July 2025

Happy July!

Summer is upon us in full swing. June was, indeed, busting out all over. Nature continues to enchant us with her radiant beauty. Every day the garden transitions and transcends.

A few days ago, a hot pink rose bush was riddled with a thousand tight buds. A late bloomer. We experienced an extreme heat wave that awakened their full glory. In the garden, in the dappled light under the shade of a Japanese dogwood tree, the swaying branches seem to be in tune with the gentle wind, the singing of the birds, as they reach toward the expansive sky. They bring me comfort, solace, calm and contentment, and I feel fully awake, aware and connected to the mysteries of the universe.

These moments of clarity, of meditation, allowing my inner life to expand wherever it lights at this precise moment, are sacred. I honor this inner peace when I give time, space and solitary reverence to be fully alive in nature.

This undulating rose bush is just a few feet from Charlie’s house. The other day, he pruned a half dozen or so branches so he wouldn’t be attacked with thorns when he uses his narrow walkway. Charlie loves to prune. It stimulates growth, just as deadheading geraniums in the window boxes gives energy to new blooms.

Charlie and Kevin didn’t think I could put a branch in water and have its dozens of buds blossom because the buds were so (up)tight! This morning, in the sunlight at the kitchen sink, I see pink peeking through well over a dozen buds! Little things can bring such quiet joy when we love what we see and feel.

Whether the rosebuds on the branch in the windowsill feel my love or not, I feel their love. After all, roses are the language of love. After Peter and I had the taupe-colored house painted white and the white picket fence installed, we planted roses. When Brooke was married, we planted a rose bush. There are rose bushes for each of our four grandchildren. Mysteriously, this late bloomer is the tallest and largest of them all. Because it is gracing my tiny garden, it is more alive than a painting by Pierre-Joseph Redouté, the French artist who painted roses exquisitely.

Shooting up next to a branch is a foxglove with her bell-shaped flowers that blew in the wind or was brought by a bird from Charlie’s front garden patch, spreading the joy. In the charming little book The Language of Flowers, the author states that the meaning of foxglove is insincerity. Never mind. Think of roses indicating love.

In a gentler age, a husband wanted to give his wife a present on their golden wedding anniversary. Rather than the usual gift of jewelry, realizing she had plenty of rings, bracelets, necklaces and earrings he’d given her over all these years, he created The Language of Flowers. On August 8, 1913, the husband presented a handwritten book with watercolor flowers and plants that border each page, complete with swirling ribbons and a dedication:

To Mother,
Wishing you many happy returns of the day.
Father

August 8^th
1913

There is a language, “little known,”
Lovers claim it as their own.
Its symbols smile upon the land,
Wrought by nature’s wondrous hand;
And in their silent beauty speak,
Of life and joy, to those who seek
For Love Divine and sunny hours
In the language of the flowers.

F.W.L.

For all of us flower lovers and all the millions of people who make flowers an important part of their lives, we are richly blessed. “Nature’s wondrous hand” and ours become one, united in beauty and “Love Divine.” Keep in mind Aristotle’s insight that we are happiest when we are contemplating because we are closest to the gods; we are human and divine.

I’m bursting with joy as I write this! Nothing could rain on my parade. This is the first Saturday it hasn’t rained in 15 weeks! This is June 21, the Sumer Solstice, the first day of summer. Yesterday was the longest day of the year. What a wondrous way to celebrate summer fun in the sun, in the warm three months of being out-of-doors in nature’s glory. Sunshine. Bring it on.

The sun is shining dramatically in a cloudless atmosphere-blue sky now. No rain is in the immediate forecast. I fled the cottage because “this is it!” Now the sun is bright and puts a spotlight on all of nature’s beauty.

I took the bus to Mystic, enjoying the ride, observing the sparkling reflections on the harbor and the Mystic River, as well as all the gardens and trees so vibrantly lush and graceful. Three weeks of June have been experienced and fully spent; suddenly it dawned on me that the more I appreciate the preciousness of health and well-being, the quicker the pace from sunrise to sunset.  

I’m aware that sunny days must be celebrated, because we all thrive on the benefits of the sun’s vitamin D and the positive energy it produces. A voice inside me (not a voice, but a feeling, a light bulb of awareness): today is the best day of your life. I was right about the parts of my day I control.

My daughter Brooke is arranging flowers we bought at Trader Joe’s for a Community Benefit Concert and cocktail garden soirée at Calvary Church. After the all-male a cappella group The Ten of NYC sing their hearts out, we’ll all walk down the steps to the lawn, where the brilliant light at 6 o’clock will have some shade under a festive wedding-style tent.

