National Poop Day

 

Yes, this is real.

Yes, it’s today (February 9).
And yes—💩 is absolutely the correct emoji for the occasion.

National Poop Day wasn’t created by gastroenterologists in white coats or wellness influencers selling $90 probiotics. It was created by children. Which, frankly, makes it more honest than most health campaigns.

Kids know something adults forget: if you can’t poop comfortably, nothing else is going well.

Why a day about poop actually matters

Behind the giggles is a serious point. 💩 is the end-of-line report of digestion.

It reflects what you ate, how well you absorbed it, how fast (or stalled) things are moving, and how your gut, liver, gallbladder, microbiome, and nervous system are cooperating.

In other words, poop is not gross. It’s data.

Children get this instinctively. They notice when something is off. Adults, on the other hand, are trained to ignore it, be embarrassed by it, or only talk about it when things are already very wrong.

National Poop Day flips that script—with humor.

A very unscientific (but accurate) poop scale

The Goldilocks Poop
Not too hard, not too loose, no drama, no urgency. Digestive peace achieved.

The Rabbit Pellet Poop
Tiny, dry, stubborn. Things are moving… reluctantly.

The Soft-Serve Surprise
Technically poop, emotionally confusing. Speed is winning over absorption.

The Disappearing Act
“Wait… did I even go?” Not enough bulk, bile, or coordination.

The Nuclear Emergency
We don’t need to describe this one. Everyone knows.

Kids laugh at these. Adults quietly recognize themselves.

Why kids were right to start this

Children talk about poop because their bodies are still honest. They haven’t learned shame around bodily signals. They know that discomfort matters.

Somewhere along the way, adults decided digestion should be silent, invisible, and ignored—until it explodes into a diagnosis.

National Poop Day says maybe we should have listened sooner.

The takeaway (before this gets too weird)

💩 is not crude.
💩 is not silly.
💩 is not too much information.

💩 is feedback.

So today, laugh about it. Normalize it. Pay attention to it. And maybe—just maybe—thank the kids who had the wisdom to say:

“Hey. Everyone poops. Let’s talk about it.”

Happy National Poop Day.
Let ’er rip. 💩

When the Past Meets the Present

In 1983, I was on a school trip to Italy. Venice was the destination, but somewhere along the way we crossed the Alps by bus. I took a photo through the window with a very unambitious camera. No framing. No intention. Just mountains appearing briefly and then disappearing again.

That photo is the only one I still have from the trip.

Years later, those same mountains—the Dolomites near Bolzano—are hosting the Olympics. Bigger. Faster. Stronger. Global cameras, global narratives, slow-motion triumph. I love the Olympics. I really do. I will absolutely watch them and already saw the opening ceremony (the parade of nations is my favorite part). I admire the discipline, the endurance, the sheer stubbornness of the human body doing impossible things on ice and snow.

I just tend to notice… other stuff.

While everyone else is focused on the podium, my brain drifts toward the edges of the frame. The athletes who trained just as hard but didn’t make it into a highlight reel. The towns that become backdrops instead of stories. The people whose names never get pronounced confidently by a commentator.

This is not a critique. It’s a personality flaw. That's why I am so fascinated by the parade of nations. I always look at the people from the countries that bring a small contingent of people, like less than ten.

I’ve always rooted for underdogs. Not in a loud, banner-waving way—more in a quiet “I see you over there” way. The ones who don’t fit the broadcast narrative. The ones who keep going without sponsorships, slogans, or dramatic music swelling behind them.

Somewhere along the way, media coverage stopped being curious about those people. Everything became optimized: faster clips, clearer heroes, cleaner arcs. And while I understand why—attention spans, algorithms, branding—I still miss the nobody stories. The almost-there stories. The “kept going anyway” stories.

Maybe that’s why that blurry mountain photo stuck with me. It wasn’t meant to last. It wasn’t meant to be important. It wasn’t even meant to be taken. And yet, there it is—still standing while everything else from that trip (and my past) vanished.

So yes, I’ll watch the Olympics. I’ll cheer. I’ll admire the medals. I’ll enjoy the spectacle unfolding in the Dolomites, including events in Cortina d'Ampezzo during the 2026 Winter Olympics.

I’ll just also keep wondering about the people no one interviews.

Because apparently, that’s just how I watch things.

Feed the Birds Day

Feed the Birds Day, February 3, has a way of sneaking up quietly—much like the birds themselves.

I started feeding the birds in the garden about a year ago, without much ceremony. No grand plan. No backyard makeover. Just a small offering placed outside, mostly because winter had made the world feel narrow and I needed something that wasn’t another wall or screen.

And then they came.

At first, it was simple joy: movement in a season that feels frozen in place. Feathers flickering past the kitchen window. Tiny negotiations over seed. A sudden flurry when someone bold decided the feeder was theirs. It became the one reason I consistently went outside during this long, dismal winter—even if “outside” only meant going outside long enough to refill a feeder with cold fingers.

But here’s the part that surprised me most.

On the days I get lazy—when the cold feels especially personal, when the indoors tries to convince me it was safer to stay put—they line up on the fence. Watching. Waiting. Staring straight through the glass as if to say:

Hey. We’re still out here.

Not accusatory. Just… factual.

There’s something grounding about that exchange. The birds don’t romanticize winter. They don’t complain about it either. They live in it. Fully. Feathers puffed, eyes sharp, routines intact. They remind me that showing up isn’t always about enthusiasm—it’s about participation.

Feed the birds day isn’t really about the seed. It’s about connection. About choosing a small act that keeps you tethered to the living world when everything else feels dormant. It’s about noticing that even when the garden looks empty, it isn’t. Life is just quieter. Watching. Waiting.

