This I know to be true: Every day holds some wonder, however small. That fact strikes me so keenly I tend to be on the lookout for the day’s offering.

On the internet, I saw a photo of a domed observatory in the Swiss Alps called Sphinx.* Atop an 11,716-foot pinnacle, it faces the 13,123-foot Jungfrau, an Alpine wonder I saw in person in 1971.

The observatory holds equal fascination. Built in 1937, Sphinx is reached by an elevator constructed on the side of the pinnacle. That elevator is reached after a train ride to Europe’s highest train station. Talk about achieving heights.

It makes my heart soar to see this image in December 2018, as it soared 47 years ago, looking at this snow-covered Swiss alp. Visiting Interlaken, Switzerland as a young woman who that year would give birth to her first child, I felt overwhelmed with wonder.

I know everything wondrous doesn’t inspire such feelings. Fear is a learned response to the new, and it can be warranted, if only in the moments it takes to get a grip and remember there is tomorrow.

In honor of this season and the tomorrows of a new year, I wish you many wonders as I share some of my poems and Vincent Mancuso paintings observing mundane and wondrous moments.   

Mixed Gift Bag
(Circa 1975)

On each imperfect Christmas past, 
I lonely reminisced for those
who moved the tree “Over there?”
and wrapped late gifts with a kiss.

On each imperfect holy night, 
I set table for a Benedict brunch
and hung two dozen candy canes
more likely to be munched.

Everything to do was done
by strict Home Journal means.
Every detail met for sleepy heads
with commercialized dreams.

Overspending, ever spent
in Christmas carol grooves.
Buying secular opinions
of how true love is proved.

The Pageant
Asbury U.M. Church, New York
December 1978 

The pony hired to play
pageant donkey
took his job
very seriously.

Obviously, a method actor,
he balked as a donkey would.
Stood still 
when Joseph prodded.
Very still
though Mary
crooned and nodded.

He at last caved in
so the pageant
could begin for
angels,
shepherds,
kings.

Seems he could not settle
for a walk on part
Saw his role as central,
the very heart
of the story.

Once tied to a tree,
even he could see,
his moment of glory
had passed.

Just another member
of the cast. 
In the shadow.
In the wings.

But in the
very beginning,
he had a stubborn
hold on things.

When Vincenzo Caroled
Connecticut, 1994

The cold hands of the caroler are
cupped in her convalescent warmth.
Abiding on a melody,
some 90 Yuletides passed.
Jolting as the rush of years
daring to be her last.

Her eyes are wide
as childhood ponds.
Her laugh
could blithely
skate along.

She cups his hands.
She warms his heart.
Then, in a flash,
the caroler's gone.

A melody and
memory play on.

Gulf Coast Evensong 
Florida, 2000

Stern lights stream,
candles on the altar
of a setting sun.

Clouds, billowy linen,
enfolding the golden rays.
Palm tops,
graceful arches in a chapel
of our Gulf Coast days.

In power and windblown pews,
we sip a chalice of glowing hues.
Breathe in orange, rose and blue,
Still hurtling through space
in our place with a view.
Not coming round again.

Earth journeys into evening
sing a bountiful Amen.
Chant of angels on the bow
pray starlit paths to Heaven.

Siena's Christmas,
pastel by Vincent Mancuso

Peace on Earth,
colored pencil by Vincent Mancuso

Second Snow, pastel by Vincent Mancuso

Sunset Sail,
pastel by Vincent Mancuso

The Wreath on Our Door
2006

The wreath on our door 
is decked for the season.
Gone the fall berries.
Gone the fall leaves.

The promise of New Year,
of seasons to come,
Is decked with our hope
for health, bounty and peace.

Dateline: Gulf of Mexico
Interview with Two Locals
2007

“We'll, we’re waiting for 
the end of day, 
the boat parade,
armada of a
season’s joy.

We’re watching for
the dolphin lights,
the snowman’s orb,
the sails edged bright.

We’re all set for
the carolers.
the Santa guy,
the Silent Night.
And you?"

Note: To celebrate the close of the 10th year of my website, I've added links to two Christmas stories to this page and the Short Story page. Enjoy!

Breaking the Seal - A multimillionaire tightwad cuts loose for a magical Christmas - with a little help from his friend.

Male Order - A dear old gent does his Christmas shopping.

*Sphinx Observatory

Years ago, I warmed to the idea of establishing a personal Board of Directors, a board made up of people - living or dead - whom I admire. The idea: Envision what wise humans would suggest I do in the face of major dilemmas and dicey situations. Reading quotes help me decide who among the famous should come to the table. 

Ben Franklin (1706 – 1790) who valued not wasting time - "The stuff life is made of" - was my first choice, followed by Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius, who ruled from 161 A.D. until his death in 180 A.D. Along with my artist husband, Vincent Mancuso, and Albert Einstein, they have served the longest.

Marcus was born on April 26, the same day as my 10-year old granddaughter. She strikes me as wise and may one day take a seat between my daughters.

