A Quick Check In

Hello everyone,

The seasons, they are a changing. And with that we change also. I am doing my best to learn more about the technological “behind the scenes” aspects of blogging, and getting it out there in the most efficient way.

I am so grateful for your patience, but then again, isn’t that what we all want from each other? The unidentifiable “they” want us to believe that we all should be multi tasking 24/7. And that  success comes wit perfection. I say hogwash. Putting your “best” foot forward does not mean your perfect foot forward.

So, here we are again, Thanksgiving not too far ahead, and I’m certain that many of you have already witnessed the premature Christmas sales.

Why don’t we all sit down, breathe, and acknowledge that we have but this very minute, and perhaps a whole string of minutes before us but the again, it is not guaranteed.

Where am I going with this? Well I just wanted to give you all a pat on the back. Because, after all, we are in this together, doing our best…and that’s simply good enough.

So put on the brakes, enjoy where you are, even if it’s less than stellar. For ,in one blink of an eye all things change. Now, I continue to have difficulties with my subscribers receiving my posts. Please leave a simply comment if you receive it. That way I know for certain, I have succeeded, imperfectly, but succeeded. Thank you.




What’s In A Name?

Wheel Thrown Wedding Sculpture


What’s In A Name

Just about everything. It’s our tag. The brand that names our tribe of origin.
It gives us a sense of security, knowing that someone or many some ones
will call us to their attention.

I had an unusual beginning. Not that I was aware of it. But when at thirty something, I needed an original copy of my birth certificate, I was shocked to see my name as Female Tomasulo. Could this be why I hadn’t had a sense of belonging? I was called Sandra all my early life, yet it was pronounced Sondra.
Apparently they couldn’t decide, had some arguments and then forgot about it, failing to ever validate my existence in the legal sense of the word. Allegedly, my name was suppose to be Alessandra. But they feared mispronunciations.
That is for another story.

Regardless, I was left as Female. So, taking matters into my own hands, as I often had to do, I first honored their desire, to an extent. After all, I didn’t change it to Barbara, or Karin. I decided I would create my own spelling. Which is far from uncommon these days. Alexsondra seemed stronger, and in no way can anyone mispronounce it. Phonetics is so comforting. As far as shortening, I do answer to Alex.
Surnames are peculiar. If you don’t think so, ask any woman who had less than a stellar father figure.
There were many years that I resented having the name of a man who decided to abandon his offspring with little care for the damage caused by his actions.
I considered going simply by Alexsondra, but it seemed too affected.
In hindsight, I have discovered, that by keeping my last name and living my life on my own terms, perhaps I have infused a tidbit of dignity into what was once an empty safety net.

Now on to business names. Years ago, my husband, who was often my copy writer for shows, created Mud Of The Ages for my pottery biz. It was a success, attracting both those who knew, as well as curious minds wondering if I owned a spa. I still own that name and use it as one of my email addresses.

When my husband passed away, I wanted a new name, as I was expected to create a new beginning. So I asked him one evening , if he could send me a new name from the other side. And that was that.
Early in June, I went for the summer’s first swim. And then, suddenly, I was gripped by the constricting hands of grief. Standing up in the salty ocean, tears running down my face, I screamed at the skies above me. “How little did we have in common? You left me, and now I am alone, again. You love to fly and I love to swim. Tell me again what we had in common!”
And just then, an eagle flew by, quite low, so low, that the fish in it’s mouth was unmistakable. And the next morning, I woke up with “A Fish In The Wind”, in my mind.
And there you have it, the complexities of a name. the scars , the burdens and the freedoms. Wherever will I go from here?


I would love to hear from any of you about your own name stories.

The Goodness Of Grief





When I was 5 years old, my father left, never to return. That was my first visit with grief. There were no grief counselors, nor was there anyone validating my sorrows, which manifested in tantrums of unparalleled  proportions.

We have come a long way since then, but I’m afraid we still shelter ourselves from the pain and anguish that is part of the process.   To be sure, there are many books written on grief, and how to move through it. The experts have acknowledged 5-7 stages, elaborating on each one. I have read and re read  them. I am not here to dispute their findings .

What I do want to shed light on is first, how unresolved grief will echo through one’s life, begging to be heard.And secondly, how important it is to simply be present with grief, whether you are the grieving one, or the well intentioned friend of such.

