When I was a sophomore in college, I aspired to major in history. American history, especially, awakened my imagination beyond names and dates in a textbook, to people's day-to-day stories buried beneath them. Sometimes I even felt that I was living in the wrong time period, that I should have been a pioneer, a suffragette, or stationmaster(mistress) on the Underground Railroad.

I scheduled an appointment with the professor of my Western Civ class to map out coursework for the next two years. I'll never forget his monotone response to my enthusiasm...
 "There's no point majoring in history unless you're prepared to go straight through and get your PhD."

To my twenty-year-old self, his timeline felt like an unattainable eternity, with all-or-nothing the only options. At the time, it didn't occur to me that Dr. ?, in all his academic pomp and circumstance, could possibly be....wrong. 

That pivotal moment swerved me to another major (speech pathology) and different life's journey, with its own joys and rewards. Throughout the years, however, I've often pondered what happens to an unrealized passion –a dream deferred –as Langston Hughes asks in his poem. Does it dry up "like a raisin in the sun," or does it live on – stronger, more determined to survive in its own distinctive way?

What happened to my dream of becoming an historian, of studying and enjoying history as a lifelong passion?  

Here's a clue from the book on my nightstand...

And the Audible book I'm listening to on my morning walks....

And the slew of historical places I've visited and PBS documentaries I've watched.

The list is endless.  That is the point.
There's never just one way to honor your dream.

Whatever speaks to us, we must pursue, for it is a part of who we are. 
I encourage you – or better yet – encourage yourself to realize your dreams. 
Find your own path. And take a step!

I stood on the front porch of the cabin we were renting during spring break with our daughter and her family. Reflexively, I took a deep breath of coolness and exhaled slowly. The full moon was rising over the outline of an old cotton gin nearby. Frogs and crickets eased into their evening conversation, cranking up the volume as darkness settled in. 

A train whistle signaled its approaching presence.

Any other evening at our home in the city, I would no doubt have been indoors. The moon would have knocked, but I wouldn't have answered. There was supper to fix and Wheel of Fortune to watch.

Early the next morning, my gaze followed the stream of sunshine across the wooden floor, up and out the window. An invitation.

With one flick of the quilt, I shunned my methodical morning routine of exercise, meditation, coffee, breakfast, shower, makeup, wardrobe selection and To Do list. . . slid on shoes, grabbed my jacket and camera (phone). Time was a-wastin'!

​
I had seen similar sights before, of course,
 barn, fence, open field, grove of pine, flower and robin.
I had felt the freshness of dawn.
​
Yet, somehow, I had forgotten
Or had forgotten to notice.

On a recent birthday, I unwrapped a book of poetry from my friend, Margie. Attached to the front was a card, even more prized than the gift itself  – one of her watercolors. Its delicate beauty held my stare as I breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. Her sketches have that effect on me, a calming kind of presence similar to meditation.

Her handwriting on the bottom clues me in that she created this piece on Mother's Day (2018) at the Shrine – The Shrine of St. Therese in Juneau, Alaska – one of our shared favorite spaces. 

  

Before moving to Juneau from Arkansas , I had never been a hiker or much of an outdoors person at all. Margie, a born-and-raised Juneaunite, kindly invited me to join her for treks up Mt. Roberts, Thunder Mountain, along Pt. Bridget Trail, East and West Glacier Trails and more. I pretended I knew what I was doing; Margie knew better, but never let on. Our friendship grew as non-stop conversations led us from trailheads to trail ends.

I knew even less (nothing) about labyrinths when Margie invited me to walk the one on the beach at the Shrine. I trusted her that walking around what looked like a never-ending path, would be a worthwhile experience. I had no way of knowing, of course, that a connection to labyrinths would  transform my life ten years later.





​Margie's watercolor of the labyrinth
at the Shrine of St. Therese in Juneau, Alaska  



​

Throughout the years, I have been privileged to glimpse pages of Margie's visual journals as she's filled them with her "many interests and curiosities." She rarely publishes her work, but creates them to fulfill her own creative spirit and to share with close friends and family members. She gave me permission to share a few of my favorites here.....

​Margie and I both stepped out of our comfort zones when I wrote and she illustrated my 2017 book  Labyrinth Journeys ~  50 States, 51 Stories. In addition to the examples shown here, her twenty pen and ink sketches include a pine cone, rose, teacup and saucer, footsteps, sprig of lavender and peace pole.  
All key pieces of the journey.
​Each one a story in itself. 

​

​A friend and an artist – I'm grateful to have both in my life, and delighted to share her joyful art with you.