Ben Franklin offered blunt words to live by - professionally and personally: “Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” 

Recently, I discovered about two dozen of my articles, published in The New York Times in 1989 – 1991, are archived on line. They cover issues large and small – from post traumatic stress syndrome among Cambodian refugees to preserving an historic Connecticut inn to building playgrounds for physically and emotionally disabled children to the Audubon’s seasonal raptor count from a hilltop in Bedford, New York, to how sports can be a source of healthy esteem for at-risk teens. No frivolous waste of time here. 

Worthy use of my personal time: This year, I logged onto a Florida Democratic phone bank and texted registered voters, asking them to vote and canvass voters. If they did act, I would be thrilled.

The words of the philosophical Marcus Aurelius challenge: “Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together; but do so with all your heart.”

In Florida, fate has bound me to some people who refer to the deplorable 45th president in glowing terms. Take last week: We met with a contractor to go over a master bath project. As he left our place, out of the blue, he dreamily said of Trump, “I don’t know how you feel; but I love the guy.”

How stunning! We didn’t ask this stranger for his opinion. What made him venture to say he loved the guy ... in our home?

Thanks to my Board of Directors:

• I did not show the contractor my “Resist” button. 
• He did not know in January 2017, the day after the Trump inauguration, we joined 26,000 protesters in a St. Pete Women’s March.
• Another day, we marched to defend science and support the Environmental Protection Agency. 
• Another day, we lined up with peaceful Quakers on a beach, forming the word “Resist.” (See photograph.) 
• Another day, we stood at the shore with thousands who oppose oil drilling in the Gulf of Mexico.
• Another day, we protested assault weapons used to slaughter young people in Orlando and Parkland.
• Any old day, I remain among the volunteer commentariat who rail against the outrages of Trump's administration in The New York Times.

I figure the contractor - just like his guy - does not care if he offends me or the majority of Americans in our country. As Trump ginned up his rally crowds with talk of “Beautiful barbed wire,” at the southern border, deploying soldiers for the "invasion" by Central American asylum seekers, the contractor’s statement seemed "In your face." So, much as I admire Marcus Aurelius, I’m struggling to love the contractor, let alone have him ever darken our door.  

Time to call a meeting of my board. Gather thoughts from the brilliant former President Barack H. Obama, the compassionate Mother Theresa and Dalai Lama, writer Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., clever Galileo and many more. They'll remind me I can calm down after the midterms, even as Republicans attack vote counters as they did in 2000. But, like Florida's son, the late singer Tom Petty - I won't back down.  

Democrats will control the House and serve as a check on the unhinged 45th president. I want to oppose his run-away administration and also respect the humanity of colluding Florida neighbors. They are selective in what they see and hear and wildly misinformed by right-wing outlets masquerading as news. Still, they have a right to be here, and we have a right to join the Women's March on January 20, 2019.

May we all seek wisdom for the living of these days.

Confucius is credited as the first to say, “Wherever you go, there you are.” Since I’m taking off blog time until October, I’d like to share moments captured in a handful of poems … when I was “there.” I am pleased to present such moments in paintings by my husband, Vincent Mancuso. Happy summer!

Tisbury, Vineyard Garden, pastel by Vincent Mancuso

Leaving the World
Massachusetts, (Circa 1990)

Children, dogs and seagulls!
Who could be more up
on the yuppie cruise to the Vineyard,
our first Friday bound for Oak Bluff?

Babies bounce in dad-packs.
Infants set to breast.
Toddlers ready for "All fall down”
as hounds cross paws for a rest.

Ferry slip to creaky dock­
under Cotton Candy clouds,
over white caps tipped for jaunty sails and
the straw hat, flower-brimmed crowd.

Off island rules surrendered.
Island rites abide.
Past Vineyard Haven's Five Corners.
Done best if one does not drive.

For a glimpse of Gayhead splendor,
of Edgartown's prim grandeur,
of West Tisbury Granary hopping,
or Oak Bluff's gingerbread tour.

Weekends slide toward dock lines,
packing a ferry or barge
as a sobering crowd on the mainland run
stands consoled under seafaring stars.

Edgartown, Sitting Pretty, pastel by Vincent Mancuso

Watching Jenny Mow
Connecticut (Circa 2005)

We’re all watching.
The lazy bees,
the pale flies on the deck,
the wetland’s chatty critters.

Jenny takes her first loop
on the sitting mower.
Like her first ride on a bike
at five, near six.

Jenny dares.
Jenny braves.
She takes her licks.

I’m under a golden yellow
Pier 1 umbrella
with a cut glass vase of
Queen Anne’s Lace.

We all share
the sweet smell of
fresh cut grass,
blue sky and
skirt of draping
August limbs.
The triumphant
lawn bride rides.
The beaming groom grins.

I heard
nothing really matters.
Nothing lasts.
Still, all of nature chatters
as our Jenny cuts the grass.

Candlewood North
Connecticut (Circa  2015)

A little life.
A big splash.
Race to the float,
but, first, better ask.

Watch a medic on Survivor's dock.
Wipe extra photos from the
Solstice fire.
Click, click, tock, tock.

The buzz of voices
turn a row of
tanned young moms.
The line of Adirondack chairs
gleam - as seen from the seaplane.

Trees cast shadows
as night gently falls.
As one by one,
the children call.

"Mommy, watch me!'
echoes across the lake.

"Not my circus.
Not my monkeys."