As I grew up, I went through all the stages of grief, regarding my father. In fact, I went through them over and over again. And then he actually died. First reaction: indifference- why should I care, it’s been over thirty years without correspondence of any kindSecond reaction: anger – how dare he get to leave this planet without me giving him a piece of my mindThird reaction: deep sorrow and fear- I won’t be anyone’s little girl anymore you can imagine how shocked I was with this last one. But there, in the recesses  of my heart and mind, were memories of how safe I felt in his arms, and how loved I felt. All the more reason, why his abandonment crushed me.I wanted to forgive him, if only to free myself from this unwanted burden. But where to begin? Begin at the beginning, with a simple acknowledgment of it.

The years went by, and I would bury two brothers and my mother. With each one, grief reared it’s head, screaming like mad, from a depth that was unfamiliar. Then my husband passed away suddenly. And this time grief grabbed me like a Raggedy Ann doll, sometimes raking me over hot coals, while other times dangling me over the edge of a cliff. I just wanted to die. I begged to die. And the stages of grief began their journey again. But this time was different.

In addition to anger, depression, denial and so on, there were moments of extreme knowingness, and messages that I can only say, I am certain came directly from my Tom. All this, I have written for another story, suffice it to say, I was open, and the veil was lifted.  Time passed on, and then one day, while meditating, I felt my heart crush beneath my chest in pain, tears poured forth in a wave, and I surrendered into it’s weight. Then, I heard, or experienced, a message “It’s no longer me who you are grieving for.”   And without any further warning, I felt the presence of my father. It was if my husband had brought forth and summoned the spirit of my father to resolve this once and for all. I was stricken in disbelief and gratitude, sorrow, and forgiveness  all at once. this, as you can imagine, was a lot to process, yet, it was undeniably real. And when my tears, subsided, a sense of freedom, like a cool breeze had washed my insides. I believe, beyond a shadow of doubt, that, that experience has erased my childhood wound, giving voice to the darkened sorrows of yesterday.  And I am most grateful to those who didn’t try to cheer me up or urge me to get over it, but simply allowed me the space to see it through.

Yes, there is great goodness to grief, if we would only allow it time, treating it as a much welcomed guest, who, in the end is no different than love.

At The Confessional


Visiting the confessional was a weekly ritual, at our catholic primary school. I rather enjoyed it at first, because at least I had someone’s undivided attention. I assumed he, (the priest), was carefully weighing the depths of my wrong doings. Of course, in those days, we would simply go down the list of ten commandments feeling pretty superior, cause  there were at least 5 that were not applicable to a kid.

The list went like this:

Lying:  well sure, after all, we were kids.

Cheating:  though I never cheated on a test, I regularly cheated my brothers out of their fair share of dessert… and then lied about it

Honoring mother and father- well I frequently flunked this, as I was given to tantrums and willfulness…which, looking back, I feel served me, but that’s another story

Stealing was usually on my list because in sixth grade I had developed a serious  sugar addiction, which successfully tempted me into  stealing change from my brother’s drawer

well, you get the general idea… .

One day , I got curious about the penance given to each of us, and was astonished to find out that we were all given the exact same one. 3 Our Father’s/3 Hail Mary’s and 3 Glory Be’s

I felt utterly betrayed by the priest, who, I thought, should have known that little miss Marilyn was a naughty girl, and probably committed sins far worse than

most of us. In fact, I’m pretty sure she coveted something or someone! She certainly did a whole lot of kissing, and I mean the kind that engages the tongue!. How could her penance be in the same category as mine?


And that was the day I took matters into my own hands. I began increasing the extent of my sins in an attempt to catch a lazy priest, too worthless to pay attention. The first week- I lied over twenty times. Same penance. Second week- I stole more money, same penance. Third week- I confessed to not only yelling at my mother, but kicking her in the shin,…”3 Hail Mary’s 3 Our Father’s 3 Glory Be’s and please stop exaggerating.” So he was listening!


Well what has this got to do with anything?

Lesson learned: Pay attention to your own stuff, sins, joys, trials and tribulations. And judge not, lest ye be judged

Over the years ,confessions have become a big deal to me. Some call it “manning up” , either way, it helps us stay true to ourselves, as well as building trust that might have been broken.

And so it is in that vein that I,

confess to you, my subscribers that I was over  zealous in stating that I would write two posts per week. No, this is not meant to be humorous, well, maybe a little. Remember the confession is as much for me as for you.  The truth is I have failed in even writing one per week, but, thankfully, I believe in redemption and self forgiveness.

Please accept my apologies. And from this day on, I do promise to do my very best in writing one post  per week.

