In full transparency, I’ve done it before and I have never finished.

Never.

I start with the best of intentions, but somewhere along the way, I fade. Usually quickly. I’m left disappointed in myself, questioning whether I’m really an artist, or whether I’m simply someone who can’t commit.

But I’m trying again this year, and I feel optimistic.

I turned 51 in February and it felt like a reset. This feels like the year to really commit to my creative process.

I’ve been dealing with some chronic health issues that manifested into something new over the last few months. I’m exhausted. I see my appearance changing. I question every cough, every tired day, and every headache. I’ve started physical therapy for arthritis in my neck and do these lovely chin tucks that make me laugh every time I look in the mirror.

And let’s be even more honest, the world really hurts right now. It feels like it keeps getting worse, daily.

What does my creativity matter in the face of pain, suffering, brutality, and oppression?

I struggle with that.

I have to remember that creativity, throughout history, has acted as a lifeline. It has been a place to process the chaos. The act of creation is a protest to that of destruction.

During my birthday week, I finished cleaning my art studio. It’s been almost three years since we moved here, three years of a mess I struggled to look at. Three years of boxes and clutter. I still created, but on the dining room table; spread out but always with the looming sense that my work can’t just perpetually sit there.

Finishing that space felt like a long exhale. Like I can start to breathe again.

Since then, I have created something every single day.

That, in itself, feels like a small miracle.

This year, I am letting go of an internalized pressure that I “should” share everything I make. That inner debate and the social media process emotionally drain me. But I am also making a conscious effort to share my work in a way that feels more authentic to me, to teach myself that the act of creation and the act of sharing are two separate functions.

In the past, the act of creating has never been the source of my burnout. The act of sharing has been. Somewhere in the depths of my brain, I fused those two acts. When sharing becomes exhausting, my creativity dimmed with it.

Creating is sacred in and of itself. It is an act of meditation and love. It builds up inside me. It begs to come out.

Sharing is a different practice, one that I have to learn to approach gently and on my own terms. One that doesn’t bring guilt because I haven’t shared in a few days, or a week, or a month. I am working to make my sharing a sort on ongoing journal that even when no one else sees it, I can look back and see representations of who I was in the moment.

So when I committed this year to the 100 day project, I had to consider what is actually doable? What can I commit to? What can I sustain?

Last year I fell in love with ink, specifically the inks from Birmingham Pen Company. They are luscious and rich, and I’ve become a bit obsessed with their colors. So, I chose a simple premise: meditative ink explorations. Put some ink on paper. See what happens. Add some outlines, designs. Play. Meditate. Get lost in the process

I find myself 14 days into the project and I am creating. Creating fantasy ink landscapes with tiny stories embedded in their color changes. I am also working on a larger mixed media project, with texture, ink, and goauche. I find the desire to write returning in the process, loosening the friction of an old pattern.

I believe I will succeed this year, because I am not doing this alone.

I find myself in an amazing writers group. We meet weekly, we encourage each other, we check in with each other.

Earlier this week, we even recorded for the podcast What Chapter You On? (It hasn’t aired yet, but we all had so much such fun.) Several of our group are also doing The 100 Day Project and we send each other our day’s accomplishments. This kind of community seriously keeps you moving forward.

Every two weeks, I also meet with a beautiful woman’s group called Solace (Inner Wisdom Circle). It grounds me. It reminds me of who I am and who I am becoming. It expands my own sense of possibility.

I feel surrounded by wise women, including my own daughter who inspires me to accomplish the things I set out to do.

So yes. I am here.

I am HERE.

I am choosing to inhabit the happiness of where I am.

Below, I’ll include the social links to my writing group because they each bring something beautiful into the world. You should meet them too.

If you’d like to see the work I’m creating this year, you can check out my “notes” here in Substack (where I try to share a picture or 2 every day of the project, although I do get behind) or follow my process on Instagram.

My amazing writing group, in no particular order;

Bridgette, author of “Watering Words” and writer/photographer at Bridgette Tales.

Anjelica Reece, author of “Wayward Magic”, or here on Substack.

Penny Manson, author of “Becoming Da Mommy”, included in the anthology “Listen to Your Mother: What She Said Then, What We’re Saying Now.”

S. E. Skaldmare, currently working on a science fiction novel dealing in surveillance and authoritarianism.

Heidi Odell, in her words, “Quirky English teacher, cringe millennial mom, writer & creative weirdo, political activist.”

And our wonderful friend Laura, not here on social media.

If you made it this far, here’s peek at my mixed media collection in the early phase of piece #1, a collection of mythic journeys and fantasy landscapes.

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My great-grandparents were Molokans, a Spiritual Christian sect that was persecuted, starting in the 18th century, by the Tsarist Russian government and the Russian Orthodox Church. The Molokans were punished as heretics, and government policy pushed them to outlying areas to prevent them from influencing peasants in central Russia.

