I must have watched the airport scene in CASABLANCA a dozen times. It’s the one where Humphrey Bogart nobly sends Ingrid Bergman away. (She leaves with Paul Henreid which isn’t so bad.) But there’s a famous line in that scene I found hard to accept. It’s when Bogart assures a tearful Bergman, “We’ll always have Paris.” He’s referring to the idyllic time when they were lovers. But there’s no possibility of going back to the past, so I thought it was just a screenwriter’s unrealistic verbiage. And doesn’t remembering lost times just depress us?

The realitv is that memories are two-sided. As a candid example, I’m estranged from a friend I was once close to. For a variety of reasons, she chose to end our relationship and has no desire to revisit the past. So I’ve put a lot of energy into trying to avoid anything that brings reminders of her. I even attempted to keep memories off limits. But this week, perhaps because her birthday’s coming up, the memory of one of our last days together insisted on intruding. We had met for lunch in one of our favorite places, a restaurant in Springfield, Massachusetts. I tried to shut off the memory , but I found myself reliving the hours of sharing and laughter, and our hugs when we parted. But remembering felt different this time. Instead of the usual pain and anger, I was surprised by joy With apologies to Bogart , I’ll always have Springfield – provided that I’m willing to welcome the memory instead of trying to banish it.

Estrangement is another form of loss and deserves to be mourned.. We also have to get past guilt and anger .But what are we to do with the embers? Trying to fence off part of an experience can mean losing all of it, including moments we could cherish. This isn’t just true of estrangement, of course. I’m writing this on my late husband’s birthday. I used to try to shield myself from grief by ignoring the day. But as I’m discovering, fear keeps us hostage to the past. Doesn’t strength mean owning what we choose to keep – and letting the rest go?

Website: www.annehosansky.com

CURRENT BOoK: ARISING:  available in print and E -version at BookBaby.com and Amazon.com.

There are few things as lonely as a world without the person we loved. Our only solace is that grief is so universal we have plenty of company. This week I watched a podcast featuring Anderson Cooper. I knew he had lost his father and brother years ago, and more recently his mother, but I didn’t expect his reaction to so starkly reflect my own; Like me, he’s the only surviving member of his birth family and he described this as “incredible loneliness,” for there’s nobody who knew him as a child. As Cooper would probably agree, fame and wealth can’t barricade against loneliness. But empathic voices can help bridge that emptiness.
I have learned that help is available and that reaching for it isn’t a sign of weakness but of strength. No wonder there’s such a profusion of support groups. But if you’re the type who shuns groups, there are also counselors you can talk to privately. Years ago I had my first major loss when my husband died. I felt totally alone, until I discovered that Cancer Care offered free counseling. I began weekly sessions that led to a transforming moment. I was talking about my husband and our futile struggle to keep him alive, when my counselor interrupted me. “I just had an image of you writing about this,” he said. That stunning remark planted the seeds for my memoir “Widow’s Walk” and two other books about coping with grief. From then on I was no longer alone because I’d found a way to share my feelings and also hear from hundreds of strangers struggling with the same challenges. I still treasure the brief note from a Wisconsin widow: “Thank you for giving my grief a voice.”
Of course, you don’t have to write a book to express your feelings. I urge my memoir writing students to use a journal. Looking through an old one of my own I see a tear-smudged reminder of a terrible evening during my husband’s illness. In a desperate attempt for normalcy, I had made a dinner with his favorite foods. He tried to eat, but was so nauseated he could only stumble upstairs to throw up and go to bed. I sat alone in the darkening room, desperate for someone to talk to but whom could I trust? Reaching for some paper and a pen, I began to write about feelings I’d kept hidden – anger at my husband for “abandoning” me and guilt about this shameful feeling. Surprisingly I felt better after confiding in this paper “friend” who wouldn’t betray me.
It reminds me of a widow I interviewed for my second book. She said, “My mother was horrified when she heard me cursing God for my husband’s death. So I bought a notebook and each morning I write the thoughts that would shock my mother and the priest. Then I hide the diary and can go about my day.”
If we’re able to, we can also keep the words of our loved one. When my father-in-law was dying, my daughter visited him with a tape recorder. She wanted him to tell her about his life as a young man she had never known, and he was happy to do this. Like many other people who have recorded, she’s still able to hear that beloved voice . I interviewed a man who said he had never had a good relationship with his mother. But in her last months he visited her often and recorded her memories. “She’s gone now,” he said. “But I feel close to her for the first time.”
Still, there’s nothing like being able to share with friends – as long as we choose ones who will listen without lecturing! “You’ll get over it, ”is profane and should never be uttered. The same for the cliché, “I know how you feel.” I’m ashamed that when I saw my widowed sister cry at a wedding, I told her I knew how she felt. “The hell you do,” she shot back. Rude, but right. None of us can fully know what’s inside someone else. As Willa Cather wrote, “The heart of another person is a dark forest.”
A friend who was widowed after forty years of a loving marriage, told me she was being criticized because she couldn’t cry. “Is something wrong with me?” she asked. The only wrong is heeding the judgments of those who think they have a right to tell us how to grieve. The most important voice is the one that speaks from our own heart.
Website: www.annehosansky.com
BOOKS: Widow’s Walk, Turning Toward Tomorrow, Ten Women of Valor available through Amazon.com. Role Play , Come And Go, Arising –also available through BookBaby.com..

