they let the keyboard player go

          

August 10 • 2026

Sometimes I make a list of titles to kickstart myself, like they had to let the keyboard player go because he wouldn't play the right chords. The lead singer had to shout his name, Gary! Gary! Gary! to remind him it was his turn. And still, he comes in late. Gary was sad about being let go, who isn't, and asked for a second chance. 

The only problem ~ he'd been with the band since January.

• • • • • • • • • • • 

It's been a seasonal affective disorder kind of summer which is why all I can muster is a scrap of titles. SAD = instead of icy, cold, dark at 4:00 ~ it's dusty, dry and extremely hot which is why I long to watch Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood with my daughters. We'd curl up on the sofa with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cold milk, a handful of goldfish crackers. Except when your kid turns 45 and lives on the east coast, that's not realistic. And the baby, @ 26, lives an hour south and works full-time. 🐠 

I'm pretty sure, if they were here, they'd watch with me 

• • • • • • • • • • • •

Be like Wolfgang is the young guy at Trader Joe's, always smiling, a healing orb of a human being stacking apples or bags of celery. When he's ringing people up at the cash register, I go through his lane. Even if there's a line. Besides needing bananas every couple of days, my frequent shopping outings are to orbit around his light. 

Besides, it's freezing there and makes me think of winter. 

• • • • • • • • • • • • 

Scratched in my daily planner for August is:

artists are people who suffer when they don't do their work, true. 

and...

spotted towhee. look on the ground and listen for shuffling leaves.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

XO b 🐝

                       Jesse 🎂

writing from home

 

July 1 • 2026

I'm writing from home 

where I spend most days with 

dog

desk

dirt in the garden.

I'm writing from home

distractions everywhere

apple cores for the squirrels, on the falling down fence, 

drifting back into Monica's lavender bush. 

I used twine, I love twine, to mend it.

Four planks tethered like row boats at a dock.

I'm writing from home, 

tea cup, third cup

cool air, dark sky

it might be 95 degrees in Vermont this week.

I'm writing from home 

sitting on conversation with J who said she chooses to live in Disney World, or is it land? I nearly choked on her insistence I don't have privilege. I live in other dimensions, she said, This place, thumb and index together is one small piece. This world, this life. It's all a game. Follow up texts, odd explanations. 

My wanting to shake her sequestered self.

I'm writing from home 

and grief over Venezuelans buried under concrete and dust. They found an 18 day old baby, Juan David, and later his mother, alive, thirty-two hours under rubble. I stayed alive for my son. Milagros! Recently deported immigrants sent back to Caracas died in the quake. 

We're under rubble here, whipping flags on cars, babies in prisons, algae pools.

I'm writing from home 

where I swirl around, sweeping kitchen floor, sleeping dog fur, green maple leaves, the news of the day,  distractions and delicious cool air, and what stories will I share with my college students. This is a simple class, four weeks ~ a summer camp of stories and poems + where did you live when you were twelve?

I'm writing from home

legs resting on my desk, ankles crossed, 

no birds, listing fence,

my tea lukewarm

my thumb grows numb holding the pen

my heart, less achy with this scribbling on paper,

in a simple composition book.

xo b

even if it seems impossible

 

June 5 • 2026

I put this in my wallet months ago. 

Each time I open it, this is what I see. 

trust. relax. breathe. everything is fine. really.

It helps. My shoulders drop. I exhale. 

• • • • • • • • • • • •

Every day is an avalanche of grifting, gaslighting, blatantly criminal, cruel behavior from our rogue government. This week, a row of white men in the Oval Office were chatting it up about coal, while the wannebe dictator slept in his swivel chair, head lolling to the side. They're standing right behind him! Meanwhile, Marco Rubio testifying in front of yet another committee, was shown a video of his sleeping boss. He adamantly refused to admit Trump was asleep. 

One of many WTF's 😳!

How do the gaslighters and liars look at themselves in the mirror? 

