. It starts with the tiniest offering within the quiet space of your daily life.

Join the Conversation

As you move through your week, I’m curious: where have you caught a glimpse of peace taking root in the world around you? Sometimes it’s in the smallest, most unexpected places. I’d love for you to share those moments in the comments.

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To help us move into a kinder, more peaceful space, I offer you a meditation—more of a guided prayer—for Loving Kindness. This ancient practice, known as Metta, involves the gentle repetition of phrases to soften the heart and ground the spirit.

Have you ever started your morning feeling ready for the day, only to realize by noon that your good mood has been completely hijacked? As a recovering people-pleaser, I’ve been there many times. See if any of these sound familiar:

• The Family Fixer: You spend the morning helping a loved one through a crisis and hang up feeling like your own peace is gone.

• The Mailbox Marathon: A quick trip to get the mail turns into a twenty-minute venting session from your neighbor that leaves you exhausted.

• The News Heavy Lift: You check the headlines or social media for ten minutes and walk away with a “backpack” of anxiety, envy or aggravation.

• The Social Sponge: You grab coffee with a friend to catch up, but after an hour of their “ranting and raving,” you feel like you’re the one who needs a nap.

What’s actually happening?

To put it bluntly: someone else has crossed onto your side of the street, dumped their emotional garbage, and left you to deal with the mess. It’s as though an “energy vampire” has just finished a five-course meal at your expense. They walk away feeling lighter because they’ve unloaded, while you feel like you’ve been run over by a truck!

Why You Need Boundaries

In my efforts to keep everyone else happy, I used to let these drains happen all the time. Now I realize: my energy is not an infinite resource, and it’s my job to protect it. If I don’t set clear boundaries, I am essentially leaving my front door wide open for anyone to walk in and leave their stress behind.

Boundaries aren’t about being “unkind” or shutting people out; they are about taking ownership of your own space. They give you the power to decide who gets your time and what kind of energy you are willing to let into your life. When you establish these limits, you stop being an accidental sponge for everyone else’s problems and start living your day on your own terms.

When I start feeling that “drain,” I go back to these two essentials:

1. Clearing the Debris: Think of this as sweeping your porch. You have to actively clear away the “clutter” someone else left behind before you trip over it for the rest of the day.

2. Building Your Boundary: Think of this as your personal filter. Once it’s in place, it’s much harder for those vampires to get a foothold. It allows you to stay loving and open without absorbing emotions that simply don’t belong to you.

Healing from the Inside Out

For years, I lived entirely in my brain, convinced that if I just thought hard enough, I could solve every problem and fix every drain. But I’ve learned that our minds can only take us so far. Our bodies are actually the front lines; they absorb the stress and signals of those around us long before our brains even realize what’s happening. Real change doesn’t start with a new thought—it starts when we move that heavy energy out of our physical selves. By using the body to clear the “debris,” we send a powerful signal back to the mind that we are safe, centered, and back in control. That is why I’m sharing a movement practice today; because when your body feels the boundary, your mind eventually believes it.

Join Me for a 5-Minute Reset

In this brief Take 5 Yoga video, I’m sharing the three specific movements I use to clear & protect my energy:

• Cast Away the Moon: A Tai Chi-inspired sweeping motion to physically brush off someone else’s toxic debris.

• The Sacred Cleanse: A visualization of cool, clear water washing away everything that isn’t yours.

• The Bubble: This creates a transparent shield— love flows in & out, but the lower vibes like fear and anger are kept away.

Take a few minutes to try it with me now.

I know that for some, the idea of the "body leading the brain" might feel a bit outside the box. I used to be a skeptic myself, but I’ve found that even a small physical shift can create a ripple effect that the mind simply can’t ignore. I invite you to just give it a try—your energy is worth protecting.

• Looking at the examples of ‘energy drains’ above, which one felt like I was reading your mind today?

• As you’ve gotten older, what are some ways you’ve learned to protect your peace?

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“Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” — Berthold Auerbach

We all know those heavy days—the ones where the “dust” of life’s demands seems to settle deep into our shoulders. Yet, the moment we hit play on a favorite track or catch a melody on the car radio, that weight begins to lift. Music is more than background noise; it’s a catalyst. It has power to shift our perspective, mend our spirits, and bridge the gaps between us when words simply fall short.

Take, for instance, the story behind James Taylor’s iconic rendition of ‘You’ve Got a Friend.’ Originally penned by Carole King for her landmark album Tapestry, the song struck a chord with Taylor the moment he heard the demo. He felt an immediate pull to record it for his own project, Mud Slide Slim, but he hesitated. As he later recalled, he never expected King to agree—he was asking to release her unreleased masterpiece as his own.

