About Me
November 23, 2025 § Leave a comment
Best birthday ever: 81 with my boyfriend, Washington DC Harbor, 2025
While living in Los Angeles, I started this blog fourteen years ago to share my enthusiasm for making art. It was a novelty to be able to share images in vivid color through the internet. In previous years, as a hobby, I spent many hours processing photographic film and printing only black and white images in my home lab.
In 1997 I moved back to the east coast, Northern Virginia, to find a husband with shared interests and values. We met in 2002 and were married a few years later, in 2006. I was 62. I met his mother in a nursing home where she had been living for several years with dementia that was diagnosed at age 80. We never thought that her son, at 67, would receive the same diagnosis. My life took a turn as his sole caregiver until he passed seven years later, in 2019. At the end, words were meaningless, but he knew that he loved me and remembered how to kiss, a last goodbye.
This blog became a way of communicating with his family the progression of his decline with dementia. It felt like art making was wrenched from my spirit, as I was filled with anticipatory grief. After he passed, I traveled to many places: Italy, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Vietnam, Cambodia, Portugal, Australia, New Zealand, and Hawaii. I was searching for a feeling of wholeness, away from vulnerability, and re-establishing myself as a single, independent woman.
Looking back, I think about how I persevered through some difficult circumstances and emotional turmoil throughout my life. “You’re strong, you’ll be OK,” others told me and I hoped they were right. At 81, I have found peace and happiness, ready to slow down and reminisce about my journey.
And long ago:
- At 16 ½ I escaped from childhood abuse by finding a path to live on my own after graduating from High School in Brooklyn, New York. Determined to find a way to earn a college degree, I worked full-time and attended classes four nights per week, commuting to work in New York City by subway. I found an apartment to share near the campus that was listed in the classified ads of The New York Times with rent I could afford, $45 per month. I worked, studied and forfeited sleep. I was confident that I could persevere if I had a token in my pocket to ride to work on Friday paydays. I survived on 25¢ Frozen Fried Rice. I had dreams of a career that would sustain me and hope reinforced with every strap-hanging Brooklyn train ride over the Manhattan Bridge. I never stopped to think about the challenges I would face, I just had to succeed. Determination is a powerful ally.
- Graduating High School in only 2 ½ years, I was in an expedited program. Classes ran on a double shift to accommodate the large number of post-WWII children, and my school day was over by 1PM. I rode the subway from Brooklyn to Wall Street, and filed index cards with hand-written insurance policy data at Metropolitan Life Insurance.
- This was not my first job. I started working in Junior High, at age 13, helping children stay safe at the local YMCA (community center) with an Olympic-sized swim pool. In the girl’s locker room, I was the attendant to help children use tall hair dryers which you put your head inside while sitting very tall on a seat below. I also monitored the centrifuge that was an electrically powered tub which quickly twirled and vibrated to remove moisture from dripping-wet swim clothes and towels. I earned $21 every two weeks and gave my Mom $5 towards the rent, a lesson intended to teach the value of a dollar.
- One summer, while still in college, I took a secretarial course, learned Pittman Shorthand, and my first fulltime job was as an accountant for a catalog publisher and photographic studio. I loved working with a diverse group of creative people.
- I moved to Manhattan and found a room in a boarding house/hotel exclusively for women. I was so excited to be living in the city, never mind that I was sharing shower and toilet facilities with all residents on my floor, a dozen women. No guests were allowed.
- I worked until I was 64 in financial departments in the advertising industry and an entertainment studio. I retired after 51 years of corporate life in 2008.
Jerry Herman, lyricist and composer, says it best in his song, “The Best of Times”:
“The best of times is now
As for tomorrow, well, who knows
So hold this moment fast
And live and love
As hard as you know how
And make this moment last
Because the best of times is now, is now
Now, not some forgotten yesterday
Now, tomorrow is too far away”
I can let go now
December 22, 2024 § Leave a comment
Sometimes I just can’t let go. If you know me, you might think, oh, she’s a widow, she should hang on to her memories but what if it’s clothing whose attachment has become so extreme, that I hold on although I can’t or don’t wear it anymore. I‘ve discovered a way to let go, to break the bond between my heart’s feelings and the fabric. Painting works.
