​Why not temper negativity with all the good things life could offer? I tried to do just that. Whether writing, taking photographs, traveling, cooking, gardening, hiking, hanging out with friends or making new ones, I immersed myself in every experience and enjoyed the moments. Even on days that felt too full to fit in big fun, I savored small joys—and the rushes of pleasure that washed over me when I took time to appreciate them. 
​

​But everything changes, often unexpectedly, uncontrollably, and in ways that run counter to our desires. I should’ve known that, but experience had taught me that something good, maybe better, always replaced the bad. Things would eventually equalize, normalize, stabilize. That’s how it had always been for me: I had always come through, moved on, adapted. So when the latest in a life-long series of surgeries and cancer treatments interfered with my ability to do many of the simple things that previously brought me pleasure, I was unfazed.
​

Still, I couldn’t help noticing a change. My joy reserve leaked away unti it registered EMPTY. It wasn’t only that I couldn’t do things I’d done before. Even when I could, I no longer felt the same doing those once pleasurable things. Going for a drive, taking a walk with a friend or with my camera—something felt off and made me anxious. I just wanted to go home, curl up on the couch, and sleep.
​

Snap out of it, I told myself. You’re being a wimp.
​

​Wimpy was not my M.O. I had always been strong and determined. Why couldn’t I summon those qualities and just do it? Why did every attempt leave me feeling depleted and disheartened instead of fulfilled? Why couldn’t I enjoy anything anymore?
​

Only recently did I begin to understand what was different and what might help me regain some of what I was missing. It wasn’t just my hearing loss, missing teeth, speech impediments, constant mouth irritation and pain, inability to eat and drink normally, or loss of strength and stamina. Sure, those things were plenty discouraging, but the problem was not the impediments  themselves, but with something 
larger that they switched off in me.
​​

​The thing that would make me feel whole again was being able to relax and fully immerse myself in experiences--whether walking in the woods, going for a drive with Ray, working at my desk, practicing yoga, weeding the garden, watching a movie, or sitting on the front porch on a summer afternoon—without being constantly distracted by the discomfort and dysfunction brought on by the radical changes in my mouth structure and chemisty.
​

​A step forward has been learning not to define enjoyment quite the way I once did. I’m trying to focus on what trauma researcher Mary Catherine McDonald, author of The Joy Reset calls tiny little joys (TLJs)—slivers of enjoyment throughout the day. For me right now, “joy” is a stretch, so I call my moments of appreciation “satisfactions.”
​

​Some of mine:

​Once I made a point of noting these small satisfactions, a funny thing happened. Every once in a while, a sliver of—dare I say it?—happiness unexpectedly appeared. I hadn’t lost my ability to enjoy life; I just needed to refresh and reframe it.

​How about you? What are your satisfactions and joys? Could they use a recharge?

​For more on reclaiming joy:

​Practical Optimism: The Art, Science, and Practice of Exceptional Well-Being, Sue Varma (Avery, 2024)

​The Joy Reset: Six Ways Trauma Steals Happiness and How to Win it Back, MaryCatherine McDonald, (Balance, 2025)

​You, Recharged: How to Beat Fatigue (Mostly), Amp Up Your Energy (Usually), and Enjoy Life Again (Always), Polly Campbell (Mango Media, 2022)

​Spiritual guides and mental health professionals encourage us to acknowledge gratitude daily—to make it a habit by keeping a gratitude journal. But what about making humor a habit?

​I’ve been thinking about this lately after re-reading a journal I kept in 1970. I was twenty-one, newly married to my first husband, living in Northern California amidst redwood forests and agate-strewn beaches, taking college classes, and reading, reading, reading. So much to explore and learn about. Yet my seemingly idyllic life had its challenges and heartbreaks. My mother’s health was rapidly declining; my father was caring for her at home on top of working full-time at his medical practice. And I was two-thousand miles away from them. All of that against a backdrop of war in Southeast Asia and anti-war protests around the U.S.

​While taking all these things seriously, my twenty-one-year-old self always managed to find something to wryly remark upon as I recounted everyday events, One day it was the revelation that the ugly, hairy, gnarled stems poking up at forest’s edge were actually unfurling ferns sporting lacy fronds. Who knew? 

