Letting go

A Mom’s Love, unlimited

May 11, 2025

Three decades ago, pregnant and new to Wisconsin, I injured my back. My spouse away, I was grateful for the friends who broke into our house to take care of our toddler and call for an ambulance.

The very next day, Mom flew in from Maine to take care of things while I got back on my feet (literally), and then break me out of the hospital, driving me home in the way back of the minivan to a first floor hospital bed she had procured.

That was Mom’s love: she showed up at the drop of a hat, wherever, whenever, and got the job done.

A year ago, record-breaking weather hit the home in Maine where we’d cared for Mom during her last stretch, in a first floor hospital bed we had procured. I wrote about that journey in Living Is for Living — Mom’s words when I asked for her two cents when Alzheimer’s disease made her health care tricky.

The historic storms and hefty clean-up were a wake-up call. Until then, my spouse and I had assigned what’s next? to the future. Suddenly, it was crystal clear it was time for us to consider our next steps.

In the midst of this, I flew to Wisconsin to be a good grandma and dog sit, a welcome distraction from wild weather stress. Waiting for the plane to de-ice on my homeward trek, I reflected on my attachment to the house we’d so lovingly renovated, which had brought me back to Maine after twenty-five years away. I loved our last chapter living there, with Mom, my husband, our adult kids, friends and pets. It was hard to fathom leaving it, even though Mom and several of the pets had passed on, and the kids had since fanned out far away.

With a heavy heart, I googled “how to let go of a house when you are emotionally attached.” There were lots of good ideas I’d try in the coming year, and I realized it was possible to love a home and its story the way I did and still move on. I just needed to trust that the next chapter could be awesome too.

Just then I looked up to spot, two seats ahead, a baseball cap that read October 15, 1997.

While 1997 didn’t strike a chord, October 15 did. That’s the day Mom had died, in our beloved seaside home, me and the animals at her side.

All of a sudden, I knew without doubt, that Mom was with me, and that she’d continue to be with me, wherever I am and wherever I go.

I don’t need a certain house to keep her close.

That is Mom’s love: it isn’t limited to time or place, it’s with me wherever I am, wherever I go.

Mom’s “Living Is for Living” is all I need to keep her near. This reminder’s helped me through challenges I’ve encountered since, wrapping up the last chapter and turning toward the next, this one yet to be written.

Here’s to a Mom’s love, unlimited — Happy Mother’s Day!

Newest Release…

January 11, 2024

Sharing this book reminds me of opening Sunshine’s crate.

Rather than dashing to the sea, Sunshine peered out, cautiously. When her crate was gently disassembled and she was eased onto the sand, she made her way slowly down the beach, guided by her Marine Mammals of Maine (MMoME) caregivers who shielded her view of the spectators gathered to cheer for her and poolmate Dexxy. When Sunshine made it to the bay, she paused in the shallows while she acclimated to the chilly water, lapping waves, glistening sun. Then she submerged, and off she went.

I can relate to Sunshine’s apparent reluctance, as I release this book I wrote and illustrated about her recovery, from collection to rehabilitation to release. I also received great care along the way and down the homestretch – from my childhood friends Nancy (who illustrated the front cover), Biz (who took photos of the release) and Margie (who cheered my every step), to my editor, Genie Dailey (Fine Points Editorial Services), and my creative coach, Lindy Gifford (www.manifestidentity.com), to the folks at MMoME (who gave the book their thumbs up).

Wanting to get the story and its details right, I too have taken my sweet time before taking the plunge. And just like the time came for Sunshine to swim free, the time has come to set her story free. So here it is, available online and by request at your local book shop. I hope you enjoy!

Upcoming Book Release: A Seal Named Sunshine

November 7, 2023

Last spring, I started another children’s book, this one based on the journey that began with discovering a stranded gray seal pup while we were taking a winter dog walk. I was inspired by what I witnessed as I watched Marine Mammals of Maine (MMoME) collect, rehabilitate, and release this beautiful creature and her poolmate Dexxy back into Casco Bay. Writing it all down felt like a celebration of dedication, generosity, resilience, hope, and grit. Telling this caregiving story felt lighter than the last one I shared (Living Is for Living: A Caregiver’s Story) as it involved sitting at my table drawing pictures of baby seals while Peach the Cat tried to play with my trusty coloring pencils.

This fall, as the book neared completion, unexpected challenges popped up in my personal life and horrific aggressions happened globally, then locally. I lost the clarity I usually rely on to get things done. While I wanted to do justice to A Seal Named Sunshine: The Story of Sunshine and All the Rest Who Made a Big Splash One Winter in Maine, my focus was pulled to the broader losses, and I wondered if obsessing on a seal’s eye markings was inappropriate, self-indulgent, and even denial of the larger context.

