Here we are. Year 3 since River left earth. Her story, my story, the story of our family is so beautifully complicated. Like the ouroboros serpent, there is no way to separate the good from the bad. It’s all completely the same and it's all mine. The last three years have been incredible. I’ve traveled to new places, loved and been loved HARD and pushed myself physically and challenged myself emotionally. Laughed a lot. Created.
And I’ve cried – deep eternal tears – mine and those of all mothers over all time who have experienced this pain. I can feel them and they can feel me. In the last three years, new losses have come. I have learned to watch and wait;  for, although I can see the journey of pain that will befall the bereaved, the Seer’s job is not to offer but to stand strong and close and ready with reply. I’ve also cried shallow, sloppy selfish tears of pride and pity. Again, the endless and beginningless circle of things that make us whole. 
This year, Josh and I purchased a house in Vermont. I set an intention to do so at least 10 years ago, probably much longer. On the other side of a big thing – be it a project, or an illness, a big win or a big loss is a feeling of nothing, a numbness to all the work it took to get there. I have dreamed, schemed, researched, calculated, plotted and prayed away for a decade and then POOF, its over – the work and struggle – a distant memory. We did it.  I have set the boulder down at the top of the mountain and although my arms are still shaking with the weight, all I can see now is the view (and of course, that next boulder and next peak.) We won’t move just yet. Another gift of River’s journey – allowing things to be a process that must be a process. 
This dream, to purchase a piece of my favorite place, it was suppose to include a growing River. She would celebrate the victory. She would ask all the interesting questions and notice all the little details through her big blue eyes. She and Josh would frolic through the green grass, the forests and snow – experiencing the novelty while I followed behind to explain the this’s and that’s to their half-listening ears. The traditions of New England, I would pass down, as my people have for centuries. When I let that pain sink in, it cuts me like a knife and I can feel myself silently screaming. I have learned that I have to sit with that pain, so I do. I have also learned to recognize and honor it, but not let it kill me. Being in Vermont this summer allowed me to begin to heal the deepest parts of myself. The ones that have existed since childhood. My people at home received me and mourned with me in our way. The water there, for which River was named, cradled me and removed the space between us. There is a sadness in those little green mountains that creates space for deep pain to exist.
Despite all of it, I know that I’m a lucky person. So incredibly lucky to be River’s mom. She was a angel and the fiercest person I’ve ever met. She knew gentle touch and absolute rage, silliness and dedication – and man, did she like to laugh! I am lucky that she died in a beautiful peaceful way – outside of the hospital without beeps, needles, cords and strangers. Together with her family, in my arms, with her daddy, in a bed of unicorns and on her own terms. I’m lucky that I have people who get the power of this story. I am lucky to have found true love in Josh – lucky to have the very best of friends – lucky for a large family who sees my special gifts. Lucky for the children I get to support. The boys moved to Boston this year and they have frolicked and listened with fully open ears. Lucky for the brilliant teenager in my life who bakes on command and needs the mothering skills I have to offer.  Lucky for my elders. Lucky to be able to see that tiny ray of sunshine as I navigate my way out of the darkness of grief.
****River’s Forest is still alive and well! I have trees to add and will soon. Thank you to everyone who has participated and thought about participating in the project.**** Plans are in the works for a small forest at our Vermont House. 

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Rose had 5 children, and 10 grandchildren. 
Of the grandchildren, I am number 6. 
—As many of you know, I have had the unfortunate opportunity of being very close to death in the last few years. Today, I am grateful for this chance to speak to my family about what I have learned.
***Death is a doorway.***
And last week, our beloved Rose walked through it.
—At 95, Rose lived a proper life. 
And even though, i KNEW she would leave us soon, 
it’s been hard for me to fathom the truth ——- the physical “her” is no longer. 
For all of my time on earth, my grandmother has been the same thing. 
A constant, a certain, a writer of cards, a clipper of newspaper articles. A reader. A social butterfly. She was always the picture of class and decorum. In my life, she was always a grown up. 
The other truth that is hard for me to understand is that she was not just the person I saw as my grandmother. 
In her long life, Rose was many things to many people. 
Her life was made up of millions of moments--
—-some perfect, happy and easy and others ugly and hard, and so many moments in between. 
Rose lived all of these moments and is the sum of all those parts. 
In her life, she changed, grew, evolved. She  made mistakes—- she worked to correct them, she worked to understand them, 
—to understand her ancestry. 
—She fought to unravel her story. --
For she was never a single rose, but many, many roses — 
****from bud to bloom to wilt to thorn to bud and bloom again.***
Last week, Rose fulfilled her purpose, finished her story and walked through the doorway of death to bloom again on the other side. 
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—With her passing, there is an opening for all of us, a moment of transition, —— an internal AND external restructuring of our worlds.  For death is also a doorway for the living.