I offer you this poem in gratitude for you patience and willingness to understand.



May the ground beneath your feet

catch you gently in her spongy laughter

and the sun’s rays shine truth upon your lips

May the spring rain wash the wounds of your past

And may each day bring forth a new blossoming of spirit

May the secret wooded paths call you by name

echoing her eternal heartbeat

May the ocean’s waves envelope your mind

awakening the endlessness of love

May the mountains beckon your voice

so as to be heard unto the heavens

and may the valleys be like sacred wombs

bringing back to you all that you have given

Why Meditation Doesn’t Work.

Now before you get all riled up, allow me my disclaimer. I meditate every morning. Yes, every morning, which is not to say that it is always a lengthy  session. Some mornings I only “sit” for 7 minutes. I can already hear a sound of relief by some, and perhaps a few of you are disappointed. You know who you, and and in which camp you tend to light your incense. I’ll call you the” wigglers”, who can’t seem to sit still, or at least believe you can’t. In fact, the very request to do so, creates an inner frenzy- somewhat like those dime store sparklers on the fourth of July. Then there are those who live in the black and white world…you guys, I know very well, cause that use to be me! Who am I kidding, I still on occasion struggle with old beliefs that bounce inside my brain, back and forth like a mad game of ping pong…it’s white….no! it’s black….WHITE -BLACK you get the idea.but in those days, long, long, ago( because I tend to be a slow learner), the very thought of meditation would open the flood gates of anxiety with words, of self doubt and fears, gushing forth.

After all, there are so many different types of meditation- how would I ever know which to pick?

And even if I did, by some divine stroke of luck, choose correctly, what if I failed?

Having an “empty” mind is no short order. So, I put aside any effort or interest for that matter in developing a meditation practice, and went about my life. 

Looking back, I can now see that my meditation began  over 40 years ago,, when “sitting” at the potter’s wheel, I was forced to face my un-centeredness. This is a polite way of saying facing one’s  shit. Yes, past anger, unresolved wounds, insecurities, and fears. I should note here, that should you be longing to learn pottery making, it need not be as bumpy a ride as mine. But it does certainly help being calm. In the beginning, I thought my perseverance and physical strength would lead me to success. I mostly produced a lot of mud pies. Oh, and more anger.   This lasted a good long time. Fortunately, I loved walking, which provided me with a “settling state of mind”,  another early experience in meditation. Though I dared not call it meditating, that was something reserved for the holy and enlightened.  Now  through the years, I learned how to ask better questions of myself . And I would make tiny spaces of time to listen for the answers.

To my surprise, one day I discovered, that whether I succeeded or failed at making a “pot” , it had little to do with my inner peace or centeredness.  Had I become unattached, without even trying?  It happened like magic.

Believe me, when I say I was grateful, but how was I to repeat this experience. It was, by no means a constant. What steps would I need to follow in order to be in this wonderful light hearted mind set?  That’s when I was told to meditate.

My insides screamed a resounding” NOOOO!!! ” as I articulated  “sure, that sounds interesting  enough” . Soon thereafter, I discovered the link between walking and meditating , though I still did not call it that. It seemed such a natural thing to do, allowing me to daydream, philosophize and in hindsight, have “EMPTY MIND”.

So the take away I offer is this. Meditation is not suppose to WORK. Nor is it suppose to NOT-WORK. It is simply allowing yourself time and space to exist in the all encompassing possibilities,   Judgement/No Judgement, Simple Awareness. Trust yourself and follow the path that unfolds. There is a YOU that already knows the WAY.


Standing Meditation


Sitting Meditation/ Gardening Meditation/ WalkingMeditation/ Swimming Meditation

below is a link to more on meditation, but if you, like me, are easily intimidated by too many rules and goals, keep in mind meditation is the opposite of rules and is about a  process that allows for self discovery and mindfulness.





Loon Loving And Mudflats

Summer’s End

The temperatures have dropped and I swim now in the lake. I suppose there will be some singular days remaining for that perfect ocean dip. But that is a private love affair. Swimming for any length, thirty minutes or longer will be reserved for Biscay Pond, which, thankfully, is not far from my house. I grant you, it lacks the majesty of the ocean, and there is no salt, drawing out the toxins, but it is far from lacking in beauty and healing qualities. Fresh water caresses your skin like silk. And as for beauty, well, this was the summer I swam amongst geese, over forty of them, who apparently  had converged for a conference before hitting the skies. What an honor to be almost invisible while they held their meeting,  honking about various concerns. Eventually they split into two groups, with several sub groups.  I wondered if they were arguing or simply establishing who  had seniority.Though no physical fights ensued, their squawky squabbling did reach a level reminiscent of the Jets and the Sharks in  West Side Story( for those of you too young to remember  ) I suppose there are geese specialists who could clue me in, but for now, I just love wondering. It is, after all, summer, the romantic season for falling in love and expansive daydreams.

