Grief is a sacred journey

Psychology and Mythology

The Memory Game: Sharing Our Secrets and Wounds

“Tell me the first thing you remember,” I asked my boyfriend Vic. I wanted to know everything. His jaw tightened. He hesitated. I saw I’d hit a raw place, but it was too late. We were sitting upright in bed, leaning against

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Persona: How Promoting a Book Created a New Social Self

Last week, I went to REP Studio in Ithaca to record passages from my book for National Public Radio’s Author’s Corner. I needed two takes of two readings, each 80-83 seconds. Peter Johnson of Author’s Corner gave me

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Do You Trust Your Creative Self?

I walk along a country road with a woman writer, a seven-year-old girl, and a boy who is three. The children run ahead, down a steep dip in the road, out of sight. A huge truck comes from

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She’s Seven Now: When Dreams Lead the Way

On June 3, I planned a quiet day to take stock of my life. It was the seventh anniversary of my husband Vic’s death. I wrote about the ritual aspects of the day in a previous blog,

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When Tears Tell the Truth

We met at the beginning of my senior year in 1966. I was a government major at Cornell focusing on South East Asia and China. The more war protests Vic and I attended and the more sunsets we

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A Message from the Moon: Synchronicity as Inner Guide

I’m in a small country church. Someone turns off the electric lights. The full moon illuminates the chapel with soft apricot-toned light. Then they open a window to let night air in. I feel lonely for Vic

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I Thought I Could

My flight home from Florida was threatened by another winter storm on the east coast. How I miss my husband Vic at times like this. “It’s in the hands of nature and United Air,” he would say, “so we

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My Lover’s Secret

“What did you do before you came to Cornell?” I asked. We sat on his couch, drank red wine, and listened to Buffy St. Marie on the stereo. He was sturdy and muscular with dark curls. My heart had

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Let the Warm Love Flow: Messages from Marion Woodman

Marion Woodman’s last letter came in February 2011, almost three years after my husband Vic’s death. I first met her in 1988 when I went to my first workshop with her. We had corresponded since 2003. In

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Widow Misses Sparring Partner

Woman Misses Fighting with Dead Husband. That’s a headline for The Inquirer. “E, leave me alone,” Vic said. I watched his cheek muscles twitch and his jaw clench. He pulled his office door toward him to shut

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