​Another day, it was my hippie-dippy English prof who wore sandals and a half-buttoned shirt and conferred with students in his garret-like office, where he sat on a futon in the dark beneath a giant picture of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (to whom he bore a striking—and humorous—resemblance).

​I even poked fun at myself. After talking a hairdresser into giving me a super-short haircut with a super-curly perm on top (“Yes, I know it’s unusual. Yes, I really do want you to do that to my hair.”), I drew a cartoony sketch of the haircut and noted “It’s a lot of laughs.”

​As I read that journal, I vowed to revive my youthful habit of finding spots of humor in daily life, no matter how un-funny life sometimes seems.

​I’m not alone in my quest for a little lightness. The January/February issue of Poets & Writers magazine devoted its monthly Literary MagNet column to Tiffany Midge, who makes a practice of putting a humorous spin on everything she writes. “Humor writing is a kind of self-imposed apprenticeship I’ve designed for myself: How can I incorporate humor into poetry? Fiction? An essay?” she says. A citizen of the Standing Rock Sioux Nation, she finds an added challenge in writing about Native issues and topics in a way that people outside the culture will find accessible and funny. Her recent essay collection, The Dreamcatcher in the Wry (Bison Books, 2024), offers a taste of her humor. Other pieces have found a home in the satire website Belladonna, among other platforms and journals.

​Finally, there’s this from historian Heather Cox Richardson, who offered a bit of advice near the end of a serious analysis of current events: “Do not give up your joy. Do not give up your sense of humor.”

​So how am I doing with my daily humor vow? Well . . . some days better than others. But I’m still convinced it’s a worthwhile pursuit. What about you?  

​
Things are moving forward now with my latest project: a novel about creativity, craziness, and connection titled The Utterly Unacceptable Atrocity of Isabelle Marsden (more on that in a moment), so this seems like a good time to rev up Heartwood again. ​ 

​​As faithful Heartwood readers may recall, many of my blog posts have been inspired by travels around Michigan and beyond. Discovering new places (or returning to old favorites) and photographing whatever caught my eye was a great source of joy. Sharing those travels with my husband Ray added to the enjoyment.

​When pandemic shutdowns kept us at home, writing was my happy pill. It was during that period that I wrote and revised most of my novel.

Around the time we were ready to hit the road again and pick up with the Mango Rash book signings and other author events I had to cancel during the shutdown, my own medical challenges grounded us. When that grounding turned out to be more of an ongoing challenge than a momentary interruption, I realized I needed to find ways of exploring and exploiting my creativity close to home. 

In short, to treat my own surroundings like the fresh territories I’d found so intriguing and inspiring on our travels. Instead of roaming around in new places, discovering new sights, my challenge would be finding new ways to look at familiar things in my own backyard and a few miles beyond. To think, well, creatively.

We're fortunate to live in a setting much like the ones we've loved visiting over the years. Forest trails through tall trees, trickling creeks and rushing rivers, placid ponds, and ever-changing Lake Michigan vistas, all within day-trip distances from home. Along with those natural wonders, a fair share small-town charm and urban bustle. ​

Projects and outings with the Big Rapids Camera Club offered inspiration. So did signing up with the online 52 Frames photography challenge. In the process I learned new photography and editing skills and made new friends in creative communities close to home and around the world.

More time at home also meant more time to read, think, and dust off my notebooks and keyboard to work on a few new projects. I’m writing random, stream-of-consciousness snippets of memoir, hoping themes eventually will emerge, and some of those snippets will coalesce into something sharable. I'm also trying my hand at 100-words stories, which aren't as easy as they may sound.

So join me in discovering where all of this will lead. And stay tuned for updates as my novel travels the path of publication with She Writes Press in March of 2026. That may seem like a long time from now, but there’s much to be done between now and then, and I’ll appreciate your continued interest and encouragement.

And let this creature seen at our friends Brenda and Steve's house inspire you to create in your own unique way -- and keep smiling!

New installments of HeartWood with new thoughts about creativity, connection, contentment, and more are on the way.