I thank my lucky stars for my creative coach and publishing consultant Lindy Gifford (www.manifestidentity.com) for her patience with my tweaks and her continued attention to the details, those I missed and those I had a hard time letting go.

In the wake of the mass shooting in Lewiston, I texted her an apology for my slow pace: “Hi Lindy, I just wanted to acknowledge, as I continue to finesse Sunshine’s image, there’s so much loss, sadness and fear in our state right now. I hope you and your loved ones are okay, even as I know this touches us all even if from a distance…”

Lindy replied: “Don’t worry, Terry. We have to keep doing our work…These are scary and unsettling times for sure and I am happy I can also work on good books like yours with good people like you… Sending calm and resolve to us all.”

This is not the first time Lindy has helped me stay the course through the home stretch of self-publication. I appreciate her presence at my side, sorting through all kinds of things, from caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s disease, to describing fictional animal adventures (The Douglas the Rabbit Adventure Series), to capturing the intricacies of marine mammal conservation.

I realize today that all the drawing and redrawing does not minimize graver concerns, it actually gives me comfort and purpose. As I hold close the devastating losses faced by so many, I allow myself space to finish this project, in the hope it will support the efforts of organizations like MMoME while also spreading the wonder I experienced watching them work their magic. I hope A Seal Named Sunshine will bring you joy like it does me. I’ll let you know when it’s available : )

The Wrap: Douglas the Rabbit’s Winter Holiday Surprise

October 2, 2023

“Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face.”—Victor Hugo (1802-1885), author of The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Les Miserables

Across traditions, winter holidays are observed with decorations, foods, gifts, lights, rituals, and visits with family and friends. They celebrate hope and joy, even amidst hardship. In that spirit, I’m excited to offer:

In this last book of the series, Douglas invites the other animals to a gathering that captures the friendships they share. It’s a reminder of the importance of making time for what matters most: Connection to others and the world we share.

This one’s a shout-out to my spouse, Doug, and our children—Siena, Matt, and Garrett—with whom we witness the humor and beauty around us, with special thanks to the sightings that inspired the illustrations: Canadian geese skidding to a stop across fresh ice, paper snowflakes created by the kids from coffee filters, shooting stars streaking across the night sky.

I share this story today, on what would have been Dad’s 90^th birthday, in gratitude for all the ways he made us laugh, including his story-telling, and for encouraging me to tell stories, too.

“Peace and quiet,” he’d say, a twinkle in his eye, when I’d ask him what he wanted for his birthday.

When I ask myself that question, as I approach my sixtieth, what I want is the gift of kindness.

So, in wrapping the Douglas the Rabbit Adventure Series, it makes sense that, even without doing so intentionally, this final story celebrates these three gifts: peace, quiet, and kindness.

I hope you enjoy!

Living Is for Living: A Caregiver’s Story is launched!

November 28, 2022

What I am letting go in publishing this book isn’t Mom; it isn’t my caregiving journey; it isn’t even all the reflection I’ve done along the way. What I am letting go is fear, the what ifs, the wish for one more do-over, choosing, instead, to let love fill our sails:

If you or someone you know is interested in reading Living Is for Living: A Caregiver’s Story, it is available to order at your local book store (just ask) and also online at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, Sherman’s Maine Coast Book Shops, IndieBound, and Bookshop (just click).

Thank you for your interest and I wish you and your loved ones many blessings this holiday season.

Letting Go, for real

November 6, 2022

As Lindy and I volley last looks at Living Is for Living: a Caregiver’s Story, I wrestle the same old same old: what if my words upset someone, what if there’s a glaring mistake, what if I’m oversharing, what if Mom wouldn’t like what I wrote?

“In the full realization of our repetitiveness, the best thing is to stop saying anything for a while, and in that saying nothing, something begins to break down and opens us up.”—David Whyte, September 2022 Series: Crossing the Unknown Sea, Life and Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity, Session 2

Heeding Whyte’s words, I quiet my anxious mind and observe:

a dear friend, in reference to caring for her father, texts: “I remember you asking me, ‘how do I know when [Mom] is ready to let go’, and I told you ‘you will know because it will just happen naturally'”;

another dear friend, in the midst of caring for her brother, asks about the book and when I share my concerns, offers the warmest of hugs;

searching Mom’s things for the key to her safety deposit box, I discover Henry Van Dyke’s I Am Standing Upon the Seashore, describing a sailboat reaching the horizon: “Gone from my sight. That is all“; and

I meet my brother Dave for breakfast and, still keyless, we make up fun stories about what we might find inside Mom’s box before he asks me about the book and advises me to let it go.

