Marion Woodman’s last letter came in February 2011, almost three years after my husband Vic’s death. I first met Marion in 1988 when I went to my first workshop with her. We had corresponded since 2003. In
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“If you have your health, you have everything you need,” Dad said. He looked fit, played golf, and smoked Lucky Strikes like the doctors in Life Magazine ads and the other men in Mexico, Missouri in the
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Jean Raffa, an author I admire, invited me to join a blog tour highlighting authors who write about spirituality and intuitive understanding. I encourage you to visit Jean’s blog and website where she writes about Jungian psychology,
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I stood naked in my husband Vic’s office on a sunny afternoon. I had taken a fast shower after working in the garden. My wet hair was wrapped in a towel, but the rest of me dripped
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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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It’s all a misunderstanding. I mean, I misunderstood. I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. I can’t always make sense of the noisy world. I feel far away and a little out of focus. Much of my hearing is
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When the lupines pop, the bluebird eggs hatch, and lettuce seed germinates, I remember my husband Vic. His death is part of this season, part of the earth and the cycles of my life. Images of Vic’s
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Go outside and plant, a wise voice in me said. You need flowers. Garden plants sat on the porches and at the side of the house. They were hardened off and ready to go in the ground. Part
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Where did they go? When will they come back? Will they feed me or will Cindy? Someone will. There is always someone. She fed me early and left. Lots of people were in the house, but not
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“I need a hinge for an exterior door,” I tell the man at Agway. “It’s this way,” he says, waving his hand in the direction he’s walking. He’s a thick man, muscular and short. He wears a
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