artistic journey



I was my mother’s “practice” fifth grade student at our local art museum, the Figge.  She is studying to be a docent, and will soon have to deal with many groups of fifth grade students who will be gathered around very expensive and delicate art, all listening to her perspective of the art at the moment.  I admire her!

I loved going to the museum, especially for the Fourth Floor exhibit.  I took two pictures of the collection, which was the best of any artist who lives within 150 miles of Davenport, Iowa, where the Figge stands.

I loved the book, which anyone can actually turn.  It reminded me of how magical books can be, as the acrylic and textured book which is wholly abstract, bedazzled me.

The other picture, also seemed magical as wires strung from the hugely tall ceiling carried little leaves whose shadow reflected below.

Of course after the difficult work of imbibing art, we imbibed an excellent lunch at the Figge cafe.

If you’re ever in the Quad Cities, I would highly recommend the Figge as a stop.  It overlooks the mighty Mississippi, which runs through our five towns–Rock Island, where I grew up, Moline, East Moline, Davenport, and Bettendorf.

Note Maddie's tail....

Steve’s message


I’ve been having some difficult times. My husband texted this message to me yesterday. I have so much support, I will not fail.

I love and adore you!
I cherish and desire you!
I want and need you.
I can’t live without you!

Engrave those words on your heart and in your mind!
Then I’ll seal both with a kiss!

Love, Steve


Med check!


I am looking forward to having a new psychiatrist, and possibly therapist; but I am also in an adjustment phase, medically— specifically, medicinally. This so far has created havoc in me. I wrote the following during some of the worst of my phase. I hold on to each day: appreciating the good ones, and taking a deep breath over the difficult ones.


As I lay cadaver-
The world swirls about me

I fight my swings of
Up and down by
Giving in,
Closing up,
Watching the world as if

If I reacted
I’d be in a miasma
Of tears, confusion,

So I deaden myself


10 years

of hospital hopping

I can spew out chapter and verse
Without even thinking

I hate to go back,
Even in my brain

I go back.
I hold pain of tears and
Sadness churning
Near my heart

Destruction or creation?



It is a yo-yo contest
Someone is pushing me down
And snapping me back up.
I am but a ball on a
String. Why can I not
Communicated with the monolithic presence
That pushes and pulls me?
I know what I want, what I
Don’t I?


Mass fragments of stars
Rush by
The planet is seized by
Like the dinosaurs,
We are surprised.
Can any survive this
Type of monolithic presence?


Is it really destruction?
That ability to control
Or is it creation,
Working on change.
Whether it’s upon one or upon many
I wonder about the act of




storied nightmares a 63rd floor intuition that the scares will continue to find the heart that seeks solitude; no, sleep. the heights floor the beating heart. no end in escalation; the elevator continues to go up; no, slow down, open, at 63. the lake surrounds the north facing windows. windows which flank, which do not hide the submissive heart. where are the birds; can it not transform? can the heart not become; no, be, something more? what awaits behind the door?