Charmed life,
for the kids' sake.

Stepping Out: A Dream Excursion 
France (Circa 1995)

Crossing shadows and cobble as
centuries of former lovers,
to the ramparts of Montelimar,
we hug vin, pain and fromage
past Inspector Concierge.

On a terrace in the twilight,
we breathe in the nectar of summer,
hear mothers calling children,
toasted children straggling home.

Miles to go before Paris,
flambé in our feast of France.
We blow kisses to beckon nightfall,
to bed in a moonlit trance.

Crossing fields of lavender and sunflowers,
we shrug off thunder showers.

We yield a tour day to a sidewalk café.
Memory preserves a flutter of lace.

Farmer aristocrats, vineyard bronzed,
pocket our francs in a marketplace.

Arm-in-arm to Paris,
shedding all such country quiet.
Beguiled by a city where bistros await,
we twirl up the tower,
scanning lights upon lights.
Anchored at heart,
as the Seine River flows,
to revel in love's awesome depths,
fearless heights.

Note: The dream became reality in 2011.

Lake George, watercolor by Reggie Morrisey

Lake George 
New York (Circa 1980)

What is wrong with this picture?
Incongruous lawn table and flower vase
competing with fronds in giant cups?
On the top of a triple-decker boat?

Such conspicuous consumption
has no right to float
in a tropical heat wave
above Lake George.

On a night like this,
all is cinema:
flowers, water, chairs flecked
with lights, cameras, action.

Laughing women and cursing gents
commence their show of fun
while boardwalk spectators eye
a needle fit for no camel and
a townie waitress shrugs off her despair.

Like a child shaking chills
on a winter's night, skating,
the only one there
when thirty miles of ripples freeze.
Still as the cash register.
Long as the line at welfare.

Like an idle cook stewing in his juice,
a new boy over his first fist fight.
Seems nowhere to go but up.
In such a "have and have not" world,
couldn't one deck be enough?

Free Fall at Sherwood Island
Connecticut (Circa 1985)

The kites are moored above the beach.
All is quiet by the Sound.
But there is a buzz of fighter planes
careening toward the ground.

The boys thrive at the landing strip
beyond the tall marsh grass.
White haired, gray haired, balding boys.
Victorious at last.

The beach head’s theirs
and all the clouds.
The parking lot
without the crowds
as yonder in their wildest blue,
a dog fight howls
and nose to tail,
the toy planes spin.
Diving, rising, diving again
to end in split-second saves.

What brushes with destruction
for the tiny motor blades.
What close calls for the fine wood wings.
What glory for each flag decal. 
Few could resist the spoils of a war
this autumn among ace flying pals.

Remington, The Raptor
New York (Circa 1990)

I have but one bare mews, and
I am not fooled by
the shadow of window bars
that creep across its walls.

I keep my own counsel,
waiting for a wing or
whisker to fall.

I awake for the hood
to cover my eyes,
for the glove and
then the leash.
For the human voice
caressing me
in its whispered,
soothing speech.

I wait for
the humming engine,
the whinnying horse,
the panting hounds,
the pointer’s yelping cry.

I wait for the jingle of
my bells to shake the sky.
To part from the earth,
rise above the mews and fly.

Lake shore, watercolor by Reggie Morrisey

Life Challengers Approaching Dusk
New York (Circa 1985)

Their rowboat bounds
for­ blindly glistening waves.
Lurching from the shore,
they bicker and spin
into the sun's path
till at last­
they are lost to my sight
like the first astronauts
gone behind the moon.

Speed boats,
bellowing motors and dudes,
now leeward, starboard
bow-to-stern loom.
Hooting teen seamen
guzzle a six pack or two
Hot dogging it for dockside pals.

Like mindless comets
they spear a wake.
Asteroids,
ready to forsake the wheel.
All I hear are engines
and squeals
as the mad dash into the sun.

Given the turbulent liquid space,
the day's end voyage
now seems a mistake.
Re-entry cannot come too soon
for my daring explorers,
my two young daughters.

"This is mission control.
Come in, please.
Tell me what you saw.
Bring samples
from the far-off shore.
Row here victorious
and nonchalant...”

The sun drops to silhouette
their boat into view.
At peace in a cove
riotous with crickets.

Bent over lilies­
bundled up for the night,
the girls are all right.

My eyes pull their oars hard,
will them to this shore,
passed macho vessels,
intoxicated with power.

As they dart across the lawn
and toss down the oars,
I wonder
who wills the wild boys home
at this bewitching hour.

My Rondout Creek, acrylic by Vincent Mancuso

The Last Sweep of Cottage #4
New York (September 2014)

With a child-sized broom,
I stoop to sweep through rooms,
past our cozy, creaky bed,
full, not queen.

I cross the wooden planks,
both dull and rich with age.
Peer at windows to my worlds,
to woods and an office screen.

To where the cat scratches a post
and a sleeper couch plays host
to kids and grandkids
every now and then …
for hugs and laughs
after shivering swims.

Past the glass-faced pantry,
so like the window sill,
once filled with fruits of the season
and a smiling plaster chef,
saintly patron of our bounty.

To the side door,
draped and sprayed
thick with Home Defense,
where I cupped all moths to exit
and coaxed their nightly flights.