How do they look their kids in the eye? 

People are still refusing, doubling down even, that Jan. 6th was a pretty normal day. Nothing to see here, while a mob stormed the capitol, Nazi + Confederate flags, Trump flags, were used to beat police officers. Some of the mob were police officers. That was five years ago. So why does it feel like yesterday?  

Is anyone else feeling the exhaustion of staying up? 

Some days, I'm doggy paddling. A sad dog. The challenge is to not get stuck paddling but to remember that all this is fluid, constantly changing, impermanent. 

Some days, like yesterday, I went to the Y, jumped around in a cardio dance class, sang a rollicking Happy Birthday to our teacher, Ilene, and left feeling high, endorphins firing.

I'm deeply aware of my privilege as I write this in the quiet of my peaceful home, plants and birds outside the open window. A whisper of breeze.  I won't be swept up, locked up, taken from my family for months, possibly deported to a country that is not mine, because of my Spanish accent, immigration status, skin color ___________. 

Every day is an avalanche of fuckery. 

This morning I told myself, it's okay, be a sad dog, but not every day.

Keep swimming, paddling, jumping around. 

Speak up, call, write, protest, rage, fight the fascists.

Write yourself a note today.

What reminder does your spirit need?

trust. 

relax. 

breathe. 

everything is fine. 

really.

even if it seems impossible.

XO b 🐝

even the chairs feel alive

 

Sunday • April 19 • 2026

Daisy sleeping in the sun

blueberry skies

green mulberry tree, wide leaves

lemon trees + pots of succulents

birds + songs

bare feet on cool bricks

even the chairs feel alive. speak then.

• • • • • • • • • •

notice the peace here, woman.

notice how light hits the sunken brick by the rocking chair

notice the sounds of your husband in the kitchen

through the open door and scent of lemon

spoon drawer opens, shuts

stir the coffee, sugar, milk

hum of plane, bird chatter

lemons say, 

hang in

relax

you'll be picked 

or drop to the ground some day,

but not today.

namaste, lovelies.

xo B

still back there

 

February 27 • 2026

On the table are tulips, a gift from Jennifer, the cashier at Trader Joe's. 

Through the kitchen window, birds at the feeder.

finch 

wren. 

sometimes the woodpecker.

Fat squirrel watching from the tilted wooden fence. 

Beyond that Olivia and Makayla with their Dad, starting their morning walk to school, past the sage and cacti and pillowy lavender bushes in front of Anne's house.

Looking east, there's snow and mountains and Minnesota. There's Renee Good. Dead body slumped in the front seat of her car, shot by a rabid ICE thug. 

It was a Wednesday morning. She'd just dropped her six year old son at school.

She said, "It's okay, Dude. I'm not mad at you."

Renee was smiling.

He shot her in the face.

He said, "Fucking bitch." 

She was executed in broad daylight.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

I'm still back there. 

where's the f*cking portal?

 

September 12 • 2025

For the record, I'm coming off a minute of frothing over posts on Instagram about the murder of a racist purveyor of hate who is now the latest martyr for the cult. While doing laundry and emailing students, I'm intermittently scrolling and posting poems about guns in America and how maybe children should be honored for laying down their lives to protect the 2nd amendment. Emails about marches and protests and pleas for donations to fight fascism keep rolling in and then I remember I forgot to put fresh water in the dog's dish. Which is outside because that's the only place she'll drink water. I get it. 

Follow your weird, Daisy the dog.

I'm wondering where the f*ck is the portal which was all the rage this past Tuesday, September 9, which just happened to be my birthday. It was a 999 day with 2025 adding up to the final 9. Numerology is a thing in my family. It's how we deal with aging. I turned four this birthday which feels about right. I spent hours in the sandbox, spaced out, making roads for our collection of matchbox cars and giving zero thought to my thighs. It's feeling like a portal. 

 My four-year old sandbox self. 

