Write like that…

chicago-south-loop-hotel-home1-top (1)A good story should bring us into the lives, the homes, the kitchens and boardrooms, the mind, the bedroom, the dreams and the nightmares of our character.

We need to write about real life and not just some hermetically sealed, extra light, fat-free, flavor-free version of life.

Because life is not a continuous loop of polite tea parties where characters glance knowingly at one another or blush in sudden thrall from behind their open fan.

Life is outrageous. Life is humans at their lowest lows; gripped with rage or desperation making horrible decisions for horrible reasons.

Life is humans being their very best selves; putting other people before them and risking everything so that those others can live their own outrageous life.

Life is experiencing the soul shaking surrender to a lover who guides us to deep and wondrous places in ourselves that we never dared imagine.

Life is wringing out the last drop of compassion for another and reaching that place where a required action is business only; no emotion.

Life is heart wrenching sweetness and heart crushing pain.

It’s messy and raw and ugly and beautiful. And it 99% deeper than another shallow police procedural or drably written script where characters follow a Girl Scout approved path from their parents door to their spouses.

Thank fuck that it is. Anything less and we would all perish in a monochromatic, Xanax fog without ever breaking a perfect nail.

Write like that or don’t write at all.

Poetry Day: Red Road


Red Road


I do not walk the Red Road in this life-

not being a path this body’s ancestors followed-

though I feel that road…over here.

In my bones

there is sympathetic harmony


when I hear the drums

measuring the heartbeat of the Earth.

In my world,

the one that has spent so much time

silencing that heartbeat

using white noise and non-sense;

though it cannot fill up every quiet place,

some still hear its voice.

I have heard it and now it cannot be unheard.

My own medicine wheel has shown me how to walk another road.

I move with humans to my left- where I can feel their presence

animal world to my right- where I can touch them with what flows through me-

Spirit at my back- encouraging me to take another step

And the stars ahead of me-

flung out far into the Universe

lighting my way.

Not a Red Road this time

but one of every color.

In Praise of Flowers

Can I talk about flowers for a minute? Gee. Thanks.

Owning a wedding and event venue, I see a lot of flowers. A lot. From rare and exotic to the roadside weed, baby’s breath.

I love flowers. I love to grow them. I love to get them as gifts. I love to take photos of them. I love to go into flower shops and talk them into letting me enter their cooler so I can hand pick specific blooms for whomever I am making a bouquet or for whatever event I am embellishing with natures little beauty pageant contestants.

Sometimes, I hear the tired and sad logic of non-flower fans, “It’s such a waste. They just die anyway.” My heart hurts every time I hear that and it makes me wonder if these people have pets (who die anyway) and friends (who die anyway) and long term relationships (that, eventually die when one of the participants exits planet Earth.)

Flowers are proof of the existence of whomever or whatever dreamed up this whole three dimensional experience of life. Flowers are small freaking miracles. They are little works of art; each and every one of them. When I see them, they remind me that there is a much larger and grander overall plan for this world. Larger than binge watching an entire TV series on Netflix in a weekend. Larger than some sophomoric company whose goal is to gather a bazillion dollars and be the king of the hill- until the next king comes along.

Flowers are constructed of aerodynamically perfect proportions, balanced to exacting measurements to catch rain water and sun rays and the attention of bees and birds that go about the busy work of pollinating the heck out of anything that needs their sweet nectar. They grow in cracked cement in unlikely places as readily as in the greenhouse of a master gardener.

They announce seasons and wave their colorful faces like a viral Tweet from the Universe… @Mimi! Look over here! I’m being beautiful, just for you, right now!

Sure, they’ll die soon. And they would anyway in a field or a greenhouse or a backyard. The point is, for the glorious moments they are visible, they are treasures we can hold and smell and look at and they cause us to halt in our steps to look again at their perfection and be, truly, in the moment. They are an organic Zen moment if we honor them by acknowledging their short and perfect existence.

Some of the non-flower people I know spend a lot of time and money on courses in enlightenment and proudly parrot people like Ekhart Tolle, author of The Power of Now. “I just stay centered and in the moment and that’s how I find my bliss.” Bullshit. You totally missed the lesson. You are focused on the future, when the petals start to fall and you are missing the actual NOW of the brief life of a bloom; a source of beauty and joy right in front of your face. If you missed the flower’s life because you can’t see around its impending doom, what else are you missing out on while you’re “centered in the moment”… well, future moment, anyway?