You'll find tidbits about writing and publishing' updates on the publication path of my novel The Utterly Unacceptable Atrocity of Isabelle Marsden; photographs and observations from my wanderings (even if less far-flung than in the past); bits of wisdom gleaned from things I've read or heard; and whatever else I think you might find interesting or inspiring.

I'll provide links to new HeartWood posts on my Facebook pages (both my personal page and my author page).

Meanwhile, you're always welcome to visit HeartWood and browse through previous posts.

Now I'm on a Hawaiian Air jet on my way to Honolulu. I'm just trying to remember vignettes from the past weeks -- trying to get as much as I can recorded before I forget things.

​Samoan tattoos: Pili's daughters are showing me magazine pictures of a Samoan man being tattooed from waist to knee. Pili talks about the blood poisoning the men sometimes get. He says it's a great dishonor to start the process and not finish it. Men who only have partial tattoos go to great lengths to hide them, he said.

Tui  Letuli was telling me his father wants him to stay in Samoa and become a chief. Tui says, "I got my tattoos and everything, but I don't want to stay."

Tau Tanuvasa: Pili and I ran into him at the airport when I was leaving. He works in an insurance office now, in Pago Plaza, the blue tile mini-mall monstrosity in Pago Pago. I went to  his office Friday, but he had gone home. He looks just the same as the kid who used to tool around in his "X-15" flatbed truck.

Language: People seem to speak much better English in Samoa now. A lot of the people my age have spent time in the States or in the military, and they have excellent vocabularies. The young kids seem to speak pretty well, too. I don't know how it is for people who haven't been off the island, though.

As for Samoan language, Pili says very few palagis bother to learn it. Until recently the schools didn't teach Samoan language and culture either, he says.

* * *  

Next to me now is a man -- maybe in his 70s, wearing a gray business lavalava and jacket, with a mat wrapped around his waist, sandals on his feet.

* * * 

Jeanette's father's house: A typical Samoan house for these times. It's up on a hillside in Utulei, in a cluster of other houses. You drive up a steep driveway, park at another house (Patrick Nomura's family) and walk the rest of the way up to his house.

The bottom floor is one big room with a kitchen off to one side. The floors are covered with mats; shoes are in a heap at the door. Louvered glass windows all around the room are hung with lace curtains that are knotted.

Hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room are two shell chandeliers. Between them are a few coconut shell decorations. On the walls are some pictures of family members; one large portrait of a woman is hung with a candy lei.

* * * 

Jeanette, Fatima, and I are at lunch one day. Jeanette starts to tell a funny story in English, then looks at me and says, "I have to tell this in Samoan."

* * * 

​In Honolulu, between flights, I called Eric Bunyan. He's a recreation director for the park service -- has been doing that for 15 years; has 5 kids. As Pili had told me, Eric is still an easygoing, casual guy -- sounds happy and positive about everything. He said Chris Layne had just been down for a visit -- he lives in Seattle now, as does Marc Wiederholt.

I told Eric about Pili's and my plan for the reunion, and he said he's thought about that, too. He says he'll start cleaning his yard right away.

He said he and Chris Layne had been talking about me when Chris was there -- that there were rumors I had died because people stopped hearing from me after a few years.

It surprised me on this whole trip when people told me my name had come up in conversations. And that those years and that group of people were as special to everyone else as they were to me.

Strangest scene was a Samoan man wearing a lavalava​ in his yard in some little village, cutting grass with a weed eater. I don't remember seeing any machetes.

* * * 

Rainmaker Hotel had a strange feeling to it -- not quite decrepit, just indifferent. The air of grandeur was still there -- the high ceilings, shell chandliers. At first glance it's impressive. Then you start to notice things: dirty windows, water-stained carpets, worn-out, unmatched furniture, mismatched china, dirty tablecloths.

My first day there it was very hot, so I got some ice and went to get some pop from the pop machine. First of all, the machine didn't say how much money to put in. So I put in 3 quarters, hit the button and waited. I tried another button and another. Nothing happened. Then I tried the coin return, but it was rusted into a rigid position and wouldn't budge.

So I went back to my room to wash some clothes. I washed them and hung them on the towel rack. When I got them all up, the towel rack started falling apart. I'd get one bar up and another one would fall down, flinging my underwear across the floor.