They were pacifists, similar to Quakers and Mennonites, and believed in the philosophy of communal organization and spiritual meetings.

In 1906, my great-grandparents fled persecution in Russia in search of religious freedom in the United States. They joined the developing Molokan community of Potrero Hill in San Francisco and eventually bought a farm in Santa Rosa.

My grandpa was born in the United States and, in his later years, was known as “Mike the Egg Man,” delivering farm-fresh eggs to homes throughout Santa Rosa and San Francisco. Imagine your traditional milkman, only with eggs.

Growing up, I was told that our name, Loscotoff, meant “Little Bits of Thread.”

This is where my publication name comes from—honoring part of my family tree. I think this part of my lineage meant a great deal to me, in part because it felt so close. The family samovar and hand-spun sewing machine—both brought on the boat from Russia—still sit in my parents’ home.

We jumped in the hay at my grandpa’s farm and sometimes slept in the little house where my great-grandparents (and later, my dad) had slept. That little house often scared me; there were spiders in the corners and dark shadows on the walls. There was still an outhouse on the property, although modern plumbing had been installed before I was born. As we got older, we slept in an added-on bunkhouse with cousins, or on the old fold-out couch.

It was a small farmhouse with deep history.

But of course, that is only one strand in a much larger tapestry.

This is not to negate all the other threads that make me who I am. I am fascinated by the line of ancestors who brought me to this point, a line that connects me to the Mayflower and the Revolutionary War, to one of the earliest pioneers of Wisconsin, and to family who lived in California before it was a state, to my great-grandma—an Irish businesswoman who ran her own store in San Francisco.

I am Irish and Scottish and English and Welsh, Ukrainian and Russian, French and Rhinelander and Austrian, with a tiny bit of Italian and Portuguese thrown in.

These are my little bits of thread that make me who I am.

And this newsletter is also woven from the threads that make me me—art, storytelling, photography, gardening, animals, life.

Little Bits of Thread…

I’ve recently fallen in love with the little snippets of creativity I see in other people’s lives. My friend Bridgette sends out photographs; others share their art or the books that inspire them.

This space is my own personal journey—what strikes me in the moment, a journal of sorts. It’s not replacing the stories I’m working on, more of a creative space to think. It might include some of my favorite recent photographs as the seasons change, or creative works in progress.

I have no timeline, and I’ve chosen not to force myself into an artificial schedule. Sometimes it’s just too beautiful outside and I must garden, or go for a walk, or play with the kitten who adopted me. (More on her next time.)

So please, join me here if the fancy strikes you. Tell me about your life and what’s going on with you.

Some of these posts might be long with an abundance of photos, and email is notorious for cutting them short, so consider reading them through the link at the top or bottom (through your browser or the Substack app.)

The world feels far too disconnected these days, and it seems that stories, creativity, and art are a rebellion against that.

Photo Album

Some of my favorite recent photos. Welcome to autumn.

Do you have a favorite?

Writing

A few weeks ago, I experimented with the idea of telling a story in serial form—as if it were unfolding in real time. I was inspired by the concept of the Rapture, and by the prediction circulating on social media that it would occur on a specific day in September (specifically September 25th, 2025) .

I used a story originally written for my old website and gave it new life here, editing and expanding it as I went. I also added pen and ink illustrations, drawn as the story developed. It was an opportunity to explore what’s possible on Substack and to learn more about its features.

It wasn’t a great success in terms of visibility, but it was a great success in understanding why I create. I create because I love the puzzle of it—the process of figuring out how something fits together. It challenges me to think differently and keeps my mind active. When I’m creating, I slip into a quiet focus where time disappears. It enriches my life, and I hope, in some small way, it enriches the lives of those who encounter what I make.

It felt wonderful to be drawing again. It was fun to revisit an old idea and bring it forward in time. I also learned the difference between using Notes and Posts, and enjoyed experimenting with the rhythm of a daily story told in real time.

If you enjoy apocalyptic imaginings or stories that play with time and faith, I’d love for you to start here with Day One.

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The fog has been lifted from my eyes. I hear the ocean waves breathe with the endless rasping tongue of creation.

He has chosen me to hear.

Tonight, He sent one to my door. It trembled, unclean, marked for offering.

A gift wrapped in fear and blood.
I received it as a command.
The act was clean. Almost holy.

Communion.

I carried what remained to the sea.
The waters opened their mouth and took it down without a ripple. The body slipped beneath the waves.

I must control my urges, must be patient with the others.

Must bite without devastation so that they too can experience the glory. Must hide them away so that they do not tell my secret.

So that they too can hear.

There must be enough of us left when we arrive at the mainland.

