From Flute Notes to Flight Delays: Life Between the Lines

Some weeks, life moves in a rhythm that feels less like a gentle breeze and more like a symphony of weather changes, emotional tides, and gate-change announcements. This one? It was all of that and more.

I flew to Louisiana recently—courtesy of my husband’s airline perks—and played a little game I like to call Nonrev Roulette. For the uninitiated, this is where you show up to the airport with fingers crossed, hoping there’s an empty seat with your name on it. I eventually made it home to Maine at 1 a.m. after a long travel day and checked into my go-to overnight spot: Embassy Suites at the Portland Airport. Comfortable, close, and a sanity-saver when the backroads home are too dark and too late.

Before leaving town, I had the honor of playing ceremony music on my flute at one of my dearest friend’s weddings. We go back over three decades—me and the Yayas, a tight-knit group of high school soul sisters still showing up for one another after 35 years. It was heartwarming and a little magical. Love, at any age, is worth celebrating.

On the other end of the emotional spectrum, I also attended the funeral of my father’s best friend—a man who once stood beside me at my dad’s own service. Seeing photos of him and my parents stirred something tender and raw. I stepped outside for a moment, letting the grief roll in quietly like an old wave I thought had long since passed. Grief doesn’t expire. It shapeshifts.

But the softness came too. I spent time with my daughter’s family. My grandchildren—Tripp and his big-hearted baby sister—wrapped me up in the kind of love that reminds you to stay present. To breathe. To be.

Back in Maine, the weather reminded me I’d changed zip codes—95 degrees to 64. The kind of shift that explains why so many Southern souls migrate up here each summer. It’s temperate. Calm. And full of quirks I’m slowly learning to love.

And then—something unexpected.

While in Louisiana, I ran into a few former colleagues from my fire service days. Each one asked me if I was the secret pen behind the union’s recent Facebook articles—posts that were more polished than usual. I smiled and denied it. Truth is, when I left St. George Fire Protection District, I left everything behind. I walked away from bullying, harassment, and the kind of toxicity that eats at your soul. It cost me in terms of pension, yes. But not in peace.

These days, I’ve found a new path to serve through my role on the Red Cross board in Maine. I remember them showing up for fire victims when I was in uniform—always quietly, always with purpose. Now, I get to show up in a new way. Still helping. Still showing up.

In between unpacking my suitcase and restocking from Trader Joe’s (a treat when you live rural), I’ve been working on a couple of stories for Newsweek—covering the Best Historic Small Towns and Best Historic Bed and Breakfasts in the U.S. I suppose it’s no surprise I keep circling back to stories about rootedness and rediscovery.

Next up: I’ll be back at the winery this weekend, pouring wine, pairing it with good food, and listening to the stories others bring with them. And on Sunday, I’ll be reflecting on Father’s Day—and how having two dads shaped me in ways I’m still uncovering.

Until then, I’m holding onto the idea that life doesn’t always unfold with symmetry. Sometimes it’s a wedding and a funeral in the same week. Sometimes it’s a flute and a firetruck in the same story. Sometimes it’s just… showing up.

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