​Is it okay to be afraid? I whisper,
my words slipping out unintentionally
as lightning illuminates an angry sky
and thunder explodes like circling cannons. 
 
Sails down, we huddle in the companionway,
knowing the mast on our sailboat 
is a conduit for the electrical fury raging 
above Lake Michigan. This unforeseen
 
wall of weather on the water 
is inching closer, winds building 
off the stern, swells rocking the boat 
and challenging the autopilot for control.
 
A pounding rain reverberates 
off the fiberglass and a misty fog 
swallows the shoreline. 
One lightning strike could 
 
destroy navigating instruments,
punch pinholes through the hull, 
explode the mast, electrocute one 
or both of us. Miles from harbor, 
 
there is nowhere to go.
 
His eyes are gentle as he answers my question.
Only two seconds between the last flash 
and the trailing thunder. 
The strike was a half mile away. 

​Before sailing out the channel,
an army of sweat bees 
emerges from the forest
as if telling me
it’s time to leave.

​Thank you to Mother, who agreed to move into respite care while Rubin and I sail out the channel and head north. (Respite care is designed to provide short-term relief for primary caregivers.) Thanks to siblings who are driving the long miles to be with Mother while we are gone; to caregivers who are doing their best to keep Mother safe until we return; to you who encouraged me to care, also, for me; and for any favorable winds, smooth seas, and sun-touched skies that accompany us on this journey. 

Mary

P.S. As access to internet can be difficult on the water, postings this summer will be erratic. Rubin says, "hang in there!" 

​Death, certainly, is the most permanent. 
Like the time my older sister lost her kitten
to the teeth of the dog next door. 
 
Or the morning he, who could no longer speak, 
said goodbye to his wife with his eyes. 
But I also have wept after witnessing 
 
the mental and physical decline of ones I love; 
at knowing I, too, am aging and life changes 
are inevitable. I have experienced the betrayal 
 
associated with harassment, discrimination, assault, 
and the resulting loss of faith in humanity. 
I am living with the heartbreak of seeing 
 
the blue waters of a beloved lake blanketed green; 
the sandy beaches I used to walk defined by pebbles, 
impassable because of new rock embankments. 
 
But the losses hardest for me to shoulder 
are those caused by my own mistakes; when I, 
usually speeding through life’s to-do list, 
 
trample on ones I care for deeply; 
when I harm and am erased from a life, 
a wall created to keep me outside. 
 
How I deal with loss is a matter of choice. 
And since all losses can potentially tear apart 
any peace of mind, I want to choose wisely. 
 
I asked my husband his thoughts
and he was surprised I cared so much 
about football.  

Two deaths in three days. A brother. A poetry friend. And yet, the robins, finches, cardinals, and chickadees are singing from the trees at dawn. Their songs remind me it is a new day rich in possibilities.
​
How do I want to live my “one wild and precious life?” * 
 
*From the poem, "The Summer Day" by Mary Oliver

​As I was not there
to see the young fox  
emerge from its den beneath 
the neighborhood bench,
witness the inquisitive eyes 
confronting the camera,
watch its black boots bound
across the sloping dune,
the white tip of its tail disappear
among the first reeds of spring,
a neighbor sent me a photograph.
 
Instead, I stood at a window
seven miles from our home,
one arm around my mother,
and pointed to the young maple
rising above the cattails, 
its pencil-like trunk bending
under the weight of a furry body
plumper and more awkward
than a squirrel; tail flatter,
rounder than an otter;
inching too far up the tree
to be a beaver; a woodchuck,
perhaps, climbing 
to the topmost branches
to nibble the first
of the lime green leaves. 

​My third-grade teacher told us to bring a toy, 
something for someone who had nothing. 
 
I remember kissing my doll goodbye, 
a six-inch, blonde-haired favorite 
 
given me by my godmother 
whose name I gifted my imaginary child; 
 
one graced with a wardrobe of clothes
each outfit handmade by my grandmother--
 
a rare gift from one with thirty-nine grandchildren--
a gift made more difficult by the tininess of the doll.
 
I remember placing my little girl and her clothes 
in a shoebox and taking it to school the next day.
 