Onto the screened-in porch,
our paradise of sorts.
For breakfast, rain or shine.
For dining in candlelight.
Here, I sweep what's left of wasps
downed in "us" or "them" fights.

I will not sweep the Skytop view
of sloping lawn and towering trees.
The path into the forest,
or hummingbirds on a breeze.

I hold fast northern creature songs
till once again we call this home
next year.

Chef on Sill, Cottage #4

While we live in beach country, it is museum country, too. In the annals of time, the arrival of two new museums on the St. Petersburg, Florida, art scene in 2018 will count for years to come. Both museums focus on American art and living artists. Both exist due to the passion of art patrons. Both elicit gratitude for lives devoted to creating beauty.

The James Museum

The opening of The James Museum, with its collection of 500 paintings, sculpture and jewelry centered on western art and wildlife art proved so welcoming a sight, my husband and I became founding members. We appreciate the exquisite architecture, artistry and attention to history found at this museum. Through association with the business community, we know museum patrons Tom and Mary James spent decades purchasing the works of living artists, including Native American artists, artists who admire Native American culture and artists who depict the stories of the Wild West. Examples of Mary James' Native American jewelry (and a display about the nation's turquoise mines) are housed in the museum's Jewel Box.

The focus on Native American culture honors its enduring qualities while acknowledging the darker moments in American history that threatened to destroy it. The lives of Native Americans, settlers and cattle herders and sweeping landscapes reflect that history as it played out in individual lives. Wildlife paintings and sculptures encompass international works. Enlightening details about the historical context, artist, style or subject matter of the works add depth to one's appreciation in viewing the art.

The Imagine Museum

The Imagine Museum is a celebration of the American Studio Glass Movement, which started in the 1960s when artists began working in private studios rather than factories. The museum's nine first-floor galleries and six second-floor galleries and its reported 500 works are simply astonishing to view. The word “gobsmacked” comes to mind. 

Founded by philanthropist Trish Duggan, it is a place to marvel at modern creations of blown glass, cast glass and flamework. In addition to the artists recognized as prime movers of studio glass, the museum exhibits works of international artists, new artists and trends in glass art that promise to make history. 

Both museums are great additions to St. Petersburg, with its 100-year old Morean Art Center and Dale Chihuly (glass) collection, Museum of Fine Arts, founded in 1965 and Dali Museum, which opened in 2011. As a bonus, traveling from place to place affords the opportunity to see striking murals created by local artists all over the city.

See samplings of images from both new museums.

The James Museum

Imagine Museum

Glass lace work on blue glass

Seagrass Amulet

Art-Deco Dining Scene

Siblings, a five-foot long work of cast glass

Winter Shadow, pair of striking tall glass statues

Two Very Different Glass Objects

Glass, Lights, Mirrors, Infinity

Growing up in New York City in the aftermath of World War II, I recall my Jewish neighbors bearing numbered tattoos on their arms that branded them as survivors of Nazi concentration camps. Beside the tattoos, they often wore grim masks of resignation and shrugged at whatever peril a day threatened. Nothing could compare with what they'd already suffered.

Long before I ached as a teenager reading “The Diary of Ann Frank,” I ached for the millions of men, women and children swept up in such a terrifying period of history. Seeing newsreel footage of camps finally being liberated produced such horror in me, I could not settle on any thought but, “How could this happen?”  I abhor attempts to trivialize or deny the Holocaust.

The American G.I.s who liberated the concentration camps are long dead, but surely, they recoiled at what their eyes had seen and suffered nightmare visions of skeletal victims. Long before post-traumatic stress attained its clinical name, these soldiers trudged through life as our brooding fathers, retreating into their own thoughts before the blue light of the TV screen.

Fast forward to 2018: We greet each day with more dread than I can ever recall, given the assault on the government by the 45th president and right-wing media and the attendant rise of Nazi White Supremacists poised to fight the so-called Deep State with military-style assault weapons and drive away non-whites with presidentially sanctioned contempt.

Too much silence greets the actions of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents as they increasingly detain immigrants with no criminal records, and the president lumps all immigrants in his disgust for M-13 gang “animals.” In one telling change, immigration issues once considered to be civil offenses with civil penalties are now treated as criminal offenses. We're told children of criminals must be separated from their families.

Even Betsy DeVos, the head of the Department of Education, expressed openness to ICE agents rounding up immigrant children in public school classrooms if communities elected to do so, a violation of the U.S. Constitution.

White House Chief of Staff John Kelly responded to questions about ICE “losing track” of 1,475 unaccompanied immigrant children in the system when they were transferred to the Health and Human Service’s Office of Refugee Resettlement by telling NPR, "The children will be taken care of — put into foster care or whatever.”

“Whatever.”

I see photos of detained children put to sleep on floor mats and covered with foil blankets. I wonder what U.S. agents could possibly feel as they patrol the cages holding these hapless "illegal aliens."

Given America’s historic pride in welcoming "Those yearning to breathe free,” there must be at least a gnawing disconnect for patriots who never thought they signed up to conduct this cruel operation, even in the name of deterrence. Americans liberate the oppressed.

