Being an author is often times a lonely experience. Writing is most often done solo-in a coffee shop, home studio, or along a stream and under a tree. But every once in an awhile there are these beautiful moments of connection. Like learning that my books share the shelf with a dear friend’s book, in a charming little store called, Field and Forage in a far away place in Sault Ste Marie, Michigan.
When I was a little girl, my mom and dad shared their appreciation for bluebirds with us. My dad put bluebird houses up in our yard, hoping to attract them. My mom needlepointed sayings with bluebirds on, and found small glass sculptures of the tiny birds to place around our house. I think for them, those “bluebirds of happiness” truly did represent the peace and joy that was within the walls of our home. When I grew up and moved to eventually land in the house I now live in, I tried desperately to attract bluebirds. Put out houses. Bought a whistle. Bluebird food. But…never one. But over the past few years, with my mom passed and my dad declining, I would awaken many mornings to a soft hammering on my house. At the highest point on one corner of the outside in the cedar siding, a woodpecker was diligently creating a hole. Each time I’d see him working his way through the side of my house, I’d wonder how I was going to deal with this issue, for surely a hole made by a bird in o
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