I had run in with breast cancer ten years back. Tons of fun. I was there and now I’m not. I remind myself each day that NOW is the very best moment…ever. And I’m truly grateful for now. And I celebrate each subsequent now with noticing beauty- anything beautiful- each and every day. I don’t do it for anyone else. I do it for me because I know that this now is the only now I am guaranteed. And if I squander it by turning my nose up at small, affordable treasures like a hand full of flowers to brighten my day, then I am a damn fool.

Buy the roses, clip that blossom and put it in a glass by your bedside table. Bring the neighbor a bundle of wonder. Send that bouquet to the one you are thinking of. I once had a *someone* who sent me a rose every day to my office. It was such a small thing but it let me know he was thinking of me and it made me feel like a queen. Do that for someone you think of. Do it now. It’s the only now you are guaranteed.

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…”


Roses today- August 10, 2017

Album succulent flowers

My cactus blooms

roadtrip Copper Harbor flowers

Copper Harbor, MI

Crocus study

Crocus near my driveway

Poetry Day: The Bones of This Place

The Bones of This Place

Northport Marina July 4 2017

Northport, Michigan Marina, July 4, 2017  mdh

I am still a flower pin worn on a summer hat in this little village…

Not like some who have become the tanned skin

or deeper yet, the flesh of this place.

Earned with years of faithful returns to  the waiting cottages

with fine dust on tables

that floats in the slanted sunlight

as the windows rise again.

Northport Lelu building

Hidden garden next to the Lelu Building- Northport, MI    mdh

Others, here around the seasons

are now the very blood running through the street veins-

keeping the fires burning and

nodding a farewell to us when winter walks this way.


The longest here; the ones whose names sit on stones

in silent spaces…

on signs that guide us on…

on barns that have gathered the cherry harvest for

More than one hundred years-

They are the bones of this place-

They are the framework that holds it all together

no matter the changing shape of everything around

as it grows and thins from year to year,

starves and flourishes-

Stands naked in hard years or

wears a flowered hat when the bank is full-

The bones… they hold the memory

of why this place is even here.


barbs in winter

Barb’s Bakery- Northport, MI  January, 2016  mdh

The Navigation of Grief

for Nancy~

This week, I was thrust into the steel and velvet construct that organically assembles itself in times of dire need. There is no engineer designing the temporary structure; no operating manual or planning meetings. Instead, the whole thing rises in a matter of hours, like a gossamer tent large enough to hold the people, the food, the photos and the gigantic emotions that gather to hold sacred space together.

Just after 5 AM, a week ago, my phone rang with the news that a friend, my best friend’s husband, had died moments earlier. He had been struggling with health issues, recovering from surgical complications, but there was no sign the outcome would be this.

Within the hour, the construct began to rise around her. Women made immediate flight and driving arrangements. Daughters, already there with mother, and spouses stepped into the arms around them to hold the shock of loss among them; too heavy for just one to hold alone.

Calls were made and people silently coordinated the parts they could and before noon on the day that the world tilted over, the work of closing a life was under way. Quietly, out in the world, a relay of family, friends, co-workers and neighbors each stepped in and took on part of the whole.

By the time I could get south and to her door, boxes were arriving with supplies and food; comfort things for the mad crush of all who needed to honor him by being present for a little while. Women arrived and cleaned her house, stocked her refrigerator, packed extra meals into her freezer. They sorted the photographs, wrote the obituary, ran the errands and gently put a drink or food or Kleenex into an empty hand. They took those hands and led them to a quiet spot to close their eyes for a moment.

As swiftly as the news had come, all the whirl of activity dissipated like the strange calm that follows a tornado. Down came the invisible structure and left behind were the artifacts of gathering and a web of open phone lines at the ready for a call, a visit, an offered shoulder for the days ahead.

Now the work begins. Grief is a hero’s journey, fraught with perilous hours between the sunset and the long walk to another morning. And on that walk is every song you danced to, a toothbrush in a glass; a sweater left on the back of a chair; the book they’ll never finish. Waves of memory crash the beach of your solitude, carrying these small things that gather around you.