And sometimes—when you forget, when you stall, when you hide from the cold—they’ll remind you.

From the fence.
With patience.
And very direct eye contact. That's how I got to take the lovely picture for this post, through my kitchen window.

One thing I didn’t realize when I first started feeding birds is that “birdseed” isn’t a one-size-fits-all offering. Birds are wonderfully particular. Different species eat different foods, and just as importantly, they eat in different places.

Some birds prefer feeders that hang high and sway in the breeze. Others won’t touch them at all and wait patiently on the ground. It’s not fussiness—it’s biology, habit, and safety.

Here’s the gentle logic behind it:

• Seed types matter.
  Sunflower seeds (especially black oil sunflower) are a favorite for many songbirds. Nyjer (thistle) attracts finches. Millet tends to appeal to ground feeders. Suet supports birds that need extra energy in cold weather.

• Feeding height matters.
  Some birds instinctively feed from the ground or low platforms, while others feel safest eating higher up. If you only offer hanging feeders, you may never see certain species—even though they’re nearby.

• Your region matters.
  Birds eat what evolution and environment taught them to eat. Local bird populations have preferences shaped by climate, migration patterns, and native plants. What works beautifully in one region may be ignored in another.

What I love most about learning this is how it changes the act of feeding birds from a generic task into a quiet conversation. You put something out. They respond—or don’t. You adjust. They return. Over time, you start to recognize who eats where, who waits their turn, and who pretends they’re not watching you refill the feeder (while very much watching).

Feeding the birds isn’t just generosity—it’s attentiveness. And once you tune in, the garden becomes less of a backdrop and more of a shared space, with rules written in feathers instead of words.

Observe the Weather Day

What the Sky Has Always Been Telling Us

Observe the Weather Day is today, January 25. It seems ironic because of the big USA weather event currently in progress. Anyway, long before weather apps, Doppler radar, or hourly forecasts, people learned to live by looking up.

Ancient farmers read the tilt of clouds and the behavior of birds. Sailors studied wind patterns by watching waves darken and feather. Indigenous cultures across the world developed astonishingly precise systems of observation—tracking seasonal shifts through stars, animal migrations, plant behavior, and subtle changes in air and light. Weather wasn’t background noise; it was a teacher, a calendar, and sometimes a warning.

Observation came first. Technology came later.

As civilizations advanced, weather watching became more formal. The ancient Greeks began recording patterns. Medieval monks kept climate logs alongside religious texts. The invention of instruments—the barometer, thermometer, hygrometer—shifted weather from intuition to measurement. By the 19th and 20th centuries, weather observation had become institutional: national services, satellites, global models. Today, we carry forecasts in our pockets, updated by the minute.

And yet, Observe the Weather Day reminds us of something quieter and more human: before prediction, there was paying attention.

Observation Isn’t Just About the Sky

This year, most of the United States is being hammered by a polar vortex—snow, ice, bitter cold, power strain, stalled transportation. On the surface, it’s “just weather.” A natural force doing what it has always done.

But observation doesn’t stop at snowfall totals.

When the temperature drops sharply, the weather reveals fault lines we don’t usually see.

For some, a polar vortex is an inconvenience: delayed flights, remote work, a higher heating bill that’s annoying but manageable. For others, it’s a cascading crisis. A dead car battery becomes a financial emergency. A missed shift turns into lost rent money. A frozen pipe threatens housing stability. A power outage means spoiled food, medical equipment failure, or unsafe indoor temperatures.

The weather itself is neutral. The impact is not.

Weather as a Stress Test

Extreme weather acts like a stress test on society. It exposes how thin the margins are for people already living at the edge of their resources. When systems work only under ideal conditions, a single weather hiccup can topple them.

Observe the weather day, then, is not just about clouds and cold fronts—it’s about noticing how interconnected everything is:

• Transportation depends on infrastructure and affordability

• Heat depends on energy access and income stability

• Safety depends on housing quality and social support

• Recovery depends on savings, flexibility, and time

Those with financial buffers absorb the shock. Those without are forced into impossible tradeoffs: heat or food, repairs or rent, medication or fuel.

This isn’t a failure of individuals. It’s a visibility moment.

Expanding What We Mean by “Observation”

What if observing the weather also meant observing its ripple effects?

What if we noticed not just the ice on the roads, but who can’t afford snow tires?
Not just the cold, but who can’t risk missing work?
Not just the outage, but who has no backup plan because there was never room to build one?

Weather makes the invisible visible.

It shows us how resilience is not evenly distributed—and how quickly stability can unravel when resources are already stretched beyond limits. It also invites a broader understanding of preparedness, one that includes economic reality, health, disability, aging, and caregiving—not just emergency kits and forecasts.

A Day for Awareness, Not Alarm

Observe the Weather Day doesn’t ask us to fear nature. It asks us to listen.

To look beyond the storm itself and see the human landscape underneath it. To recognize that “once-in-a-generation” events are becoming more frequent—and that systems built for comfort, not equity, will continue to fracture under pressure.

Observation is the first step toward wiser design: better support structures, more humane policies, stronger community responses. You can’t fix what you refuse to see.

So today, notice the sky. Notice the cold. And notice who is carrying far more weight than the weather alone. Because sometimes the most important thing the forecast reveals isn’t the temperature—it’s the truth about how close many people already are to the edge.

National Resolution Planning Day

 A 4,000-Year-Old Idea We Keep Ignoring

Today, December 30, is National Resolution Planning Day, which exists for one simple reason: January 1st was always a terrible idea. We’re tired. We’re overstimulated. We’re digesting sugar, alcohol, family dynamics, and unrealistic expectations. And yet—every year—we’re told this is the moment to reinvent ourselves. History would like a word.

