Now back in her hometown, in a place, she has always wanted to return to, and do it better. Through moves and different jobs, a solitary seeker of the secret to joy, and peace, choice, and even destiny.
Writing Letters to her Mom, sometimes raw with grief, sometimes a celebration of joy.
She talks to her as though she was just living far away, and not dead for 15 years. As her tales told, One by One. She tells stories of lovers, long walks, and lost gardens. Of late night talks, shocks, fools, and crossroads.
It is a peek into a private bond between Mother and Daughter. Like an old fashion handwritten letter, she shares her day, her politics, her rage, her grief, her joy and her deep sadness, magic, and family.
At first, like a gentle scent on a summer’s day, she entices and shares her world.
Yet that gentle, simple voice can become a brash, passionate one, a voice that slowly builds. Sometimes you almost catch a whiff of some connection deeply buried and kept from view. Often her secrets and truths only she alone knows the significance.
With a prose imbued with the odd cuss word, she shares a personal, private life. Her tone, colour, even the very theme, revisited again, and again.
She says it was when she realized she had always, really, been writing to her Mom that everything changed. Looking back through her collection, one can find that voice emerging.
And so, through old fashion letters home, she explores our concepts of death and dying. And thus, the journal became perhaps more of a memoir, of caring too much, and maybe not enough. Of mistakes, and wrong turns, and of how grief may hold for us if we choose to look, perhaps lessons.
Well worth revisiting, again and again, as you never know exactly what you will find. As she has herself said, she is like a tea towel in the wind, never knowing where she will land.