​

Had it not been for Mary Oliver, I might never have read another poem after 11th grade English. My teacher drained any appreciation I  had mustered for poetry by analyzing the heck out of every poem we encountered. What's the meter, rhyme scheme, tone, imagery?
Iambic pentameter is forever etched in my memory. 
​
Roughly 25 years passed without a poem gracing my life. Then a friend placed a Mary Oliver poem in a birthday card. I don't recall which poem, or which line, drew me in and made me feel that Mary had written it just for me, that poetry could connect to the depths of who I was or what I believed.
                          
                                                      Perhaps it was. . . 


"...Sometimes I need 
       only to stand
         wherever I am
            to be blessed."
(It Was Early)

OR

"...and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life that you could save."
(The Journey)

OR

"...Well,
​the whole afternoon went on
   that way until I thought
   I could feel
    the almost born things
in the earth rejoicing. As for myself,
   I just kept walking, thinking:
     once more I am grateful
       to be present."
(Just Rain) 

OR a myriad of others.

More years passed, and Mary and her poetry became my friends. I bought her books. I underlined her words. Iambic pentameter never once crossed my mind.  

 Then I heard that Mary was coming to town – to NYC – where we happened to be living at the time, to read her poetry. Mary was in her seventies then, with hair whiter than my own, but the opportunity to see her in person felt like scoring a ticket to a rock star's sold out concert. Following her reading at the 92nd Street Y, my friend Margie and I stood in a long, meandering line to get Mary's signature in her latest book of poetry.
​
We were instructed to have our books open to the title page so Mary could sign quickly. She was tired, we were told, and eager to leave. My profusive speech of awe and gratitude dwindled to two words as Mary and I momentarily touched the book together.  

"Thank you," I said, hoping that my sincere gaze and attempts at telepathy would fill in the gaps, that she would somehow intuit her monumental influence on my life.   

Mary died last week. I knew she was in poor health, but the news hit me like an impossibility. Somehow, I believed that Mary would never die, like other writers whose words stretch beyond their years to speak just to me. I cried as I read one of her poems after another. Then as the tears stopped, I found myself on the final lines of I Am Standing. 

". . . and something 
somewhere inside

my own unmusical self
begins humming:
thanks for the beauty of the world.
Thanks for my life."

Amen!

Do you have a favorite shop? Perhaps one you just happened upon, a small-ish,  independently owned store you decided to step into, and immediately felt its spirit – its creativity, imagination, warmth, community vibe, or something you couldn't quite put your finger on. Whether you could articulate it or not, you knew it was a place you needed to be, where inspirations awaited you.

That happened to me about three years ago when my friend, Marian, and I were exploring Main Street,  Concord, MA. (For those of you who read my previous posting, you know I have a "thing" for Concord. Perhaps I should start looking at real estate ads.) The Nesting sign directed us up a narrow flight of stairs to a second sign, inscribed on a nest of eggs, above the entrance.


​
No, there were no chickens roosting or cackling behind the door – not on that visit, nor on our most recent one – our fifth. But, there was....Wonder!

     A magical panorama greeted us, overflowing with glittering possibilities – a large space whose branches led to more intimate rooms filled with their own treasures. As captivated as I was with the  obvious holiday charm, I allowed most of it to come and go, searching for quieter inspirations. Tucked in corners and hanging out in plain sight, I gradually discovered them. Words. They were patiently waiting for me. 

And on a shelf, in peaceful company, I found my *book!

 Its presence surprised me, even though I knew that Wendi, Nesting's owner, had purchased several copies to carry in the shop. I grabbed Marian and pulled her to the bookshelf where we, not-so-nonchalantly, pointed and posed for photos like a pair of awestruck tourists. After all, Marian was the first person I told about my labyrinth journey idea. It was a shared celebration.

I'm honored that my words mingle with others in Nesting's community, hopefully sharing inspirations with visitors browsing the shelves and quiet spaces. If you're in the neighborhood, drop in. If not...

Where is one of your favorite Nesting-like places?


*Labyrinth Journeys ~ 50 States, 51 Stories
(can be ordered through independent bookstores, Amazon. . .and found at Nesting)

I am enamored with the town of  Concord, Massachusetts. I've been there at least five times, most recently last week when Drew and I met our good friends, Jim and Marian, for a halfway visit. Concord is halfway between their home in Waterbury, Connecticut and our condo in Portland, Maine. 







But as much as I enjoy the New England quaintness of present-day Concord, it's the town's PAST that draws me back time and time again. . . specifically its literary past. 

I often fantasize about popping back into Concord's history for a day, around the mid-1800s. The chances are good that as I walk down Lexington Road toward the town square, I'll find Nathaniel Hawthorne at his Wayside home, editing a short story; Louisa May Alcott a few houses down the road plotting her novel, Little Women; Ralph Waldo Emerson in his book-lined study, penning another essay. And Henry David Thoreau sauntering through the Concord woods, journal in hand.

