Sheri Mabry Inc

 In early June I had my younger brother John up to a cabin.  He had come a long way to be there with me.  Where he traveled from, the sun rose over the ocean every day and set near the mountains. He could see them both from his porch. Here, in northern Wisconsin, was a small lake, not an ocean. There were no mountains-just a tree line that was sprouting furled leaves not long after the snow melted. And there wasn’t a porch with a view. You had to walk, with warm slippers and hot tea, out to the end of a weather-worn pier to catch the sunrise.  Which I did, while he was there.  I think it was the most beautiful sunrise I experienced in 2023.  I’ve learned that life is funny that way; the seemingly unremarkable moments-can become exquisite when you know…they are fleeting. Or when you face the harsh reality, that they are gone. I never made it to his porch across the world, when he was alive, to share the views he wanted to share with me.  But I’m realizi...

 I’m grateful for those… Who share sunrises with me, or send them-you renew in me a sense of hope Who hike the trail with me-you help connect me to what is true Who travel with me-to the store, on a trip, in a relationship, or on the journey of this lifetime-you help me experience the comfort of companionship Who have been hurt by me-and hopefully forgiven me, you’ve humbled and softened me to be better Who have been my teacher-you’ve expanded my perspective Who have left me-in a business, a relationship, from this life-you remind me what matters to me, and what I need to care for tenderly Who work with me-on houses, buildings, cabins, businesses and financial plans-you teach me teamwork and how to think wider Who have interacted from a distance-on social media with a comment, as a stranger handing me your child to hold for a photo in India, as a reader of my book somewhere I”ve never been-you’ve shown me how connections matter Who have left this life too early-you’ve shown me what...

 This girl was the third born. The one who stayed behind when her sisters were dropped off at school and she was yet too young. Who hung out with me in the woods having warm peanut butter sandwiches and apple slices on a log when her sisters were learning to read.  She was the one who spent rainy weekends with me when her siblings went off to college. Who went away with me on spring breaks to warm beaches, and stayed home with me on snow days reading in front of the fireplace.  She is the one who held my dad’s hand as he was dying. Who held me close and held me up when another recently left this world. Who went with me to pick up each of our pups. The one who was by my side as our house was built, the cabin picked out, the mill fixed up. She is steadfast. Gentle. Kind to her core. She’s lifetimes wiser than me. And she is the best friend anyone could ask for.  Our life was blessed 22 years ago when she brightened the world with her birth. It has been glittering becau...

This is my younger brother John.  We received the devastating news that he died a few days ago. The shock of this is exceeded only by the overwhelming grief we are feeling. I’m not sure what to write here. The words are stuck in the deepest place in my heart. I’m sitting  in the quietest early morning hours at my cabin. The last time I saw John was around a trip here last spring, fishing together. He caught a northern and was happy about that. He let it go so it could keep living.  I’m looking out at the lake. At the place we floated…it is now empty, with only the reflection of the dying season stretching across the water. I’m gazing at the spot we sat in a small row boat only a few months ago…talking about things I don’t remember now because we both through it was one of many family trips we’d continue having together.  I was wrong. John was a strong person with the most tender heart I’ve ever met. He was witty. An extreme athlete, he read classic literature, was br...

 I’m drawn to a quiet trail where the pine needles soften the steps. Where the sky is honest blue and the leaves are unabashedly ablaze. Trout streams bantering their way down mountains. And folks on the trail share in hushed tones the reverence of all that is wild and free. #somewhereintherockies

 I love an off-the-beaten-path place where the town is small and the people friendly. You share a mug of beer in a bar with your favorites, a pool table and the locals. Where you r dog is always welcome. The hotel is old, the trail is steep, the air is pure and thin. And the day fades quietly behind a mountain. 

 The first day of school was always a monumental event in our house. The kids would choose their favorite outfit to wear. We’d curl their hair. Put on new backpacks in favorite colors. And we’d gather on the front porch of our house early in the morning and take first day of school photos. My parents would come. And we’d all wish the young ones a good good year ahead. The day would end with sleepy smiles and hungry tummies, waiting to share all of the ups and downs of how the day went over warm homemade cookies and nut milk.  This first photos is Kaiti on her very FIRST first day of school. That day held the promise of years of education ahead of her. Of dreams the size of seeds not yet even planted.  The second photo shows Kaiti on her LAST first day of school, ever. Taken this week. Her dreams that were planted and carefully sown, have grown, through the years, into something quite beautiful. And now this last first day holds the promise of wisdom gained and unknown ble...

