The Journey
Welcome to The Journey, a space where Mary McKSchmidt shares her transition from business executive to advocate, photographer, poet, and storyteller. Here, she invites you to walk alongside her as she explores life in the Great Lakes region, its beauty and fragility, and the bonds that connect us all.
Seven Months, Fifteen Days
Mother told me goodbye the morning of December 5th, 2024. She died seven months and 15 days later. I suspect her deep faith, love of family and delight in the everyday experiences of life kept her with us longer than either of us would have predicted that chilly...
Fog of Grief
Not me I told myself defiantly and then mailed the check for property taxes only to have it returned for lack of a signature and then typed laminated and taped the wrong WIFI password on the frig the night of her party confusing everyone and then sailed past our...
Missing You
I still detect a whiff of you in the gold and brown recliner, the tweed chair to be hauled to a thrift shop tomorrow where a stranger’s scent will replace yours. It took twenty-four years of allergy shots to restore my sense of smell and today,...
Setting the Record Straight
What you may not know about Billy Martinis that in January of 1972, the same year he took the Detroit Tigers to their first American League East Championship,he met a young woman sports editoron a Tiger preseason press tour. It was the first time a...
Because
At a time when grief lurks in the background like a cat waiting to pounce in moments of vulnerability; when the headlines tempt me to roll into a cocoon of isolation, a poet creates a cinepoem that slices through the darkness and reaches a pinhole of light flickering...
“Rainbow Connection”
This curious song sung by a frog appeared mysteriously, a do-loop in the brain that would not disappear shortly after her death. It was not “Oh what a beautiful morning,”“Take me out to the ball game,”“Let’s go fly a kite” or any of the songs we used to sing every...
Celebrating Mother
On Sunday, July 20, 2025, Jane McKinney—my mother, friend, teammate, co-author, chair chat buddy, and co-creator of “A Bench and a Tree”—passed peacefully, surrounded by her children in front of her beloved window. She was ninety-eight years old. Although no...
This Day
for Rubin Most days I am with heras she begins a departure that isinevitable, reasonable, heart-smashing. But this day I am with him. And while the horizon is swallowedby a disconcerting fog, the stillness of this momentin his presence soothesand prevails.
Why I Write Poetry
In a life that’s zigzagged from newspapers to corporations to advocating for the Great Lakes and seniors, I write poetry to reveal and weave the jagged threads that are me. If one of my poems resonates with you, it is as if a beacon of light flashes through the...
Not Just Any Rock
Not a Petoskey. Not a skipping stone. Not even a geode. Jagged, slightly larger than a softball, the rock was among the other rocks hauled, dumped, and arranged ten years ago to create a border between the carport and manicured lawn. It rested comfortably among the...
You Ask
what am I doingto care for myself this day in May when winds plunge temperatures near freezingand the sun slips behindthe too-familiar gray of spring? I am donning a winter coat,a pair of mittensand helping him launch the new and unfamiliar dinghywith a seatback and...
Celebrating Mothers
After tediously tucking twigs and grasses into the juncture of the service berry tree outside Mother’s window for days, the robin nestled her plump body into the mud-lined floor of the nest and poked her tail in our direction as if to say, quit...