Marti Healy

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The care and feeding of Wild Roses

I suspect that doing the right thing is, in the end, simply cultivating an appropriate and deliberate respect for all the beautiful variations and possibilities of one another. I always thought they were a gift from my mother. The wild and brilliant red rose vines burst into my yard, along the front of the house, just beneath my bedroom windows, the very first spring following my mother’s death. They have been bringing me delight and insight rather consistently ever since. It’s been almost a decade now. And I’ve always refrained from interfering with their spontaneity, their free-form loveliness, even their integration with the window shutters and roof line and other

Riding the Words

I have a friend who used to ride the rails. It was back in the 1970s. And he was photo-documenting the lives of railroad tramps — a culture and lifestyle that was fast disappearing, even then. His photographs are haunting and harsh and starkly real in unflinching black and white. They tell stories of deprivation and pride; stories of living on edges and in shadows; of the addiction to it all, the blatant freedom and mindset of it; the habitual moving and leaving and never arriving, never staying. The work is brilliant. The photographs are utterly compelling. But what captures my mind and imagination the most are the words he

In Search Of Happily Ever After

Once upon a time … before all the world stopped and held its breath … before we became achingly aware of and careful with one another … before, when life was just as it had always been, and would never be again … I wrote a story in remembrance of three weddings. In the story, I spoke about how I thought we should all make a point of attending a wedding every now and then. I proposed that it often provided an opportunity to renew our own belief in the sweetness of love, the spirituality of it, that it was sometimes the most lovely witness for hope — shining new

The possibilities of Red Rubber Boots

I’m not sure why, but people seem to want to come up and talk to me when I’m wearing my red rubber boots. With or without the dog. Any time of day. Downtown or in the woods or at a store or anywhere in between. It may be simply the color of my boots that draws people to me when I wear them. They are a bright, true red. Like Superman’s boots. Or Dorothy’s ruby slippers (without the sparkle and glam). There are wonderful associations to be made with either — like saving the world, or returning to the safety of home. Iconic fashion designer Bill Blass even believed that

Frodo: From Racehorse to War Horse to Home

It was nearly half a decade ago. Yet I remember – I will forever remember – the day I met a horse named Frodo. It was on the grounds of the Aiken Equine Rescue, and Frodo was a participant in the remarkable Saratoga WarHorse program conducted there — an equine-based, peer-to-peer, veterans program that addresses the unseen wounds of both military post traumatic stress and off-the-track Thoroughbreds. I wrote about Frodo then, as I will write about him now. Frodo was bred to race. Frodo, however, amiably declined. A large, gray, beautiful Thoroughbred, Frodo simply refused to conform to the life of a racehorse. He just didn’t have the heart

Stones of the Heart

They’re called worry stones. Soothing stones… palm stones… thumb stones. Smoothed and shaped by moving water, the Greeks chose such stones from the sea. In Tibet, they were claimed from melting snows and high mountain river beds. In Ireland they were most often picked up from the edges of ancient lakes. Native Americans selected them not only for themselves, but to hand down from one generation to the next — creating a sense of sacred connectedness, of unbroken peace and symbolism to be forever cherished. The most prized of these stones have always been quartz. Most of us recognize a worry stone — a soothing stone — from its soft

Remnants of a Life at the Side of the Road

I saw the thin black ties of the apron first. They were draped rather languidly along the edge of the road. The apron itself was nearly hidden in a grassy dip in the ground off to the side, leading into the mouth of a drain pipe. The all-black color of the apron helped to disguise it. Even the dog had not noticed it as we walked the small neighborhood street. With a closer look, the apron was easily recognized as a restaurant-style server’s apron — smallish, oblong, with pockets sewn all across its lap for holding pens and order slips, notes about specials, and tips paid in cash. Picking it

One Hundred and Five Christmases

Once upon a time, Christmas sparkled. It glittered like new snow and winter stars. It whispered with secrets, and sang out with joy to the world, and smelled of pinecones and wood fires. It was as brilliant as red ribbons curling around unopened paper-wrapped packages. And it was filled with grace and truth, vulnerability and hope. When I was perhaps eight or nine years old, I was lying in bed on Christmas Eve, with too many sweets and sweet anticipation tossing me about, and I began to calculate the Christmases that I would be able to celebrate in my lifetime. I must have only recently come to the conscious understanding

Speaking with Authentic Voices

Like the old “Change Your Voice” book itself, I sometimes feel woefully worn and dog-eared and torn around the edges. But, perhaps like the book, I have old truths that I am meant to speak, in a voice to be made worth hearing. It was an old book. Not rare or antique, but rather vintage. Just old enough to smell of aging library glue and dried damp, and to have sepia-toned edges and dog-eared corners that marked passages now long-forgotten in spite of the inspiration they must have once incited. It was a book my father had given to me, but I don’t remember why. It is entitled: “Change Your

Living Like Dandelions

If childhood had a flower all its own, I think it would be the dandelion. From the first time we’re plopped down onto a blanket on the lawn one happy spring day, dandelions appear at just the right height and brightness for a young, curious gaze. They nod and dance for us, invite us to touch and play, looking like a thousand round golden faces wearing lions’ manes and green scarves. My first memory of dandelions was as a grand yet intimate surprise. I could barely scramble around the backyard on my own, and there they were: plentiful, beautiful, bright, and mine for the gathering with no one to tell