Imagine – all these thinkers, writers and shapers of American culture were neighbors at various points in their lives! They dropped by each other's homes, shared meals, town gossip, and discussed issues as grand as the meaning of life and as everyday as the chance of snow. And they remain neighbors for all eternity, buried in family plots along Authors' Ridge in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Oh, the conversations they must have after the heavy, black gates are locked each evening. 

As tempted as I am to immediately knock on Emerson, Alcott or Hawthorne's doors, I first choose to catch up with Thoreau – the subject of my *nightly reading for the last few weeks.

Perhaps I'll find him nosing around the Walden Pond cabin he lived in for two years, two weeks and two days (1845-47) . . . the site where thousands of Thoreau admirers, like myself, have journeyed to stand in what feels like sacred space.​

​Or more likely, he'd be perched on a rock, gazing at the pond's rippling water, doing what he professed so strongly – living in the present.
"What business have I in the woods if I am thinking of something out of the woods?" he wrote.

Following the example of this unassuming man – who knows nothing of his immense influence on  future generations – I find a spot at water's edge, pull out my own journal and deliberately join him.


***********​

*On my nightstand - Henry David Thoreau, A Life
by Laura Dassow Walls

There are To Do lists, and then there's Creativity -  two entirely different mindsets.
Lists are linear, one thing after another, cross off #1 and start on #2. Satisfying.
Creativity can be circular, multidimensional, even chaotic. Invigorating!

Since writing my last blog post in July, my life has been top-heavy with To Dos as I've supported my dear mother, ever weakened by Alzheimer's. Writing, my creativity of choice, hasn't surfaced on my daily list for weeks – going on months.
 
Now that I have a free afternoon, I could easily turn to the familiar list of What Needs to be Done, or dust off my journal and try to write something. But like any activity that has fallen by the wayside, it's not that easy to get back on the bicycle. Where to start? Not with my pen; I feel much too rusty to begin, much less finish, anything meaningful.

So I sit, simply sit, and look out our windows. I clear my mind of only what is in front of me. I notice.
I allow space for unstructured Creativity to enter, unrestricted by the To Dos accustomed to priority seating. A nudge that feels vaguely familiar elbows me, "Pick up your phone and take some pictures," it says. Having learned to trust that voice like a best friend, I don't hesitate. In fact, I rush out the door with excitement I haven't felt in weeks.

I circle around scenes, stretch and crouch to capture perspective, move a chair here, a pumpkin 
there . . . 

Looks like an ordinary house, right?

Still an ordinary house with a big field in front. Until... you place a critical piece in the foreground.

And there you have it, one of the most iconic American paintings, Andrew Wyeth's "Christina's World," painted in 1948. 

The house still stands on a quiet country road in Cushing, Maine, now a part of the Farnsworth Art Museum's offerings. It was closed for tours last Tuesday when daughter Elizabeth, grandchildren and I drove the hour and forty-five minutes from Portland to be in that space. 

Personally, I know little about Andrew Wyeth, often confusing him with the other Wyeth family painters, but Elizabeth (art major in college) is educating me. When we visited the MoMA a few years ago, it was the original Christina's World that she particularly wanted to see. She bought a copy, had it framed and it now hangs in their bedroom.

What I do know, though, and have personally experienced many times as a writer, is the magnetic pull that a place of creative energy holds. How many times have I visited sites such as Walden Pond, Ralph Waldo Emerson's study and Emily Dickinson's bedroom? At each place, I stand in silence, imagining what it must have been like. To be that person, to be creating in that very moment.

So when Elizabeth sat in the field - close to where Wyeth positioned Christina in the painting, where he turned an ordinary scene into a masterpiece - I understood. She asked us to remain silent while she videoed the scene and recorded the sound.

I couldn't resist but eavesdrop with my own photo, capturing her... as she lived the moment.
(And, no, the photo was not staged.)

 "Do you like stories?" he asked. "I've got a 60-second one that I can tell you in 59. And it even begins with Once Upon a Time," he added for good measure, as I stepped closer to his tented space at the Bentonville (Arkansas) Farmer's Market.

I had stumbled upon the town square of white tents on Saturday morning as I waited for Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art to open at 10:00.  Bins of fresh vegetables, bars of goat's milk soap, farm-fresh eggs gathered from humanely-raised chickens, and jars of Ozark honeys and jams surrounded Pop's Southern Sourdough table. All tempting, but no one offered to tell me a story. 

Once Pop (Dan Maestri) said the word story, he didn't have to say another word. Not a single word to entice me toward his loaves of homemade bread or spiraled rolls slathered with cinnamon. Little did he know that the word story to a writer is a magnet. He could have been selling cilantro, which I hate, and I would have been all ears. 

"Once upon a time," he began, "when I was teaching school, "one of my students brought me a loaf of bread her grandma made. It was some of the best bread I had ever tasted. I asked for the recipe. Her grandma sent me the recipe and something even better, a piece of her sourdough starter."