At night I would come out of my air-conditioned hotel room and walk through the open-air corridor to the lobby. I would always have to stop at the landing and look out at the bay in the moonlight. It was just about when I got to that spot that the tropical night air would hit me -- air that feels like it has mass, it's so dense with moisture and fragrance. I would hear the water slapping against the rocks and think about hundreds of other nights when I sat by the bay, feeling the same air, hearing the same sounds.

​There were nights sitting on Centipede Row, behind Val's house or behind the Wiederholts', sometimes just sitting and talking with girlfriends, sometimes waiting for a party to start, sometimes walking home from the movies, holding hands with a boy. Always there was a sense of excitement, expectation. When I stood on the hotel balcony, I felt sad sometimes, realizing that even if I found all my old friends, and we got together in the old places, we would never be able to recapture that special time when anything could happen.

Now we're grown up -- we  know what we've become, who we've married, what our children look like. There are still unexpected things ahead for all of us, of course, but they're all separate now. We're all going our own ways. Even the ones who are still on the island go their separate ways. Jeanette and Abe and Tima and Padilla see one another because they all play tennis. But Pili and Fipa only see others when their cars pass on the road.

I guess that's the way it always is when you try to return to a place where you were young. The sights and sounds and smells may all be the same, but some of the mystery and magic will be gone forever.

That's not to say I was disappointed. I would've been disappointed if I hadn't found anyone or if the ones I'd found had been indifferent. But some old friendships were strengthened and new friendships were made. I saw the place in new ways, too, as a place I want to know more about.

Watching the Flag Day ceremonies made me think more about that, especially when I saw the singing and dancing group from Manu'a. I really wanted to understand the songs and know more about the traditions that have been evolving since these people found their ways through the Pacific to their tiny islands.

THE END

Pili and Gretchen's church meets under their house (open-air first floor) -- a dozen or so adults and kids sitting on wire patio chairs singing Baptist and Samoan hymns. I liked singing the Samoan hymns just to hear the words. Didn't know what most of them meant. It was kind of neat sitting there, watching the birds flitting around, seeing flowers everywhere, watching the rain. Everyone was cold -- it was probably 70 degrees.

The one nice thing about leaving here will be not feeling clammy. I can't remember the last time my skin didn't feel that way.

​After church there was cake and Samoan-made (Halleck's) coconut ice cream. 

Then Pili's cousin (who went to school for six months at Stillwater High School) sent over food from his ​umu: taro, bananas and mackerel baked in coconut cream inside coconut shells. Wonderful. I'm really going to miss this Samoan food. Later we had chow mein, chicken, taro, cucumbers, rice.

The day sort of slid by -- not how I really planned to spend my last day, but I was more into going with the flow than with trying to run around. Pili drove me into town and I took my last looks at the Leone to Fagatogo stretch. The rain had stopped and the colors were vivid again -- the hills all shades of green, from pale lima to deep emerald; the water in sparkling blues. Far from shore it's deep indigo, then it breaks white and foamy. The waves look turquoise witih the light showing through. And up over the reef, the water is calm, dappled blue, blue-grey in places. Sailboats and a motorboat were out on the bay. The waterfall was cascading down one of the mountains -- a steep, sheer veil across the bare rock face.

Fipa had said he would stop by today, but I didn't get back to the hotel till after 2:00, and there was no message from him. Jeanette and Mai had called.

Tonight at Pili's we watched TV, took naps. Now I'm waiting for Pili to take me to the airport. I just went out on the balcony. The sky is perfectly clear. The moon is bright, stars everywhere, low clouds around the horizon. Palm trees silhouetted against the glowing, grey clouds.

​Funny thing how this place can drive you crazy one minute because of inconveniences but the next minute show you something spectacular you could never find anywhere else on earth, and make you feel like you never want to leave.

​All week I kept going through contradictory feelings. At first I felt out of place and wondered how I ever felt at  home in Samoa. But by the end of the week, everything felt natural.

I'd really like to come down for a month (or a summer) sometime and spend the time writing about the place. I'd do it a lot differently next time. This time I didn't do much to prepare myself -- reading up, etc. I was so afraid of getting my hopes up and being disappointed that I just didn't want to think much about it before I got here. Now I really want to read more about Samoa and other Pacific islands.