 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. 

 A good dad takes his young daughter on early morning hikes in a wild field that would someday become a road. He guides his three young kids on bike rides on quiet summer Sunday mornings along empty sidewalks in a charming town. They stop midway to get donuts and chocolate milk. A good dad brings his young ones to the office on Saturday afternoons and keeps gum in his desk drawer as a surprise. They sing together on their car ride to and from. He brings a gold fish home for the one who is sick with a sore throat.  Valentine’s gifts for them all. Blows balloons for birthdays. He is Santa. And maybe the tooth fairy. No one could ever find out. A good dad is a good husband-gentle. Kind. Thoughtful. Soft voices with his wife as they drive before dawn on the long road up to the cabin, their young ones stretched out in the station wagon-drowsy but excited for their adventure.  A good dad says, “I trust them to make their own decisions.” And is understanding when the decisions a...

 When we would visit my dad in the memory care unit, we were never sure what sort of visit we would have with him. Sometimes, we’d peek around the corner and there he’d be, among the other residents. He’d glance up, see us, and a giant smile would spread on his face; we’d know that it would be a time we could reminisce a bit about old times.  There were other visits, of course, where we’d come to him in his wheelchair, and gently draw him out of wherever it is he was in his mind, and he’d look at us and offer a meek smile. My dad wouldn’t know who we were-he couldn’t place us as more than strangers. But here’s the thing…no matter if he recognized us as his beloved children or grandchildren, or if he thought we were strangers…every visit, without fail, he offered us his chair. Or something to eat. A stick of gum. He offered us his unbiased kindness. It didn’t matter who we were…it was who he was. He was kind from within.  When he passed, that stuck with us. The idea that e...

  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 sure...

  Back in the day… Before cell phones Before land lines were obsolete Before my mom died, She and I had a late-night code: one of us would call the other and let it ring only once (so as not to wake everyone as all the phones in the house would ring) when we had something to talk about.  The other would know to return the call. No matter what hour of the night.  We would’ve already spoken that day, and we were living only a few houses apart from each other so there’s a good chance we had visited too, but those late night calls-when the world settled down to stillness and silence…we would share what only mothers and daughters share.  It was such a simple gesture, those calls.  I probably took it for granted-the fact that my mom was just one ring away.  But those moments became some of my favorite memories.  My mom is gone now but still, I leave my cell phone ringer on at night.  I say it’s for emergencies  but I think equally so it’s for the n...

  I remember the huge auditorium I sat in, on a fall afternoon at UW Madison. It was the introduction to student teaching. The professor stood  in front of the room full of college kids eager to have our “first classroom.” He said, “If you aren’t asleep by  8 pm  each night because the day of teaching has exhausted you, you are doing something wrong.”  I distinctly remember shaking my head and laughing to myself saying, “there’s no way…”  I made it through seven years of teaching elementary students before I became a mom. I taught in what would be considered for many reasons, a non-challenging district. During those teaching years,  I made it to  7 pm  on good nights before falling asleep exhausted.  Fast forward to now. I’m no longer in the classroom. But some of my most favorite people are-my daughter, sister-in-law, and friends teach young ones in the classroom. I hear some of the stories-the above and beyond that teachers must do the...

  “Do you want to catch the moon rise?” An invite.  The drive.  Walk on damp sand through fading light.  A small smoldering fire for warmth. Gratitude.  Picnic chairs facing east.  Nearly cloudless night.  Mugs of water handed out.  Winter coats.  A Great Lake.  Laughter in hushed tones.  Talking of old memories while making new.  Timing just right.  A moon that pushes up in shades of sunrise.  A cold Wisconsin spring night.  Lunar light stretching in a dazzling path.  Across water.  And time.  Connecting us.  Somewhere in a remote place  on a dark night - lit by starlight and moon beams.  A gift beyond measure. Surrounded by salt of the earth souls.  #priceless  #illtreasureforever Live Your Light

  This rose is a part of a bouquet that I received yesterday. Brought over by a friend.  “We are putting the house up for sale, you know, next week. We needed flowers for photos. But now that the photos are taken, I thought you might enjoy these flowers. So I brought them…as a congratulations for your successful April Fools day yesterday,” she said.  But we both knew it wasn’t in celebration of my pranks.  It was because soon, when these friends move across the country, she won’t be able to stop over on a lazy  Sunday morning  to say hi anymore.  We won’t be able to meet on a trail and let the dogs run together as we talk about manuscripts and grown kids and life.  We won’t gather on a Saturday for a bonfire or game night. Run into each other in the grocery store. Or spend the day at a book store in quietness, just appreciating good literature and each other’s company.  I think the flowers she brought me was a reminder of what a good thing we...

