Still the Same My dear, very old aunt Tigger, clutched both my hands and hauled herself up in her hospital bed so she could pull herself closer to scan my face. Satisfied, she whispered “Still the same,” as if that was all that needed to be said, as if it was high praise indeed. In those days I wasn’t sure how to take her words. Sameness felt stagnant, boring. But now, when there have been too many losses, too many …
A Different Kind of Valor Today I’m thinking of the unspeakable courage of elders. I see it everywhere, and I am in awe watching the everyday bravery of so many. After all, I am one of them, and I am beginning to understand the challenges. There’s none of the glamour we admire watching a ski jumper lift off on the slopes, just day to day sheer grit. On this particular day I’m thinking of my fragile, 93-year-old mother. Only once …
A Sense of Home My childhood home, painted by my artist father, Ken Phillips It begins with my beloved childhood home, the little, brown-shingled house which my father and grandfathers and uncles had built in the heart of a small, 3-acre woods. It was the centre of my world, and I loved it fiercely–the wind travelling, travelling through the hemlocks, and up to the nearby twin guardian pines, and ending at the white oak that pressed up against my bedroom …