pop, where are you?

Over the last couple of years I’ve been with two dear people as they passed from life to … wherever …

'Now-age' people (as new-age folks now like to be called) say the body’s just a vessel. We are more than flesh and bones. We are spirit; we are essence; we are one with the universe. We don’t die. We live into infinity. Christians tell you the body dies, but the spirit lives on and passes to a greater heavenly arena where they promise salvation. Buddhists believe we’re reborn to learn our past mistakes. Jews say we’ll have a place in the world to come. And Islam preaches the attainment of eternal bliss in the hereafter.

I never understood any of this until the day my aunt died. And I still don’t. But just minutes after my aunt passed, I was mystified. Standing by her side, I cradled her tiny, dry, withered hand in one of mine, sheltering it with the other. No matter how hard I looked, or how closely I leaned in to her still face, I could no longer see her. “Where have you gone, Catherine? Where are you?”

Eight months later I sat with one of the most handsome, classy, vibrant men I’ve known, as he bravely slipped away. I draped across his footballer shoulders and tightly wrapped my arms around him, swallowing tears I knew he wouldn't welcome. But it wasn’t him I hugged. He’d already left.

At that very moment, I was gutted—yet bewildered. “Pop. Where are you? Where have you gone?” I pressed my cheek against his, then kissed his forehead, now pallid and relaxed of life’s stresses. Only minutes before, he’d mustered the last of his strength to give one final instruction, “You have to let me go. Let. Me. Go.” And go he did

I went back to the hospice the following morning where staff had laid my father in clean PJ’s, tucked tightly between crisp white sheets. He died just before his 69th birthday. Nurses had slipped the card I’d given to him between his hands; hands that were strong and athletic, artistic and gentle; hands that had held mine as a child, keeping me safe and secure; hands now void of life that lay neatly folded across his chest. I wrapped my hands over his and squeezed them as I leaned into his cheek to kiss him goodbye. But he wasn’t there.

I don’t know where Dad went when he left that body. I don’t have a faith. I don’t believe in an omniscient being. I don’t believe in rebirth. Or a life hereafter promising eternal bliss. I have no answers and I don’t believe I ever will. I just know that it’s the anniversary of Pop’s death next week, and as I miss him every day, my heart still whispers, “Pop, where are you?”

blogging on

A distant friend apologized for not calling in a while, “…but I’ve been keeping up with you via your blog …” she said.

… what?!

I wondered how many other bloggers have heard statements like that. As though the daily ups and downs—all details of our lives—are routinely posted in cyber land!

I don’t know how it works for you, but I rarely know what I’m going to write about when I sit at my PC to post my blog.

A couple of weeks ago I sat down to write about the creative practice. But then my dog nibbled my toe, and I ended up blogging about him.


I once sat down to write about the unparalleled thrill of skydiving. But instead, I blogged about writing in the nude. Another time I planned to write about the rush of zip-wiring in the Sierra Madres ... or maybe unleashing one’s voice; but instead I wrote a letter to the VILE Rush Limbaugh.

Today was no exception. As I sat here running my fingers across the keyboard, eyes closed trance-like, much like a pianist running scales, I thought about those who say that, regardless of art-form, creatives must practice every day, no matter what … and I was about to very strongly disagree with them, when I realized (rather randomly) that another year had slipped silently by.

The one-year anniversary of Bibi’s Beat (no longer a virgin). Another Father’s Day without dad (pop, where are you?).  And it’s almost a year since I moved house and was terrified by midnight prowlers.

That is the beauty of blogging!

One gets to play with their blog instead of constantly being on deadline, restricted by column count, by topic, by editorial approval, or client-facing audiences.

I can set myself little tests: Write 372 words exactly. Write only for 12 minutes. Pick a word and create a post around the word. Type a random question and take it from there.

I might think about someone who's missed, and a great day we once shared. Recall an unpleasant time of life and the lessons learned. Let rip on something I feel strongly about, or pick a stance on a topic and write the opposite viewpoint.

I might write about something that happened three years ago today. At 4 pm last Wednesday. Or maybe, never at all. And since I post only once a week, blogging provides a playful break in the routine of writing for money!

A pleasant, and unexpected, outcome of blogging, is the interaction between so many wonderful and talented creatives. I’ve learned, laughed, and cried along the way with all of you!

But I’m curious about you. Why do you blog? Does it sometimes become a chore? How much time do you spend blogging? Do you ever think of quitting (I know some of you do because I’ve read you say so!) And if so, what keeps you blogging on?


PS. Sorry ... there's an issue with the links to archive posts ... if you click on a link, that particular post will appear underneath today's post.