 When my grandfather George passed, I stood in this room and read a poem about grief by an unknown author aloud to many of you. As I walked away from the podium, I was changed. 

At that moment, I knew that when this day came—- When rose passed, I would write my own words to express what she meant to me. 
George’s death was a doorway that I walked through to become a writer. And the doorway, I needed to realized how important family relationships are to me and that I would need to WORK to nurture them. 

When my daughter River died, I realized the truly transformative power of death. From River’s story, I learned that--
— not all moments are equal, 
—not all lives are long like Rose’s. 
—That we have incredible control over  many aspects of our story, but there are no guarantees of a tomorrow. 
—we are all many things. Some obvious, accessible and blooming.
—And other things that are deeper—-hidden within us, waiting for their chance to flower. 

Rose’s passing is an immense loss. There is nothing to replace her. But I can tell you with all certainty that this is a doorway for each of us to grow into what is next—- and today, we are standing in this doorway together, as a family, as a community of people who loved Rose. 
Where we go from here is our hands, her legacy—-her story, it is our story to write now.  Her death is the doorway to the rest of our lives. 

All trees are important - holding together both the sky and the ground - wrapping us up in their embrace – merging elements into the thing we call Earth. All the while protecting us from the all-powerful sun. Even the little ones, who focus more on our feet than our crown, shelter and stabilize us in their own dainty ways. But no tree envelops us more than the mighty oak. Always striving to become a circle, roots reaching for branches reaching for roots. The oak – it probably loves us best. 

This year, my family lost an oak. A person who defined us, shaped us, was both the past and the future - standing above and kneeling below. With her loss, we are left exposed, having never realized that the sun was so bright and so blinding. Shifting perspective on all things in our seemingly understood world – Without her shadow, new things come into light in the briars – some beautiful & fresh and some we never wanted to see. 

The creatures who once called her home – the birds, the ants, the lichens, things much smaller, but just as alive, they come to us –  guests with no invite seeking shelter. These foundlings bring unfamiliar sensations – an extraneous weight on our limbs, tingling on our leaves,  biting, pecking and boring into our skin, into our strengths and weaknesses.  We must hold them now for we are left at the forest floor with all the responsibility of our oak’s legacy. In time, we will be able to choose what to carry and what to evict. But first, this process moves forward without our consent.

With her passing, space is created. There is room for us to grow in new ways and to reach out to the other trees in our forest. We are free to create new structures, new connections, to redesign the canopy. In unison, the sun and the earth shout a message –  you must prepare to be the next mighty oak!

That future is not yet here. We are too small and too frail for this job. We must grow, which will take time –  painful, painful time. As our oak knew, growing is hard and not without a cost. It takes energy and sacrifice. 

Our oak was not a perfect tree. In her life, she faced struggle and disease. Her limbs did not always grow in perfect balance. Her shade, not always even. Some days our oak scuffled with the wind just to stand. Under her protection, it was easy to look up and think of how she might have grown in other or more perfect ways. 

Our oak was strong, battle-tested, scars covering scars covering scars. Some visible, shared with us, and some only hers. Scars she hid deep in her core to shield us from how hard life really is. Without her here, we are left alone to face the sharp ax of reality – it was never easy to be a mighty oak. 

While our oak has left the touchable sky, she has shaped us and our forest. Below us, she will always remain. We grow both up and down on the paths she weaved, forever nourished by her roots, breathing always the air she exhaled.

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Yesterday marked the one-year anniversary of River’s passing. As many of you have said, it's hard to put into words the emotions that go with this milestone. Sadness and longing, for sure. And also sweet memories and a feeling of peace.