Maybe the portal was me and Daisy walking on Topanga Boulevard this morning. Waiting for the light, I saw a West Hills Towing truck across the street. The driver was gazing at me. Yes, it was a gaze. In this tiny pocket of time, we had a gaze-fest, which prompted us to smile at each other which prompted him to open his window which prompted me to shout, "Have a great day," as the light turned green. He gave me a peace sign and drove away. 

Portal-like, right?

Bring on the portals. They're everywhere.

A doorway, a gate? A way in, way out? 

An entrance to more gazing and waving, more peace signs. 

 love, b xo

Note: Could be a portal in my back pocket where the very cool blue photo at the top of this page was taken. 🌀

we will not break

 

April 2 • 2025

At the end of last summer, it was discovered that my heart was broken. Meaning I had aortic stenosis and no way around it, would need to replace the valve. Or, in another year, maybe two tops, I'd die from heart failure. I had little to no symptoms, except for a slowing down of my usual energy, and sometimes shortness of breath when hoofing it up the hill with Daisy the dog. The steep hill that previously had been no big deal.

Fast forward to last Wednesday when I had what's called a TAVR, replacing the tired, constricted valve with a new one by snaking it up through my groin. Ten years ago, I'd have gone under the knife (or saw?) through open-heart surgery. Instead I came home the next day, resting and reading and a few days later walking Daisy. 

This is the miracle of science and medicine and research. 

Another heartbreak is where we are right now.

Every day, it gets worse and I wonder, how can we be here. 

A month ago, I hammered out a rough draft called: 

I ended up not sharing because of technical difficulties + also because the more I wrote, the more I wanted to break something. We are living in the middle of an active coup.  The current "administration" is dismantling every good thing.  MAGA foreheads remain on the floor, boot licking continues. It's shocking. The very people who get lifetime health benefits paid for by the American people are set on destroying our very way of life, as long as it's not theirs. 

This is not hyperbole. They are trying to break us.

But you know this. It's the cruelty that is killing me. Us. 

But we are not broken. And today, for the first time since I came home last week, I feel a sliver of hope. Besides the people protesting, marching, shutting down Tesla dealerships, I'm feeling the light from the amazing 25 hour and 4 minute filibuster by Senator Cory Booker of New Jersey. I am buoyed by his integrity, stamina, intellect, and huge heart. Compassionate heart. As my husband said this morning, Senator Booker put a boot on the neck of segregationists like the racist Strom Thurmond, who filibustered in 1957 trying to defeat the Civil Rights Act and "held the record" at 24 hours and 18 minutes. Thurmond had a bathroom break and read the encyclopedia.

Senator Booker never left the podium, never sat down. He read letters from Americans imploring him to bring the fight. One letter from a Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin voter.

Which brings me to Wisconsin. Despite spending millions of dollars and buying people off, and looking like the ignorant fool that he is, Elon Musk in a cheese head, Wisconsin voters did not bend the knee. The Honorable Susan Crawford will be seated on the Wisconsin Supreme Court. This matters. 

Every ray, every sliver of light that we can bring to this fight, we must. 

After last week's procedure and all my fear around it, I thought I'd feel chipper, upbeat. But I felt low. Nervous with this new thing in my body, scared that I was going to break somehow. But I woke this morning and felt lifted. We will not break. 

all my love,

B 🐝

i didn't have to do anything

December 1 • 2024

I don't know what to write about except this surprising thing. I remember the sensation clearly. The parachute was tacked to the ground on the hill overlooking Plainfield. All I had to do was lay down on top of the white cloth and let it lift me in the air. The way it lifted me in the air, floating, flying, me doing nothing at all but giving into the softness of it all. A puff of wind lifted me high, a large hand holding this small human. 

Blue sky above me. 

It lay me down on the ground, a green leaf landing on the grass.

My beloved brother was there. 

I remember that too.