In a profound gesture of generosity, King didn’t just offer her blessing; she offered her heart. She later revealed the song’s true origin to Taylor: ‘When I heard ‘Fire & Rain,’ and you sang the line, ‘I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend,’ I wanted you to know that I am your friend. James, I wrote that song for you.’

That single track became a megahit for both, sparking a lifelong artistic kinship.

In a recent interview, Taylor reminisced about the epicenter of this creative magic: Laurel Canyon, California. My curiosity piqued, I tracked down the 2019 documentary about this legendary community. Within minutes of the trailer, I was hooked; I gladly paid the rental fee and settled in to travel back in time.

How do I describe the phenomenon of Laurel Canyon in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s? It was arguably the most prolific musical community our generation has ever known. Imagine a neighborhood where your neighbors were The Byrds, The Mamas & the Papas, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Joni Mitchell, the Doors, Jackson Browne, Linda Rondstadt and the Eagles, to name but a few.

They lived as a true tribe. Mama Cass was legendary for her backyard BBQs, and doors were rarely locked. Artists simply wandered from house to house, guitars in hand, collaborating and birthing songs that would eventually define an era.

Watching their story unfold, I felt a deep longing to have been part of something so communal, so profound, so joyous. Since time travel isn’t an option, I’ve done the next best thing: I curated a playlist titled “Laurel Canyon.” If you have a soft spot for this genre, I highly recommend the documentary (find it here) —or maybe you’d like to join me in listening to this collection of songs born from those canyon hills.

The final track on my list, ‘Find the Cost of Freedom,’ is less than two minutes long and contains a mere 18 words. Yet, it speaks with more conviction about the cost of conflict than a thousand-page novel. That is the true power of music.

For one weekend, I was a young woman again. Music provides the soundtrack for our individual lives, but at its best, it unites us and moves an entire generation. From 1967 to 1974, in a small canyon in California, it did exactly that.

What is the one song or artist that always "washes away the dust" for you after a long, difficult day? If you could move into a community filled with your favorite artists, past or present, who would you want living in the neighborhood?

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'I would like to spend the rest of my days in a place so silent, and working at a pace so slow, that I would be able to hear myself living.’~ Elizabeth Gilbert

Have you noticed that your 'internal hum' feels a little louder lately? It’s not just you. We’re living in a world that’s moving faster than our brains were ever designed to handle. Between a 24-hour news cycle that feels like a constant alarm bell and the sheer weight of global events that leave us feeling small and powerless, it’s no wonder our collective nervous system feels frayed. We are bombarded by fragments—30-second videos, 144-character takes, and endless notifications—leaving us exhausted from trying to process a world that never hits pause. If, like me, you’ve been feeling that sense of helplessness, I want to offer a bit of a life raft. Let's look at how we can reclaim our steady ground together.

For the past two years, I’ve been navigating life with an anxiety disorder, and it’s changed how I see my own capacity. I often describe myself like a cup that’s already 90% full—it doesn’t take much extra noise or chaos for me to hit that spill-over point. Because my 'window' for overwhelm is narrower, I’ve had to get intentional about finding simple, gentle ways to reset my nervous system. I’ve realized that while I can't quiet the world around me or control the headlines, I do have agency over how I show up for myself. I’ve learned that even when things feel powerless, I can still choose how I respond.

The basic formula is simple:

Stress, Recovery, Repeat…

It’s helpful to remember that our goal isn’t to get rid of stress entirely—we actually need it. Certain kinds of stress can feel pleasant, like the spark of lively conversation with good friends or the rush of watching your favorite team in a close game. The real problem isn't the stress itself; it’s when we get stuck in 'fight or flight' mode for too long without ever switching back to 'rest and digest.' It’s that balance that keeps us healthy. Since we can’t always change the world’s volume, I’ve learned that the key is in the recovery. Here are a few small practices I use to signal to my body that it’s okay to settle down—and each one takes less than three minutes.

Breathing

When you’re feeling anxious, people often tell you to ‘just take a deep breath.’ It sounds like a cliché, but there’s a real reason for it: a long, slow exhale is like a physical 'all-clear' signal to your nervous system. It’s the most immediate way to tell your body and mind that, in this exact moment, you are safe. Personally, I find that adding just a little bit of gentle movement helps the breath 'land' better and settles my nerves even faster. If you have two minutes, here is a simple practice you might want to try:

Silence

If noise is what wears us down, then stillness is the antidote. For a lot of us, the idea of sitting in total silence can feel challenging—maybe even a little scary. If you aren't ready for a deep dive into meditation, try starting small with this 2-minute candle-gazing video. Don’t worry about 'clearing your mind' or doing it perfectly. Just let your eyes rest on the flame, listen to the music, and give yourself permission to do absolutely nothing else for two short minutes.