"She'd had that starter for 50 years. . . 50! And I've had it for 25." He paused momentarily for the math to sink in. "This bread here," picking up a loaf of rosemary sourdough, "has the same DNA as bread made 75 years ago." Then he lost me in the  biology and chemistry details – yeast, lactic acid bacteria, metabolism, fermentation . . . 

As someone who's never baked a loaf of bread from scratch, much less tried to keep sourdough starter fed and happy, I can't begin to appreciate Pop's commitment to his breadmaking. What I can appreciate, through, is the sense of history his loaves and rolls represent. Generations of hands repeating a process to bring bread to their tables, to feed families and friends – perhaps a hungry stranger or two. 

"My bread's a little different from the West Coast variety. I put a bit more sugar in mine," Pop offered, which reminded me of my grandmother's cornbread. She always added sugar to the batter. I wondered if that's what makes Pop's Southern Sourdough more southern. Regardless, it makes for a good story.

​I selected a loaf of rosemary garlic (no garlic in today's batch) after Pop spiced up his story with details of  chopping fresh rosemary himself and sprinkling it in the dough.

"You can eat it as is," he explained, "but it'll be a tad doughy. "It's best to bake it for about 10 minutes until it's nice and brown, then slice it up and dip it in olive oil." 

Seemed like a perfect ending to me, except that I should have bought two loaves and a cinnamon roll while I was at it.

** Pop's Southern Sourdough Bread is served on selected days at Eleven Restaurant, Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville, Arkansas

​I thread my way through packs of school children, up the stairs to the fourth floor, past the mummies to the not-nearly-as-popular Prints and Drawings room. The door is locked. I press the small black button to the right, and moments later a woman’s face appears in the window. She unlocks the door, pops her head out – ever so slightly – and says, “Yes?”

“My name is Twylla Alexander, and I have an appointment to see Mary Delany’s paper mosaics,” I explain, in the most library appropriate whisper I can muster.

“Oh yes, Ms. Alexander. I notice you’re on the schedule. May I see your identification?”

"Identification?" I wonder, but dare not ask.
​
I present my passport then enter my name and address in a leather-bound ledger atop a mahagony lectern. All so wonderfully proper.

The research librarian, Angela Roche, ushers me into a long rectangular, two-storied room of paneled walls and hushed tones. Four other visitors are scattered among tables pouring over books, so intent in their research that not one looks up as we walk in. 

“All is in order for you,” Ms. Roche says, pointing to my official spot at one of the tables. 
“Here is one box (10 pieces) of Mary Delany’s collages, a pair of white gloves and a magnifying glass. Be sure to lift, never slide, the frames. As you know, they are over 200 years old and quite fragile. And by no means, no photos. (Imagine Queen-like British accent).

                                                                              *************

A year ago, I had never heard of Mary Delany (1700-1788), had no clue that she had created a new art form of paper collage, that she had produced almost 1000 botanically correct flower  “mosaiks,” (as she called them) — all after the age of 72!
​
Then the cover of Molly Peacock’s book, The Paper Garden, caught my attention while browsing the shelves of a bookstore in Portland, Maine.  A delicate pink rose in full bloom, surrounded by a host of pink buds, looked like a delicate watercolor. But it was one of Mary Delany's creations, crafted entirely of cut paper – layer upon layer of meticulously  cut paper.

Every afternoon for a week I sat on a bench on Portland’s Western Promenade, reading Mary’s story. I copied her quotes in my journal and sketched Maine’s spring flowers in the margins. I collected my own specimens and pressed them between pages. 

I became inspired, energized by a woman who died 230 years ago! A woman who walked her talk, even when she literally couldn't get out of her chair. She proclaimed, "An ingenious mind is never too old to learn."  
I was determined to meet her – or rather her art – stored in box upon box in the British Museum, when Drew and I visited London next year. I felt as if Mary had sent me a personal invitation.     

                                                                        ***************

I scour Mary's mosaics through the magnifying glass, taking notes in my journal, marveling at details, until I reach the final frame, The Opium Poppy, created in 1776. I sit back in the creaky wooden chair, take off the white gloves and allow the beauty to soak in. I imagine Mary, at age 76, cutting and gluing at a table beside an open window, with a brilliant red poppy spread before her. She is totally in the flow as the morning sun shifts from table to floor then melts into shadow.
​
​I (gently) hold the same cardboard frame that Mary once held and feel her presence. For a moment, we are connected. I sense her vitality, her resilience, her ability to reply "why not?" when a creative voice speaks of new possibilities. Qualities that travel through time – and cardboard – to me.   
​ 

  

I smile at her across the centuries and mouth, quietly, "Thank you, Mary." I tidy up my space, walk back past the mummies, skip down the four flights of stairs and out the front door. It comes as no surprise  as I pick up my pace, that I feel as if I could do. . . anything.