The miracle:

I didn't have to do anything to make it happen.

xo b

[There's a photo somewhere of that time in Vermont. I'll look for it]

we waved to everyone

 

Maybe it's September

maybe it's another birthday

maybe it's the full moon, gold coin in the night sky

tiny bats flitting overhead

bunnies still as statues near the Mexican sage

Waving to a dog walker across the street

I remembered the ride Jesse and I took down from Vermont.

We decided early on to wave to everyone:

People on front porches, at traffic lights, 

The whole way down the New York State Thruway,

truckers smiling back at us in their 18-wheelers,

Route 84 west into Pennsylvania, through historical Milford, and

the two-lane road surrounded by forest,

 and the Delaware River on our left,

we waved to everyone. 

xo b

it's a wide net

September 3 • 2024

The last time I was here (February 29th of this year), I was restless, writing about falling back into the waiting arms of strangers = one of those trust exercises 😳, needing to leap, but not like people in squirrel suits jumping off cliffs. 

Anyway, I was feeling pretty squirrely.

What does squirrely mean?

Squirrely is a slang term meaning eccentric, flighty, or slightly odd, as in There was something squirrely about the way the suspect gave his alibi.

- dictionary.com

Yes, like that, except without the need for an alibi. 

My daughters will attest to this as back in Pennsylvania, this squirrely energy would sometimes result in a big-ass bonfire in our back yard. We had a sweeping back yard with many trees. Branches were always falling from wind and storms. Sometimes I'd get struck, like lightning in a way, and go out and start a roaring fire in the middle of the day. This was not a let's make s'mores fire. Clearly it was the outer manifestation of my turbulent insides. 

Claire, help me carry this old dresser out. It's falling apart. Time to burn this baby.

Jesse, lift the other side of this old table. It's done for. Let's burn it.

Or, they'd find their mother in the far back of the yard, pitchfork in hand, tending to a blazing fire and throwing the ball for Chewy, our beloved dog. 

Last night I felt a tad squirrely.

But now I live in Southern California. I don't make fires. California, home of the stunning Pacific Ocean, canyons, redwoods, and raging wildfires. With darkness cooling things down, I went out into the backyard (postage stamp) and moved (more like muscled) the wobbly garden table and dusty pots to a different location, raked leaves fallen from the dry lemon and mulberry trees, + enjoyed an ice cold beer under the smattering of stars when it was all done. 

I'm back here, all these months later. 

Every day I make a list because I like lists.

Today's list included:

Write a blog, it can be really short, about nothing special. 

Part of my restlessness has to do with not showing up here. Simply connecting with you, dear reader. Even if it's just one, that is one more than if I didn't share. Waiting for something special or magical to strike ain't happening. Write about the dog. Or the way my girls still laugh when they remember me like a crazy woman at the bonfire. Write about how you can't believe this is a razor-thin election. Or don't write about that. Write about the woman who walks in the mornings when you're walking Daisy, the new dog. How she's bent over looking at the road, and yet, she's out there pumping her arms and moving. Write about how it feels to have another birthday coming up. The privilege of it. And ticking of the clock of it.

Squirrels, leaping, bonfires, art, clearing the clutter, writing, walkers.

It's a wide net, this being alive. 

love,

b

Like a Human Feather

 

February 29, 2024

What I mean by leap is being on the edge of a cliff, being one of those people wearing a flying squirrel outfit, arms spread wide. Leaping catching the wind currents, flying. And somehow, miraculously not plunging to the hard rocky ground below.

What I mean by leap is that game, leap frog. One person squatting down and another, gently putting their hands on the back of the crouching person and hopping, leaping, over them. Then that frog jumping up and repeating the hop/leap. And on and on. 

What I mean by leap is that saying, Leap and the net will appear. This reminds me of a teacher staff development I went to years ago. It was one of those trust building/ropes courses. I remember being up on a platform looking down at a group of people in two rows facing each other, arms locked together like a ladder on its side. I was supposed to turn around and fall back into their human net of arms. In those days, (and sometimes still) I felt the other shoe was going to drop any minute so trusting people to catch me was questionable. 