On May 7, Attorney General Jeff Sessions vowed to 100% separate children from parents attempting to enter the country along the southern border (or authorized entry points) even if seeking asylum. “If you don’t want your child separated, then don’t bring them across the border illegally.”

Senator Jeffrey Merkley of Oregon, denied entry to a detention center, said, “This isn’t zero tolerance; this is zero humanity.”

According to the American Civil Liberties Union, the administration counts on confusion among citizens to advance an anti-immigarion agenda and widen the net for detainees, this time targeting relatives who would dare to step forward to sponsor children in custody. Given this scenario, more children could be left in government custody, at the mercy of "whatever."

How desperate do parents in unstable Central American countries have to be to risk separation or send their children across the border unaccompanied? As desperate as Jews secreting their children out of Germany from 1933 to 1939? Note: In a U.S. that did not comprehend the seriousness of Nazi crimes, 20,000 Jewish children were ultimately denied entry here.

By making this comparison, I do not trivialize the enormity of the Holocaust. I wish to avoid its modern equivalent on our soil. I wish to stop asking, “How can this happen?” 

American Civil Liberties Union

May 4 news item: A volcano is erupting on the Big Island of Hawaii and plans are underway to evacuate endangered communities as ash, toxic gas and lava spew high into the air.

May 4 news item: Rudy Giuliani, former New York mayor and latest roving attorney for Donald Trump, spewed a stream of lies for the 45^th president, and nothing is happening to protect the nation from the pelting untruths meant to bury the billionaire’s unsavory history.

Nature and human history shutter with destructive events. Part of Pompeii, Italy, remains buried under 13 to 20 feet of ash from an eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 A.D. Archeologists have been unearthing the remains of the once-thriving town since 1748. It takes time to discover, uncover and preserve the evidence of life lived in its villas, shops and kitchen plots and by the stunned citizens who froze in their tracks under a torrent of pumice and ash.

On the other side of the world in 2018, it appears about 1,700 residents of housing estates around Mount Kilauea will suffer a less harsh fate and flee for safer ground.

But, what of us and the torrent of presidential lies – at this point reportedly numbering 3,000? What of us and our daily slog through jolting news headlines implying crimes and misdemeanors, followed by surveys of unfazed Trump supporters who airily dismiss them. There is no safer ground for us.

Stuck with these mind-boggling naysayers as their ill-equipped leader barges into delicate peace talks and trade talks and opens our coasts for offshore oil drilling, we wince and wait. All evidence is as perilous as rumblings far underground yet hard to detect for those who refuse to notice them. “It’s nothing, folks, move along.”

As to Giuliani, an aging New York City borough boy, he lies lavishly to a kindred demographic on Fox News, gamely selling the proverbial bridge from his home town to all takers. Meanwhile, they fuss over a potty-mouthed female comedian’s spin on a correspondence dinner roast as if that really matters. “Tut-tut” unless it’s spewing from their president’s potty mouth.

We have no idea how much seismic damage Trump will do to America, though he and his administration have left some clues: shamelessly preserving assault weapons for the NRA; naming preposterous nominees to government agencies; breaking the bonds of nuclear treaties, justice, safety nets and the environment. Nail them on insane shenanigans? Not while Republicans control Congress. It takes time to discover, uncover and preserve evidence, especially when brazen lawmakers shovel back over whatever comes to light.

Which reminds me:  May to November is the time to push back on the old boys and rustle up enthusiasm for the midterm election of new lawmakers, even if candidates seem like work-a-day public servants – not like the lounge-lizard comic of a president at a rally, attacking a free press and stirring the crowd – his blah, blah, blahs building to a ho-hum crescendo of unprecedented greatness. Actually, public servants are allowed to just be people like you with sane ideas and the courage to take on the public’s shell-shocked lassitude.

It’s the lassitude that troubles, the puttering around in our kitchen plots while the lies pile on, burying us. It's not like that hasn’t happened before.

"Those who dwell among the beauties and mysteries of the earth are never alone or weary of life. Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.” ~ Rachel Carson, 20th Century nature writer and scientist

Rachel Carson, renowned for her 1962 book, “Silent Spring” with its warning of the dangers of the indiscriminate use of pesticides, is often associated with the movement to establish Earth Day on April 22, 1970. Earth was her beloved domain.

Having just returned from the Hawaiian Islands, for hours mesmerized in a cruise along Kauai’s 17-mile Napali Coast with its 4,000-foot mountains and canyon, I feel drawn to connect with her and all who never weary of minding our planet, though it seems a long slog.

Fifty-six years ago, Carson felt the force of chemical industry foes who established a war chest to attack her as an un-American kook. They succeeded in disparaging Carson among conservatives. Even today, the right-wing operates websites maintaining “Rachel was wrong.”

Carson might be surprised to learn this month people will march to defend science, especially environmental science, in more than 200 international venues. As others rally to defend American society against assault weapons, thousands are pushing back on a misguided Environmental Protection Agency and it's turn for the worst.

As current events meet Carson’s dark predictions, what to do but affirm life itself is worth defending, especially given the loose talk by warmongers of shiny objects - nuclear weapons being lifted from their cradles and hurled into our atmosphere.