The one that came to my door, his memories cling like oil to my soul.
I see through his eyes: his mother, his prayers, his final trembling breath.
And I understand now — the sacrifice was not the end, but the beginning. He lives on in me.

Still, the hunger endures.
Not for flesh alone, but for revelation.
For the knowing.

When we rise and reach the mainland,
we shall bear His light to the blind.
We shall show them what God truly is.

To share His gift.
To return for the others.
To finish what was begun.

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Chapter 2, a story from the same world, coming soon.

Just finding this story, discover how it started here:

Ship moves now.

Back?

Are we going back?

I hear the engines purr, the ship vibrates.

My skin stretches green. Green lines from the bandage.

Don’t know the day.

Don’t know how many have passed.

Must pray.

so hot hungry

can’t tell them

locked the door

I need sleep.

I see them

crave them

want them.

why god

why put me here

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Join me for the conclusion coming October 7, or check back for a link here.

Just finding this story? Start the journey here:

They haunt me. I see their faces everywhere I go. Their eves focused on us.

Focused on me.

I can’t close my eyes without seeing them.

Tearing. Screeching.

I feel them inside me. Rattling around in my brain. In my skin.

I cleaned the wound and wrapped it well. I’ve started taking antibiotics, although I still haven’t told anyone.

What will antibiotics do anyway? I see shades of green peeking out from under the bandage.

I don’t feel well.

My skin hurts.

My ears are beginning to buzz.

We are still sitting on the ship. Why haven’t we left? The others are debating what to do next.

They ask me why I’m limping. I told them I twisted my ankle trying to get away.

No one else can tell the story.

No one but me. The others are dead.

They don’t press me. They are scared and fighting.

There are some who want to return to the beach.

Why? Why would they even consider going back. There is only death on that beach.

I’ve told them we must leave. We can’t wait.

Anyone who arrived before us is probably dead now. That is why they never returned. Where are the boats? There were other boats before ours.

Where are the boats?

I’m so tired.

Please, God,

help me.

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Read Day 8, coming soon. Read it in your email by subscribing for free, or come back and visit! Will link it here once it’s live.

Just finding this story, discover how it starter here:

Oh God, oh god, oh god.

I have to stop. I can’t take his name in vain.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Lord.

But, oh dear God, save us.

Save us.

Save me.

What have we done?

We took the little boat. There were eight of us for this first trip.

We saw them wandering on shore and they didn’t pay any attention. It was as if we weren’t there. We brought the boat up onto the beach. And they just continued to wander.

We watched for a bit and finally got out, stepping through the clear water.

It was beautiful.

The sand was course and black, and it was lined with spiraling iridescent shells, unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

Slowly, we approached them.

Their eyes were empty. Their skin was swollen and greenish and… torn.

Their hair was tangled with seaweed.

We thought it was shock.

Shock from whatever they had gone through.

I should have known better.

I didn’t know.

One of our group…I don’t even know which of us…reached out to touch a young man’s hand.

We didn’t know. We didn’t know!

How could we have known?

Their teeth are so sharp.

And they bite.

I was the only one who made it back on the dinghy. But not before… Oh God, oh god, oh god.

I can’t tell anyone. I don’t want to tell anyone.

I got bit.

I told them the blood was from the others, that I was fine.

But I got bit.

I watched them tear the others apart.

Once they realized we were there, they weren’t quiet anymore. Their eyes became focused. Focused on us.

And they are fast, oh god, they are fast.

It bit my leg as I tried to get back in the boat.

I didn’t pull my feet in fast enough. I kicked. I kicked it away and it let go.

The others are gone.

I saw them tear them, their insides on the black sand. Their guts stretched between them. Once they ate, their eyes became clear.

Oh god.

What happens next? Find day 7 here.

Just finding this story, read the beginning here:

It is like the Garden of Eden!

We have not gone ashore, not yet. We are sitting just offshore, but we can see them. We don’t want to scare them, and so we watch and wait.

The island is so beautiful. I thank the Lord for giving me this opportunity to share his word and to see his beauty in Creation.

As we came close to the island this morning, a bright blue finch landed on the deck and sang the sweetest song. More arrived in shades of blue and green and turquoise. We fed them bits of bread from our breakfast. They were unafraid of us and landed on our shoulders and our heads.

We don’t know how they arrived here so quickly, these birds. Here is a place that was only an ocean six months ago.

But then, why am I surprised by the birds when there are also people?

I don’t question it.

I can’t question the glory of my Creator.

Other sea birds are flying close to the ship and they have the most beautiful shape. It makes me think of Noah and the dove of peace. These birds give me hope for our future.

The land is covered with thick, lush foliage and bright spots of what appear to be flowers. We see broken white columns in the distance rising from the green. Broken pieces are scattered on the black sands. The water is perfectly clear, unpolluted. Pink dolphins play not far from where we are anchored. Bright orange fish swim around the base of the ship.