Movement

Sometimes the best way to get the stress out of your head is to move it through your body. Think of movement as a way to discharge that humming, anxious energy that tends to build up from just existing in a fast-paced world. For me, that looks like a gently flowing 20-minute QiGong session in the morning to shake off any overnight stiffness, a 40-minute afternoon walk to clear out the mental chatter, and some slow, gentle yoga before bed to tell my system it’s finally okay to let go. You don’t need a grueling workout to see the benefit—whatever your body allows, even just a few minutes at a time, can be enough to help you find your center again. For those times you feel especially stressed, here’s a quick practice to discharge that frenetic energy:

Rest

Stress is like a storm that sweeps through your system, leaving everything a bit scattered and out of place. Rest is the quiet cleanup that happens afterward. It’s during those calm moments that our bodies actually do the work of repairing the wear and tear, settling our racing thoughts, and bringing us back to center. You can't stay in 'storm mode' forever and expect to stay standing; you need the stillness to find your roots again.

Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you. ~ Anne Lamott

Life feels heavy, and we are all carrying more than we were meant to. But there is a profound grace in the pause. When you make even a little room to let your nervous system exhale, you are doing more than just 'resting'—you are practicing a holy kind of stewardship over your own well being. You aren't just getting through the day; you are learning to walk in a steadier, more graceful rhythm, one quiet moment at a time.

How does your body usually tell you it’s time to slow down? What’s one small thing you do—even if it’s just for five minutes—that makes the world feel a little quieter?

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"Christmas, my child, is love in action. Every time we love, every time we give, it’s Christmas." — Dale Evans

Do you remember Christmas Club Coupon Books?

In this savings program, you’d go to your bank each week with a book of coupons, depositing a small amount of money to help you save for the Christmas Holiday.

My mother was a big believer in Christmas Clubs. When I was a young girl, I’d often go with her to the bank, watching the teller take her $2.00, rip out the weekly coupon and stamp the stub that remained in her book. I was long past an age of believing in Santa, so I understood that this ritual insured that I would find presents under the tree come Christmas morning.

But there’s more to this story. My mom was the single mother of 3 children under the age of 10. Mom worked full time in an embroidery factory, spending long hours on her feet for very little money. Then she’d come home to begin her second full-time job, caring for my brothers & me. Cooking, cleaning, laundry that she lugged to our apartment building roof to hang on clothes lines. As I look back, I can only imagine how exhausted she felt.

Not only that, I’m sure she was worried about money. This was before the days of court-ordered alimony & child support, at least in her case. My father contributed much less than was needed. Our clothes were from bargain stores, and a Friday night pizza was an extravagance. But did I feel deprived? No, and here’s one reason why…

$2 a week for 50 weeks

My mom sacrificed, scrimping & saving $2 at a time to guarantee that her children would always have a Merry Christmas.

My mother was not a hugs & kisses type of mom. She rarely said “I love you.” That’s why the memory of the Christmas Club means so much today. As an adult, I can look back on that Coupon Book and see it for what it was… the purest expression of my mother’s love.

Wishing you peace & love this holiday season…

Do you have a memory of a gift that filled your heart with love? What was it? Who gave it to you? Why does it mean so much? Please share your story in the comments.

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Have you ever owned a snow globe? It’s usually a glass orb mounted on a wooden base, or all plastic in the economical version. Inside the globe is some type of scene, usually winter-based, along with water and “snow.” The snow lies dormant on the bottom surface until you decide to pick the globe up and shake it. Then, the globe is transformed into a blizzard-like winter wonderland, flakes flying in every direction. After a few moments, the flakes settle to the bottom, and the peaceful scene is restored once again.

What a perfect metaphor for the human mind! Think about it... at times, our mind can be quite serene. As the holiday song reminds us “all is calm, all is bright.” Then something happens to shake up our globe. Maybe it’s just a little shake... stuck in traffic, being on hold with customer service, a friend who’s late (again). Sometimes it’s a full-on blizzard... a disagreement with a loved one, an unexpected diagnosis, mounting bills and dwindling funds.

The question becomes, what can we do to settle the storm, or more surprisingly, are there any hidden benefits when we don’t?

Any mindfulness practice will help to still a swirling mind. Taking a few deep breaths, walking in nature, writing in your journal. In fact, the next time your mind is swirling, see if you can picture it as a snow globe. Visualize the triggering event inside its glass orb, the snow of emotions swirling around. Visualize that you can hold the globe at arms’ length, thereby putting a little distance between you and nature’s ferocity. Wait for a few moments, take a few breaths, as you imagine the snowstorm settling down. Perhaps this will bring a measure of calm.