About 4,000 years ago, in ancient Babylon, people did not scream “NEW YEAR, NEW ME” into the void and hope for the best. They held a multi-day New Year festival called Akitu. Important clarification before we go any further: Akitu is not a person. Not a god. Not a prophet. It’s a process. Which already puts it light-years ahead of modern resolution culture.

Akitu was timed to spring, when crops could actually grow and the world itself was rebooting. Radical concept. The festival included reviewing the previous year’s failures, acknowledging chaos and imbalance, restoring social and moral order, and then making promises for the year ahead.

Promises weren’t vague. They were concrete: repay debts, return borrowed goods, fix what had been left undone. And yes—there were consequences. These vows were made under the watch of Marduk, whose whole mythological job was defeating chaos and restoring order. So accountability wasn’t a cute checkbox. It was existential.

One of the best parts? During Akitu, the king was publicly humbled—stripped of symbols of power and reminded that authority only existed if order was maintained. Translation: no one got to “manifest” their way out of responsibility. The sequence mattered: reflection → reckoning → restoration → commitment. Sound familiar? It should. That’s exactly what National Resolution Planning Day is trying to reintroduce—minus the ceremonial slapping.

Over centuries, this ritual got simplified. Babylon became Rome. Akitu became a calendar reset. Reflection turned into hype. Rome later tied January to Janus, the two-faced god who looked backward and forward. Even then, the message stayed intact: you don’t move forward without looking back. Somewhere along the way, modern culture kept the date and discarded the wisdom.

National Resolution Planning Day exists because, deep down, we know the truth. Change fails when it ignores nervous system capacity, stress load, biology, context, and reality. Babylonians didn’t call this burnout. They called it chaos. And chaos, historically speaking, was not something to flirt with.

Resolutions don’t fail because people are lazy. They fail because we keep skipping the part where we ask what actually didn’t work last year, what almost worked, and what our systems can realistically support right now. Planning isn’t hesitation. It’s intelligence. Babylon knew that. Rome remembered it. January 1st forgot.

So, if today feels quieter, slower, less dramatic—good. You’re not behind. You’re just finally doing this the way humans figured out 4,000 years ago. And honestly? Akitu would approve.

Cat Herders Day: For Those Who Tried Anyway

 

Yesterday, December 15, was Cat Herders Day, a holiday that exists solely because somewhere, long ago, someone looked at an impossible situation and said, “You know what this feels like?”

Herding cats.

So why did I not post this yesterday? Because I am a cat herder (which will become apparent shortly). I even adopted that tagline on my AHeepofWords website.

This is not about walking cats. Not guiding cats. Herding them. As if they might line up politely, agree on a direction, and move forward with shared enthusiasm. Which, of course, they will not.

Cats are independent operators. They have priorities. They believe in spontaneity. They are deeply committed to whatever invisible meeting is happening just beyond your line of sight. Asking them to follow a plan is less a request and more a philosophical suggestion.

And yet—people try. Every day.

Cat Herders Day is for anyone who has ever attempted to coordinate strong personalities, manage overlapping projects, wrangle ideas that refuse to stay put, or bring order to something that thrives on creative chaos. It’s for the people who thought they had a plan, watched it dissolve in real time, and kept going anyway.

Because here’s the secret: cat herding isn’t about control. It’s about adaptation.

You don’t force cats into formation. You provide incentives. You adjust your expectations. You learn to read the room—or the tail flicks. You accept that progress may arrive in loops, detours, and dramatic pauses. Sometimes the best strategy is to sit very still and pretend you don’t care.

Strangely, this works for more than just cats.

It works for brainstorming. For writing. For managing families, teams, schedules, and lives where nothing stays neatly in its lane. It works when you’re holding multiple roles, multiple ideas, or multiple versions of yourself and trying to keep them from knocking things off the table.

(You also develop a high tolerance for things being “almost done.” Sometimes, you write under multiple pen names. Helena Parx. Lexa Drane -- I am looking at you.)

There’s a special kind of humor that emerges when you realize that some systems simply refuse to be straightened. You stop asking, Why won’t this behave? and start asking, How do I move with this instead of against it? That’s when herding becomes less frustrating—and oddly more effective.

So, this day is for the organizers who improvise, the creatives whose ideas wander off mid-sentence, the caretakers who keep things running through gentle nudges and well-timed snacks, and anyone who has ever looked around at their life and thought, Yep. This is definitely cats.

May your paths be flexible, your plans loosely held, and your sense of humor fully operational. And if nothing lines up—don’t worry. Sometimes the cats are working on something better. 🐾

Giving Tuesday

How Not to Accidentally Feed the Donation Machine

There’s something charming about Giving Tuesday. After the consumer-fest of Black Friday, the digital stampede of Cyber Monday, and the emotional roller coaster of “Do I really need this?”… Tuesday wanders in wearing a cozy sweater and saying, “Hey, want to support something that actually matters?”

But here’s the thing no one tells you:
Giving Tuesday can also feel like getting tackled by 10,000 grabby hands yelling DONATE NOW!!!, each more urgent than the last.

And if you’re someone who wants your hard-earned money to do real good—not just buy another office plant for a boardroom—you start wondering:

How do you give generously without feeding the machine?

The good news: It’s possible. It just takes a pinch of skepticism, a sprinkle of humor, and a commitment to the surprising power of… reading the fine print. (I know. I’m sorry. But stay with me.)