Everyone was smiling up at me, waiting. Some part of me said, okay and I turned around, took a breath, and fell back like a kid in deep snow about to make a snow angel. I landed in arms that held me. No shoes had dropped. Just me, like a human feather.

One more thing from that day. My other mission was to climb up a pole, another ladder-type thing, walk across a log, thirty feet up, to the other side. I was hooked to a safety rope, maybe wearing a helmet too. I can still see myself pleading with David, our soft-spoken leader, that  I didn't think I could do it. I was a person riddled with anxiety pretty much every day. It had inhabited me and wouldn't leave. 

David looked me in the eye and said, "I hear you. Trust me. Start climbing."

I climbed and walked across the log high up in the air. My human net people were smiling up at me, again. I remember, vividly in my body, as I write this - walking across the log high up in the air and making it to the other side. A shoe didn't drop. I didn't hit the hard ground. And, as soon as I was back on the ground, I wanted to do it again. I was the kid, jumping off the edge of the pool landing safely in my father's arms. 

I remember that. 

Just doing it. 

Leaping.

This past month, maybe longer, I've been feeling a restlessness to leap. I have zero idea what that means. I can't force it, or figure it out. I don't know. All in right time.

I do know this, for sure. You won't find me in squirrel gear on the edge of a cliff. 

Namaste, lovelies.

XO Bets

like a bowling ball

 

December 24 • 2023 🎄

We had homemade cookies for breakfast + might have more delicious carrot cake for dinner since today is Michael's birthday, our Christmas Eve baby. On top of carrots, the cake has raisins and nuts and all kinds of nutritious things. 🙃 Claire has been baking all weekend and there's more to come tomorrow. Sticky buns w/ mimosas? I will officially be a weeble by the end of the holiday season, rolling around like a bowling ball, or something like that. 

•.  •.  •.  •.  •.  •.  •.  •   •.  •.  •.  •   •.  •   •   •   •.  •

⛄️ 🎄 ♥️

XO b

may we be ~

 

December 23 • 2023

I'm happy + tired + out of words for today. But this came to me as I sat staring at my screen. It's what I say at the end of all my writing/yoga workshops/ retreats. Whenever I say it, either quietly to myself, or out loud, my shoulders drop and face softens on the exhale. 

May we be happy.

May we be healthy.

May we be peaceful.

May we live with ease.

Peace and blessings to you and your families

+ this sweet beautiful old earth.

Namaste.

xo b

first of the season

 

December 22 • 2023

What a happy surprise to see this first bloom on our camellia bush when I stepped outside this morning. Camellias are called the Queens of the winter flowers + we are lucky to have a bush next to our front steps. I didn't know much about them until moving to California and our first winter here. I learned more about camellias and other native plants from a beautiful place called Descanso Gardens. Descanso Gardens has an abundant Camellia Collection and is one of the loveliest places to walk through in January/February when the camellias are in bloom. 

If you ever find yourself out this way, no matter the time of year, I invite you to visit this sanctuary. After meandering through the gardens and forests, I always leave feeling washed clean of my worries and other nonsense. 

Thank you, Mother Nature. 🌞

Until you come west, you can check it out here:

https://www.descansogardens.org/gardens-and-collections/explore-the-gardens/camellia-collection/

 XO b

sign me up

December 21 • 2023

It's officially winter and here in Los Angeles, a dark, rainy day. After some grading for my winter course, a trip to the library and Trader Joe's, I am a cozy mouse, curled up under a blanket on my bed. A pile of books on Michael's side. Daisy the dog sleeping by the bedroom door.  Michael made a big pot of chicken soup last night for dinner. Happy knowing we'll be having a second helping tonight. 

Nothing to do, nowhere to go. Watching the rain. Quiet. 