I put the leggings that were a symbol of freedom when I retired, on my work table. Those leggings that I thought outlandish, held all my hope and promise when I retired from a business career. I was free to wear whatever I wanted, bold colors and wild prints, leggings the color of the sky. I loved those leggings but after losing weight during the covid lockdown, they were no longer wearable. I had to let them go. Seeing them on my work table helped create some distance from my craving to hang on, and begin to see them as printed fabric apart from myself. When I was done painting a little watercolor swatch, I was ready. It was an action that I needed to take to be free. It brought back all of the times when I shopped in the plus-size stores and could only buy the limited colors chosen by the merchant and most of the time, not what I wanted to wear, buying what fit.
Those two t-shirts traveled the world with me and I found a way to salvage them. I cut off the front panels and re-attached them to new shirts using a thin and sticky iron-on material, sold by the yard, in a quilt shop. I am so excited to have them in my suitcase for their next adventure, returning to Hawaii in January, 2025.
I am better than this, hanging on to clothes I can no longer wear. A long time ago, I read a popular book about keeping in your wardrobe, pieces that you truly love, discarding the rest. This practice has really put a damper on my desire for new things but I am more peaceful. Many women, as they get older, stop caring about being fashionable. Maybe they never were because dressing in the suburbs where I live, is very different in big cities. I found that being stylish keeps me feeling young and enthusiastic, never frumpy. I’m not giving up this opportunity to express myself and thrive, when so much of what is changing in America makes me sad.
Sometimes I just can’t let go. If you know me, you might think, oh, she’s a widow, she should hang on to her memories but what if it’s clothing whose attachment has become so extreme, that I hold on although I can’t or don’t wear it anymore. I‘ve discovered a way to let go, to break the bond between my heart’s feelings and the fabric. Painting works.
I put the leggings that were a symbol of freedom when I retired, on my work table. Those leggings that I thought outlandish, held all my hope and promise when I retired from a business career. I was free to wear whatever I wanted, bold colors and wild prints, leggings the color of the sky. I loved those leggings but after losing weight during the covid lockdown, they were no longer wearable. I had to let them go. Seeing them on my work table helped create some distance from my craving to hang on, and begin to see them as printed fabric apart from myself. When I was done painting a little watercolor swatch, I was ready. It was an action that I needed to take to be free. It brought back all of the times when I shopped in the plus-size stores and could only buy the limited colors chosen by the merchant and most of the time, not what I wanted to wear, buying what fit.
Those two t-shirts traveled the world with me and I found a way to salvage them. I cut off the front panels and re-attached them to new shirts using a thin and sticky iron-on material, sold by the yard, in a quilt shop. I am so excited to have them in my suitcase for their next adventure, returning to Hawaii in January, 2025.
I am better than this, hanging on to clothes I can no longer wear. A long time ago, I read a popular book about keeping in your wardrobe, pieces that you truly love, discarding the rest. This practice has really put a damper on my desire for new things but I am more peaceful. Many women, as they get older, stop caring about being fashionable. Maybe they never were because dressing in the suburbs where I live, is very different in big cities. I found that being stylish keeps me feeling young and enthusiastic, never frumpy. I’m not giving up this opportunity to express myself and thrive, when so much of what is changing in America makes me sad.
This Magnificent Retirement Plan
May 2, 2024 § 4 Comments
my work – 2011
13 years, no degree: a magnificent retirement plan
I have been attending my local university, George Mason, for thirteen years as a senior waiver student; a class auditor who does not receive grades, no tests nor papers to write. In search of new skills, it began in the Art Department.
I have just completed the 27th course. This is the most magnificent retirement plan I could have dreamed up for myself.
I always worked hard, I began working full time at 16 1/2 years old when I graduated High School, and retired 48 years later, in addition to serving as a county volunteer for ten years. My photography hobby was going digital and learning new computer software was feeling more like a job than fun. I longed to be involved learning something new, and was willing to be totally engaged. This is my journey.
During that first course, I had a project to paste up a collage from magazine clippings and to design graphite patterns forming ten shades from the deepest, solid black to white. Finally, using these unique patterns, draw the collage. It was so hard and I loved it, never giving up. Challenged, I don’t retreat, I just take the next step, from point A to B.