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1. Big vs. Small Charities: The Tale of Two Donation Bins

We all know the big national charities—the ones with billboards, celebrity endorsements, and commercials that make you cry at 2 a.m.

They do important work.
They also sometimes have the overhead of a small moon colony.

Meanwhile, smaller charities often don’t have the marketing polish or a heart-tugging mascot, but they may be the ones who turn every donated dollar into a sandwich, a therapy hour, a medication refill, or a rescued animal who absolutely insists on being the center of attention.

The trick isn’t choosing big or small.
It’s choosing effective.

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2. How to Vet a Charity (Without Needing a Master’s Degree in Nonprofit Sleuthing)

Think of it like online dating for generosity. You are simply checking that the profile matches the reality.

Here’s the short, painless version:

✔ Follow the Money

Look for charities that clearly state how donations are used:

• How much goes to programs?

• How much goes to administration?

• How much goes to fundraising?

If this info is harder to find than Bigfoot, that’s a sign.

✔ Check for Real Impact, Not Just Pretty Words

Good charities show… data. Results. Stories. Actual things done—ideally more than “raised awareness,” which is code for “we made a nice infographic.”

✔ Look for Transparency (The Good Kind)

Are they upfront about challenges, setbacks, and what the next funding goal will actually accomplish?

If it reads like a mystery novel, maybe skip it.

✔ Read Local Reviews or Other Donors’ Experiences

Sometimes the best insights come from people who know the organization personally: volunteers, clients, neighbors.

✔ Your Intuition Counts

If something feels off, it usually is.

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3. Give Where It Actually Helps

This is the magic part—matching your values with organizations that genuinely serve. I am listing the following three options because of personal, in-depth knowledge of their struggles.

🐾 Rock Cats Rescue Inc

This 501c3 organization is spearheaded by cancer survivor Samantha Martin. If Broadway and a mitten factory had a baby, it would be Rock Cats Rescue — the nonprofit behind the world-famous Acro-Cats, a touring troupe of rescued cats who perform music, high-wire antics, and feats of curiosity that make you wonder if cats have been holding out on us this whole time.

But beneath the adorable chaos is the real heart of the organization:
they rescue, foster, rehab, and adopt out cats who might otherwise be overlooked.
They do CPR-level work on bottle babies, shy adults, misfits, and the endlessly endearing "this one hid under the couch for 72 hours but is now ready for greatness" types.

Their shows fund their rescue work.
Their rescue work funds hope.
And every dollar goes toward making sure more cats get a second (or third… or ninth) chance. They have had an extraordinarily challenging year, so they are my top choice.

🦙 Magic Meadows Alpacas

Magic Meadows is one of those rare places where the work is simple, honest, local, and deeply impactful. It’s a small farm with a big heart — not because it tries to be flashy, but because the animals are genuinely cared for in ways you can see and feel the moment you step onto the property.

They rescue, rehabilitate, and care for alpacas, including some with special needs. But they also serve the community in quieter, no-press-release ways:
providing education, hands-on experiences, emotional support moments (because an alpaca nose boop is a spiritual event), and a sanctuary-like environment.

Supporting a small farm like Magic Meadows means supporting sustainability, ethical care, and actual living beings you can meet, feed, and probably fall in love with on sight.

There are no giant corporate layers here — just a real farm doing real good. Right now, they are dealing with a huge vet bill for one of their alpacas.

🐱 Orphan Kitten Club

If tiny kittens had a guardian angel, it would be Orphan Kitten Club — the pioneering organization founded by Kitten Lady Hannah Shaw. They specialize in the most vulnerable population of all: neonatal, orphaned, and medically fragile kittens who require the kind of round-the-clock care most shelters simply can’t provide.

Think incubators.
Think feeding every two hours.
Think saving lives in that critical space between “too small for adoption” and “finally thriving.”

They fund medical care, foster programs, specialized equipment, and their groundbreaking Kitten Nursery Program, which helps shelters across the country save more newborns instead of losing them.

When you donate here, you’re directly supporting lives that would not survive without this kind of specialized intervention. They help the tiniest of the tiny which is something I personally can relate to.

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4. What Giving Tuesday Is Really About

It’s not about:

• competing donation thermometers

• guilt

• social media “I donated!” badges

• or surviving the avalanche of fundraising emails like you’re in an emotional obstacle course

It’s about aligning your heart, your values, and your resources in a way that feels right.

Giving isn’t supposed to feel like “feeding the machine.”
It’s supposed to feel like watering the garden.

Small act → real growth.

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5. A Gentle Reminder Before You Part With Your Wallet

You don’t owe anyone a donation.
But when you do choose to give, make sure it’s somewhere that will use it wisely, ethically, and with actual impact.

Your money worked hard for you—let it work hard for someone else, too.

World Kindness Day

Celebrating the Helpers Who Just ... Help

Today, November 13, is World Kindness Day — which sounds very official, like we should all gather and hold hands — but the real magic isn’t in the calendar date. Nor is it about sitting around a campfire kumbayaing and roasting marshmallows.

The real magic isn’t choreographed, ceremonial, or even particularly quiet-moment-inspirational. It happens in the messy, ordinary, real world.

It’s in the people who practice kindness the other 364 days without even realizing they’re doing it.
The truth is: kindness isn’t always candlelit or poetic. Most of the time, it looks like regular people stepping in because something needs to get done and no one else is doing it.

When the government shuts down and chaos hits?
The helpers show up anyway.

When disasters roll in and turn daily life upside down?
The helpers don’t wait for a perfect plan. They organize food drives in parking lots, check on neighbors, find lost pets, share chargers, blankets, and whatever else they can spare.

a.      And in everyday life, kindness is wonderfully unglamorous:

• Volunteers restocking food pantries before sunrise.