The people on shore move about with very little interaction. They appear to be as innocent as Adam and Eve, without shame or cover. They seem listless and unaware of us. Wandering.

In shock perhaps?

The weave in and out of the plants.

We cannot yet make out their faces.

We play our orchestra on the deck of the ship and hope that our music tells them that we are not here to hurt them.

After the quiet of the ocean and the simplicity of these people, I think of them almost as a long-lost tribe. I worry that our music is perhaps too brassy and loud. But we are still some distance and hope that the sound of the music is lovely and new over the water.

A few of us plan to take one of the dinghies to shore tomorrow, just to make contact. I pray that this will go smoothly and I know that God is watching over us all.

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Find Day 6 here.

Only finding this story now? Read part 1 here:

Atlantis.

I think I see it on the horizon. Do I dream?

Is it really even a possibility?

Plato talked of Atlantis as an advanced civilization that sank somewhere around 9,600 BC. However, most of us believe in the Young Earth creation theory, where God created Earth and man some 10,000 years ago, after 6 days of creation.

Creatio ex nihilo, creation from nothing.

Could this island be creation from nothing?

The Bible makes no mention of Atlantis, or anything of that sort.

Plato’s writings told of the Athenians going to war with the island of Atlantis after they conquered parts of Italy and Africa. He stated that their vainglory and degeneracy cursed them to collapse beneath earthquakes and great waves.

Just as we have.

This would place Atlantis 350 to 400 years before the birth of Christ, which makes sense in our understanding of the Earth’s timeframe.

Were they punished as our world was?

Did Atlantis sink before or after the great flood?

Was it swallowed when the waters rose?

Obviously, we don’t have any idea if this is Atlantis and what will greet us when we arrive.

What we do know is that there are people there. And if the population dates back to before the time of Christ, then they will not know the word of God.

We must share the good word and bring them to the faith. Only then will Jesus come and his reign begin again.

Our aim is truly the development of a worldwide Christian Community, one that can grow and thrive and bring 1000 years of peace.

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Continue reading with Day 5 here.

Only finding this story now? Read how it began here:

Yesterday morning we arrived in Tenerife. The desolation tore at my soul.

Once a thriving port city, the buildings have fallen and the people are afraid. Missionaries there were thankful for the supplies we brought.

I wish we could have given them more, but we need enough for our own trip to the new land. They gave a warm welcome.

When we left the island at sunset, God showed us the beauty he created.

We expect another 3 to 4 days before we come to the island.

Continent? I’m not really sure how to refer to it.

It’s not small.

Reports given to us suggest it is perhaps the size of Hawaii, but we don’t know the extent. It seems to just keep growing based on satellite images. Every report is different.

The few boats that have gone out have not come back. There are no apparent places for an airplane to land on the island. There is nothing close enough for a seaplane to refuel. Nothing is close enough for helicopters, unless they take off from a ship.

When so many others are in need right now, this has not been a priority.

There have been flights over portions of this new land mass and the reports are unsettling.

Images of people walking around in a daze. Even more unsettling is the description of ruins.

When this island appeared, it was assumed that it would be volcanic rock, desolate, some new form brought forth from the bottom of the sea. But the buildings, relics really, tell us that it was once on land.

Unless, of course, there was some underwater kingdom that, despite technology, we never saw. The ruins appear almost Greek or Roman in structure, with columns and what have been described as temples, amphitheaters, and coliseums.

There is a growing consensus, that somehow, this is Atlantis.

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Click here to discover what happens next; Day 4.

Just found this story? Start the story here:

One full day of sailing. Our first stop is to deliver supplies in Tenerife and then it should take us another 3 to 4 days, depending on the weather. The Canary Islands, still an extension of Spain, were hit especially hard by the tsunamis.

I know, I haven’t explained the tsunamis, but I’m getting there.

Much of the population of the Canary Islands had been Roman Catholic when the rapture came and the islands themselves only lost about 20% of their people.

Then the tsunamis hit and killed another 60% or more of the population.

It has been six months since the tsunamis. There just aren’t enough people left to really have a good count, or to even find help. Those who survived did so because of their ability to get up Mount Teide. Other islands, such as Fuerteventura and Lanzarote, which are predominately at sea level, are just gone.

The tsunamis hit almost every country lining the Atlantic Ocean. The water levels had already risen from climate change and humanity had begun to move inward and upward on all the continents. Climate change ended up being a blessing in its own small way, moving people away from the water.

On March 30th of this year, Good Friday, there was an earthquake. It was felt almost everywhere in the world. Cities fell. No country was left untouched.

And then the tsunamis began.

They hit the northern parts of Brazil and the Caribbean, the full eastern coast of the United States, Newfoundland, Quebec to the tip of Greenland, down the European west coast from Ireland to Spain and Portugal, as well as the north-west coast of Africa.