Josh and I celebrated and mourned River’s life with a trip to Caddo Lake. A rare natural lake in Texas, Caddo sits on the Louisiana border. It is one of the World’s largest Water Forests due to the main tree of the region — the Bald Cypress. These trees get their name because they shed their leaves, making them one of the rare crossovers of both a deciduous and cone-baring tree species. I’ve always been a bit obsessed with these trees and am lucky that one lives right outside my office window. But I have never, in all my travels, seen anything like the Cypresses at home in the Caddo. It is quite literally a forest in the water!

While not all Bald Cypresses grow in rivers, the ones that do developed a special way to stay rooted during changing water levels and shifting soils. They produce a series of above ground roots, called knees, that sprout up all along the base of each tree. As the tree grows taller, the knees merge into the main truck, building stability. It’s these “knees” that give the bald cypress their unique wide bottomed shape and allow them their aquatic life.

I learned from the Cypress to recognize my own "knees" -- the experiences/people/places in my life that have created the person I am today.  Deep friendships now separated by distance; professional aspirations once important, but then set aside; hobbies that held my past interest;  times I started down one path only to turn back; mistakes I've made; the lessons I've learned; sadness, but happiness too. In the moment of an experience or right after, I have felt that I have lost something forever. But in truth, it's all still in there -- all part of my story. All of the things now folded into making me "me".  

The trip to Caddo, the adventures of the last year and love from this community have helped me sprout a few more knees in 2022. Josh and I are working daily to keep growing and building the future we want. One thing I know for sure is that I'll be returning to Caddo in the spring to see the Cypresses in all of their green glory! 

After the summer off to focus on healing, I’m working again on the River’s Forest project. 

For those who might not know, Josh and I drove to the East Coast to see family and dear friends -- many of whom could not make it to River’s memorial events in Texas. Our journey took us to 19 states, with many new tree connections made along the way!

We went tubing on the quiet side of the Smokies (outside of Knoxville) and saw hundreds of beautiful Mimosa trees in bloom. They remind me of the tassel earrings I’m fond of and River’s love for the color PINK. Next, we had lunch in Asheville, North Carolina, among beautiful big oaks. Then onto a visit with special friends outside Philadelphia and a walk around their neighborhood to meet their community of trees.

After four days on the road, we landed in sweet New England – where my love of trees was born. I visited two very special River’s Forest trees in Connecticut and talked to many different people about their future planning plans. I also spent a few hours sitting in my sister's garden with her freshly planted Apple Trees. Josh visited my Dad’s favorite stream bed in Vermont, which is now home to 24 baby Sugar Maples that are part of the Forest.

We left the last week of July, stopped briefly at Niagara Falls, and had dinner in Chicago with good friends. The way back had to be quick, so less visits with trees. My favorites were the rolling forested hills of the Missouri Ozarks, which I saw through the car window. I hope to return there for a proper visit someday soon.

We are back in Texas now and after a few weeks of acclimating to the weather, culture and our life here, I have created the time to update the River’s Forest website. As of today, there are 168 trees listed on River’s Tree map and I have a few more to add!

Trees are planted in the following states:
·         Texas
·         Vermont
·         Connecticut
.         New Mexico
·         Oregon
·         Illinois
·         Minnesota
·         New York
​·         Massachusetts

And in the following Countries
·         Mexico
·         Nepal
·         Indonesia
·         Brazil
·         US

It feels BIG to write this out and think about how many people & hands have nourished this project.
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Please don't feel rushed if you haven’t planted a tree yet. The world still needs them and I still very much enjoy thinking about them!

Here are some next steps for me & River's Forest: 

· I will be creating a River’s Forest Facebook and Instagram page, so it is easier to keep people updated on progress and remind them of upcoming planting dates. Look for an invite from me soon.

· This year, I also hope to clean up the website, which I'll announce through the blog and on social media.  

· For those in Texas or other southern states, Arbor Day is November 1st! Maybe this year is the right time for you to get your tree in the ground. If so, look for hardy trees that can take the freezing temperatures we might get this year and also will be ok with another hot, hot summer next year.


Grieving can feel at times like these extreme weather swings. There are days when Josh and I feel hot & angry with our loss. And days when we feel the bitter cold sting of sadness. Some days are calm and comfortable. There are lots and lots of days in between that just are.

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We are doing what we can to stand tall, stay watered, weather the storms, continue to grow, and shade those who come under our canopy.