I have recorded and new version of my song “No Words.” Below is both a vocal and guitar instrumental for it:

One of the many projects to occupy me during the isolation was updating my music website. This link leads to a new blog where I  share the latest music I’m working on: JudyUngerMusic.

I wrote a post there today also named “Wings to Fly.

Initially, I felt simply writing about music could relieve me of the pressure to write anything deeper. This was because I have been deeply blocked from writing creatively during this quarantine period. And only a few months earlier, I felt the same way recovering from a broken ankle.

Choosing the post title I did seemed to describe that feeling well. It turned out there were words for me to find and I’m really glad I could finally write something today for this blog.

This post feels almost trivial with everything else that is going on. Yet anything that can pierce the numbness inside of me feels worth writing about, even if it is as simple as a visit with my daughter at the park.

During our outing, we were warned about the impending curfew. I received messages from my son who was concerned about when I would be getting home. Sorrow, strife, monotony and fear simultaneously surrounded me.

My song “No Words” was conceived when I was 19 years old, but it was left unfinished. I eventually finished it and the lyrics described what it meant for me to have subsequent children after suffering the loss of my son, Jason. My daughter was a “rainbow baby” because she was conceived only a month after he died.

This photo was taken during one of our picnics weeks earlier.

My daughter sat on her light blue blanket.

She was on her blanket and I sat in a chair. It was far more comfortable than sitting on the ground. When did the ground become so hard and uncomfortable? I guess it was just another change I could chalk up after turning 60.

I had given her that old blanket, which was actually an old bedspread my own mother had given me. I could still remember seeing it on my brother’s bed when I was a young girl. Such memories it evoked – of trips to the beach when I was a teenager. Later on, I sat on it while my young children played nearby in the sand.

We were both bathed in the yellow light of golden hour. I learned from two of my children how half an hour before sunset was the best lighting for picture taking.

In just a few hours at this lovely park, I marveled at the simplicity of our visit – savoring a take-out meal, wearing our masks while taking a “distant walk,” and sharing our feelings.

We both treasured this time. It used to be pedicures and restaurants; now it was a picnic. Even though I longed for physical contact, this seemed to suffice. We were creating touching memories, but they were actually  “untouching” memories!

The first time I broached my isolation to meet her, I was overwhelmed by emotion. She had been very ill with pneumonia for several weeks and I waited until she was symptom free for another month and a half. My son was worried about us meeting and begged me to “be safe.” I promised him I would.  Staying so far apart from each other was very strange the first time. But with each weekly reunion, it became our new habit.

Gradually, golden hour began to fade. It was windy and we both began feeling the chill. It was time for us to pack up, but we lingered. As precious as this afternoon was, I still felt very detached. Everything seemed unreal and most of the time I plodded through my days without any emotion at all.

I knew that “stuffing my feelings” was a familiar coping mechanism that left me burdened by numbness. It was literally stuffing. Food was both a comfort and a torment. I preferred to deflect depression over my weight and instead focus on things I was grateful for.

I adjusted my scarf to cover my arms and looked across the soft grass to where my daughter was sitting. I was so grateful for her and that was when the wave of emotion almost knocked the wind out of me.

I gasped with an audible sob and my daughter’s eyes opened wide with compassion. I choked out my truth, and tears poured down my cheeks. “I miss our hugs!” I sobbed.

She mumbled out ideas for us (she could wrap herself up in my scarf), but we both knew there really were no safe options at that moment. I struggled to contain my emotion and eventually managed to calm myself. I stood up and folded my chair.

In the twilight, we exchanged a few items from our car trunks while standing far apart. We waved goodbye and I made contorted gestures that resembled a hug. She sweetly chirped that she was looking forward to our next picnic.

I prayed there would be many more, even though I couldn’t look that far ahead.


About Judy

I'm an illustrator by profession. At this juncture in my life, I am pursuing my dream of writing and composing music. Every day of my life is precious!
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23 Responses to THERE ARE NO WORDS

  1. Kathy Sanders says:

    Dear Judy, I really loved reading this piece of writing that you shared. I can really relate to the feeling of numbness during this time. I don’t feel like I am stuffing my feelings. I just feel like I don’t have as many feelings as I usually do. I just feel numb. Almost as a survival thing, because what other choice is there at this time? I can’t let my desire for joy and upliftment take over me, because there is nowhere to express or release any of this desire. Overall though, I really felt happy to read about your deep feelings for your daughter. I think I’ve heard many of your songs, and most of the ones that I recall are either about Jason, your mother, or your father. I do remember one that you wrote to all your children, about your wishes for their futures. But it’s so nice to hear about your deep feelings for another of your children. Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but this is just my reaction to your writing. Thank you so much for sharing this.


    • Judy says:

      Hi Kathy, First off – thank you for your message! Writing is so helpful for me because it allows a heartfelt connection with another person. Just receiving your comment lifted my spirits.
      I think survival mode sums it up. For me, survival mode is all about shutting off my feelings to get through things. It’s almost unconscious and is a very familiar coping mechanism. But without pain, there can’t be joy, unfortunately.
      I have several songs for my children – each one actually applies to all of them. (Watching You Grow, Someone To Love You, No Words)
      You have been far from presumptuous and I appreciate your reaching out. Thank you!
      Because of you, I will hopefully find a way to access more feelings in my heart so I can break free from the numbness and write more. I’m thinking of you, Kathy, and hoping you can do the same. We’re all just hanging in there!


    • Judy says:

      Kathy, I finally finished my vocal for this song! It’s there at the top of my post now. I was excited to share it with you so you could hear the meaning now! Much love to you, my friend.