Pili's Pacific studies program is inspiring me, too. He showed me some books he's using and talked a lot about the things he learned. He told me the Pacific studies program was only started last year, though the college is more than fifteen years old.

Tima, Mai, and Jeanette came to the hotel for breakfast this morning. Then I went up with Jeanette to her dad's house, where they were preparing for her cousin's funeral. 

I found out all SPIA flights are cancelled through Monday. Tima had to make me new reservations through Hawaii.

Pili came to get me and brought me out to his and Gretchen's house for dinner. We sat around the house; Fipa showed up -- had just gotten off work, wearing grease-splotched pants and scrub shirt, same kind of boots he used to wear, like motorcycle boots.

Pili's kids are great -- gregarious, polite. Danika is about 8 -- kept showing me family pictures; going through Pili's Mata Ala; showing me his college yearbook (the only picture of Pili was of him performing with a Polynesian group that included Afa Ripley, with black paint streaks on his face and long hair). ​

​Melissa is about 10 (?), beautiful, with long, wavy brown hair. Interested in science, very bright, aware of the world. We got out the atlas. She wanted to see everywhere I've lived, showed me Libya. She kept bringing out books and National Geographics, pictures of sharks and other fish, talking about astronomy and oceanography. Danika too -- talking about planets.

Jon is a lanky teehager -- talkng back to the television, teasing his sisters.But he's friendly and doesn't seem self-conscious.

​Caleb, the baby, is sweet-natured, attentive,with big brown eyes in a little brown face.

Tonight I went with Pili to the Tikki lounge to hear him play with Tropical Storm, the group he's with now. He's still got it with the drums. I missed the old music -- this group is into Dire Straits, Huey Lewis, Stevie Wonder. But they did play two Samoan songs. It was exciting to hear that and to see people dancing. I was hoping there'd be someone to dance with, but most of the people there were couples or in groups -- a wedding party, the girls' netball team from Apia.

Pili and I danced to the disco music at the break. It was really like old times.

​Just before the last set, Pili took me outside to meet someone. It was Tui Letuli, the kid I used to tutor in reading when he was in second grade. He's now 28, plays lead guitar. He's traveled all around the States, performed in a lot of places, getting ready to go back to L.A.to hang out.

I spent the night at Pili and Gretchen's. Watched pigs running through their yard. Pili complains about them rooting up his papaya trees. Guys walking down the dirt road wearing lavalavas, carrying aiga baskets.

In the last installment, I traveled with former schoolmates Abe and Robin and another woman to the outer islands of the Manu'a group: Ta'u, Ofu, and Olosega. At the time, Abe was overseeing public works and power projects throughout American Samoa. ​

Good things to know:
fale - Samoan for house
Soli & Mark's - a popular local restaurant
fa'asamoa​ - literally, "the Samoan way." The traditional way of life in the Samoan culture
palagi - white-skinned person, foreigner
taupou - ceremonial hostess, an honorary position
​puletasi - traditional Samoan dress​

We're up at 6 am, watching a shell-colored sunrise, then having coffee and walking by the beach. We figure Abe has been up for hours inspecting more public works projects. Just before the plane is due in, we check his room and find him asleep -- he'd been up till 2 am, talking business.

Back in Pago, I box up my stuff to send home (hiking boots, heavy sweater), lug it to the post office. Have more frustrating phone experiences.

Abe comes by for lunch. In three hours, he's had two meetings with the governor; signed checks; had an explosive argument with the budget director, who is refusing to approve construction of a new administration building; plus several other things I don't remember.

We go to lunch at Matai's Pizza Fale in Nu'uuli's shopping center. We talk about Abe's trip to Washington (leaving tomorrow morning). He lights up when I tell him I'll try to get him a picture of Lee Iacocca.

He starts telling me about the house he's building near the airport, and he gets that kind of explosive glow again. "Oh!! Do you want to drive by it?" We do --  he's having it built by a contractor from Texas -- more expensive, but good work, he says. He's building it for his parents' retirement.

This afternoon I wandered around, took pictures, bought more shirts, miscellaneous Samoan stuff. 