Second Entry:  With the forecast predicting a four day stretch of rain, I was determined to catch a late afternoon swim. Lucky for me, I have a special swimming buddy, who understands completely the value and necessity of prioritizing, which in our language means swimming comes first. And today was no different. The clouds were on the horizon as the sun, still out, made it possible to take on our water wanderings . And there, ahead of us was an elegant loon , which I would have missed, as I was making more splashes doing the crawl.Generally we go for the gentle breast stroke allowing us to converse, catch up and philosophize on almost everything. Well, back to the loon, and my gratitude for Lyn’s keen eyes.  I so wanted to get a bit closer, but in one blink, lady loon ducked beneath the waters reemerging on the other side of me just out of arms reach. As I took one breath of this blessing, I was a bit sad knowing that my summer season was closing it’s doors. And I was also aware how all that we may grieve is a reminder of all that we love.

Third Entry: There are no such things as accidents. People come in and out of our lives precisely at the right  time for us to   enjoy, learn and discover more about ourselves and this complex human experience. My swimming buddy, Lyn is a perfect example of one of those blessings. Suffice it to say, that I had a rocky and painful childhood. Lyn, I believe was placed in my life to breathe objectivity and joy into my inner child’s world.  But as she is a skier and I am not, there will be times apart this coming winter. Having said that, she has left me with so much to be thankful for.This was a summer of firsts. I swam with the loons and the geese. It was also the summer I harvested a few oysters for dinner. I swam to Hog Island and back again in the Damariscotta River. Also swam to the wee island in Biscay Pond and back again, safely, without getting  plowed over by some over enthusiastic boater. The latter is, thankfully, due to Lyn’s white blonde hair and her quick reflexes in splashing, making our presence known. Another first- I have never been too fond of mud flats as they suction one down, turning a gentle walk into an athletic accomplishment. But then there’s the mud flats that one experiences while buoyant in the water. My naiveté and squeamishness to  all sorts of things always makes Lyn laugh. So when I first touched bottom, I squealed. But after returning my foot, (with an encouraging word from the still giggling Lyn), I found it so soothing, silky, yet alive and vibrant. Last, and hardly least, is my new and stealthy ability to change out of my cold wet suit in my car. So, should you be driving by and see my car rocking or notice I have a towel covering my window, I am neither having an epileptic attack nor am I necking with some hot sexy dude,(though I can still dream), I am merely returning my body’s core temp to a workable status. So as I may be readying  to say good bye to summer, I give three cheers to one of the best teachers I could have encountered.





Remaining Balanced Requires Loose Hips

Balancing The Waves Of Life

Or… finding my blogging legs

As you might be aware, I have been navigating the ins and outs of developing my website. I suppose I could have chosen an easier platform, but
seems to be at the top of the list by many. It offers the widest selection of possibilities, which I need not go in to. Suffice it to say, one can get utterly lost down a rabbit hole of technological mazes. And, believe me, I am one of those gals who can easily be lured into side roads and dark alleys. Maybe I shouldn’t be admitting that here, so openly, but never you mind, I have my secret ways of getting un-lost, even if it’s waiting patiently to be found.

Anyway, back to the dilemma at hand. I have spent hours of days scanning over  the how -to’s of setting up my blog. Yes, I know, you may be saying, it’s set up already! Oh but the intricacies behind the scenes. And, of course, I could pay a higher price to have WordPress specialists at my fingertips. But I never trow away a challenge so easily, not, at least after gnawing on it for some time.

So here’s my apology…I’m sorry….WAIT!  You say ” NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR YOUR ART!


O.k. then. here’s the deal. I just got my “Subscribe” thing-a ma- jig to work,(or at least I believe so) I’ll only know if you guys start subscribing. What this will get you is my post sent to you in your email. My posts will be once or twice a week. No more…I promise.

I’m working on my first chapbook  of poetry to be printed as an e-book. It will be free to the first 100 subscribers.

Now I must take up the challenge of  learning more leaving enough time to actually do my writing.