What seemingly benign holiday brings a confusion of emotions, ranging friom joyous to sorrow? Even the title is confusing, for the apostrophe after Mother’s signifies one mother, rather than all. Yet that modest mark punctuates a truth: not all women welcome this annual holiday. True, there are fortunate mothers awardeD with candy, corsage and/or dining in an elegant restaurant.The popular image is a beaming mothe surrounded by adoring children. (Those, children may have their own conflicts about compulsory homage, but that’s another story.)
There are other women who wish they could tear that Sunday off the calendar. Women unable to conceive or who lost a child. Women grieving the death of their own mother. Women whose unborn infant never made it to birth and women whose adult children have grown distant emotionally as well as geographically. For tall these women the day is something to get through, not to enjoy.
Ironically one of the loudest voices protesting the holiday was that of the woman whi created it! In1908, Anna Reeves Jarvis, who ws mourning the death of her mother, suggested a day be set aside for everyone to pay private tribute to their mother. Her belief that it could be “private” was naïve, for the idea spread across the country. Despite Jarvis herself campaigning against it,I n1914 President Wilson designated Mother’s Day a national holiday. To the delight of merchants it quickly became the “Halmark Holiday” we know today.
Those of us who are fortunate can add meaning to our celebration by reaching out to someone who is suffering. Even a brief call to say, “I’m thinking of you,” can help bridge the loneliness. We should also be sensitive about what we say to people whose story we don’t know. A neighbor told me of buying a box of cookies to contribute to a charitable cause, only to hear the woman selling them say, “Your little ones will love the cookies.” She was unaware how painful those words were, for my neighbor had flunked her final fertility test. As she tearfully threw the cookies into the incinerator she asked: “Why can people stop to think that not everyone is as lucky as they are?
Those of us on the deprived side of the holiday don’t have to settle for s solo Pity Party. We can plan ahead to attend some event – a movie ,play,exhibit – either alone or with a friend who’s in a similar rocky boat. For years my sister had an annual date with a childless friend. “It’s our un-mothers” luncheon they announced. I make sure I give myself a special treat that day, such as sabotaging my diet with Lady Godiva chocolates. They are just as delicious no matter who buys them! Even better, I treat myself to a new book, one I can lose myself and the date in.
We can also broaden our emotional calendar. Monday is just a day away!
Website: www.annehosansky.com
Latest novel: “ARISING”- available at BookBaby.com and Amazon.com.