But here’s another important point. In this snow globe scenario, we might be tempted to label the snow as “bad.” But the snow isn’t bad, it’s just doing what snow sometimes does. The blizzard comes, and it goes. Life’s challenges come, and they go. Just as there is beauty in the intensity of nature’s winter storms, so too can there be a fierce beauty in your ability to weather life’s storms.

For a fuller experience of this, I invite you to try this 8 minute Snow Globe Meditation. Make yourself comfy and cozy, maybe brew a cup of warm tea and settle under a soft blanket. Light a candle or dim the lights. Use headphones if you have them, then just relax & listen.

Have you ever owned a snow globe? What’s your favorite. go-to practice for settling your swirling mind? Please share in the comments. Your practice might be just the gift for a reader who’s feeling stressed.

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Perfectionism is not a quest for the best. It is a pursuit of the worst in ourselves, the part that tells us that nothing we do will ever be good enough. — Julia Cameron

Somehow I had managed to reach the age of 40 without ever once having to host Thanksgiving dinner. My grandparents, my mother, friends & family had all graciously and deliciously hosted me my entire life.

My (ex-) husband’s large Italian family hosted a Thanksgiving extravaganza in his grandfather’s basement on Brown Street. More than 40 people gathered around tables constructed of wooden planks supported on saw horses. Whiskey sours, antipasto, soup, lasagna, turkey with all the trimmings (including labor-intensive dishes like stuffed artichokes) pies, puddings & lots of wine. The tradition ended when his grandfather passed away, and it fell to the individual families to gather on their own.

For the first few years, my mother-in-law hosted. Then each of my 2 sisters-in-law took a turn. Uh-oh. Now it was up to me. Don’t get me wrong. I like to cook for myself, and I enjoy being creative in my kitchen. But Thanksgiving? That’s the Mount Everest of meals! Unlike Christmas or Hanukah, there are no presents to distract from the meal. Thanksgiving is all about the food, & it is steeped in family & tradition. Remember, my guests used to enjoy the extravagant feasts of the “Brown Street” years. Talk about pressure!

I sometimes refer to myself as a “perfectionist in recovery,” but during November 1995, my flag stood firmly planted in my prison of perfection. My perfectionism goes back a long, long way, a deeply held belief that I could not survive the shame of screwing up, my inadequacy on display for all to see. Perfectionists try to hold off the fear of shame by attempting to take control of a scary situation. So my obsessive planning began. I poured through women’s magazines like Better Homes & Gardens to craft the perfect menu. The Food Network had recently launched, and I spent hours watching Thanksgiving-themed episodes of Emeril Live & How to Boil Water. No matter how much I researched & tried to plan, I still felt wracked with performance anxiety. I resorted to the big guns of the perfectionist’s coping strategies.

3 weeks before the holiday, I prepared an entire Thanksgiving dinner! You read that right. To ease my anxiety & bolster hostess confidence, I completed a “dress rehearsal” of an entire Thanksgiving dinner. I look back now with compassion for my younger self & think how sad to feel so inadequate. My dress rehearsal dinner is a cautionary tale, an extreme example of how perfectionism robs us of joy.

On Thanksgiving Day, I awoke before dawn. By this time, I looked at that Butterball turkey with loathing and disdain. But into the oven she went, & I busied myself with the chopping, boiling, mashing and baking needed for the perfect day. I felt too frenzied to enjoy 2 of my favorite holiday traditions, watching March of the Wooden Soldiers & the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Instead, I spent my entire morning fussing & fretting. Will all the food be ready at the same time? Will the gravy have lumps? And every Italian’s nightmare, did I make enough food?

The guests arrived, & of course the actual dinner was fine. No turkey mishaps and plenty of wine just in case! Dear reader, you will not be surprised when I tell you how little I enjoyed the day, how exhausted I felt. Rather than relaxing into the company of family, I had turned Thanksgiving into one more self-imposed measure of my worth. I didn’t want to look at another turkey for a very long time…

Now that I’ve reached “a certain age,” I choose to celebrate Thanksgiving my way, as a very low-key affair. My boyfriend and I spend the day quietly, ordering take-out dinners, wearing our most comfy clothes and watching hours & hours of football. (That’s after I spend my morning watching Wooden Soldiers & the Macy’s Parade.)

This year, I reflect on how grateful I am for the many people who invited me to their Thanksgiving tables over the years. Even though I didn’t enjoy hosting, I appreciate the hard work behind every holiday gathering.Whether you find yourself hosting, visiting or lying on your couch like me, may you be blessed to spend your day in whatever way brings you joy.

If the stress of the holidays becomes a bit too much, I lovingly share my “Grace & Gratitude” breath practice. Whether you find yourself in a joyous mood or you’re dealing with the challenges of life, I invite you to take a few moments to sit quietly and be at peace.