                                                                                 * * *
Carson said she maintained three homes: her residence in Maryland where she worked for a precursor of the United States Department of the Interior; her summer home in the coast of Maine, where she explored marine life; and the home she inhabited in her mind when writing.

In her lifetime, Carson studied anemones to whales. In Maine, she trod a rocky shore to collect sea life samples, examine them under a microscope and return them to the sea. Long before she exposed harm in the atmosphere, her diligence netted readers poetic and scientific prose.

Having lived in Florida since 1995, spent summer months in the Hudson Valley since 2013 and decades writing, I relate to Carson’s three homes. For blissful years on an island within the City of St. Petersburg, I marveled at the dolphins, manatees, sharks, sting rays and schools of fish swimming by our bayou dock. In New York, I celebrate the efforts of the Hudson River environmental group Riverpool and the late folksinger Pete Seeger in cleaning the river.

And, in the days before publishing a blog, I retreat to consider thoughts worth sharing with you. As writer Kyle Chayka's said in a New York Times article about the destination of digital nomads,” finding it possible to “block out your sense of place entirely and exist in a … space that could be anywhere.”

Wherever you go, there you are, whether venturing out or into your mind. The 1960s spiritual guru Ram Dass, who wrote the book, “Be Here Now,” suggested moving “towards … a kind of joy that is not in time.”

So, the thought is to exist happily, everywhere, out of time. Fleetingly happy as one can be cruising along the Napali Coast - despite today’s alarming headlines. Or, gathering with those of like mind who will not suffer this gorgeous planet's destruction in silence. 

You might be interested in: 

On a Farther Shore: The Life and Legacy of Rachel Carson, Author of Silent Spring by William Souder

Top Environmental Non-Profits

When I worked for a corporation, I interviewed women executives for Women's History Month articles about their rise to power. While these women indeed impressed me, I believed such powerful women went about hardly noticed in halls of learning, the law, social action, the healing arts, athletics, entertainment and the creative arts. 

Herein is my 2018 personal Women's History Month homage to powerful women. I recall 32 women (listed in alphabetical rather than chronological order of our encounters). As they serendipitously entered my life over the years in New York, California and Florida, I discovered what made them remarkable. 

Margaret Allen: This retired British World War II government clerk was a transplant to New York when we became neighbors in the 1970s. As she tended her formal English garden to perfection, the charming elderly woman also kept an apron-pocket full of candies she called "Sugarplums" to hand out to my children. After her death at 80-something, I learned she had served her wartime government as a secret agent and courier. Could have fooled me.

Anita Bartholomew penned wide-ranging articles as a contributing editor of Reader's Digest. This determined friend went on to write and ghost write books before turning to life as a book doctor. 

Lois Bartlett-Tracy defied convention in the 1920s as she rode on horseback (in trousers) to the hammocks of Florida's West Coast to spend her days creating plein air paintings. In mid-century, she exhibited works in galleries by the name L.B. Tracy to conceal her sex. Before dying at age 106, she won recognition for her modern art. An afternoon interview with Lois for a Sarasota publication resonates: she in her 90s, legally blind yet still painting in her studio, recalled how she refused to stop creating until she made the grade in a man's world.

Carole Bidnick, literary agent, sold books for major publishing houses before setting up her own agency. She also developed and shared her literary network; in the 1980s pointing me toward my most intriguing California freelance gig, assisting the prolific science writer Timothy Ferris in pre-production of his first TV special, The Creation of the Universe. As I see it, this friend of the road introduced me to a modern-day Galileo.

Betty Bivins, Retired United States Marine Corp who served in World War II and the Korean Conflict; Los Angeles schools' English specialist; and owner of The Write Group, she developed a precise business-writing course for employees of major California corporations and trained me to teach it. Her attention to detail thereafter served as my polestar.

Phyllis Bober, Ph. D., Archeologist: This Renaissance scholar and New York University professor was the most extraordinary woman I encountered in my teens. She was educated in an uncommon field, intelligent and gracious. After meeting this neighbor on our tree-lined street, I became babysitter to her two little boys, eager to learn from her. I remember Phyllis dispatching me to her herb garden to clip chives for the children's scrambled-eggs. Recently, I learned of the late professor's writings on medieval gastronomy.  

Nancy Callahan, Director, Tampa Oratorio Singers (TOS) and university-trained organist, has led major church choirs for decades and overseen TOS since 2003. My former maestra's command of 70+ TOS singers and orchestra during classical concerts is breathtaking to behold. 

Wende Caporale, Portrait artist: When my two daughters, then teenagers, posed for summer portrait classes led by pastel artist Daniel Greene in his North Salem, NY studio barn, his artist wife Wende rendered a pastel portrait study of one daughter and gave it to me as a present. Wende and I connected as women with a fierce love for our children. I treasure the memory of our conversations as much as the extraordinary portrait artist's gift.

Carlene Daggett, Jewelry designer and free spirit, said, while living on a sailboat she sought a creative outlet requiring little space for work and storage. She learned to create jewelry with beads. After settling in a Florida home, she advanced to add gems, sea glass, coral and metal-smithing to her repertoire. With her equally free-spirited husband, my friend camped and biked hundreds of miles around Europe and the United States. 