No matter what crises are going on in the world, the seasons reliably change more or less on schedule.. Actually, a meteorologist friend informed me that this is the earliest spring ever recorded. Early or late, it’s welcomes, for spring is reputedly a season of hope – seeds come to life, flowers bloom. But hope feels increasingly difficult these days when war ravages so much of the world and in our own divided country hatred has a megaphone. For those who have lost a loved one, the beauty of spring can be even more difficult. My husband died in the gray starkness of winter, which matched the grayness within those of us who had lost him. It felt especially cruel to me that my sister died on an April day that was filled with nature coming back to life.
So how do we manage to feel hopeful? I once read an anecdote about a man stumbling in a dark room, crying that he had nothing left. “Turn on the light,” a voice said. When he did, he was amazed to see that the room was filled with jewels. They didn’t suddenly materialize, they had been there all along – but he had to be able to see them.
We have to recognize the hopeful things we’re often blind to. Yesterday I was struggling to push my overloaded shopping cart up the muddy slope outside my house, exertion made worse by my being in a “nobody cares” syndrome. Then a neighbor I’ve barely ever spoken to asked if I wanted help. I suddenly felt a surge of hope that I wasn’t as alone as I’d thought. The moment might have slipped by and an hour later I might have felt hopeless about something else .But I’m learning to recognize when something positive happens. We tend to tell ourselves anything good was a fluke, an aberration, and far too small to compensate for a feeling of loneliness. But hope doesn’t usually come in large packages. If may be moments, acts, words so slight we ignore then or disregard their value.
So we have to take time to notice– and to say, okay maybe most of the week was bad but this hopeful thing happened. Maybe the friend we’d given up on calls us, or a holiday recipe we’ve never had success with turns into our most popular dish. We also tend to dismiss the good with a cynical ”so what, it won’t happen again.” But ”never again” is a sure recipe for despair!
Each night I challenge myself to find three things in the day that I can give thanks for. Admittedly it’s sometimes a struggle to find even one, but there’s usually something if we look for it. A friend once complained that the only thing she could think of was that she’d had a good breakfast. (When so many are starving, breakfast is no small blessing.)
“Hope is the thing with feathers,” Emily Dickinson famously wrote. But our feathered friends fly past swiftly. The ability to recognize even fleeting hope is the light we turn on for ourselves.

Website: annehosansky.com
Current book: ARISING -available in print and E versions, at BookBaby.com and Amazon.com.

I went to bed last night thinking, tomorrow’s March already. Then I woke  to discover it was still February! I hadn’t even realized this is a leap year. But some things (most things) don’t reply on a calendar statistic. I used to fantasize that Leap Year Day was a gift, a special day for something we don’t ordinary do or say, like the menu item, “Specialty of the Day.” But why limit it to once a year? Why not create a personal Leap Year Day every month? What would we do with those precious uncounted hours?Maybe I won’t be solely a workaholic that day, but take time to phone the friend I never seem to have time to call. My interrupted work will still be there, but friendships don’t thrive without nourishment.
Maybe I’ll pause to watch the leaves on the tree outside my window. I never realized how they curl up as if protecting themselves from the cold. I’m inspired when I see them bravely uncurling, as if trusting the world.
Maybe I’ll make myself turn off the computer and go for a walk. If I meet that bullying neighbor I try to avoid I’ll surprise him by smiling. it won’t cost me anything and I might stop wasting energy in anger.
Maybe I’ll make a “play date” with my cat, instad of shutting the door on the lonely privacy of my “studio.” She doesn’t understand deadlines, but she does understand my affectionate rubbing of the fur by her right ear.
Maybe I’ll treat myself to the novelty of lazing on the couch,reading that book I haven’t had time to open.
Actually – what this Leap Day has done for me, was to inspire me to put aside a “must do” assignment and write this blog!
Instead , of feeling guilty if we take time off l let’s think of it as time ON – to replenish parched areas of our life.
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POETRY NOTE: My poem “Soliloquy In A Hi-Rise” has been accepted by Poemeleon Poetry Journal.
BOOK ENDS: “ARISING” and ‘ROLE PLAY” now available in E version as well as print at BookBaby.com and Amazon.com.