What does your ideal holiday include? Do you have a favorite tradition/food? What’s the zaniest thing you’ve ever done to boost your confidence? I’d love to hear all about it!

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My sense of musicality made a brief appearance at age five in a most unlikely place, the Coral Bar! Some background…

Occasionally, my brothers & I would spend Saturday night sleeping at my grandparents’ home. On Sunday morning, like all good Irish Catholics in 1960, the five of us dressed up and headed to St. Michael’s Monastery for the noon High Mass, a 90-minute ceremony conducted entirely in Latin.

What kept my attention? The moments when the magnificent pipe organ came to life, filling every corner of that grand church. As I sat in the wooden pew, my little body vibrated with the power of the sound.

When mass ended, the five of us walked the two blocks to the Coral Bar. Young children in a bar? It sounds unthinkable today, but 65 years ago it was entirely acceptable. The Sunday crowd at the Coral consisted mainly of other Irish Catholics who had just come from mass, many of whom, like my grandparents, were American Legion veterans and their wives.

I loved the Coral Bar! The happy, happy patrons, fortified by Manhattans and Rhinegold Beer, supplied my brothers & me with a constant stream of nickels for the jukebox, the pool table & the pinball machine. I drank as much Brookdale Cola as I wanted, plus bags & bags of Bon Ton Potato Chips.

What does any of this have to do with music? The backroom of the Coral had an old upright piano that I would sometimes pretend to play, imagining myself the organist of St. Michael’s Monastery. The idea that I could make music by placing my little fingers on the keys felt magical.

I didn’t go to the Coral often, but whenever I did, I’d play that old piano. Over time, I learned to sound out songs that I heard in school. Sitting on the piano bench, little-girl legs dangling in the air, one-finger versions of classics like “Mary Had a Little Lamb” & “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” came to life.

One Sunday, my grandmother found me at the piano playing from my very limited repertoire. “Who taught you to play that?” she asked. I answered, “No one. I just heard it in my head.” I played the few other songs I’d sounded out on that old piano, and my grandmother called in her lady friends who made quite a fuss over this five-year-old piano prodigy. (At least, that’s who I imagined myself to be!)

In a different family, I might have been able to pursue my love of music. But in a home with a single mother & 3 small kids, we had no money for a piano nor even piano lessons. My mom did buy me a toy Xylophone with 8 keys, which I played for hours on end.

The dream of learning to play piano stayed on the back burner until 1995 when, as a gift to myself on my 40th birthday, I decided to enroll in adult piano lessons. For a while, I recaptured some of the little girl’s piano magic. But something had changed from the days of the Coral Bar. As an adult, I placed expectations on myself to play well, and that interfered with the childhood joy of playing for pure pleasure. Reading music, complex songs, & daily practice held little allure, and after a time, I chose to stop.

Which brings me around to my new Panda Drum. A few weeks ago, while watching a video on YouTube, an ad for Panda Drums popped up. Now normally I skip right past all ads, but something about the Panda Drum drew me in, and in a move so unlike me, I spontaneously purchased one right then and there.

The Panda Drum is a type of steel tongue drum, a percussive musical instrument. Think of it as a small, hollow steel dome, like a gentle, rounded drum. On the top, it has several curved slits or “tongues” cut into the metal.

You play it by lightly tapping those metal “tongues” using small, soft mallets, almost like gentle drumsticks. The sound is ethereal & peaceful, like soft bells or a soothing wind chime.

The Panda Drum allows me to return to my 5-year old self, playing music without any self-imposed pressure or expectations. It’s almost impossible to play a harsh or “wrong” note. Like me, people often use these drums for relaxation, meditation, or to play simple songs.

To give you an idea what my latest musical adventure looks & sounds like, here’s a 1-minute video of me playing my Panda Drum. If you think I play with the skill of young child, you’re right! Now that I’ve reached a “certain age,” I’m thinking less about mastery & more about joy. What a refreshing change!

What hobby/activity are you revisiting these days? What new adventure has captured your imagination? I’d love to hear all about it in the comments.

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I love lists! Whenever life feels overwhelming, I find comfort in making lists. Science backs me up on this. When you make a list, your brain doesn’t have to exert the extra effort it takes to remember everything, thereby reducing mental overload and stress.

Do you make a list before you head to the grocery store? I’ll confess, for most of my life I regarded this as an extra step, and instead I relied on my memory. Inevitably, this led to forgotten items and binge purchases. But once I discovered how easily a grocery list can be created on my iPhone, I now use it all the time.

For some of us at a “certain age,” using technology feels confusing and a bit intimidating. But with easy to follow instructions, we are ABSOLUTELY capable of learning new things. That’s why I created this quick, 4-minute video to show you exactly how to use your iPhone to organize your grocery shopping. I recommend you watch the video on a computer screen because the images are too small if watching from your phone.