• Teachers buying supplies because kids deserve brightness.

• Small businesses donating what they can during emergencies, even while stretched thin.

• Strangers holding doors, offering seats, or quietly paying for someone else’s meal.

• Restaurants opening on holidays to serve free meals, sacrificing their own family time so others can feel fed, welcomed, and remembered.

• Countless people caring for animals — rescuing, fostering, feeding, advocating — giving a voice to those who don’t have one.

These people don’t post selfies titled “Being Kind Today.”
They’re too busy actually being kind.

So on World Kindness Day, here’s to the quiet heroes — the ones who choose compassion when things get messy, inconvenient, or downright ridiculous.
They remind us that kindness isn’t a holiday.
It’s a habit.
A reflex.
A way of holding up the world together, one small gesture at a time.

With Thanksgiving just a week away, it’s worth remembering:
We don’t have to wait for a holiday to show gratitude.
Every small act counts. Every bit of kindness matters, today and every day.

If you’re reading this?
Chances are, you’re one of those people too — the ones who help without a spotlight.
Here’s to you.

And a special thank you to everyone who has helped me in the past. You know who you are, and I remember - even decades later.

National Health Care Aide Day

Care Behind the Care

So apparently, today, October 18, is National Health Care Aide Day.
And, surprise! I’m one.

Not the kind you picture rushing from house to house with a clipboard and sensible shoes (though, honestly, my shoes are pretty sensible). I’m part of an agency, yes — but my one and only “client” is my fiancé, who has Parkinson’s. So technically, I’m both the employee and the live-in support staff.

No commute. No gas mileage. No awkward small talk with strangers.
Just a lot of patience, humor, and the occasional “Did you take your meds?” kind of mystery-solving.

Here’s the funny part: the agency doesn’t actually know I was labeled disabled myself. Everything — from hiring to training — was done online. No in-person anything. No one ever saw me beyond my perfectly capable typing fingers. It’s like I passed a secret level in the game of caregiving.

But maybe that’s part of the bigger picture. You’d be amazed how many caregivers are doing this work while managing their own health stuff in the background. It doesn’t make us less capable — it just means we’ve mastered multitasking on a whole different level.

What most people don’t realize is how much skill it takes to make daily life look normal.  cooking separate meals, cleaning, tracking meds, calming shaky moments, keeping spirits up — it’s like being a nurse, coach, chef, and motivational speaker rolled into one (without the union benefits).

So, to my fellow aides — whether you drive miles between clients or your commute is just the hallway — here’s to you. We do the small, invisible things that keep the world running a little smoother, one cup of tea (or in my case, goat milk) and one “you’ve got this” at a time.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my shift just started again… and the cat wants attention.

🩺 Written by a home care aide who moonlights as a writer and full-time human.

World Trauma Day

Healing What Got Stuck

Every October 17, World Trauma Day quietly asks us to look beneath the surface—to notice the invisible bruises the body still carries long after life has “moved on.”

Most people think trauma is the bad thing that happened. But that’s only half the story. The deeper truth? Trauma is what gets stored when the body can’t finish reacting to what happened. It’s like a survival program that never quite shut down.

When something overwhelms us, the nervous system flips into emergency mode: heart racing, muscles tense, breathing shallow. It’s the body doing exactly what it’s meant to do—keep us alive. But if we never get the chance to come down from that state, those stress signals stay stuck in the wiring. We start living as if the fire alarm’s still ringing, even when there’s no smoke left.

And here’s the kicker: you can’t talk a fire alarm into silence.

After more than two years of therapy, I realized my therapist and I were speaking different languages. I kept bringing words to a body that didn’t need more analysis—it needed permission to breathe again. Every time I was asked to relive my trauma, I got worse. At once-a-week visits, that’s a lot of re-activation for a nervous system already overloaded. It works for some people, but it didn't work for me.

So, I did the most unexpected thing: I stopped talking about healing and started writing my way through it. (I have also learned there are plenty of other ways for therapy besides talk therapy, pick the one that works for YOU).

Writing became my form of rewiring. Every page helped finish a loop my nervous system had been trying to close for decades. I learned that trauma healing isn’t about reliving pain—it’s about giving the body a chance to finish what it started. Sometimes that looks like movement, creativity, stillness, or laughter. Anything that tells your system, “Hey, we made it. You can rest now.”

That’s the magic of neuroplasticity—the brain’s ability to change its own wiring. Every moment of calm curiosity, every deep breath, every sentence that shifts perspective sends a new signal through the network: safe enough to grow. Over time, those signals build new pathways. The body stops bracing. The brain stops looping. Life starts feeling possible again.

Now you know why I’ve been a little obsessed with neuroplasticity lately—it’s not just science. It’s personal proof that healing doesn’t have to hurt.

So on this World Trauma Day, maybe skip the heavy self-inspection and do something gentle instead. Step outside. Stretch. Write a few words that don’t have to make sense. Hum. Let the body know you’re listening.

Because trauma might have written the first draft of your story—but you get to edit the ending.

(Picture credit: Yours truly. From a world I imagined—one that heals as it grows.)

Star Trek, Trauma, and the Genes We Can Rewire

Some of you know that I have researched health for decades, but did you know I am also a Trekkie (Star Trek fan)? I followed Captain Kirk and the crew on German TV since back in the 1970s. So yesterday, Star Trek Day (September 8), seemed like the perfect blog topic — but as usual, I was a day late and a dollar short. All is not lost, though, because today I stumbled onto a fascinating connection: epigenetics. Say what?