Our focus had been on the revitalization of humanity, converting those left behind, and building back society. But having lost so many of the greatest Scientists and not committing to the maintenance of warning systems, many nations were caught by surprise and their communities were lost to the sea.

The quake came from deep in the Atlantic Ocean, specifically around the 35th parallel. We still had access to satellite information and a smaller military with their jets.

Somehow, in the vastness of the Atlantic, a new island had formed.

Well, not an island, exactly. More like a continent, perhaps? It sat directly along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.

You’d have thought that governments (what government? who is in charge?) would send scientists out immediately to better understand what had happened, but we didn’t have the scientific population anymore. And we were all dealing with the catastrophes of the earthquake and the tsunamis while still grieving those we had lost in the rapture.

We waited and helped as much as we could within our own communities, not knowing if more earthquakes would come.

Being that the island was newly formed, we assumed that there would be no people or animals. We assumed it was an empty rock in the middle of the Atlantic.

We could’t explore it anyway, no one had the manpower.

But there were people on that rock.

People, perhaps in need of help.

Certainly in need of God.

And that is why we are headed there now.

Tomorrow we arrive in Tenerife.

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Continue the story here - Rapture in Reverse- Day 3

Just finding this? Start the story here:

We set sail today from Barcelona. While it won’t be a long journey, we’ve come so far already, I’ve decided to write it all down in hopes of sharing it with what is left of the World. I like to joke that I’m the Darwin of our trip, a joke not everyone seems to find funny, considering what we have all been through in these last few years.

We are on a research vessel, 60 of us. It is called the Bold Adventure. It’s an old ship, but it has what we need to get where we are going. The scientists are all gone now, they disappeared on the first day. Don’t get me wrong, there were lots of scientists left, but they were the scientists who put the Bible first in their beliefs.

We do have scientists on board, but the majority of us are missionaries working to bring the final peace to our world. We also have the captain and his crew – all believers – as well as a small orchestra made up of missionaries. It helps us pass the time and we thought it might “soothe the savage beast” as was once said.

It didn’t happen exactly the way we all thought it would happen; the rapture, that is. There was an expectation that the day would come and we would be lifted into the clouds to meet Jesus.

That’s not what happened.

We woke up the morning of Ascension Day; September 23, 2025. Almost exactly 4 years ago. It was a Tuesday and somewhere around seventy percent of the world’s population was just gone.

It wasn’t random though.

There were church communities entirely intact (missing a few teenagers and the occasional spouse) with other parts of the world being completely empty.

The Middle East, much of India, and Northern Africa saw an almost complete disappearances of their people. The United States lost less, somewhat half of its population was gone, with cities often dramatically affected and rural areas often untouched.

Jesus didn’t arrive, or if he has, we don’t know how or when. We’ve come to believe that we still must bring the remaining few to him. In the time that has passed, we’ve come to learn that those who are left are specifically of the Christian faith, and deeply devout.

There was another population left, they were the indecisive. They hadn’t decided on one path, one belief, or another. We’ve come to believe that we must convert them, and only then will Christ come and begin his 1,000-year reign.

When the rapture first happened, communication, the internet, travel, all halted. There just weren’t enough people to manage the systems. However, churches around the world were quickly able to communicate and there has been a new peace among denominations and ideologies. Many of the larger churches had private jets and pilots who were not taken and a system of trade and organization began.

There were still enough people in major industries to bring technology and commerce back online. We have the aviation industry working, although it takes much longer to get from place to place. Because of the population decline, aviation has created a system of short hops. Flights across the ocean are few and far between.

The air, however, has cleared since the world’s population has declined. There are no longer traffic jams and animals walk the streets in the more deserted areas. There is plenty of oil and the world governments, at least at this moment, are all still willing to share; probably because the oil-rich nations are mostly deserted.

Because those of us who are left are predominately Christian, the Bible has taken a central focus of all governments. We know that these are the End Times, we just have to figure out the final bit.

We all lost someone.

Some of us lost many.

Some lost everyone they knew.

Well, I’m going to go meet the others for dinner. I haven’t even gotten to the reason for our journey. I must have patience.

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What to read what happens next, find Day 2 here:

By a skeleton.

Sitting across the room on my bookshelf.

Not a toy, but a full-sized boney form.

Staring at me.

I screamed.

It watched, its eyes frozen on me. My eyes frozen on them.

I kept screaming.

It held its place on my shelf amongst my books and toys.

My dad, my protector, my knight in pajamas, threw open my door.

The skeleton sat contemplative.

My dad flipped on the light, banishing my late-night visitor.

The skeleton left without a sound, dispersing into the night.