So it is with wobbly blogging legs that I bid you adieu….. and, yes, this fish in the wind  will be taking those same legs to the ocean later today, despite the chilly temps (water temps, in my stretch of Maine coast is 56 degrees! That ought to enliven my mental acuity. And if not, then it’s sure to burn a few calories.

Much of my poetry is written in the early morning after meditation, here’s yesterday’s

Who Might You Be

who is this that breathes me through the night
when I am no longer aware of the choice
and who makes the decision to call my last breath
claiming me back home to my hazy origins
what force is so beyond my perceptions,
yet leaves visual remnants in the changing of the seasons
metronomically from the beginning of time and before,
I stagger at one more opportunity given me
as I make a list of things to be done
and the thousands of spaces in between
and when I breathe no longer as I,
would I, if given the choice
surrender to never having an ego again
pulsating forever with ONE
or would I cling to the tides of joy and sorrow
to experience, once more, the string of glorious sacred moments
where longing and language trap me in the confines of humanity
unable to communicate precisely what my heart-mind has revealed
oh this grand mystery that beckons me
to dance in my own curiosity amid sages, and scientists
dreamers and doubters, lovers and slumberers
delirious as I am given one more breath

Alexsondra Tomasulo

Decluttering takes Courage

A lot is being said and written about the importance of decluttering our homes. Magazines are full of sleek minimal photos creating zen like atmospheres. And,  yes, they may appear refreshingly calm, but what lies behind the scenes is always more important.

Minimalistic surroundings, while attractive to some, have little to do with inner peace. Yet that is the subliminal marketing ploy. While I am in full support of not being attached to things, simply disposing of them does not solve the problem. And how can we hope to solve a problem we are unwilling to look at, deeply, with curious minds.
Mindfulness means with a full mind, not a well marketed mind.
So where do we go from here?
Is looking good more important than being good?
We might be losing the value of substance. How much easier is it to purchase a lifestyle, compared to creating a lifestyle? I know there are those of you reading this, thinking you are immune to marketing pressures. But I assure you, this is not true, unless, of course you live in a vacuum,  never looking at a commercial, magazine or any social media.
Let’s face it, we are all looking for comfort, and lasting comfort blossoms from inner peace.It’s the space that provides us with the realization that, regardless of our outer environment or physical conditions, we can experience a profound sense of calm. This inner comfort requires a sense of authenticity that comes, I believe, from introspection, patience, perseverance, and a willingness to accept our own foolishness.
So what good does it do to reduce your possessions, creating an austere dwelling, if in your mind, cluttered thoughts swirl about offering little, if any inner peace.
Putting a two thousand dollar Armani suit on an ill mannered boor will not create a gentleman, not that it’s impossible to be transformed from the outside in, but it might just make for a rockier road. On the other hand, a gentleman can be appreciated by those who know, regardless of his garments or lack thereof.
Living mindfully is not defined by the number of possessions we own, but by our relationship to those possessions.

It’s been about a month since I sat at this small table, introducing myself to watercolors. Yes, it is cluttered. Never the less, I like it that way. It has a quiet memory of my last project, and it’s randomness serves to invite me again into the colorful dance. Of course, I will be organizing the space prior to the next painting. It will be serene, for new daydreams to emerge. For me, though decluttering is necessary, it is more about when and what to declutter.

A Pause In Creativity

Usually I declutter my art space when I have completed a body of work, or shortly thereafter. Bu, as in the case of watercolor, I have left it as a reminder. Because I am new at tis medium, if I clean it all up too soon, I may recoil back into uncertainty. so, for now it serves as a reminder that I do love learning new avenues for expressing my creativity. More importantly, I am now seasoned enough to chase the ghosts of the past who might whisper notes of discouragement. After all, life is a game, a party, even though we get stuck in the mud flats of endurance from time to time.

So, what, you ask, does this have to do with minimalistic surrounds?  Everything! I challenge you to reacquaint yourself  with your possessions , carefully, singularly. There is no judgement, nor shame in holding onto those that provide you with inspiration, memories of a life well lived, and give you pause for thought. Great understanding can come from sitting with a knick knack bought once in joy, that now brings possible embarrassment. When we grow, discovering we no longer need the same things, there is no need to rewrite your history.

Rule #1 only let go after full examination…which may take a second or last for a few more years.

Rule #2 In letting go, consider who or where new life can be found for this object

Rule#3…and this is of utmost importance~ for everything tangible you let go of, consider letting go of one belief  you still cling to, that no longer serves you.