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February features a holiday that’s either sweet or bitter, depending where you are in your life. For those happily paired with a partner, Valentine’s Day can bring gifts that we translate into proof that we are loved. But what about those who are alone, victims of a death, divorce, or the breakup of a relationship?

The first Valentine’s Day after my husband died I told my bereavement counselor I’d never be hugged again. His response? “Put your arms around yourself.”
Cold comfort, I thought. Valentine’s Day isn’t supposed to be a game of solitaire. I had bought into the myth that being with anyone is better than being alone. I even wrote this into my novel ARISING, creating a heroine so needy she gets into two toxic affairs before discovering she has strength to stand on her own.
That first year I was advised to arrange some kind of socializing ahead of time. So I called a woman I knew who was single and  hawed dinner together. It became was a monologue of her miseries, that left me feeling even lonelier. That evening was a lesson: One plus one can add up to zero. In other words, we better choose our alternatives wisely.
I also made the myopic mistake of visualizing everyone else getting flowers or candy. Then one evening as I was trudging home from work, I stopped at a newsstand to buy a paper and noticed flowers being sold. I had never bought flowers for myself, but why not? I picked out a colorful bouquet of mixed flowers. “For your mama?” asked the newsman. “For me!” I announced – and that was the real beginning. The flowers I buy brighten my living room and my mood no matter who pays for them. I’ve also become shameless about devouring the Lady Godiva chocolates I treat myself to!
Perhaps the best antidote to loneliness is reaching beyond our self. I know a woman who makes a habit of calling one person each week who’s going through a bad time. A phone call doesn’t have to be lengthy. Just, “I’m thinking of you,” may be enough to let people know they’re not alone. Invariably we find that helping someone else boosts our spirits, too.
Valentine’s Day I will treat myself to a glass of wine and toast my ability to enjoy my own company. As the saying goes, “Alone means all-one.”
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“ARISING” available in print and E version at BoonBaby.com and Amazon.com

My hopefully balanced views of our lopsided world are now available on Substack! Thanks to those of you who have already signed on as subscribers. For those who’ve been loyal followers of my blogs, there’s no fee. You will be my guests!
The bimonthly posts will be a woman’s eye-view of the insane challenges we face every day, sprinkled with my offbeat humor. I’ll also continue to help with the unavoidable trauma of coping with loss, which I’ve written and spoken about (and lived) for years. For those of us who take refuge in books and films, I’ll include “you’ve got to read/see this.”
To join as a free subscriber to AnneH’s Substack, Email ahosansky@gmail.com.
Much to share. Stay tuned!

I’m writing this brief blog the last day of 2023 as it becomes history. I can’t let the year fade without expressing my gratitude toward those of you who have been faithful followers of this blog and have taken time to let me know when my words are helpful. Unlike actors who reap immediate applause or boos, writers can only hope their words resonate with readers.
The blog before this one, for instance, about building bridges across our differences, drew one of the largest responses. I was moved by those who told me that my account of reaching out to the sister I’ve since lost inspired them to reach out to their own siblings or parents or children or friends. Being “inspired,” as many of you put it, works two ways. You, in turn, inspire me to continue sharing candidly.
By the time you read this it may already be a new year and I hope it’s one that gives each of you a renewed sense of purpose. I find there’s nothing so motivating as having something to look forward to, whether a new career step or simply Zoom with an old friend. So I’m happy to announce that I will be embarking on the year with a new venture! My blog series will be under the umbrella of Substack. Since you’re on my mailing list you will automatically become subscribers at no fee. I assure you that my messages will continue to be about the challenges we all face and ways we can triumph over them. More details to follow next year, which is only hours away.
It’s hard to feel optimistic with the world and our country in such troubled shape. But belief in a brighter future is the only view worth having. So with all my heart I wish each of you Health and Hope in the New Year.
ANNE