I arrived just before sunrise.  To a beach along the ocean.  When I stepped from the boardwalk to the sand I noticed shoes. Shed at the doorway of the beach.  I did the same-left my shoes. Then joined the others waiting for day break as we stood in silence and hushed tones. Some alone. Some holding hands. All waiting in awe for the daily great event as if it would be seen for the first time.  I’ve witnessed this in other places too-sunrises, of course, but I’m speaking of the shedding of shoes.  At homes where I’m the guest we slide off shoes as we hug and hand off flowers and wine.   In remote temples in the mountains of Colorado there are shoes in a small pile at the entrance.  At morning meditations gathering along the shores of the Ganga in India.  At a hut in Costa Rica.  On the back porch of our cabin where books are read on rainy summer nights.  I think this leaving of shoes at the entrance thing isn’t just for comfort. Or only co...

  I think these two have destroyed three couches? At least 8 rugs. Gnawed on walls.   Legs of tables.  And toes.  They’ve hidden shoes. Swallowed socks.  They’ve barked when I’ve needed quiet.  Jumped up when I’ve needed gentle.  Dragged mud onto white bedding. White rugs. White sweaters.  But… they brought happiness to my dad in his final days. Comfort to me and my daughters when our hearts were breaking.  They’ve protected.  Cuddled. Loved. And are-with complete and dedicated commitment-loyal to who we each are. No questions asked.  “Should I get a puppy?” I’ve been asked. my answer, when I think about couches and messes and sleepless nights… “If you want to understand what true connection is. What love is. What pricelessness is. Then-yes.  Adopt a puppy.” #nationalpuppyday  #isnteverydaydogday? Live Your Light

  Strolling the beach of the Atlantic. My 21 year old daughter alongside. Who once, seeming to me not so long ago, was a wee one, exploring the same water with eyes the color of ocean.   We come upon a toddler, standing knee deep in salty froth, for what was for us, ankle deep.  His chocolate curls stark contrast to the blue sky. He is holding a red plastic beach toy.  Behind him are his folks-who look to me to be grandparents. In the ocean-far too deep and far out for his liking, are his parents. Neither set was paying his deepest immediate need much heed.  Which was-to fill his plastic toy with ocean water.  He’s yelling to get attention, but no one hears.  So I say, to the boy and to the memory of my toddler daughter,  “I can help you fill that up. Would you like me to?”  I reach my hand out.  He looks up, with eyes as liquid as the sea, and nods,  Yes.  Expecting him to hand me the plastic toy, and solve his problem, scoopi...

  Possibly:   Late winter heavy snowfall. An Amazon driver delivers to a driveway not yet plowed.  She gets stuck. Without a shovel. My dogs warn me about a woman and a stick, struggling to dig herself out. Late, now, for her next delivery.  In a driveway not yet plowed.  It’s the stuff that lawsuits are made of.  Actually:  Early morning pretty snow.  Dogs tell me of a visitor, in our driveway, of fresh whiteness.  Strangers to each other- two women work together-using all their strength to heave a  mini van through frozen slush. Shoveling together. Strategizing together. Laughing a little.  “You press.”  “I’ll push.”  “Try this.”  “We can figure it out.” And “Yesss…”.  Waving to each other as she drives away, both a bit late, now, for our days.  But grateful, somehow, for the exchange. It’s the sparkle that Midwestern winters are made of. 

  A bit ago, the Arts Mill had a call for art for the BIG show. I was excited to participate-NSAA is near and dear to me. And it would be my first attempt to paint (and sell) a large canvas. I was pretty proud of the painting I created.  I submitted it. It was not accepted into the show. It was REJECTED. I’m not going to pretend this didn’t sting. Or that thoughts of “well, it’s clear I’m not a painter. I wonder who I should donate my paint supplies to?” didn’t cross my mind. But I always go through the “poor me” stage. After all-being an author means that rejection isn’t new to me.  When I dusted myself off from all of that, I asked the Arts Mill’s director, if I could pay her for a critique of my art now that the show (without my painting) was over. (I get critiques for my writing-why not have a critique on my painting?) She was straightforward and shared her exquisite wisdom in a gentle and kind way, which is the perfect blend for learning. The painting that came forth...