“I’ll sort everything out and clear this area soon.” We lie to ourselves, to our loved ones about the things we are ready to let go of. But truth be told, that glass had his lips on it. The sweater still smells like him. The aftershave on the dresser is mostly full and if you never smell it again, a large hole will rip in your soul and so you leave it there, right where it’s always been… just because it feels right.

There is no clear route when navigating grief. Though everyone has or will walk this same path, each journey will be different. You need a new map for this uncharted territory.

Where roads used to lead to an obvious destination, now, there is nothing there. Where a spot on the old map used to point the way to a place of joy, now, there’s too much there.

Kierkegaard said, “Man suffers no greater loss than the loss of an imagined future that is no longer possible.”

There are no maps to this new land. Others can only tell you what may be there along the way… or maybe not.

For the woman walking alone now; one certainty holds true for her; the women who flew to her side, the men who quietly went about the work that needed doing, they are all still there. See them? Just off to the side. Giving her space, until she reaches a hand out into the empty void. There will be new hands now, reaching back. Some are strong and secure and have been there for a lifetime. Other hands, so tiny; looking for comfort from her strength to fill them up.

It’s been a week already. A week. The sun is still rising. The dishes still need washing. Autonomic tasks become small meditations as she puts her life in order; a new order. And all the while stopping for a moment to repeat a memory…one more time, so it won’t be forgotten. A smile. The sound of his voice. A glance at his profile in the TV light. She won’t forget. It’s a part of her; not separate.

Navigating this new world on winds of change, grief gales will be running her aground for a while but she’ll find more and more patches of fair wind and sunlight to carry her forward. She’ll make a new map to help her girls find their way too. And when she stops to feel the life around her she’ll feel all those arms who held her close on this most difficult week.

And she’ll feel him too. That unseen hand on a shoulder. That kiss on top of her head. A breath away. Only a breath away.




Chewing on The Immigration Gumballs


The 1996 Immigration “Explained” in Gumballs video is making its way around the internet again. It’s an interesting theory, but it ignores the singular element of what is *humane* in terms of humanity’s caring for each other.

As a species, we face a few overwhelming problems; Over Population and Poverty/Starvation for most of the Earth’s inhabitants.

We can not turn away the most ambitious of the masses who seek asylum here (Gumball guy, Roy Beck’s words; not mine) AND simultaneously remove funding for birth control for a planet that is obviously too stupid to only have as many children as they can care for.

Simple solution: Mandatory MALE birth control. For example; if a male has fathered two children with his legal spouse, a mandatory vasectomy should happen the same day the second child is born. A global mandate of this kind means an instant reduction in the “pink gumball” numbers and, over time, a normalization of the number of humans to food ratio until the world is able to take care of everyone.

And here’s why men would make sure that won’t work: men think their sperm is their property, but women’s bodies are somehow *co-owned* by others. Something has to change and it’s about damn time men started taking responsibility for birth control.

Those over crowded nations and horrific living conditions immigrants flee from might just improve over time with a normalization of population growth. With a population under control and all the pressures of overcrowding reduced to a dull roar, a return to home lands could realistically happen. Not through deportation, but through a welcome move back to a new beginning. Many immigrants move here with every intention of going home one day. And we are not the only nation where people long to go, but we like to pretend we are.

Over population is our singular, over arching issue globally. Access to affordable and effective birth control is the first line of defense for over crowding and growing poverty areas dependent on support from others.

In states like Colorado where birth control is readily available, teen pregnancy and unplanned pregnancies dropped by 40% in the past six years.

We should be following suit with a male birth control campaign in our own country as well to reduce the always growing numbers of those born in poverty that stay in poverty.

Beck’s plan at NumbersUSA.com is not to maintain legal immigration. It is to shut the borders. Period. So if your children or grandchildren are not already US citizens, brace for a battle when attempting to bring them here, no matter which country they currently hold citizenship in.

We are already a nation of immigrants, just like Trump’s wives. And frankly, I’ll take a migrant worker who might get desperate and commit a crime like any American person could over a President who commits treason and endangers millions by making back door deals for his own ego and monetary gain any day of the week.

So here’s the gumball video. It’s very interesting and I’ve gotta say, the visual aide is impressive. All that’s missing is him ending the presentation with the wrap up line he silently implies: “… and let’s get real people. Who really gives a shit about the other useless three billion people anyway?”