I had the privilege of meeting poet and philosopher John O’Donohue several times in the late 1990’s, when he came to our small town in Northern California.

I noticed how he treated everyone with kindness and included everyone in the Catholic ritual of communion. I bought his book, Anam Cara, which became a guiding light in my life as I navigated the death of my beloved sister in 2003.

In the fall of 2004, I attended a retreat with John, along the wild coast of Oregon. We maintained silence till after breakfast, a time out from the normal inner and outer chatter of our minds. We walked the beach on breaks, then circled around a crackling fire for his lectures.

Those days of quiet contemplation and of listening to his powerful and gentle words soothed my mind and spirit and helped me deal with the loss of my sister.

New Zealand, two small islands at the bottom of the world, was not a part of my consciousness fifteen years ago. Then, I met my husband, an American who had emigrated there, and they came with the package. I never questioned that we would exchange my home and a chilly Northern California winter for his home and a sunny New Zealand summer, January, February and March each year.

As far back as I can remember, I knew I was Irish.

My mother talked about how her ancestors left Ireland in 1852, setting off across the ocean to a new life in Melbourne, Australia. Her grandfather was five.

When my mother spoke of her grandfather, she called him her Irish grandfather, not her Australian grandfather. She always used his full name in these stories, Michael Thomas Gleeson, and the awe in her voice told how much she respected and loved him.     

For a special treat, I’d be allowed to play my mother’s Kate Smith record on my small record player. I’d lean in close, humming along with “When Irish Eyes are Smiling,” my favorite.

As the years passed, I’d read about genealogy websites and wonder—was it possible to trace our Irish roots?

I didn’t travel to Sun Valley Idaho to write about Ernest Hemingway. As a journalist, I had two assignments: the vibrant local food scene and the area’s year-round attractions. I had a vague recollection that Hemingway had lived in the area.

2024 Silver Award, Society of American Travel Writers,
Western Chapter (SATW)

I grew up with a mother who came from the Southern Hemisphere, from Down Under, from Australia. She stood out in our small California town, with her strong Australian accent.

2024 Silver Award, Society of American Travel Writers,
Western Chapter (SATW)

On our first night in Athens, as my husband and I sat at dinner, we could see the Acropolis (which means literally “High Hill”) lit up and stunning in the distance. The next morning, early, we climbed the hill to tour the buildings and learn about the history.

2024 Silver Award, Society of American Travel Writers,
Western Chapter (SATW)

“I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.”

Anne Frank

I can still remember the first time I visited a public library. I was about five and tagging along with my 12-year-old brother. It was the 1950s and I remember the high shelves crammed full of red and brown leather-bound books. Dust motes danced as the sun streamed in the tall windows.

I am looking down on birds. Their white feathers glint in the afternoon sunlight. I admire their flight patterns from above, their coordinated dance as they soar together, floating through the air, high above the green paddocks below.

I am higher, but not so high that I could have missed them, that they could have blended with the farmland below.

A Southern California neighborhood, a mixture of the upper middle class who drive giant SUVs and the working folks who ride the bus. Old and new. Anglo and Hispanic.

One place that those cultures can overlap is in the local thrift stores.

A walk through the garden this morning revealed a tiny pumpkin, alongside a bright orange blossom waiting to be pollinated by the bees.

Just 13 kilometers away from the bustling city of Annecy, sharing the same pure, sparkling water of the lake that shares the city’s name, the village of Talloires goes relatively unnoticed.

I was 17, a senior in high school and had to do a report for my French 3 class, so headed off to the Escondido Public Library to find a topic. No internet then. Among the books I pulled off the shelf, I found one with photographs of Mont St. Michel, a monastery just off the coast of Normandy.

I remember…

1970, the San Francisco Sunday paper, fat and full of magic, sitting on the doorstep. It would provide precious, stolen moments from my life as the young mother of a toddler. I’d have one eye on her, as I opened the paper and dove into its contents.

A winter morning at the farm…

Before I bought the apple farm in 1997, I used to visit the elderly couple, Willi and Maria, who lived here.

As much as I hate to think the word ‘drought’ in case I’m creating more reality to it with my thoughts, we are experiencing the driest summer I can remember in my twenty-four years in Northern California.