PRIVATE MIRACLES

If there’s one word that gets ample use in December it’s ”miracle”- ¬ from the Chanukah phenomenon of oil to the litany of events leading to Christmas. We also tend to apply that label to miscellaneous things .(?My gift arrived in time – a miracle!”) But what does that word really mean? Turning to Webster I discovered that miracle is defined as “an extraordinary event,” usually with Divine assistance.
We overlook the fact that these phenomenal events may also occur with some help from us. “Make a miracle and marry me,” runs the lovelorn refrain in the old musical “Where’s Charley?”” This plea assumes that the object of affection has the power to make a miracle occur. But what are the limits? We can’t bring a loved one back to life, but what about resuscitating a seemingly dead relationship ? For personal ties don’t necessarily end with our mortality, but often in a burst of pent-up anger or the fog of misunderstanding, or they simply expire from neglect. “Some of my losses are still walking around,” a woman told me. She wasn’t referring to ghostly figures, but her divorced husband and estranged daughter. Losses that may be beyond our ability to repair.
Or are they?
A teacher I interviewed spoke about her prickly relationship with her sister. For most of their lives they tried to avoid each other. But when they were older they not only got together more often, but even managed to vacation together successfully. “We both love going to the mountains and we’re both vegetarians,” she told me. “ So I learned to maximize our overlap and let the rest go.”
That’s what I learned to do with my own sister. We had a close relationship, but it was as up-and-down as a roller-coaster.. We had grown up in a family where we competed for every scrap of affection or attention. As adults our love always had the static of competitiveness. Yet as we aged and were both widowed I faced the reality that she was my sole sibling, and the two of us were the only ones left of our original family. There was no one else I shared certain memories with or could ask,”Remember when…?” Swallowing my pride ,(why do I have to be the one to reach out?) I sent her a holiday card, and wote on it “I miss you.” I waited for sarcasm or ,worse, silence. But what arrived two days later was a simple Email: “I miss you, too.” It wasn’t perfect – what is? ¬¬¬¬¬- but we reclaimed the closeness we’d lost, with the wisdom to hold it gently. I’m grateful that we did, for my sister died three years ago. Her birthday is coming soon. (Ironically, she’ll never know the birthdate is now historic -¬January 6..)
I’m aware that reconciliation isn’t always possible and that it take two to navigate the shoals. Bringing any relationship back to life requires the strength to reach out without probing every wound., the willingness to see beyond the fog of accumulated resentments, and the wisdom to value what remains. Developing the ability to do this can be our personal miracle.
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WEBSITE: WWW.annehosansky.com

My sister and I used to alternate hosting the Thanksgiving feast. We shared the same habit of asking guests to say one thing they were thankful for. On occasions when she was the host I’d say, “I’m thankful that I didn’t have to cook the dinner.” That always got a laugh, but I wouldn’t say the same thing now. My sister, my husband, and too many friends are missing. It’s difficult to feel very thankful. It’s even harder these days when we’re haunted by the suffering of relatives and strangers on both sides of the war in the Middle East.

Yet, what about the people who are with us? The first holiday after my husband died our grieving son told me, “I’m glad you’re still here.” I sai’SO am  I.” But when I remember that moment I find myself putting the emphasis on a single word: HERE. Being physically present doesn’t always mean being present with our mind and heart. I’m easily distracted by trivial details, as well as the inner undercurrent of “What if…?” (My husband were still here, my best friend wasn’t gone, etc.)

IN ThorntonWilder’s pognant play “OUR TOWN, the heroine dies but is given a chance to relive one day of her life. She chooses her 12thbirthday, a time when her parents and brither were still wit  her. Reaching out to her mother Emily is shoicked to see her too busy with her chores to pay attention to her daughter. When the same thing happens with her father Emily cries out, ”It all goes so fast…why didn’t we really look at one another?”

This Thanksgiving I will be a host again.  After any social evening I frequently feel as though I hadn’t been there. This year I’ill try to be aware of the sound of my friends’voices, the expressions on their faces, he look of pain or joy in their eyes – and to carry this within me through lonely winters.

Giving thanks isn’t limited to a special time, of course, That evening I’llL say my daily Gratitude Prayer, giving thanks for the major gifts in my life – and the smaller  blessings that too often slip by unnoticed.

A meanngful Holiday to all.