Epigenetics: The Final Frontier

If genetics is the star map you’re handed at birth, epigenetics is how you actually pilot the ship. The planets and systems are fixed — your DNA won’t suddenly swap itself out — but how you route power, adjust shields, or even decide which sector to explore? That’s epigenetics at work.

In layman’s terms: you might be sick from birth or prone to certain conditions based on your genetic blueprint, but how those issues play out depends on epigenetics.

Genes = Star Coordinates

The fixed map — the planets and systems that are there no matter what.
We’re born with a set of genes in set conditions, whether we like them or not. Some are rich in resources, others unstable, and a few are black holes you’d rather avoid at all costs.

Epigenetics = Ship Controls

This includes shields and warp core modulation — how you actually navigate the map, survive anomalies, and avoid Klingons blowing a hole in your hull.

In real life: which systems “light up” on your view screen depends on how you handle stress, nourishment, environment, and unresolved trauma. The crew (your cells) responds to those commands.

Trauma = Space Anomalies

Trauma and ancestral load are like nebulae and distortions that warp your readings. They’re not on the star chart, but they shape the journey.

On Earth, trauma distorts your internal “scanners” and can pull you off course. Ancestral trauma? That’s like a nebula left behind by another ship (Romulans, anyone?), and you’re still flying through the residue.

Healing = Recalibration

Recalibrating sensors, rerouting power, and upgrading shields all fall under the healing device. You don’t get a new ship — uhm, new body — but you learn to fly the one you’ve got.

Reroute the energy grid = neuroplasticity
Upgrade the shields = better diet
Patch the hull = lifestyle changes

You can’t change the star map, but you can change the mission outcome. Scotty, I need more power!

If you’re on a healing journey, every time you uncover another layer (antibiotics, trauma inheritance, food intolerances, etc.), it’s like discovering another quadrant that was hidden from your scanners.

Right now, I’m doing what the Enterprise crew always did: pushing into the unknown, documenting it, and leaving star charts for whoever comes next (hopefully you, the reader).

Wings in the Wild

 

There’s something healing about a walk in the woods. Not the kind you rush through to check your step count, but the kind where you slow down—really slow down—and let the world reveal itself.

That’s what happened today—after a rather diabolical summer. First came the humidity, thick enough to swallow whole days. Then, when the air finally broke, it brought wildfire smoke instead. We usually walk a lot. It’s part of our rhythm. But this? This has been what I call the lost summer. Tom calls it the stolen summer. Either way, it hasn’t felt like ours.

But today, something shifted.

Butterflies. Everywhere. Flickering like sparks. Drifting like petals. They weren’t rare species or perfectly posed for photos. They were just… there. At least a dozen of them. Orange ones, deep indigo ones, sunlit wings and shadow dances.

And of course, I didn’t have a fancy camera. Just a cheap phone, shaky hands, and no illusions of getting “the perfect shot.” But I tried anyway. And when I got home and looked at the photos? Blurry. Grainy. Glorious.

Because here’s the thing: the best pictures aren’t the ones with the highest resolution. They’re the ones that carry a moment. This one carries the buzz of summer heat, the stillness of shade, the gasp of joy when a butterfly lands too close to believe.

So, I edited two of my favorite shots. A little contrast, a little sharpen, a little saturation. Not to fake the moment—but to honor it. To say, I saw you. I remember.

Sometimes, nature shows up for us in ways we don’t expect. Not as a grand escape, but as a quiet reminder: the world is still making beauty. Even when we’re not trying. Even when we’re tired. Even when we only have a cheap phone and a wide-open heart.

What the Bees Know

 

The Bees Are Not Just Dying — They’re Calling Us Back to Balance

The air is thick. Wet. Wrong.
It’s not just heat — it’s corn sweat. Yes, that’s real. Around here, the endless cornfields pump moisture into the already humid summer air, like a slow, boiling fog machine. My body doesn’t just dislike it — it registers it. Lymph backs up. Electrolytes go haywire. Breathing feels like dragging humidity through a straw.

I didn’t sign up to be a human warning system. I just wanted to feel okay. But chronic illness rewires you. Suddenly, the weather changes and your joints tighten. Your heart races after a bite of the wrong thing. Humidity hits, and your entire system short-circuits. You become a walking barometer, but it’s not a superpower — it’s a feedback loop with no mute button.

And what I’ve come to realize is: this isn’t a glitch. It’s communication. But it’s not just my body sounding alarms. So is the planet. So are the bees. The bees — what’s left of them — have been warning us far longer. And maybe it’s time we listen.

What Do Dying Bees Have to Do With Corn Sweat?

Bees and corn sweat are both symptoms of the same problem: monoculture farming. Fields packed with only corn release massive amounts of moisture into the air—what locals call "corn sweat"—intensifying humidity and heat. At the same time, these same fields often lack the diversity and nectar bees need to survive, and they’re saturated with pesticides that disrupt bee nervous systems. So while humans sweat it out in muggy air, bees collapse from a toxic, foodless landscape. Different symptoms, same root.

Bees Are Nature’s Nervous System

Why should we care? Bees don’t just pollinate flowers. They coordinate ecosystems. They move nutrients, signal changes, keep the whole system pulsing with life. They’re more than insects — they’re connective tissue in Earth’s body.

And when they start dying off? That’s not just sad. It’s not evolution, it’s not missing survival of the fittest. It’s eradication. That’s biofeedback on a global scale. It’s a fever, a rash, a skipped heartbeat in the biosphere.

But instead of listening, we double down on chemicals and corn. We replace wildflowers with monoculture. We swap diversity for efficiency. And in the process, we lose resilience — in our farms, our air, and our own bodies.