I do realize, all this writing has been a way I’ve continued to care for Mom, even after her death. This book has given me space to visit and revisit our lifetime together; it has helped me to grieve, process, and heal. It’s reminded me to laugh.

What if this next stage, publishing, is less about setting myself off for new horizons, and more about sending off the lessons I’ve learned? What if letting go is really more about handing over, and in so doing, setting free? What if I choose love, not fear? What if it’s all going to be okay?

As Van Dyke concludes: “Her diminished size is in me—not in her. And, just at the moment when someone says, “There, she is gone,” there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes!”

Launching Lala, and me

October 16, 2022

Yesterday was three years since Mom died. It’s been a nostalgic month, with Dad and Grammy’s birthdays to start, followed by Mother Nature’s plentiful reminders of Mom’s last stretch—bright sun, pounding surf, brisk winds, and yellow leaves, every where I turn.

To Dad’s “when my number’s up, fill my dinghy up with gin and push me out to sea” came Mom’s “living is for living” which meant a reluctance to push off when there was still fun to be had, as evidenced by the friendships she formed with every caregiver who came through our door.

While Dad died true to form, so did Mom, who moved on, me and the animals at her side, the sun just breaking the horizon, reminiscent of this excerpt from Katherine Tynan Hinkson’s Shades Are Up, a poem Mom had chosen to share at her funeral:

Some morning I shall rise from sleep,

When all the house is still and dark.

I shall steal down and find my ship

By the dim quayside, and embark…

As I work this month with publishing consultant Lindy, finishing the last details of my caregiving story, it’s been hard to finalize, to let go, for fear of making a mistake, choosing the wrong words, misrepresenting, over-stepping. I’m sure the timing is no coincidence.

“There are times when we know we should move but we don’t even know how to push our boat out from the shoreline on which we are marooned…Part of our ability to go is to understand what we’re missing…”—David Whyte, September 2022 Series: Crossing the Unknown Sea, Life and Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity, Session 3.

While I’m not quite sure what I’m missing, I am curious where all this time and energy freed up will land me next. I take heart in another excerpt from Shades are Up:

…The winds shall bear me safe and kind…

With love… to lead me by the hand.

This morning, in the early hours, I recall Kristin Neff’s self-compassion practice which ChiME advisor Katie taught me in the days following Mom’s death:

“1. This is a moment of suffering”—I feel stressed about finalizing Living Is for Living, about being so vulnerable.

“2. Suffering is a part of life”—Other people feel stressed too, on the verge of putting themselves out there in what feel like big ways.

I lay my hands on my heart.

“3. May I be kind to myself”—I love and accept myself unconditionally. I’ve got this.

(Dr. Kristin Neff, Co-Founder of the Center for Mindful Self-Compassion, https://self-compassion.org/exercise-2-self-compassion-break/).

It’s time to shove off. Let’s do this.

Book Lay Out: “and” not “or”

September 28, 2022

This last bit, the back and forth with Lindy as she carefully lays out Living Is for Living, word by word, reminds me of childbirth: it requires willingness, focus, patience and humility, in the midst of discomfort and anticipation. There’s the familiar cognitive back and forth: do I hold on or do I let go or am I kidding myself to think I have any control over what happens next, once this book is published.

So what do I do? I nest: I sort trinkets, rehang pictures, rearrange books. I even gladly pause to take my many morning herbs (intended to tame Lyme and other things). And, big surprise, I write : )

Then I remember the notion of AND that I learned in my interfaith chaplaincy studies. What if I swap and for or: I hold on and I let go and I kid myself. This balance of good intention and good humor do seem to come in handy at this moment of delivery.

I’m grateful

that the animals

are right here at my side

and that Lindy is

one heck of a writing midwife,

respecting my perspective and pace,

while attending to every single detail.

We’ll get there—I just gotta trust, breathe, do what I can, and let the process unfold. Speaking of which, back to checking the latest version!

Walking with Mom, year two, in grief and in joy, too

June 25, 2021

As I stood on the stage, being ordained an interfaith minister by the Chaplaincy Institute of Maine, I heard and felt Mom’s presence in the birds singing in the trees and the gentle breeze on my face. I felt the pieces of my story settling into place. I was excited, curious and, most of all, ready, for whatever comes next.

—excerpt from Living Is for Living: A Caregiver’s Story

Grief and Guilt, a year later, and the Magic of Fruit Loops, Pivoting, Barking Dogs, Yellow Leaves and Blue Jays

October 12, 2020

As we returned home from an afternoon hike, Siena spotted another Blue Jay, this one perched in a tree at the top of our street. We looked at each other and smiled, understanding that Mom is still right here, with us. We just need to be available to the moment, the best we can.