Judith Ford
Judith M. Ford is a widely published writer whose short work has appeared in over thirty magazines, including Connecticut Review, Evening Street Review, Southern Humanities Review, and many others. Her work has been nominated three times for Pushcart prizes. She was a psychotherapist for thirty-five years and also taught creative writing in a private elementary school, at the University of Wisconsin Extension, and in a teen runaway shelter. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Fever of Unknown Origin: A True Tale of Medicine, Mystery, and Magic is her first book.
Facebook: jude.m.ford
What do you worry about?
I worry about my small dog Fletcher biting someone. It’s happened before. I worry that my son will never find a partner but I’m trying to believe that’s none of my business and that if he doesn’t, he will be okay. I used to worry that Covid would trigger my auto-inflammatory illness and I would die but I caught covid and it was pretty mild and now I’m not afraid of it anymore.I used to worry that if I didn’t say a prayer every night and ask God to not let anyone die that night, lots of people I loved would die. I thought it was my duty. Death puzzled and frightened me. As an adult, I’ve almost died twice and now I don’t worry about death anymore.
What brings you Joy?
That’s a tough one. My joy used to come from running, yoga and dancing but I can’t do those things anymore, so now my joy is quieter. Poems by certain poets bring me joy (Sharon Olds, Mark Doty, Tony Hoagland, WS Merwin, to name a few.) My barky bitey dog Fletcher, who is
the smartest and cuddliest dog ever, brings me joy. Time spent with my grown-up daughter who lives 2000 miles away brings me joy. Lots of other things bring me joy: Watching a doe and her fauns walk across my driveway in the early morning; the smell of rain after a nighttime storm in
Santa Fe; hiking up Picacho Peak and looking down on Santa Fe where I now live-- and music. Music nearly always brings me joy. I love to sing. I love to listen. And writing often, but not always, brings me joy, too.
The piece of clothing that tells the most interesting story of my life.
There are two pieces and I wore them together. One is a green A-line dress that I made for myself when I was twenty-one. The other is a broad brimmed hat around which I liked to wrap a long chiffon scarf, the same color as the dress. I have a photo of myself in that dress and hat. My
father took the photo. In it, I am frowning and looking away. My father has no clue that the reason I’m frowning is because I wore that dress when I went to Chicago for an illegal abortion. It’s been a month since then and I’m wearing these same clothes for the first time since. I was
lucky. I survived. And was treated with kindness. But on the day that photo was taken, I didn’t know if I’d ever be happy again. I was happy again. But it took about a year.
What is your artistic outlet, other than writing?
I love to sing. I work hard at singing and will never be good enough to be a soloist. I don’t care. I take voice lessons. I used to sing in a community choir made up of grownups and high school students. I signed up without knowing that I’d be singing classical pieces. I didn’t know if I
could do it, but I did it. I practiced my part (high soprano) as I drove back and forth to my job. I hired a singing coach to help me with the most challenging parts. I learned to love standing in that choir room in our suburban high school for rehearsals, bathed in the gorgeousness of all
those voices singing together. It often moved me so deeply, I had to fight back my tears. Mozart’s Requiem, Hallelujah Chorus, and more. I’m not in a choir now but I still sing in my car. And yes, I play music when I write. All kinds. Quietly. It settles me.
Do you collect anything?
I collect stones. Outside my kitchen door is a garden whose edges are full of my stones. I hike nearly every day in the Sangre De Cristo foothills that are near my house and most days I bring home a small stone. The trails are challenging for me. I’m 74 with a spinal fusion and arthritis.
But I love using my aging feet to take me over rocks big and small, through small streams (the Santa Fe River is a small stream, regulated by a reservoir), and alongside cholla and prickly pear cactus, pinon pines and junipers. Magpies flying above me, an occasional road runner. I pick up
one small stone every time I go out, as a thank you to the rugged hills, a thank you to my challenged, loyal body, a thank you to the high desert where I now live. Often I sit on a big rock at the halfway point of my hike, spend ten minutes in silence, breathing, grateful for being alive.
The stones are quartz and granite, red and brown and white and sparkling with bits of mica. I think my gardener finds them a nuisance, but she leaves them be.