And now, I’ve enrolled in the 28th course, this summer. My curiousity points me in some direction and I just come along, as if I was the spectator, the willing participant. Unaware that time is passing because I’ve been studying Greek mythology and symbols in ancient art, I look back on my 13 years of educational pursuits, with wonder. One course at a time. Fantastic!
to speak without words
January 12, 2022 § 2 Comments
Diane Zinna’s Grief Writing Workshop,
#61 on January 9, 2022
A letter to Ruth from her best friend, Anne, “On Dying”
Ruth, I must tell you something. Promise me you won’t cry.
I write this knowing how your big brown eyes are filling with tears. Don’t be afraid. Be brave. I need your courage.
I am dying. You promised not to cry.
I have lung cancer and I died on the doctor’s exam table. Today he was able to bring me back.
I told him, during my recent physical, jokingly, that I can’t catch my breath when i get to the top of the stairs. I’m really getting old, I said and we both laughed, only it’s not funny.
Ruth put the letter down to grab a Kleenex and wipe the tears that were rolling down her face toward her chin. Oh no, she cried, and dialed Anne’s number.
“Hello” she said. Not being able to say a word, Ruth held onto the receiver sucking in air hoping to get to the next breath. “Ruth, I know you’re there, you promised, no crying.” Ruth needed to speak, say something, anything and whispers into the darkness of the phone,
“I am here. I love you. I’ll be brave tomorrow.”
Your worst fears were true
June 23, 2021 § Leave a comment
My Words on Father’s Day 2021
You didn’t know that your worst fears were true,
that your children did not love you.
When you declined into dementia, they turned their backs, pivoted and
walked away. It seemed easy for them to do. You knew that your four children, now adults, often could not tell you what they were thinking or feeling instead they would lash out in inappropriate anger or frustration. It kept you at a distance and would catch you off-guard as to how to respond.
After reconciling with my Dad when I was 40 years old, you knew that my dad would hold my hand at every opportunity, softly kiss me on the lips and always call me baby. He had no words and feeling the warmth of his hand in mine, had to be enough for me. This was our connection.
You went to a therapist for many years to learn how to be a post-divorce Dad and took notes for future telephone conversations with your family. You were armed, you had words.
You refused to engage in divorce warfare when you separated but nevertheless they were told purposeful lies by their mother hoping that they would love her more. You clung to your truth and admirably, you never stopped trying to speak to their hearts.
You were a warm and loving Dad, always reaching out to chilly reception. Your face would light up if they called or returned your call. Always interested in what they had to say, trying to engage in open conversation, loving every description you heard of a grandchild action or event.
Their hearts held grievances from long ago that we could not heal.
You lost cognition before you could know that the Dad strands were indeed fragile ones. You left me to bear witness as they lined up to receive their inheritance. I feel the pain and disappointment over how it turned out. I know the depth of your capacity to love, your power to change and this wasn’t your script.
That’s nice dear
May 9, 2021 § 2 Comments
That’s nice dear
It’s Mother’s Day 2021 and today, in Diane Zinna’s grief writing workshop, (www.dianezinna.com), for one hour, we will write what’s true for us. We are a group of gentle people who write our hearts out, to tell our stories, no matter how difficult or complicated our feelings are to translate into words.
Writing prompt: what were they like…
Writing time: 18 minutes
I am sitting on the grey leather sofa that is no longer in my living room. I dutifully call my mother to see how she is doing. She has been in the hospital more than seventeen times in less than two years, and at times, when she didn’t pick up the phone right away, I knew that she was probably back in the hospital. Past 90 years old, I knew that my sister, the doctor, was afraid to let her go but it was inevitable that one day she would not come back to her apartment at the Boca Raton independent living facility.
The telephone conversation would always be the same. I would ask her how she’s feeling and she would go on and on about her physical troubles that would cause her return to the hospital. I yearned for her to say that she saw a bluebird perched on the ledge of the window in the bright sunshine and she knew it was my Dad looking out for her.
I hoped that she was not afraid of passing. She knew that she could talk openly about that with me but never said a word. Instead, I would tell her about my sweet husband, his symptoms from severe dementia and how sad it made me. She would say “isn’t there something else we could talk about besides death?” My heart would be near my knees in defeat. What else could there be to talk about besides my impending losses on earth? I did see the cardinal in the tree but the sun was not shining. I tell her “I love you Mom” and she says “that’s nice dear.”