(Note - As I’m publishing this, Apple upgraded its operating system to IOS 26. If you have upgraded your phone, the app looks slightly different. Grrrrr… THIS is why technology frustrates new users! No worries, the written instructions below cover both versions.)

Click here to download written instructions for this video.

What about you? Do you create lists, shopping or otherwise? Let me know in the comments. Be sure to let me know if you try this tech tip.

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At a certain age, your searching turns to being.

Even before that digital ink had a chance to dry, I stumbled along life’s path, unable to follow the very wisdom about searching that I offered you. Allow me to share…

Since being diagnosed with a chronic anxiety disorder last summer, one of the key components to my recovery has been limiting the amount of stress in my day. In the beginning, I had no choice but to live in a quiet bubble of near isolation. Months of medication, therapy and self care yielded small but steady progress until finally, my nervous system allowed me to open up my life to include some “normal” and greatly-missed activities.

With near manic euphoria, over the course of a few weeks I added all of the following activities:

• Learned how to use Substack (importing contacts, designing website, crafting emails to announce the switch, composing & publishing several Substack posts)

• Completed a 10-hour online fitness course to maintain my certification

• Signed up & took classes during a 3-day free trial at a gym

• Had a horrific encounter with one of my doctors, leaving me physically & emotionally unmoored in the midst of an ongoing health issue, (thankfully, found a new doctor)

Had I lost my freakin’ mind? Or, more accurately had I abandoned my inner wisdom to the voice of my inner critic? No one will be surprised when I report how my nervous system reacted to this litany of stressful activities… elevated heart rate, sleepless nights, muscle tightness, pit in my stomach. My body was speaking to me, but my ego was shouting louder. My desire to be a “better” version of Rosemary, pre-anxiety, overrode every physical signal to the contrary. Not until I felt myself in a full-on anxiety spiral did I reach out to my therapist & put the brakes on my self-imposed, punishing search for self-worth.

What happened to trigger this mania of stressful activities? Let’s look back at last week’s life wisdom of “searching vs. being.” I could have chosen contentment with my current state of being, which was, in fact, a much-improved version from the full-on anxiety that made up my life just one year prior. But I convinced myself that my recovery, and therefore Rosemary herself, was not yet “fixed” enough. Being the goal-oriented, ego-driven person I had been most of my life, I reverted to the old habit of searching for & striving to become a version of me that I perceived to be “better.”

I am able to write this post today because I recognized my anxiety spiral in time. I have gradually returned to the quieter, less stressful version of my daily activities… leisurely mornings, long walks, mindfulness and gentle stretching. With the humility gained from falling down, I reminded myself of the words I offered my readers just one week prior:

“I’ve always been enough. I have nothing left to prove. I can rest now.”

If today’s Rosemary is the version of me that I will carry moving forward, I have every reason to feel blessed & content. My health depends on it. You see, chronic anxiety never goes away; I’ll need to manage it the rest of my days. I view anxiety as my body’s compass, the one that let’s me know when I’ve strayed too far from my path.

I feel no self-judgement for my actions, only kindness and compassion. At the time, I still felt diminished. I needed to set goals. I needed to explore my limits. Life is about learning. Part of being “a certain age” is feeling okay with falling down & even with staying down for as long as needed. Like one of Nature’s shiny little stones, I’ll carry this wisdom forward as I continue along my life’s path. I suspect I’ll be stumbling and collecting shiny little stones of wisdom for a long time to come.

Can you recall a time when you’ve stumbled on your path? What shiny little stone of wisdom did you collect? I’d love to read your story in the comments.

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To my mind, it has little to do with your chronological age, although in my experience, the shift occurs in our later years. No, being “a certain age” has more to do with what you feel inside you.

Recently, I read an article by Robert Holden, a psychologist and author of countless books on well being. Although not referring specifically to being “a certain age,” he wrote about several of life’s transition points, 2 of which deeply resonated with me. Because these feel so universal, I’d like to share with you Holden’s transition points & my thoughts about them.

Your Wounds Turn to Wisdom

All of us have been knocked down by life; it’s inescapable. Childhood hurts, teenage disappointments, broken relationships, health challenges, loss of loved ones… moments and experiences that test our strength and sometimes our sanity.

Some wounds are caused by others; some are self-inflicted. The pain may be brief, or it may stretch across long seasons of our lifetimes. But when we reach “a certain age,” we awaken to the understanding that some of these wounds are old shadows. They keep us immobilized, like anchors that protect us from the uncertainty of moving forward. At a “certain age,” we realize that each wound carries a life lesson that informs who we might choose to become in the years that remain. Feeling wounded shifts to recognizing your wisdom and your strength.