The next day, my little first grade voice told the story to the third-grade girls. Girls who were my idols, who were grown and big and practically adult. They told me, in no uncertain terms, that I had been visited by Bloody Mary.

But I had not summoned her. There were no candles, no mirrors in my room, only artfully painted Disney characters on my window shades, lovingly rendered by my mother.

But somewhere in my subconscious, I suspected I was no longer safe in the world of sleep.

Nightly prayers, said on my knees before crawling into bed.

Followed by the prayer,

Perhaps it was the repeated, “If I should die before I wake… IF I should die… if I should die… will I die before I wake?”

Perhaps it was the church, telling me that my dad, an agnostic, a non-Christian, would certainly go to hell. They prayed for him every Sunday, that he would one day find Jesus.

And my soul? God was going to take my soul?

I want to keep my soul, to hold onto it, so that I can remember all the things I’ve learned.

The skeleton hasn’t visited in some 43 year, although I have been visited by others.

Nightmares have been my companion; aliens coming through the ceiling, my room filled with flood water as I watch it rise around the bed, my arms too long, bombs going off, a man standing in the corner. But I have also seen fairies and secret passage ways and heard ravens call to me from outside my window.

My sleep has been a playground of Complex Nocturnal Hallucinations, of waking and seeing things I’m not supposed to see, sleep walking, sleep taking, my heart pounding and my body filling with adrenaline.

I have woken many times to what I thought was my death; my brain interpreting the information as a stroke or seizure or heart attack.

Perhaps that nightly prayer is still ingrained in my subconscious.

“If I should die before I wake.”

I wake, clutching my chest, saying I’m not ready to leave. There is more I’m supposed to do.

As my dad lay dying, it’s not been quite 2 years yet, I tried to be his knight in pajamas, to be his protector in whatever time he had left. He slept for longer and longer, twenty-two hours a day, until he existed in a world of sleep. He was in-between worlds, in whatever space holds us there. He fell asleep on a Sunday, and finally ended his journey on a Saturday, two weeks later.

The hallucinations didn’t come for me then, laying on a fold-out at the base of his hospice bed. I couldn’t sleep deep enough. I had to give him his morphine, to check his pulse, to listen to his labored breathing, to check if he needed cleaning.

I had to stay on guard, in case the watchful skeleton came back.

Looking back on that night, I have begun to wonder if the skeleton was an intruder, or was it perhaps watching over me all along, the way my father did.

Perhaps it was a companion, keeping me company in the dark, with no harm intended.
Maybe it was there to teach me how to keep watch—
how to sit quietly at the edge of the night,
how to guard someone you love until the light comes back.

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He grabbed me by the waist and pulled me tight against him, a quick snap at the accented staccato as the sextet played on the stage. His arm cradled my back, the roughness of his chin pressed against my temple. The tango was slow, my feet tracing the wood as this man guided me from my place on the floor. His body pressed against me. I could feel the shape of him. The shape of a stranger and not my beloved. My Andriy.

A missile strike.

In the war.

He was left torn.

I was left torn.

They were coming and we decided to stay. We would be brave. It was all we could be. We thought we would photograph and share it with the world. We would document the atrocities. We would be safe in the club’s basement, almost a second home to us now.

Our apartment was gone. Destroyed. But we would not leave. Our weapons were information. And then our weapons were guns. And then bottles filled with rags and gas as the tanks rumbled down our streets.

He turns me about the floor; tracing our toes, walking in a dramatic embrace, with flicks of our feet. He is a grizzly in my arms; large and thick. He wears the pants of a soldier but has removed his coat. Sweat glitters on his brow.

I see the shadow of my Andriy, sitting alone in the corner. Watching me. The smoke of his cigarette lingers and I can still taste it on my lips.

I remember when he taught me to shoot, his hands on my arms, guiding me to hold the butt of the gun tightly into the nook of my shoulder. I remember his arms, holding me as the world exploded around us.

My dress is short and tight, with a torn ruffle at the slit. My shoes are tall and scuffed. How long have I danced here in these shoes? Will I continue to fight in these shoes? Or will they end up bloody in the street?

The music picks up its pace as the violins moan their grief of this cruel war and my lost love. The man presses his mouth against mine, bruising me. I don’t pull back. I meet him with equal intensity. He begins to move me off the floor, towards the shadow of my Andriy, smoking in the corner.

We are mothers and wives, we are scientists and doctors and seamstresses; we could have left, but we chose to stay. We chose to hope, to give our children a better future, to support our men who cannot leave, but mostly because this is our city. This is our home and we will fight to protect it.

This man is pressing me back away from the dance floor. We pass my love, sitting alone at a table. I reach to him, wishing he were clear and real and alive; not some ghost of a memory. I want him to pull me from this man’s arms. I want his lips to be on mine. His body pressed to me. Not this poor substitute.

