It was January 27 last year that my mother died. We had been estranged for just under 15 years. I asked my sister what she needed me to do, and at her request I reached out to mom’s brother, our uncle Robb. But he was missing somehow, and his baffled and worried friends were on social media asking each other for clues that might reveal his location. Eventually, a lady (who turned out to be my cousin) posted a comment on his Facebook page. He was very ill and in care. He passed away on February 26. 

On the coffee table there sat the perfect tool for coping with the strange loss of an estranged parent and a creative and accepting uncle, followed by reconnection to cousins that I knew of yet never had the chance to know. Giving myself permission to experience this grief with no expectations, I opened my thick, poem-empty notebook and began to write. 

There are not 52 poems between the covers that kept falling off of the spiral binding. But there are 42, enough to publish a chapbook and then some. The actual chapbook is a work in progress. A new, mostly empty, hard bound notebook sits on the coffee table in anticipation of 2026. No spirals. Hopefully it holds up better.

It seemed like having a theme, even a difficult one, was helpful to my writing practice. This year my chosen theme is Gratitude. It feels like a very gentle topic compared to Grief. However, once again January opened with creativity block, and I recalled the rough start last year. Wintertime and my body have had a falling out. Chronic illness insists on changing the pace and I struggle to adjust accordingly.

There is plenty of time in my days for creative expressions, but power is lacking. Some days it is all I can do to barely care for myself. Other times the rhythm is easier and the slower pace is satisfying. If I am feeling especially well I am absolutely clever enough to forget the present and push ahead with no restraint as, if I were the younger, healthier version of myself. The day after too much fun is never a favorite. A regular daily (or weekly) practice seems just beyond my grasp, and my personal definition of spontaneity no longer measures up. Time has warred against my delight in improvisation and flexibility, prevailing by repeatedly jerking my foundation of routine from underneath me.

In truth, chronic health issues are not a new experience for me. The diagnoses, treatments and need for lifestyle adjustments, however, are new. I admire those who approach life at any age with calm and grace, but every normally patient cell in my bones is insisting that they are frauds. Still, I will continue to draw and sew and write about my experience, and try to embrace the inconsistencies as part of the inspiration. 

While the current turmoil boils around us, while the earth heaves in resistance to human abuse and while my own body fights me from within, I am Grateful. Grateful for supportive friends, my faith and hope, and the creativity that flows from me – even if it has the ability to change as rapidly as the weekly weather forecast.