  2. Who I am says:

    That was a beautiful post. I felt it because I miss visiting my kids so much.

    One day we stand alone
    Feeling we have it all
    And then God places an urge.
    Out of love a seed is planted
    We realize our world was nothing
    Without our beautiful blessings.
    Terry Shepherd


    • Judy says:

      Oh, Terry, thank you for sharing your beautiful poem. I am sorry you relate to missing your kids. This is a huge challenge and I understand. I feel like I am cheating almost – seeing her from a distance, when I know it still holds risks. Hopefully, one day this will all be behind us. Much love to you.


  3. Janet rubin says:

    So beautiful my talented friend!!!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Tali Fogel says:

    Oh Judy, sweet friend…who I remember from when we were 9 years old…Your butterfly and yellow daisy deepen my love for you as the woman, mother, artist, musician, friend, and spiritual light that you are today. You brought me to your picnic with your daughter and I felt your every emotion. I wanted to give you a tight hug when your teardrops burst forth…blessings to you, sweet soul friend and healing for your heart and your poor ankle. I am here for you, Judy… I have only gratitude for you and that our connection has opened up again…today, I shed tears of joy because my son, Joey, told me he wants to come back and live in Orange County in a few years… I wait patiently for him…and I pray for peace in your heart and your amazing mind consciousness as well!!
    Thank you, for being sharing your moment of love and adapting to the moments we live through… much love to you ♥️🌹🙏🌞🕊🧘‍♀️🏡

    Liked by 1 person

    • Judy says:

      Oh, Tali, your message had me tearing up. I remember admiring your beauty when we were children all those years ago. It hasn’t changed an iota and you have blossomed into a compassionate woman shining with love and courage. I am so grateful we reconnected and look forward to many more memories we will share as older women.
      I am celebrating with you about Joey returning. That is thrilling!
      Thank you so much for commenting and touching my heart with your words.


  5. Cindy B. says:

    Judy your writing is really nice and beautiful. I was having such a hard time myself living alone and missing Marilyn. I can relate to what you say here. I am really glad you had some time with your daughter and that she is well, praise God. Take care Judy. Cindy

    Liked by 1 person

    • Judy says:

      Oh, Cindy, thank you for commenting – it means so much to me. I am sorry for your pain – of missing Marilyn. She was an incredible sister and she left a huge void in your life. I know she is watching over you. I miss her, too.


  6. Hi Judy this is so beautiful. I love how you described reuniting with your daughter during these trying times. It must’ve been quite emotional for the both of you. I too lost some of my creativity and recently found a spark again. We’ve all been heavily weighed down and tried in so many ways. We need to do our best to keep rising up. You words are always meaningful and on point. Stay safe and healthy


    • Judy says:

      Thank you so much, Allyson. I know you get it and I always appreciate your uplifting comments. That’s wonderful about your spark reappearing. I know mine is there and you understand about feeling weighed down. We’ll get through it! Wishing the same to you and your family – stay safe and healthy, my friend.

      Liked by 1 person

  7. K E Garland says:

    Judy, this is beautiful. I almost cried when you described your emotions. I’m glad you were able to see your daughter, finally. I can’t imagine not hugging, actually, and I haven’t refrained from doing so (I must confess) when I see my oldest daughter here and there.

    Also, thank you for sharing your song. It served as the perfect backdrop as I read your words ❤

    Liked by 1 person

    • Judy says:

      Thank so much, Katherin!!! It’s such a heartfelt connection to share with you and I’m honored that my writing touched you.
      I just released my guitar track on a new medley for Insight Timer. But that song has words and I recorded a vocal last week. I’m going to stick it there now. I’m shy about sharing my voice and I wasn’t confident of my singing. But the words are truly the heart of this song about what it meant to have a new baby after the death of my son.
      Thank you again so much for your supportive and sweet comment!

      Liked by 1 person

  8. K E Garland says:

    Judy! I’m just checking on your wellbeing. Hope you’re doing okay.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Judy says:

      Aw, Katherin, what a lovely surprise for you to stop by and check on me.
      I’m hanging in there. I do feel the deprivation of not having any kind of physical contact now for months – with friends or family. I am slowly forging safe meetings, but of course, that’s still quite different than it used to be.
      I think right now, I feel a lot of triggers. My former anniversary is tomorrow. And in a little over a week, it will be a year since my broken ankle accident. I am scheduled to have surgery this summer – to remove the hardware. Not sure when, or even if it might be cancelled due to the virus spiking.
      Regardless, I’m “hanging in there.” Still eating too much and lamenting the result.
      I am being productive, though. Just today, I finished editing my last lesson for an online course I’ll be releasing on Insight Timer. That’s a big deal after working on it for 2 years.
      Thank you again so much for checking on me. It means more than you know. Hope you are doing okay. It is a challenging time, for sure.

      Liked by 1 person

      • K E Garland says:

        You’re so welcome! I know there’s a lot going on, and this response confirmed that lol We’re all just out here surviving in some ways ❤

        I'm surprised it's been a whole YEAR since the accident, though. Time flies, no matter what we're doing/not doing, I suppose.

        Liked by 1 person

      • Judy says:

        It’s a conundrum, time drags and it flies. I did get a haircut and what a lift it was! My stylist is really a lovely woman – She opened up to share about her trials and tribulations when she came to my backyard.
        We both wore masks, but I did feel very uncomfortable when she came close to covering around my ears. I literally held my breath as I pulled the mask back a little. And while she cut my hair I asked her not to speak at all and I was quiet. It was absolutely surreal.

        But with a haircut I feel so much better!

        Liked by 1 person

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