My hand reaches out and moves through his cheek, Andriy’s cheek, with no resistance.

“My Andriy,” I whisper.

His eyes focus on me, only for a moment, and I think perhaps he is real. Perhaps he can see me. Perhaps I will finally leave this place with him, the music pulsing in four-four time with my beating heart.

But I am a finch, frightened to leave, and this club is my birdcage. There is life here and only the memory of Andriy out there. Only the memory of the life we made.

Andriy sits in the corner at a broken table, watching the shadow of their old life.

In this empty club; the windows have shattered and the snow falls through the roof.

He can almost hear the echo of the music, of the tango, when he first met his Bohdana, his gift of God.

He can see her in her yellow dress, tight and short with a torn ruffle at the slit. Her high heels are spiked and scuffed. He can see her in the uniform of a fighter, the gun pressed against her shoulder. He can see her blood, an explosion of red in the morning sunrise.

He watches her shadow dance, begging him to join her. She moves toward him in the movement of the snow and the tumble of the dead leaves across the floor.

The wind moves through this empty building and he can almost hear her voice whispering in his ear; my Andriy. Her cold caress against his cheek as the snow falls about him.

He stands and leaves through the hole in the wall, into the empty frozen streets; the memory of his Bohdana and her undying love. The memory of everything she was willing to fight for.

Notes

I originally wrote this story in 2022, in response to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Three years later, the war in Ukraine continues and conflicts grow around the world. We progressively find ourselves caught between the egos of powerful men with little care of the human toll.

Initially I envisioned the tango between a ghost and the lover who has lost them. I imagined an old house and someone coming home alone, with the spirit of their lover still embedded in the house; watching and listening. In their grief, the living person puts on music and begins to sway. Slowly, the ghost begins to dance with them, becoming a tango as the protagonist cries in their grief.

I began to wonder what the story would look like if the person coming home was actually the ghost, going through their routine, not knowing they were the one who was dead. (Perhaps even the idea of walking through life like the dead; simply keeping the routine.) What if the character we think is the ghost is the one grieving? What if they sit there every night, hoping their lover will open the door one last time?

This is where the idea of Andriy and Bohdana began to be born; who is the ghost and who is the grieving soul?

Even further, what if they are both ghosts and both are grieving? What if they are each in their own reality?

That then brought up a deeper question about what it means to die and what comes after. What is our understanding and experience around death and grief? What if our reality isn’t… real?

Because I live with a sleep disorder that affects my perception at night, I often wake up thinking about these questions of reality, of life and death. I often “die” in my sleep (as my brain and body perceive it) and I wake up in a panic, thinking either I am dead or the people I love more than anything have died. It often makes me question my reality and how the brain interprets stimuli. A few nights before writing this story, I woke up screaming as I threw my body over my daughter who had fallen asleep next to me. I was trying to protect her from the bombs, or perhaps a nuclear blast.

I wanted Andriy and Bohdana to find each other, but that wasn’t this story. And it breaks my heart that it wasn’t their story.

My featured image is a drawing I made of Andriy and Bohdana dancing, not Bohdana with the “grizzly bear” of a man. I wanted the image to be the love between them, the passion they felt for each other before their lives changed.

I chose the name Bohdana because it is a Czech/Ukrainian name meaning “God-gift” and Andriy is the Ukrainian name for Andrew, meaning “warrior”. I have been deeply affected by the woman taking up arms, staying to fight for their country; by maternity and children’s hospitals being bombed.

The story of a young woman and a young man, married in a church as the air raid sirens blared, earlier than they had planned so that they could be together and she could fight, influenced this story. The story of a Ukrainian couple, marrying on the front lines, influenced this story. I don’t want these people to die. I don’t want them to be hurt. I don’t want anyone to die. I don’t want anyone to lose anyone. I’m tired of war and hate.

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When I first heard these words, spoken by Waymond Wang (actor Ke Huy Quan) in Everything Everywhere All At Once, I felt my heart shatter a bit–not in sadness, but rather in feeling seen.

How can a movie see you? It’s in the acknowledgment that your view of the world is reflected in someone else’s experience. While the character is created, someone wrote these words. Someone felt them enough to write a story about them. Enough people relate to these words that they’ve turned this movie into a remarkable success both financially and in critical acclaim.

As a turning point in the movie, there is a recognition that seeing the good is another possible path.

I have, throughout my life, worked to see the good. Despite my efforts, I have become the villain in many scenarios. I have been misunderstood. I have been lost in the translation of what I think I am saying versus what is heard by others.

When I heard these words coming at me from onscreen, I realized that this too is how I’ve learned to survive. It can seem naive–I can seem naive–but seeing the good side is how I fight.

It is too easy to slide into the despair of a cruel world. It is too easy to begin to believe that nothing matters.

Nothing matters.