My Collapse Wasn’t Separate

For years, I thought my symptoms were mine alone. The fatigue, the inflammation, the strange food reactions — they seemed personal. But they were never just mine. My body was reflecting the same story as the soil: depleted, overworked,  stripped of the wild diversity that once made it thrive.

Like a monoculture field, I’d become vulnerable to every invader — stress, toxins, heat.
Like the bees, I’d been overexposed, under-supported, and quietly breaking down while no one noticed. But I did.

Listening Is a Survival Skill

Biofeedback isn’t just a wellness trend. It’s what your body is always doing — sending signals. And when you’re sensitive, those signals get loud. Loud enough to feel like panic. Or pain. Or a complete system shutdown.

But what if that sensitivity is actually intelligence?
What if it’s our last remaining connection to a system that’s trying to survive?

The Bees Are Still Whispering

This isn’t about nostalgia for honey or panic over pollination. It’s about warning systems.
It’s about what happens when we ignore feedback long enough to call it normal.

But it’s also about hope.

Because the signals haven’t stopped yet.
Not in my body.
Not in the wild.
Not in people, either.

That low-level buzz of something’s not right.
That’s not just anxiety. It’s awareness.
And it might just be the first step back to balance.

How Did I Arrive at This Conclusion?

Spoiler: it wasn’t in a dream or during a meditation under a bee-blessed almond tree. It took decades. A lifetime, really. The last puzzle piece clicked into place while I was sitting on the couch, sweating like a popsicle in a cornfield, watching PBS. The show? Human Footprint, Season 2, Episode 4: “The Honey Trap.” Add that to my personal library of health research and the sudden body-wide shutdown I experienced in late June — right when the humidity went from “summer” to “swamp documentary.”

Re-connection Isn’t Radical — It’s Survival

Look, I don’t own acres of pollinator paradise. I’m not out here beekeeping in a linen jumpsuit. I can’t even eat honey without turning into a science experiment. But I can feel. And more importantly, I write. So now I’m writing about bees. And biofeedback. And why our bodies — like the hives — are flashing warning lights we keep ignoring.

And if you’re thinking, “Wait, didn’t she say she’s sick?” Yup. Very. That’s why my books are short. Like snack-sized therapy. When I first collapsed in 2009, I was alone and jobless. Enter: online writing gigs. Exit: whatever scraps of health I had left. A few years later, I met Tom. He made me laugh. Then life made him jobless and diagnosed with Parkinson’s. Back to writing I went — not for fun, but for survival. Again. You see the pattern.

Books Don’t Make Us Rich — They Make Us Possible

I don’t write because I think I’ll land on a bestseller list (though hey, Universe, feel free). I write because my nervous system won’t let me take most medications. Neuroplasticity is my treatment. Story is my salve. Writing gives form to the chaos and turns it into something that might help someone else.

Take the skunks. Yes, skunks. For over a year, we’ve been under chemical assault. But it’s not their fault — people paved over their home and called it landscaping. So I wrote It’s Not My Fault, a book about a misunderstood skunk. Emotional alchemy, folks.

Then came the wildfire smoke. Again: can’t change the planet’s thermostat, but I can invent gnomes who whisper to trees and fix what we broke. Enter the Gnomeward Bound series. And now? Corn sweat and bee collapse. I can’t stop industrial agriculture — but I can write. So I did. So I am.

What You Can Do

You don’t need a hive or a grant from the National Science Foundation. Just let your yard go rogue for a season. Skip the pesticides. Plant wildflowers. Wave at the dandelions instead of yanking them. If you’ve got the funds, support a local beekeeper. If not, talk. Share. Tell someone what you’ve learned. Bees don’t just pollinate food — they pollinate awareness. And maybe, just maybe, remembering that we’re part of the hive too is the first step to healing — for all of us.

Space Ships and Potatoes

 

There’s a special kind of tragicomedy in trying to publish books online and to build a sleek, modern website when your brain looks suspiciously like Swiss cheese… even if your laptop is a state-of-the-art marvel that could probably pilot itself to Mars.

Yes, thanks to a kind soul, I finally have a brand new, whiz-bang laptop that hums happily under my fingertips, loads giant files in a blink, and auto-saves so I stop losing entire chapters to my wandering mind. It’s glorious.

But here’s the catch: my brain didn’t upgrade with it. My sharp-cheddar brain stayed somewhere behind in the 20th century, and now it's like a block of moldy Swiss cheese - riddled with holes from years of stress, life, and forgetting why I walked into the kitchen. (Spoiler: probably goat milk. Always goat milk.)

So now I’m like some hapless rookie astronaut plopped into the pilot seat of a sleek starship. I’m gripping the controls, squinting at blinking lights, hoping I’m pressing the right button to launch forward — not eject myself into deep space. Meanwhile, digital asteroids (pop-ups, errors, plugin failures) keep whizzing by, and stray space junk (like 42 open browser tabs) threatens to spin me off course.

Then there’s my old phone.
Good grief.
It’s still limping along beside me, glaring resentfully at my shiny laptop. It freezes at the slightest provocation, refuses to load half my sites, and closes pages in mid-scroll like it just got bored. If my laptop is a spaceship, this phone is a potato — occasionally useful, mostly just sitting there, sprouting eyes, doing absolutely nothing to help.

And sure, my new laptop is perfectly willing. It purrs along, obeys commands, doesn’t crash or whine like the prehistoric brick I used before. It’s me — the Swiss cheese pilot — who’s lagging, still figuring out which dashboard goes to which website, which image I meant to upload, and why the page I thought I published is apparently lost in orbit.