Joy J. DryFoos, AAR: From 1969 to 1981, Joy was a research and planning director for an institute for social change. In 1981, she was an independent researcher/writer supported by the Carnegie Corporation. I served as her researcher in New York for a 100-year history of child healthcare in America. Joy was ardent in promoting community schools with a holistic approach to students, including their physical well-being. She was a social pioneer I was privileged to serve.

Mary Helen Evans, MSW, CSW: A former member of the social work faculty at Fordham University in New York and adoption specialist, this friend has guided generations of social workers and paired children from around the world with parents in the United States. As my supervisor in an early social work career, she mentioned I was a good case-study writer, giving me the nudge to embark on a career in journalism.

Linda Kasal Fusco, Ph.D., is author of the 2017 "Navigating Mathland …", former math and science educator, accomplished musician (voice and instrument), artist, ice hockey player, sailor, scuba diver and explorer of Loch Ness in Scotland is a most well-rounded friend of the road for whom there are no limits. 

Gwen Graham is an attorney who served as the U.S. Representative for Florida's 2nd congressional district from 2015 to 2017. She is the daughter of Bob Graham, a former Florida governor and senator. Smart and personable, she deserves my volunteer energy as candidate for governor.

Foxy Gwynne, for years a newspaper columnist of Something Foxy, is a bon vivant who breezily drew admirers to her New York home at the first mention of a party. Foxy’s parties rivaled the Algonquin writers table, a Paris salon and Venetian carnivale. Her entertaining columns about people and places were keenly observed and just as breezy. If ever there was a living Blythe Spirit, it is Foxy.

Becky Harkins, former manager in Information Technology in Florida, fostered women's careers in what was a predominantly male field. She demanded excellence for advancement, conveying the directive with a steel will to match her Southern charm.

Kay Hayward, served as producer of independent films and several segments of the 12-part contemporary American history educational series I co-authored, From Cold War to Hostage Crisis 1946 - 1981. She was a model of organization in planning and executing film shoots whom I imitated in producing short films.

Barbara Jacobs was an executive at Aon, a global giant with U.S. offices in the Twin Towers on September 11, 2001. While most of her colleagues died that day, Barbara survived and soldiered on. She worked for Aon until her retirement; then she fulfilled a dream by training to be a chef in the Big Apple. I admired this friend, who died in 2012, for her courage, resilience and fine mind. 

Rebecca Holly Marshall, M.D., is a doctor of internal medicine and a supremely competent diagnostician. Her patients number in the several hundreds, and her rigorous standards and work ethic match those of any supremely competent man. So modest, my Florida doctor would be surprised to be on this list.

Alice McCullough devoted forty-years to being a director of a nursery school in New York, lovingly shepherding children in her care, including my own. I can picture Alice coaxing the shyest children right out of their shells. Like most teachers, she made a difference in countless lives.

Sr. Jean Thomas McHenry, O.P.: As a Sparkill, NY Dominican nun, she steered this newbie through college admissions and early career opportunities, remaining a friend for half a century. She is among the many strong, brilliant nuns who influenced my view of feminism as a vital social force. Today, its foes dismiss feminists as "Nasty Women." Pray tell that to Mother Superior.

Tessa Melvin, magazine and New York Times writer: With her exuberant spirit, she managed to be all business, upbeat and an ally in the trade.

Kimberly Morehouse, actress of stage and television, is a vivacious, accomplished performer living in New York whom I call friend. She is an inspiration for her determination and achievements in a tough business.

Jillian Nelson is a photographer, former underwater archeologist and Associated Press reporter, who, whenever we chance to meet in New York, exhibits a dazzling love of life, cats, flowers and all beauty.

Sheila Peterson founded Friends of Karen, a New York charity for families of children with life-threatening illness. Her compassion led her to establish an agency to aid financially beleaguered families. It was my honor to interview her for a newspaper and to write a second article after Sheila was killed in a car accident.

Lynn Pippenger, who retired as a Florida corporate chief financial officer in 2012, was named Philanthropist of the Year for giving more than $26 million to a university school of business. Hired as a payroll clerk in 1969 by a newish firm, she started its HR department, filed the papers taking the company public and introduced an employee financial education program. I knew her as a mild-mannered role model who made great use of her 33-work years and beyond.

Andrea Raynor, a Harvard-educated minister, hospice chaplain and author, has the soul of a poet and talent for 20+-year friendships. While assistant pastor at a Connecticut church, she led worship services for inmates at Danbury Federal Correctional Institution. In the fall of 2001, she began volunteering at Ground Zero as one of the chaplains ministering to first responders and blessing the remains of those who died. She is the chaplain of the Rye, NY fire department.  

Dotty Smith, newspaper editor, was an engaging, natural coach of reporters at a Westchester County, NY Gannett newsroom and at her memorable, women-reporters-only Block Island, RI get-away. Faced with today's assaults on journalistic integrity, I am insulted on her behalf and on behalf of fellow news writers.

Gabriele Stauf is a Registered Yoga Teacher (RYT) with decades spent teaching college students and the general public in Bainbridge and Americus, Georgia, and Florida. While a new instructor to me, Gabriele embodies the gifts of inner strength and bliss I have experienced in yoga practice since I was 25.