Your Searching Shifts to Being

How long have you been searching for the secret to a perfect life? You may not know exactly what that life entails, but you feel a deep longing for a life that is other than what you have. So the searching begins. Whenever you feel dissatisfaction, fear, frustration, or loneliness, whenever you judge yourself as not enough, you search for the path that leads to happiness and self-worth.

For some of us, the searching manifests as striving… a better job, better house, better body, better everything. For others, it manifests as the need to control every aspect of life. Whatever the form, it’s a futile, exhausting journey with no end.

At “a certain age,” the heart stills. Your searching gives way to acceptance of your life as it is. Not in a sense that you’ve given up, but in a way that says, “I’ve always been enough. I have nothing left to prove. I can rest now.” How do those words sit with you?

Have I arrived at “a certain age?”

In her book, If Not Now, When? Stephanie Marston wrote:

“Around the age of 13, a young girl falls asleep to herself.”

At a “certain age,” we begin to rise from that slumber. By my calculation, it’s taken me more than 55 “sleepy” years to find a path that feels true to my own heart. With my first tentative steps, I felt the shift begin. Each new step brings me closer to being a “Woman of a Certain Age.” My heart leads me down this new path toward home.

What about you? Do you consider yourself a “Man/Woman of a Certain Age?” What has shifted inside you?

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From a very young age, I dreamed of becoming a teacher. When my childhood friends and I would play school, more often than not, I played the role of teacher. I loved school. As I child growing up in a tumultuous home, school represented stability, a safe space where I could receive encouragement and attention, two things missing everywhere else in my young life. More than most, I understood the power of a teacher to change lives.

My first real experience as a teacher came in junior year of college. My assignment was a weekly visit to a fourth grade classroom in St. Brigid’s School. Located in one of the grittiest neighborhoods in Jersey City, NJ, St. Brigid’s served the low income children of the neighborhood. A typical Catholic school, the children wore uniforms - the girls plaid jumpers, the boys shirts and ties. A crucifix hung above the blackboard in every classroom. The day began with the Pledge of Allegiance and a morning prayer. Although I had been raised a Catholic, I did not attend church on a regular basis. Truthfully, at 19 years old in 1974, I was more sinner than saint.

What is it about the first day of any new thing? Nervous doesn’t begin to describe the feeling. Any confidence I thought I had flew out the window and was replaced by images of every possible disaster. On that first day, feeling shaky but excited, I dressed in the most professional clothing I owned. Again, it was the 70’s. My college wardrobe consisted mainly of jeans, concert T-shirts and platform shoes. With limited options, I chose to wear a minidress and heels, which I learned quite quickly was the most impractical choice both for my 3-bus commute and for the busy day ahead.

My cooperating teacher, Phil, a man not much older than me, welcomed me at St. Brigid’s front door and escorted me to our second floor classroom. As children are known to do, they focused all their curiosity on me, the new visitor with aching feet and sweaty hands. Most of them smiled as Phil introduced me as “Miss Donnelly.” Wow! Hearing him use my surname like that felt so powerful! Miss Donnelly, professional educator…

During the first hour, I sat in the back of the classroom, observing and listening, questioning how anything I learned in my college classes could possibly help me now. Next it was time for recess. The children, delighted to be released into the schoolyard, scampered down the stairs as Phil remained behind to explain my assignment. I would be working with Grace, a student who was struggling with her reading skills. Phil gave me a primary reader, a book more appropriate for first or second grade. The children returned to begin their Reading class, and Phil invited Grace to join me at a little table in the back of the classroom.

How shall I describe Grace? Most fourth graders are 9 years old; Grace appeared to be about 11 or 12. A foot taller and 20 pounds heavier than her classmates, I sensed Grace’s awkwardness immediately. She carried the shame of a struggling student who had been retained once or maybe twice. My heart broke for this young girl. So I smiled; Grace offered a shy smile in return. I assured her I came to help, and I asked her to read aloud from the book in front of her. Even with an easier reader, Grace struggled. In those days, schools didn’t have the resources to evaluate and support struggling learners. On that first day, I helped Grace as best as I knew how, determined to come back next week better prepared.

All I could think to do was to create some flash cards with basic words and sounds. Would that be enough? In our second meeting, I gave Grace the cards. Although they were far from professionally made (magic marker on index cards), Grace seemed pleased to receive this “gift” from her teacher. We practiced the words and I asked Grace to practice at home. “You mean I can keep the cards?” she asked. My heart broke even more, realizing this young girl had so little in her life to help her feel special.

Week 3, when Grace and I sat at our little table, she took out the cards. She told me she’d been practicing. We shuffled the cards and laid them face down on the table. As a rudimentary game, I asked Grace to turn over each card and to do her best to read the word. 15 cards, and Grace got every one right! She beamed with pride. I had to hold back my tears. It’s a memory that touches my heart to this very day. As the weeks progressed. I made more flash cards, and we took turns reading. Both of us grew to love our Wednesday’s in St. Brigid’s School.

