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Stories From the Edge of Blindness

In 2002, Retinitis Pigmentosa changed my life. This is my story of a slow approach to darkness.

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love

Book Launch and Poetry Reading

I know that Tuesday will be here sooner than I can imagine, that I will be holding a copy of my book in my hands, reading poems from it’s pages, still feeling as if it is all happening to someone else.

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a writer and/or one of Charlie’s Angels. It seemed like having my books in the shop windows and catching bad guys, would make a pretty rock and roll kind of life. The Angel thing really didn’t pan out, but the dream of being a writer and having a book published is one that I have been working toward for a lifetime. It is a dream that, at 51, I am seeing come to life. I don’t forget for one second how lucky I am, how all of the love and support and encouragement I have received has made this dream possible.

I hope that you will all be able to pop by my Book Launch/Reading, which will be my very first ever book launch and reading, so please be gentle! Here are some links:

The reading will be streamed through my Author Page on Facebook. 


You can buy a copy of my book on Amazon 


I will also be selling signed copies through my website 

My endless thanks goes out to River Dixon, a brilliant writer and publisher, a man who makes dreams come true!!!!

Carrie Ann Golden’s Interview Series

I am thrilled and honored to have been asked to be a part of Carrie Ann Golden’s Interview Series. Carrie Ann did a guest post here on my blog and I adore her and her writing. This truly is an incredible community and I am so grateful to be a part of it. If you are interested in reading the interview, you can so so here.

“Things My Mother Left Behind” Available for Pre-Order

I am sitting in my very quiet writing space, typing this in a state of simultaneous disbelief and total joy. I am thrilled beyond the sky to announce that my book, “Things My Mother Left Behind”, is available for pre-order, on Amazon. This is a life long dream come true for me, and I will be forever grateful to River Dixon; an amazing writer, publisher extraordinaire and founder of the incredible Potter’s Grove Press.


To pre-order the ebook version of “Things My Mother Left Behind” you can go here. To visit my Amazon Authors Page, you can go here. To explore the beautiful and diverse catalog from Potter’s Grove Press, you can go here.

I am so grateful for all of the love and support I have received from this incredible community over the years; it has given me a sense of courage I never thought I would feel, and helped a life long dream become reality.

Missing the Dead

I am absolutely thrilled that my first acceptance from a journal this year came from Nine Muses Poetry, a journal that has published so many of the contemporary writers I admire. My huge thanks to editor Annest Gwilym for including my poem as part of this month’s Special Challenge. If you would like to read it, you can so so here.

Your Promises are Collapsible

First and most importantly, I hope all who are reading this are safe and well and home. I am, as ever so incredibly grateful for the support and presence of this community in my life!

Continuing with my recorded poetry series, today I am offering the fourth of six poems originally published in Chantarelle’s Notebook. I hope you like it. Video credit goes entirely to my husband, Joe Richardson.


Untethered

I was in the car with my husband yesterday, Thomson Twins jangling in the background, when I started to think of what it means to be untethered.  I am parentless, floating without the anchors that rooted my bones to the earth, my blood to the sky. My identity was already fractured, unstable at best, but now I become the definition of loss each time I open my eyes to inhale the sun, each time I close them again to swallow the moon.  I have been emptied out so many times, turning to the memory of voices that fade with the passing of years.  I became old when I should have been steeped in youth, threw my eyes into the grave, forgot how to look to the sky for solace, for discovery.  I am recognized by the shape of my diseases, ailments that strangle my determination, but I don’t recognize my own face. I am the word on the page that erases itself but never stops searching for sound. I am a war, a need to be invisible and seen, to be silence and noise. Is this what it means to be untethered?

I Am Not Blind When I Close My Eyes

I have been writing about a storm, hiding behind the clamor of the rain. I have been watching my feelings twist into the drain, willing away their texture and weight. It is futile; this hiding, this twisting, this willing away. I am sinking but standing still, static but being torn to pieces. I can no longer see who I was and I can’t remember who I wanted to become. I used to feel the fleeting joy of sparks on my fingertips. Now, it is just a dullness, an ache. All I want to do is run away. The gloom swallows my steps every time I try and escape.