Rule #4 remember that you are part of a flow, your outer and inner space will forever be cluttered and decluttered  and,  recluttered  anew.

so do it as a dance of discovery rather than a goal t be achieved never to look at again

I leave you with this.  Whether you are rich, poor, black, white, regardless of which religion, or non religion, there is an ALL

A great Spirit that encircles all.

May we all coexist in PPP-

Participating In The Process Of Peace



A Bowl Full Of Blessings

My piece on The Perfect Imperfection,  has given me pause to remember  the events of my story with a new objectivity.

It is a miracle to behold how an inanimate object can be infused with an abundance of life and purpose. The  humble , yet elegant bowl, having been formed  by loving hands years ago ,first graced it’s  beauty upon a hopeful couple on their wedding day. I believe a bowl is the symbol of both giving and receiving. But I cannot help but sense the bowl’s maker, infused this vessel with a powerful blessing, one that was to have it’s own life force. The blessing was that the love of one, when true to it’s source, cannot be  contained solely within any one object nor person. It must flow freely into the the universe. This wedding bowl, I believe, burst open that one day, as a reminder that all things true and wondrous cannot be caged as a static possession, but must yield to the ultimate breath, the breath that creates all things. And so, the bowl gave forth a breath so large her heart walls opened, leaving that gaping hole. I could not even bare to look at it. So I filled it with an assortment of objects, loose mail, fruit, books I intended to read, scarves I intended to wear, but never did I take a quiet moment to examine her hole. The sight of that wound was overwhelming, like a long lost grief that I could not touch.

Did this bowl possess a wisdom, a magic premonition in which it was trying to prepare me for my husband’s passing? Or was it hounding at me to stay with my original grief, which was the abandonment of my father at  a very early age?

Was grief  going to remain the primary path of my earthly existence?

I meditate more mornings than not, finding it the most effective and reliable activity for grounding, gratitude and moving gracefully through my days.

Once, while meditating shortly after Tom, my husband, passed, tears fell down upon my cheeks as if water faucets had burst. I knew this experience all too well. But then, a thought was placed in my mind. No, it is not as if I heard voices i my head, but I knew Tom was present, communicating the necessary wisdom for me to push forward. “It is not me who you are grieving for any more…go further”  And again, the all too familiar  pain of the serrated knife cut through my heart  revealing it’s longing to be healed. Then my father’s presence was made known. “How many time must I forgive you for this grief to subside?”, I asked.

The answer was immediate. “Just let go”. I believe my father and my husband were both there, gently desiring me to accept all the love being offered… and that the two of them were looking over me, always have been and always will be. And that’s when laughter began to commingle with  tears and a great peace filled the room.


Thou Shall Walk The Lonely Learning Curve

the lonely learning curve


I’m writing something in a new way, or should I say an unfamiliar landscape. Actually I believe the term is platform but can’t be certain. All these new terms are floating in the cloud with the rest of my thoughts and desires. It use to be so easy. You remember, pen ,paper, or typewriters and white out. But I’m divulging my age here as well as my nature to be a bit resistant to change. Electronics are here to stay, and by the time I learn how to catch up with the young and the sassy, we’ll probably be communicating telepathically. I can dream can’t I?
So after much research I purchased the “must have” app for any writer who has no desire to waste time organizing. That would be me. I have a plethora of poems, a menagerie of memoirs, ten hundred tidbits of this and that along with a collection of essential essays. 
The app is Ulysses. (Might as well give a plug ) so I plunked down my $50 bucks. Oops, no plunking down anymore, it was swiped from my account with a click and a swipe. That was easy enough. Now here comes the learning curve. First sync my laptop to my mac. Done! Of course, for me, it meant about twenty minutes of googling this and that, leaving several “windows” open so as not to loose my place. Voila!
Yes, Ulysses makes an app for my iPhone as well, but heck, do I really need to spend another 25 bucks?
And that brings us to google docs.
Perfect. Here I am writing the rest on Google Docs 
I will be attempting to send this( with ease, according to my son) to my mac and insert it into my Ulysses file where I can seamlessly continue on before publishing.
Hope to see you soon.
Well not that it was to difficult but it was far from seamless. Here I am back at my newly purchased Ulysses app for the iPhone. I’m loving it.
Maybe I have a future in writing reviews.
Nice to know that I can pick up my phone click the stylish Ulysses icon and begin typing leave it , go home, click on my mac and continue effortlessly. Head over to my cozy writing studio and continue on my laptop. Phew! Not a bad day’s lesson.
Off to being a writer again.