Brooke had pink peonies on her mind. Blessedly, she’d called Trader Joe’s to check on their supply: “Ample.” That’s when she learned that they’d just changed their opening time to 9 a.m. Summer Solstice. When we arrived with our large red carts, a cheerful sign greeted us, suggesting we sleep later, enjoy our cup of coffee before shopping. I clearly remember going to Trader Joe’s during Covid, arriving at 8 sharp and wearing our masks. Less crowded, less exposure for germs.

Thousands of pale pink peonies, mostly in their bulbous buds, were on full display upon entry. I remember so poignantly that pale pink peonies were the only flower we had at my mother’s funeral celebration at an Episcopal cathedral in Norwalk, Connecticut, over 40 years ago.

Is it possible her daughter inherited an unusually strong love for pink peonies in the springtime? Inherited? Environmental? Whatever the answer is of nature vs. nurture, I pay attention to my longings and aesthetic preferences in nature’s boundless beauty. Flowers hold spiritual qualities, and no arrangement of flowery words can give them the grace they deserve.

After Peter and I bought our 18^th century house (my first house), one of the first things we did was plant pale pink peonies in our front yard, along with the pink roses hugging against the white picket fence we had made.

This year, however, for whatever reason, our peonies that fully blossomed were only 10. Too much rain? They’re situated under the large American flag. Because the flagpole is in a windy spot, unobstructed from the (often strong) breezes off the harbor, the flag gets balled up regularly. I use a white painted dowel to flip the flag up and around the pole, careful not to step on the peony bed.

Every time I had the temptation to cut some blooms to enjoy on my desk, to breathe in their fragrance and meaning, I hesitated. Whenever I see the flag not free and flowing in the breeze, I unfurl it and pause. I’ve created a meaningful ritual, smelling the peony scent mingled with the freshness of the sea air. Inhaling, looking at the harbor, makes my spirit soar.

When my mother was told by the oncology doctor that she would die within a year, the first words that rolled off her tongue were, “Only peonies, dear, only peonies.” Ten and a half months after these prescient words from her hospital bed, she died when peonies were in full bloom in Connecticut, having a banner year. I saw to it that, at her request, her funeral was full of peonies.

She knew. When I graduated from elementary school, we picked hundreds of peonies from her garden for our moving-forward ceremony. Years later, she provided all the peonies for the church and reception at my first wedding from her garden in Westport.

Summer Solstice. A cool, refreshing breeze. I sit, sipping iced tea and reading while my veggie burger and salad arrive. The bartender seems surprised. “You look different today.”

I tell Guy, “Yes, I’m a week older.”

“No, you have a glow.”

And I do. I feel it. Saturday sun, anticipating being with friends for the peppy concert, enjoying a gathering of our precious community, goggling at the magnificent flowers that will put our senses on high alert, will be pure joy. This long, leisurely day, in this ideal weather, allows me the privilege of anticipation. Being mindful requires intention, staying in the moment. I enjoyed several meditative hours of clarity. What if this is my last peony season?

My childhood recollections of my mother’s flower gardens go back to my first memory ever. Always, always, peonies will be loaded with all the eight decades of meaningful garden exposure that become more lovely and loving from this backward nostalgia.

Just when you don’t imagine life can be richer or fuller, it is. I walked across the Mystic Drawbridge to treat myself to a “baby” cup of café mocha chip ice cream. One scoop in the snug cup hits the sweet spot of indulgence. Not too much, not too little. Just right. Enough. The bridge went up for some large boats (yachts!), and it’s always fun to wave and have them wave back.

I’d bought some peonies for my desk and enjoyed their sweet fragrance when I returned to the cottage to shower and dress. I knew Brooke’s bouquets would be spectacular because she’s so artistic and gifted. Her love of flowers is equal to her sister’s and mine. When I saw the first arrangement at the registration desk in front of the church, I gasped in utter awe. I was so proud.

In my enthusiasm, I arrived early enough to save a third row of seats for the friends who were joining me. All of us, music lovers, were delighted and touched and, at the end, teary. Traditionally, the group always ends their performance with I’ll Be Seeing You — Peter and my song.

I left the church with misty tears of joy as we walked out into the blazing light and onto the lawn. There was a collective gaiety in the air at the garden party in the atmosphere of a wedding.

Spirits were high.

This stone Episcopal church is where my daughter Alexandra’s twins were christened, where Brooke was married 20 years ago, and it holds a meaningful spirit of place for me. The spring flowers on the tables were pastel pinks and greens, with peonies popping against lilies. We all realized just how fortunate we are to live in such a uniquely beautiful, peaceful, caring community.