Much is written about winter being a time to rest and reflect, go within. 

Slow down. 🐌 

Sign me up.

xo b

what shall we plant?

 

December 20 • 2023

I'm thinking about the hundreds of bulbs I planted in our yard back in Pennsylvania. Every year I'd be a bit behind, but always managed to find a few days in December when the ground was wet and soft enough to get them in the ground. 

Always daffodils and tulips, + some prayers for the new year.

What shall we plant this year? 

The world needs so much light. 

So much peace and love. 

•   •   •.  •   •.  •   •.  •.  •   •   •

XO B

in memory

December 19 • 2023

This tiny band of angels go back to childhood winters in Delaware. My brothers and I sledding down South Road on our flexible flyers, hooting all the way to the bottom. Everything else still and quiet, muffled in pillows of white snow. 

Snowsuits, wet mittens, snow angels.

I don't know the origin of the angels except they were my mother's and now they live with me. I can hold the lot of them in one hand: the one with the cymbals, a coronet player, the flutist with one broken wing, the drummer. Claire lined them up on the mantel, front and center, watching over us this December. 

On this Winter Solstice, I remember my beloved mother, my angel. 

xo b

 

           

                  

             Dorothy Southam Jackson

          July 7, 1926 - December 19, 2001

like a lemon tree

 

December 18 • 2023

I never thought much about lemons before moving to California. Sometimes we'd cook with them, but it wasn't an overwhelming lemony life back in Pennsylvania. 

I always liked lemons. 

They smell good.

They're pretty and feel good in your hand. 

These days I have a very lemony life. There are two lemon trees in our backyard that keep on giving, season after season. And because of all the good rain last winter, the trees are bearing big fat lemons, holiday lemons. 🎄🍋 If I bring my hands to my nose, they smell like lemons because I've been slicing + juicing a counter full as evening falls. Instead of using the handle thing that presses down on the lemon, I used my hands. This reminded me of working with clay on a potter's wheel, the spinning and pressing down. And just like when I took ceramic classes, today's juicing the lemons fest filled me with the same meditative quality as wet clay under my hands. That quiet pressure in the palm of my hands.

...Michael said, You smell like a lemon tree.

love,

XO b

I bought her a lobster

 

 

December 17 • 2023

I need to find Daisy's squirrel was one of my morning thoughts. This was way better than opening my eyes and thinking we're all f*cked which is occasionally the case. I'll take fretting over a toy squirrel any day. The squirrel is, well squirrel-ish, orangey-brown [not like the squirrels that live in my yard] and has a squeaky thing in its belly. You need to be at least one hundred eighty pounds soaking wet and stand on the thing to get a squeak out of it. Fortunately, I'm not there. Maybe it got raked up in a pile of leaves. I don't know.

The squirrel is missing. So, I bought her a lobster. 

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Side note: When I was a kid, our dog never had toys, or a bed, and definitely did not wear sweaters. They ran around with sticks, slept on the rug, and had dog fur. It was enough. But there was a time when Chewy had two beds + now I'm paying good money for a lobster that squeaks. A toddler could make it happen. A girl can change her tune. 

xo b 🐝

i really don't know

 

December 16 • 2023

I'm here late in the day. Night has fallen early, like it does this time of year. Michael has gone out to play with a band. Daisy has been walked and is sleeping on the rug. Bed and a book are calling me...and it's not even six o'clock. I don't know what to write about. 

I could write about the book I never returned to the library before moving to California. The handsome man I chatted with on the plane when I flew east in November. How, many years ago, a friend told me, you can always change your mind. Or the dream I had last night where my father showed up in the kitchen of his old house, but then said he had to go because the group of people in the joy van were waiting for him. How I want to get my seedlings in the ground before the rain next week. Blessed rain.

If you were to write about something, what would it be? 

Make a list. See what/who shows up. I'm open to ideas.

XO B