I haven’t wanted to write about my father; maybe because I was afraid that if I wrote about him, I would lose all hope of escape from the grief. But, I know better. There was never any hope of escape. My father has dementia. Every day, I grieve him, a slow grief. He fades the way my vision fades, pieces of his memory growing dark, trapped in shadow. I am consumed by sadness and a constant feeling that I am failing him, because of my limitations, my blindness and my inability to put my emotions aside, to give even the perception that I am not coming unglued.

I wanted to at least start to share this story today, but even tearing away a small piece feels like a betrayal. I am exhausted and haven’t felt the earth of my life in so long. My voice is numb and I feel emptied out, blank. There is no path. No direction. No light. There is only the weight that comes with watching him forget the shape of his life, knowing that he has forgotten my name, and will one day forget who I am.

For 3 years, I have been watching him become someone else. In many ways, I am closer to him now than I was when his brain was crisp and unclouded. I can finally be what he needs. I finally have value. But, I am losing myself. Joe and I are the only ones who are here, living close by and helping. We have been so alone in this and I am afraid of the tole it is taking on Joe. I don’t talk or think about much else; it is as if I have stopped breathing, as if I am disappearing not only from my father’s memory, but from the grasp of my own life. I have abandoned my writing, but I have come to peace with that. I am doing what I have to do, for now.

I am unsteady, unreliable, untethered. But maybe, for just a moment, I can believe that when I close my eyes, I am not blind.

Beyond Shades of Grey

I never believed that the act of living happened in black and white.  I thought it happened in all the shades of gray, the spaces in between, the cracks and caverns and hidden places.  These past few weeks, I have felt life happening in all the colors that live inside the marrow of my heart, seen that the hidden spaces aren’t grey at all.  Through blindness, I have learned to see the colors and contours of pain and grief, love and joy, so much more vibrantly than when I was simply looking and unaware of what could bloom from the shades of grey, what lurked inside.  It seems cliché to say that through blindness, I have learned to see, but it is true in so many ways.  I have not become enlightened.  I have not become kinder or smarter or better.  I have just stopped looking, and in doing so, life comes into focus so much more clearly than when I took my eyes for granted, or time or space or love.  In just this week, I have felt desperation, compassion, depression, anxiety, affection, love, joy, contemplation, appreciation, despair, bitter disappointment and gratitude.  I have wanted to die and wanted to try to stay alive one more day. I have wanted to venture beyond what I know and I have longed to stay perfectly still.  I have done something new, and fallen back into old patterns that feel familiar and safe.  I have lived so many colors in just one week, not because I strived, but simply because I continued to exist. Continue reading “Beyond Shades of Grey”

A Small Detour

If you are familiar with my blog, then you know I have been posting a new series of recorded poems, starting with my publications in 2015, which came after a lengthy hiatus.  I am going to continue with the older poems, but at the suggestion of my friend Kim, I have recorded my most recent Visual Verse contribution.  And, if you haven’t had the pleasure of reading Kim’s poetry and her blog, I Tripped Over a Stone, you absolutely must!  Kim is a fiercely loving, kind and talented woman, who I am grateful to know and to learn from.

If you would like to read the original publication of this poem, with the image that inspired it, you can do so here.

How to Say Goodbye

 Promise you won’t forget me,
even when my name
has faded from your tongue.
Remember how I looked
into your eyes,
a season of storms
passed from a mother to a child,
how the strength of an ocean
helped you feel
less afraid.
I would have reached through flames,
cast thunder into a sky
filled with the stench of despair,
to save you
from the horrors of violence and greed.
Promise you won’t forget me,
even when my voice
has turned into a whisper of petals,
caught by a spark that changed
the shape of time.
Feel the imprint of my fingertips
wiping the tears from your cheeks,
and remember,
I will always love you.

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