When I walked home with friends and neighbors, we were all so uplifted by the evening. I brought the peonies upstairs to put them by my bed. As I undressed, I turned on the TV to the breaking news. I learned we were at war.

Once a week, Elissa works at Bank Square Books in Mystic, and she was shelving a new release that caught her attention. She called me and said, “I know you don’t like the word old, but I think you’ll like this book.” I paid for it over the phone and read it right away. I loved it.

Sophy Burnham was 86 when she finished writing The Wonder and Happiness of Being Old. She was sitting in a charming little café on a quiet side street in Paris with her 59-year-old cousin who soon was turning 60. Eleanor inquired gently, “What’s it like to be—" Sophy completed the thought and sentence: “Old?”

Eleanor is a film producer in Paris and is the inspiration for Sophy to write this amazing book. The subtitle Offerings of Hope, Joy, and New Ways to Perceive Aging is about the wisest, most transcendent chapter in our human time alive.

There is no more apt word for those of us, octogenarians, than old. I have to laugh because I was Eleanor’s age when I wrote Aging Gracefully. The marketing team at the time didn’t feel that my readers wanted to give gifts to friends about the taboo topic of aging. We are living in a culture of youth that denies the natural, evolutionary process of growing old. Elderly sounds absolutely creepy, cringy, crawly.

Most of us need to live these bonus years of longevity before we understand, trust, experience grace, love unconditionally and feel the mysteries we’ve pondered all our lives unfolding in everything, everywhere, alive. The sky, the ocean, trees, flowers, sand, seashells, rocks, stones are all sentient beings, throbbing with life force.

Sophy writes short essays as letters to her cousin, beginning “Dear Eleanor” or “Dearest Eleanor,” letters never sent, ending them “All my love,” “Hugs,” “With love and anticipation,” or she sometimes doesn’t sign off at all.

We begin reading the prologue, “What It’s Like to be Old,” September 8, and the last dated letter is September 30, “From Ages of Life.” Clearly, Sophy is pouring out her heart, soul and writing talent to answer the question Eleanor asked, admitting in a whisper, “I’m afraid.”

Sophy is a bestselling author who is highly spiritually evolved, who is wide open and daring in her frank views and insights. If any of you have read Julia Cameron’s classic book The Artist’s Way, she is a friend of Sophy’s. Apparently, Julia called to suggest her literary agent to Sophy just when hers had resigned after 30 years. Everything clicked. Coincidence? Angels? The universe providing?

My first instinct was to recommend this brave, new, inspiring book to my contemporaries. Upon deeper consideration, these insights will be helpful to anyone who chooses to be happy, never happier, throughout all the life passages. She recognizes four.

When Sophy has a letter toward the end of the book, “What I Have Learned,” addressed to Eleanor, she’s closing the circle of what she’s just taught her cousin. They both are one year older.

When Sophy was younger, her affectionate nickname was Penny. The final letter to Eleanor is “Letters to Myself.” When Sophy was 21, on 12/12/1957 (she and Eleanor share a birthday), she wrote a letter to herself: “Letter to Myself at 21, to Be Opened at 42,” signed Penny. On 12/12/1978, she wrote to herself, “Dear Sophy, Letters to Myself, Written at 42, to Be Opened at 63.” On 12/9/1999, “Letter to Myself, Written at 63, to Be Opened at 109.” In her last of four letters to herself, the book ends:

“May you be happy and well, my future self. You’ve had a life. Love, Sophy.”

In the afterword, “How to Forgive” (addressed to Eleanor, who is a practicing Buddhist), she teaches us about the Buddhist metta, or loving kindness to all beings. This meditation she expands to touch the entire globe.

Happy reading!

His Holiness the Dalai Lama is celebrating his 90^th birthday on July 6. As he enters his 10^th decade, the Dalai Lama has the serious task of seeing that the Chinese government doesn’t usurp the peaceful transfer of spiritual leader of the Buddhists upon his death. The goal is for the next Dalai Lama to lead the flock to be a self-reliant democracy.

Sixty-five years ago, His Holiness escaped Tibet because of Chinese persecution. He led countless thousands to follow him to the Indian Himalayas as their spiritual and political leader. Here in exile is where the Dalai Lama has had the arduous task of sustaining a Buddhist nation. He is hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.

On July 6, the Dalai Lama will announce his plan for deciding on his successor, fully understanding the complexities. Rather than following the Tibetan tradition, searching for a Dalai Lama reincarnation identified as a baby, it could be an adult in exile among 140,000. He is open to having a woman. One of the reasons for his thinking is that he’s bypassing the nearly two decades until a baby can be trained to become His Holiness’s acting successor.