​


​Fatima took me down to Pago, where I looked for Tau at his insurance office, but didn't find him.

​Then we met Jeanette at Soli & Mark's. She and a friend were having an interesting conversation about fa'asamoa, saying that no matter how long you spend off the island, "no matter how palagi you think you are," you always have to deal with Samoan customs. It's more a part of you than you realize. 

Jeanette is caught up in it now because of the funeral for her cousin (Ray Nomura's son), who drowned off Aunu'u. The other woman is into it because her father is taking over the high chief title on Ta'u. There, fa'asamoa is really fa'asamoa. In the kava ceremony, she won't be able to get near where her father is, for example; no picture-taking. And their lives will be different -- she can't sit in her father's chair, lie on his bed, or eat his food.

Tonight, Jeanette, Mai, and I sat around in the bar at the Rainmaker, drinking. It was a good time. Then as we were going through the lobby, we saw that they were showing the Miss Flag Day competition on TV. We came in as they were having the kava ceremony competition -- the taupous doing the kava preparation, flinging the kava strands back over their shoulders. Then we saw the puletasi competition -- some of the women barefoot, shell decorations and jewelry.

This morning the weather looks awful. Last night it was storming -- high seas, boulders across the road, fallen trees. Today the skies are gray, foreboding. But I don't want to disappoint Abe, so I go to Manu'a. 

We fly in a tiny plane -- twelve passengers. From Pago airport, it's 30 minutes to the dirt landing strip at Ta'u. The strip there is a swath cut through banana trees; taro grows within yards. There's no terminal, simply "Welcome to Ta'u," from the pilot.

Then we buzz back into the sky, and in five minutes we're in Ofu. I was dreading the landing there, but to my surprise there's a new concrete runway and the landing is perfect. The runway is one of Abe's public works projects.

We're met by John, a Samoan wearing an L.A. Raiders cap. He has lived in San Francisco, speaks with an American accent. He's been in charge of a project to build a road to a peak on the island for a TV tower.

Abe sees a street light on that should be off -- the  photo cell isn't working. On the way back to the motel, he's counting how many are defective.

​John takes us for a ride around the island, and we see Abe in action, pointing out to John areas of the road that need to be improved. He asks John how far from the top the road is now. John says, "About 200 yards." Abe says, "That's what you told me a month ago."

​The rest of us are enjoying the sights, sitting in the back of the pickup. There is white sand everywhere--even people's front yards are covered with it. The houses are clean, painted sweet pastel colors. The water is turquoise and sparkling, with live coral. Abe says the drinking water is very pure. (It comes from underground springs).

Only about 1,000 people live on the two islands, Ofu and Olosega, that are connected by a bridge Robin says cost $1,000,000.

The people of Manu'a are wealthy, I hear it said by several people. They have very little to spend money on, so they save everything. Their taro is considered the best. It's whiter, not as sticky, almost a fluffy texture like heavy bread.

Abe checks the power plant, and Robin, Karen and I walk around the dock area and along the road, down by the little cafe. Karen tells us bizarre stories about her life. We get back to the plant; Abe is taking a nap on a mat on a bed. John drives us back to the motel. On the way we meet another of Abe's employees, who is bringing us boxes of food: pork, chicken, taro, palusami, and what Robin calls chow mein--cellophane noodles mixed with corned beef.

After dinner, Robin and Karen watch TV and talk about Karen's problems, and Abe and I sit on the beach talking for a long time. He says he envies Bill for his stable family life. (Bill envies Abe for his seriousness and studious nature.) 

When it starts raining, we go inside and make coffee and sit around and talk some more. Karen falls asleep, and Abe, Robin, and I talk about our compulsiveness at work -- how we all avoid personal relationships if they interfere with our work. It strkes me as very ironic that we're all on this serene, relaxing island, miles from our responsibilities, but we end up talking about work.

Robin and Abe: the Samoan yuppies.

​About 11:00, we go to our rooms. I sit outside watching the clouds in the dark sky, listening to the ocean, smelling the frangipani blossoms.

We would have slept soundly, but we were dumb enough to leave the door open, and mosquitoes were all over us. I had to keep the sheet completely over me -- face and all -- to keep from getting bitten about once a second.