Did I miraculously teach Grace to read on grade level in those 10 weeks? No, despite my hope and determination, Grace needed more intervention than I could provide. But both of us were transformed by our time together. Grace received the attention and encouragement she so desperately needed. I experienced my dream come to life. I could make a positive difference for a child. I could be a teacher…

Are you a teacher with a memory to share? Or perhaps you had a teacher who made a positive impact on your life. I’d love to hear your story in the comments.

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While most people consider January 1st the start of the new year, for someone like me who spent more than 50 years of my life in a school, the new year begins shortly after Labor Day.

September felt the perfect time to begin my new “stack” here on Substack. Let’s visit a new beginning from a September long ago.

September 1960

First Day of School

My mother walked me to school for my half-day session of Kindergarten. I don’t recall feeling nervous, at least not until I joined the line of other first timers. Some children were crying, clinging to their moms. I didn’t understand. Why were they crying? What did they know that I didn’t? Suddenly feeling anxious, and with a final uncertain glance at my mom, I walked quietly behind the others into my classroom.

Mrs. Horowitz was my Kindergarten teacher. Gray-haired, perhaps 50 or 60 years old, she was what might be called a “handsome” woman. Mrs. Horowitz definitely didn’t exude that “comforting grandma” vibe. In her no-nonsense way, she assigned 4 of us to sit at each wooden table. I felt laser focused on following her instructions, fearing I might wind up on some imaginary “Naughty Kindergarten Children” list. As I looked around the room, I saw all sorts of things that looked like fun… puzzles, blocks, dolls, a miniature kitchen, an easel and paints. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Nonetheless, I sat very quietly, hands folded on the table. At some point, Mrs. Horowitz instructed each of us in turn to stand up and select something to play with back at our table. Suddenly I felt pressured to make the “right” choice while drawing minimal attention to myself. When it was my turn, I moved as quietly as a mouse and selected the first toy I saw so I could quickly return to my seat. I chose a wooden puzzle that I didn’t really want, but exploring the rest of the room felt too bold, too risky for my timid 5-year-old self.

Near the end of our 2-hour day came cookies and milk. I didn’t like milk, never drank it at home. Now that little wax container of lukewarm milk sat in front of me alongside 2 graham crackers. I ate the cookies, then gave the milk to a boy at my table. Bad move! Mrs. Horowitz walked over to my table, and in the stern voice I would come to fear all through Kindergarten, asked “Why did you give away your milk?” I was shaking in my Mary Janes! I explained I didn’t like milk, and to make matters worse, I threw my mother under the bus by revealing she didn’t make me drink milk at home unless it had Bosco chocolate syrup in it. Mrs. Horowitz let me know in no uncertain terms that she would not be serving Bosco in her classroom, and she expected me to drink that awful room temperature milk every morning. Maybe it’s just coincidence, but to this day, I still don’t like the taste of milk!

What about you? What can you recall about your first day of school? Please share your memories in the comments.

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Do you know a teacher who is getting ready to begin a new school year? Send them my free meditation, “The First Day of School.” This guided visualization will have them feeling confident and relaxed for the first day.

Until next time,

~ Rosemary

It's that time of year again, when zucchini is in season and everyone is trying to figure out what to do with all of it!

Are you tired of the same old, same old when it comes to zucchini? The good news is it’s actually a very healthy vegetable, and there are plenty of ways to enjoy it without getting sick of it.

Here are just 3 healthy reasons to enjoy zucchini:

• Low in calories and fat. Zucchini is a great choice for people who are trying to lose weight or eat a healthier diet. It's low in calories and fat, and it's a good source of fiber.

• High in nutrients. Zucchini is a good source of vitamins A, C, and K. It also contains potassium, magnesium, and folate.

• Helps with digestion. Summer tempts us toward lots of indulgent picnic & barbecue dishes, which may spell trouble for your tummy. Add a bit of fiber-rich zucchini to keep things moving smoothly.

Which brings us back to our original question - What can I do with all that zucchini? Here’s an option you may not have considered…

Make soup.

When you think of summer, you probably don’t think about soup. But soup can be a wonderful summer option, especially if you make a lighter, healthier version. My latest YouTube cooking video shows you how to make a delicious Creamy Zucchini Soup.

You’ll never guess the secret ingredient that gives this soup its rich, creamy consistency. Butter? Cream? Flour? You’ll have to watch to find out!

Click here for a printed copy of this recipe.

How about you? What’s your favorite zucchini recipe? Leave a comment & join the conversation.

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Until next time,

~ Rosemary