The concern is if there is Chinese interference in the succession process, it could cause unrest among the 6 million people in Tibet, where he was exiled when he was a teenager.

Because of the challenges of the Tibetan leader in exile, the possibility of a gap would be “a disaster,” a Tibetan educator told the New York Times. The Dalai Lama believes “logic and reason” and “not just blind faith in the teachings of Buddha” are appropriate ways to be a Tibetan Buddhist in the 21^st century.  

From the start, after his exile, he believed monks needed to do more than meditate and study — “that we should learn from the Christian monks and nuns,” the Samdhong Rinpoche told the New York Times. “They always work as nurses or teachers or doctors. … His Holiness was adamant that sooner or later His Holiness should be irrelevant.”

Because the Dalai Lama is the leader of his devoted people and a world-loved celebrity, he will be eternally relevant.

Peter and I first went to the Dalai Lama’s teaching sessions in New York City in the 1980s and followed him ever since. Most of you know that I was face to face, one on one, hands intertwined with him in Boston at the hotel where we were both staying just weeks after Peter died.

I’m grateful for every moment I’ve been in his presence. Over the years, I’ve been among countless thousands of his followers and am humbled to truly know a Holy man. Our troubled world is a better place because of his dedication to world peace. Let’s all toast His Holiness on July 6 and wish him a happy 90^th birthday. For he is (truly) a jolly good fellow.

Brooke feels she discovered Carlos Alcaraz. She’s crazy about this amazing Spanish tennis player. We made a date to watch the French Open men’s final together. What a day!

The two finalists are exceedingly fine tennis players. They are evenly matched and have beautiful form. It was a match that will go down in tennis history. For all of us who were spectators for the 5 ½-hour thriller, we followed every point through the last cross-court winner.  

To recap: Carlos lost the first two sets. It appeared that the No. 1 seeded player, Jannik Sinner, was going to win the title. Brooke was determined, sure her Carlos would rally his way back in the game. All he needed to do was consider those first two sets as warm-ups. He would win the next three sets.

And he did. Miraculously, he fought to win three match points. Because of his avid fans, family and coach, the fact that Carlos has such fun on the court makes us all root harder for him. We, who are counting on him winning, feel our positive energy had something to do with his surge to become the winner.

Watching Carlos Alcaraz defeat the men’s No. 1 world tennis player made that match a spectacular spectator’s sport a rare, beautiful, thrilling experience.

From early childhood, I’ve been prone to bronchitis. Any sign of a symptom went straight to the bronchial tubes and lungs. By my mid-50s, I was diagnosed with bronchiectasis, a chronic dilation of the bronchial tubes. Living with this chronic condition causes the lungs to struggle to transfer oxygen to other parts of the body. Over these past three decades, I’ve been forced to go on different antibiotics, coughed productively and had several bouts of infection that morphed into pneumonia.

Three years ago, my rheumatoid arthritis doctor recommended a pulmonary physician who has been able to diagnosis each specific flare-up, including E. coli in my lungs this past winter! Yes, in my lungs — I caught it in the air.

The great good news is that I qualify for a high-frequency chest wall oscillation machine, an effective airway clearance therapy. A trainer, Rebecca, came to the cottage and interviewed me, explained the process and tested my lung capacity in order to determine the appropriate setting.

The vest inflates through a single hose powered by a programmable air pulse generator, creating a “squeeze and release” action around my upper body. I use the vest two times a day for 15 minutes; after five minutes, there is a one-minute pause when the vest deflates. During this time, I deeply inhale through my nose and slowly release through my mouth. I have an hourglass before me; I’m looking out to the harbor, enjoying this new daily ritual. After a month, I definitely feel I’m improving my lung health. In order to benefit from anything, we have to make it a practice. We gain proficiency through repeating the habitual actions. I feel uplifted that there is something I can do to encourage better lung health.

The reason I’m sharing this with you, my friends, is because you all have some medical vulnerability you are dealing with. I feel so fortunate to have such caring, dedicated doctors who allow me to flourish in spite of a few chronic illnesses. I feel I’m doing everything in my power to maintain my overall well-being.

One dramatic difference I’ve discovered is that I don’t burst out in loud, spontaneous coughing fits when I’m at the theater or a movie! Fingers crossed! I can travel with the vest (it’s 13 pounds) and have it for the rest of my life!

In closing, I wish for you some peaceful July days, soaking in all the bounties of this magical season. Happy July Fourth. Enjoy unrushed time with family and friends.

Both my daughters and their families are going to be in Europe for several weeks this month. Whether you are home or on vacation, let your inner light radiate all around you and illuminate your journey.

Great love and appreciation to you for all your thoughtfulness, caring and affection.

Love & Live Happy,