But here’s the thing: even a holey brain, an old potato phone, and questionable piloting skills can still steer a mighty fine ship. I’m building. I’m writing. I’m (sometimes) pressing the right buttons.

Because perfection is overrated. Determination is everything.
And if I accidentally warp into a black hole once or twice? To quote Thomas Edison: "There is great value in disaster. All our mistakes are burnt up. Thank god we can start anew."

From New Zealand With Mischief: The Gnome Who Changed Everything

 

Six years ago, my son returned from a trip to New Zealand with a suspiciously quiet carry-on item. Nestled in his bag was a white ceramic gnome with a glint in his eye — or maybe that was just my imagination (gnomes are good at that).

He arrived starkly bare (well, in gnome terms — unpainted), wearing nothing but a fantastic golden hat, bold possibilities, and a rather smug beard. The only thing he demanded was a display place, so he moved into my entertainment center, where he sat silently for six years under my cat’s watchful, judgy eyes.

Little did I know this pint-sized ambassador from a gloriously foreign realm would become the muse for my latest book, The Gnome with the Golden Hat. Oh, not at first — it happened in stages, the way great things often do. It all started when I finally decided to paint him last month.

It’s proof that inspiration doesn’t always arrive as a sweeping revelation. Sometimes it shows up wrapped in bubble wrap, carrying the faint scent of adventure — then takes its sweet time, sitting around for years before finally revealing the story it had tucked away all along.

So if you’re curious how a silent garden ornament ended up at the heart of a whimsical tale (and maybe stirred up a bit of gnome politics along the way), you can now find The Gnome with the Golden Hat in print and ebook on Amazon. Because every golden hat deserves its legend.

They Made It Across

 

A dream, a memory, and a quiet kind of return

Last night, I had a dream about two cats I used to love.

They both passed decades years ago—young, too soon, and not in ways that felt fair. They died from neglect I couldn’t stop. One left behind a weight I never quite let go of.

But in the dream, they weren’t gone.

I was standing outside a house—one that felt familiar but didn’t belong to me. Across the street, a busy road buzzed with traffic. I called to them from the car I was in, and they came.

But they didn’t rush.
They walked with purpose to the edge of the road and waited.
They looked. Listened. Trusted the timing.
And when the moment was right, they ran—smooth, sure, and together—across that road.
Then they climbed into the backseat like they had always belonged there.

That’s when I knew: they made it.
Not just in the dream, but somewhere deeper.

For decades, I’ve carried guilt about what happened to them—especially the youngest, who was all fire and energy and barely here before he was gone. The female (with a regal name) was grace and calm. The young one (named after race car drivers) was a comet. I thought I’d never get closure.

Maybe this dream was their way of giving it to me.

They returned not as ghosts, but as passengers.
Not to be mourned—but to ride along.
And in the dream, I was the one driving now.

I’m sharing this because I have friends here who lose cats regularly because they work in rescue. One of my friends lost a cat recently, and it reminded me how quiet and painful that kind of loss can be. How it sits in the corners of your home and the folds of your heart.

So maybe this story is for anyone who’s missing a pet right now.
Maybe it’s a reminder that even when we think we’ve lost them, they find their way back.
Sometimes in dreams.
Sometimes in memory.
Sometimes in the gentle calm that returns when the ache starts to lift.

Sometimes they just need us to call.
And they’ll come—carefully, bravely, in their own time.
Even across a busy road.
Even after all these years.

And this time, they’ll make it.

Big Hair, Bigger Memories

Last Saturday night at Taste of Des Plaines, we caught a live show by Hairbangers Ball—a tribute band so gloriously loud, theatrical, and committed to the era of Aquanet and eyeliner that for a minute, it felt like time cracked open.The show was free, the crowd was packed, and the music? A full-on sonic time machine. They didn’t hold back either—Def Leppard’s “Rock of Ages,” Pat Benatar’s “Heartbreaker,” Ozzy’s “Crazy Train,” Ratt’s “Round and Round,” Van Halen’s “Jump,” Mötley Crüe’s “Kickstart My Heart,” and Lita Ford’s “Kiss Me Deadly” all made the setlist. And yes, it was exactly as epic as it sounds.

Guitars screamed. People danced. Some of us quietly wept into our lemonade slushies because this music still hits like it did when we were seventeen.

The smells were...festive. Think grilled onions, assorted beverages, and probably some decades-old cologne clinging to a leather vest. It was like stepping into a scented time capsule—if the capsule also had a fog machine and a guy in zebra-print pants.

I didn’t know how much I missed this music until it was blasting through my rib cage again. That era wasn’t subtle—it wore its heart (and heartbreak) on its sleeve, screamed its feelings through Marshall stacks, and made sure no one left a power ballad with dry eyes.

Hairbangers Ball didn’t just play the music—they channeled it. And for a little while, we got to remember who we were when this music first grabbed us by the soul and said, “We’re gonna feel something tonight, and we’re gonna feel it LOUD.”

Videos coming soon once I figure out how to make Blogger speak fluent Facebook. Stay tuned.

NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 7 Table for Two

Table for Two

We used to eat connection.
Shared plates, shared cravings,
a booth against the world.
The diner wasn’t just food—
it was the place where silence got filled
with ketchup bottles,
and laughter echoed off cheap tile.

Now, I sit beside him
watching him not order,
and it breaks me in a way I can't explain—
because he's doing it for me.
He’s already given up more than breadsticks.

And yet—
when his eyes light up at a rare pizza night,
when grease touches his fingers and he doesn’t flinch,
I feel joy like an old friend I thought had left.

It’s not that I want him to stop smiling.
I just wish I could still be part of
what makes him smile.