Alice Stewart, Director of Social Work for children in institutional and foster care in New York, was sensitive to her staff and devoted to the welfare of children in their care. More than 40 years after attending her staff meetings, I recall her leadership and my sense of pride and responsibility in being on her team.

Carole Torreano, retired vice president in Information Technology and Ironman competitor: As an executive in Florida, she commanded the respect of hundreds of IT professionals. She also relished athletic challenges and urged novice athletes to sign up for U.S. Masters' swim meets, sprint triathlons, triathlons and Ironman events - all the way to Hawaii. This great motivator introduced the skeptical me to my swim meet and sprint-triathlete self.

Gretchen van Aken, actress and singer, veered off Broadway onto an unlikely course, becoming a Yale-educated minister serving churches in New York and university campus ministries in Florida. Retired, she fused both aspects of her life into a one-woman show, "Called Girl," performed in Florida venues. This vibrant friend is an Auntie Mame in show biz and life.

Becky Weaver, IBM engineer, meticulously executed her advancement in technology, at a young age settling into an Armonk, NY headquarters' position. She made time to focus on her passion for singing as a soprano soloist and to buy, renovate and decorate a graceful old house in Connecticut. All of this friend's efforts were simply exquisite, making her death from cancer at age 42 a blow to all who knew her.

I marvel at all of these women, grateful they conveyed so many facets of personal power and ways to be a unique force of nature. This list is by no means complete: Absent are my family members, school pals and many coworkers, friends and famous women and men who influenced my life. Still, this is a giant thank you for the good fortune to have encountered role models I was seeking. They appeared at forks in my road with signs that read, “Go this way.” They still do.

This is a banner year for remembering women have substance; women have personal agency, meaning they are humans "through which power is used or something is achieved."

"When a terrible thing happens, and it's your own damn fault, there is no closure."
Russell Banks

Until I sat in the darkened auditorium at St. Petersburg, Florida's, Eckerd College on the evening of January 20, listening to Russell Banks read these words from a short story, I had only faint knowledge of this literary giant. Across the aisle from me and hunched forward, sat an attentive Stewart O'Nan, whom I know to be a great writer. Both men led workshops in Eckerd's weeklong Writers-in-Paradise program and appeared at readings open to the public.

During an onstage interview in which Banks was asked if he had ever been a mentor, O'Nan rose from the audience to make a dramatic gesture of thanks. And, as we filed out of the auditorium, the author of West of Sunset, Emily Alone and Last Night at the Lobster said Banks was immeasurably generous as a mentor.

The night offered nourishing food for thought. Russell Banks can write so well he makes people laugh out loud one minute and weep the next. I admire such talent and the drive it took to refine it, starting with intense reading he began as a teenager in the local library, of books he selected "in alphabetical order." It was a delight to learn about him and add the name Banks to my 2018 to-read list.

I found it equally delightful to be at the Dunedin Fine Arts Center on the afternoon of January 23, viewing 663 miniature art works by 170 artists in an annual presentation by the Miniature Art Society of Florida.

The trick is to pace oneself to appreciate so much painstaking creativity. Magnifying glasses dangled next to 48 panels - each holding perhaps a dozen works - magnifiers permitting close inspection of sculpture, scrimshaw and paintings of every media and subject, in sizes as small as a 1 x 1.5 inches. Among the human figure, still life, wild life, marine and landscape works, my favorite was a 2.25 x 1-inch oval landscape on canvas made of paint strokes and infinitesimal embroidery stitches for its greenery and stone bridge. Sublime.

Such experiences suit my mission to be dazzled by life. I crave being reminded existence contains multitudes, that much of life is worthy of attention.  

News on January 21 of the death of Ursula K. Le Guin, 88, a highly imaginative writer of science fiction and fantasy, reminded me of her creations. Her "Lathe of Heaven," a 1971 classic book, tells the story of a character whose dreams become reality. Ordered by a State psychiatrist to dream of a world where humans ceased to fight each other, he awakens to a world united ... under alien attack.  For years, literati dismissed Le Guin for her fantasy and fiction, and, thankfully, she ignored her detractors. I count her among the best writers in my personal bibliotheca. Her lesson to me: Humans should dream better dreams.

The lesson I took from the words of Russell Banks: The terrible, unimaginable things now happening in this world are not "your own damn fault." Not if you are among those who "Resist and Persist," as a protest sign in a January 21 Women's March event said.  True, one can be reduced to tears at having to sing, "We shall overcome," at a 2018 rally as millions sang in the 1960s. But, hey, we did not ask to usher in a world of hate and fear. So, I say keep picturing an end to the madness and comeuppance for the madmen, i.e., closure.

Final Words from the Pen of Ursula K. Le Guin

"As you read a book word by word and page by page, you participate in its creation, just as a cellist playing a Bach suite participates, note by note, in the creation, the coming-to-be, the existence, of the music. And, as you read and re-read, the book of course participates in the creation of you, your thoughts and feelings, the size and temper of your soul."

Sublime.

Note: I chose to share a photo of four works of art by my late brother, Ed Morrisey, that are in keeping with the miniature theme: a small and larger sculptor, a metal mesh block and the beaded bracelet he wore.