It doesn’t matter that I write this blog. It doesn’t matter if I write my stories. It doesn’t matter if I don’t do my art. Not many people read it anyway. No one cares. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

Everything Everywhere All At Once looks at what it means when nothing matters. Then they turn the concept on its head; nothing matters, and therefore, we can do whatever we want.

If nothing matters, then it doesn’t matter if no one ever reads my writing; write anyway. Create anyway. Love anyway.

Everything Everywhere is one of those once-in-a-lifetime films that ask you to relook at your perception of life. It is a story about motherhood, marriage, family, culture, cultural immersion, sexuality, a loss of hope, a loss of dreams, life path, and the roads we didn’t travel. It is also a story of emptiness, depression, loneliness, desire, acceptance, forgiveness, kindness, time, connection, and, above all, love.

Sound big? It is big. The movie is quite literally about everything, everywhere, all at once.

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My personal artistic goals are to create physical pieces that are texturally interesting not only to the eye, but to the touch. To be three-dimensional in scope, with rise and fall and movement. To create pieces that are structural and make us think of the natural world around us, while still emerging us in fantastical realms.

I have struggled with the concepts of artificial intelligence, and struggle with my own sense of AI’s role in our culture’s future. AI makes me feel a level of paralysis within my own creativity and I have deeply struggled with my sense of inadequacy.

I attempt to move past these insecurities by creating pieces that will never be quite the same through a photograph; always better in person. I attempt to create pieces you want to reach out and touch. I attempt to create a sensory engagement with my art.

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In January of 2008, I took my first Artist Way class in Sacramento, California. Artist Way is about making space for your creativity, identifying your critical inner voice, and clearing out the congested wounds that have gotten in your creative way. During one of our classes, we were asked to meditate on our Creative Muses and draw them. I closed my eyes and without a second of thought, she stood in front of me. She consumed my vision with flaming light, radiant. She wore a crescent crown, her arms outstretched, a rounded base. This vision of her filled every ounce of my conscience.

The image was new to me. As time has passed and technology grows, I see hints of her on the internet through the Triple Goddess and her horned consort. I see the other Lunar Deities and how the image of the crescent crown has been used over time. But for me, in that time and place, the crescent moon sitting on the head of my Muse was new.

In 2011, I tattooed her shape onto my left wrist. Her tattoo was a reminder; she is always present with me and creativity is a part of who I am. I chose my left arm because the left is often seen as our spiritual, creative, and feminine side with the right side being rooted in the here and now— our masculine, logical side. I began to sign my art with her shape, honoring my muse.

In the spring of 2013, we left Sacramento, moving to the dry Tehachapi Mountains. I left behind a very dear friend, Susan. A woman who was constantly reminding me of who I was and who I could be. Just after Christmas of that year she called me. Her friend was dying and she wondered if she could come and visit.

Susan’s friend was Signe. Signe was blind, and Susan, an avid hiker and outdoorswoman, would take Signe with her. She would guide her through the trees, up paths, and give Signe an opportunity to see the world through Susan’s eyes. Susan instinctively felt that Signe could not pass with her in town, and if she came to visit me, Signe would be able to transition.

Signe passed the first night and, in her honor, Susan asked if we could go hiking. As we drove up the mountain, Susan’s brother called. He told her, “Signe can see every color of the rainbow now.”

We arrived at Mountain Park, a camping and hiking area just above Tehachapi with beautiful pines. We stepped out of the car and began to climb. Two baby trees caught Susan’s attention and she pulled out her digital camera and took a photo. She stopped, looked at me, and said, “Look at this!”

There in her photo, in the upper right corner, was a glorious rainbow burst of light. It wasn’t at all like the shape you get from the sun, with circular orbs. This was quite different. My daughter, 8 at the time, asked to see. Immediately she stated, “Mommy, it’s your tattoo.” And she was right. The shape of my tattoo had appeared in Susan’s photo and she was every color of the rainbow, just as Susan’s brother had said not 15 minutes earlier.

We knew at that moment that Signe was with us. We knew Signe could now see every color of the rainbow in this new space. I also understood that what I had seen in 2008 was real, not something my mind created in the moment. The figure of the Goddess on my wrist wasn’t a figment, but rather a form that exists outside of our human bodies.

When I find myself doubting or fearful as to what comes next, I return to Mountain Park and my time with Susan. I return to Signe’s message of existence after our earthly death. I return to my Muse, the form that appeared to me when I asked for her support and guidance. I am comforted that there is more. I am comforted knowing we have glimpsed the Afterlife.

Thank you to Susan, for allowing me to share her part of this story and for being such a powerful and beautiful influence in my life.

My Dear Readers, what gifts have you been given that allow you faith in an Afterlife? Have you seen, felt, or heard something that you hold on to? Do you have an interpretation different than mine?

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