An Autumn Remembrance

September 11, 2026

Dear Esteemed Readers,

Earlier this summer, I decided to take some much-needed time away from publishing my usual Art Nun of Central Washington journal writings. It was supposed to be the beginning of a quiet and mostly solitary retreat. But around this same time, a convergence of stressful events and responsibilities arrived to derail most of my well-meaning intentions. The City of Tieton initiated a long-term street improvement project right outside my south and east windows, which turned Tieton’s normally placid “main street” into a churning sea of backhoes, pile-drivers, and beeping dump trucks. I heroically tried to cheer myself up by creating a short piece of oblique visual humor, titled “Farmageddon.” But in the end, the never-ending noise and disruption (starting at 7 am every weekday) became so overwhelming that my husband David and I finally just packed up and relocated to an off-site location in Yakima proper.

In the midst of this soul-draining Bermuda Triangle of unwelcome activity, I gradually became aware of a strange well of grief and sorrow rising from unidentified psychological depths, which had been trying to get my attention for many weeks. But somehow, I had been completely oblivious to its message. It wasn’t until I looked again at the date I had typed in at the beginning of this post that I realized I had forgotten an important personal milestone: 

September 11, 2001, was the 25th anniversary of the day that my father, Albert Raymond Dean, had a heart attack watching New York City’s Twin Towers collapse into smoking rubble on the TV screen in his retirement home. And as his beloved only child, I was present in his hospital room a few days later, when he died.

Even now, 25 years after the original 9/11, I still ask myself: How could I have overlooked the glaring date of my father’s passing?

I have no explanation for how this omission took place, except to say that the intensity of the ongoing street renovations here in Tieton overshadowed an important part of my father’s story.

After the shock of my father’s death began to subside, I became aware that his invisible “presence” was somehow still strangely palpable to me, as it shifted and flowed through the structure of his own ancestral DNA, which had now been passed on to me. And on an even deeper level of awareness that carried an extra tone of urgency, I could feel and almost hear my father’s presence from afar repeatedly asking the same question:

Is my only-child daughter OK? Is my only-child daughter OK? Is my only-child daughter OK? 

Silently, in my secret heart, I answered and kindly comforted my father’s pleas as best I could. And finally, after about a month’s time, our private, loving communication began to slowly fade in intensity, until it finally flickered and then disappeared.

Since then, I’ve not had a repeat of this unusual form of invisible contact, except occasionally in my dreams. 

The strange well of grief and sorrow that had tried to speak to me from the depths is part of a familiar pattern that I describe as my receptive “alternative communication” with the world, which has always been quietly insistent throughout my adult life. As a result, I’ve learned to respect and listen more carefully to the communication’s silent intent, which always carries its own logic and purpose. But the time it takes to completely clarify its meaning can’t be easily predicted. The intention of each message eventually comes into focus according to its own, unique schedule. 

With the wisdom of this unusual communication ability always accessible in my heart and mind, I can easily apply its insights to a number of different situations. This month’s autumn remembrance story was written to specifically speak volumes during times when a life itself was cut shorter than expected, with no accompanying fairness to help soften the blow.

To soothe these unexpected losses that often bring us to our knees, I’m now actively eliminating any stresses in my own life that no longer serve any useful or positive purpose. I especially treasure interacting with the large circle of kind, thoughtful, and positive-spirited friends and soul allies—both young and old—who live far and wide in many distant lands. These beloved “World Citizens” understand the creative gifts I offer through art, music, and a never-ending love of nature. And in return, I extend to them my everlasting appreciation. 

If you are a new reader to this Art Nun of Central Washington journal, or are a subscriber who would enjoy revisiting some of the posts I’ve written about my ancestors, I’ve gathered five selections below, which also offer insights into additional subjects the journal has presented since it was first published four years ago in October of 2022.

My Ancestors’ Gifts

I explore and illustrate the the invisible genetic language that communicates with profound intelligence at a microscopic level far beneath our consciousness.

My Father's Desk

My life as a freethinking, progressive-minded, world-citizen explorer causes friction between me and my conservative, small-town, ironworker father. But in the end, we bridge our differences and reconcile our mutual love and affection.

Grandmother Judith

My beautiful, soft-spoken grandmother Judith arrives alone by ship from Norway to rural Minnesota, to be married off at age 14 to an older businessman “by financial arrangement.”

My Grandmother’s Quilts

For personal solace and family memorials, my grandmother Fern and great-grandmother Emma Conkle created quilt art masterpieces in rural Nebraska and beyond.

My Mother's Memorabilia Box

A story of uncanny artistic synchronicity that was passed on to me through my mother.

I dedicate this Autumn Remembrances journal entry to my ancestors, whose artistic and musical gifts were never acknowledged or supported. I will always believe that through the compressed potential of their collective DNA, their unrealized dreams were passed on for me to fulfill. I feel my ancestors’ presence every day, and I thank them for what I have received and learned over many years’ time.
    — Sandra Dean, Art Nun of Central Washington