For decades, I have felt guilty about giving away
something that represented so much love,
 
saw it as a moment of childhood foolishness.
Only now, as I watch friends downsize, do I realize 
 
love is meant to be given from one to another,
including to a stranger, a child somewhere
 
who opened a gift one Christmas morning 
to find her first doll and a boxful of clothing.

​He says our sailboat is like a cottage on the water.
I am drawn to the unknown that beckons from beyond.
 
He taught me to feel the wind on my face,
sometimes a whisper, sometimes a roar; 
 
introduced me to the thrill of watching 
the air fill the sails, our boat heel, 
 
the hull slice through water,
the gurgling sound of the wash becoming 
 
background music to an unspoken intimacy 
as nature and knowledge propel us forward.
 
Accompanied now by flocks of cormorants, 
the black flutter of an occasional monarch,
 
we have sailed together for decades. 
I am at the wheel; he is trimming sails--
 
a communion that has brought us home after
being tossed as a balloon on eight-foot waves, 
 
thrown on our side by gale wind gusts, 
pounded by rain under lightning-lit skies, 
 
swallowed by fog in the path of a freighter.
His calming presence evokes confidence 
 
but skies seem hazier these days.
Is it climate? Is it age?
 
This morning, fishing boats glide across glassy waters 
protected by the pier. But beyond the harbor lights,
 
a disquieting ripple speaks to waves fueled 
by night’s winds, by the dawn’s building breeze.
 
Today, like yesterday, the same question.
Do we stay or do we go?

​​On April 24th, I will be speaking about a lake I have loved since childhood. In preparation, I reread my book, Uncharted Waters: Romance, Adventure and Advocacy on the Great Lakes. My favorite passage was written at a time I worked in northern Illinois while Rubin, the man who makes me laugh, sands down the intense edges of my personality, and knows and loves me just as I am, ran a business in Nashville. Consumed by career, I lived on a sail boat in Winthrop Harbor for three years, hoping to bring balance to my lopsided life. 
 
Driving back to the boat each evening, I feel a sense of peace settle about me the minute I see Lake Michigan through the windshield. “Hello, Lake,” I say with a giant smile. With that first step on the pier, I feel as if an angel is lifting all heaviness from my shoulders, freeing me to see, smell, touch, hear, and experience all the glory of life . . . all the joy in living. Accompanied by frogs, crickets, birds, and mosquitoes, I sit in the cockpit as the soft, black carpet of night becomes the backdrop to an ensemble of stars flickering across the skies until they near the lake’s horizon. Then blackness.
 
Only the moon dances on Lake Michigan. And her dance begins to awaken the buried dreams of a child paging through a book of poetry.
 
To this day, I feel that same way every time I step from a marina parking lot to the pier leading to our boat. I hope you, too, have a special place on this planet—a place where you experience all the glory of life, the joy of living; a place where you can occasionally reassess your life’s direction.  And be at peace. 

​A Lake Michigan Love Song: Caring for This Place We Call Home” by Mary McKSchmidt
April 24th, 3:00 p.m. at the Portage United Church of Christ, 2731 W. Milham, Portage, MI. Open to the public. 

For the first time in four years, I was asked to speak about Lake Michigan. I do not believe in coincidences. I immediately said yes. 
 
COVID, family, age-related health issues, a deep resolve to make access to nature easier for the mushrooming senior population, and a need to replenish my own spirit sidelined my focus on building awareness as to the importance of cleaning up and protecting Lake Michigan and all the Great Lakes; of providing clean, safe, affordable water for all. But the stressors putting our water at risk did not get sidelined. If anything, they are worse. Why? The warming climate did not pause. And climate change exasperates everything.  
 
If you sit on a bench on a regular basis, you will see the changes. More algae on murkier waters. More non-native birds. The disappearance of other favorites. Hotter days. The death of trees that have stood for decades. More days with higher, gustier winds. More intense rainstorms. 
 
I believe doors are placed in front of you for a reason. 
 
Thank you for joining me on this journey to care for our state’s natural resources while making nature more accessible to all, especially our seniors. As you will see, the two paths are intertwined. 
 
For details about the presentation, “A Lake Michigan Love Song,” visit Events.