“Hey, Dad,” voiced Natalia, my daughter and forever the apple of our eye. “I’m starting a writers’ group on Friday night. You can appreciate better than most how hard it can be putting words down. It’s all about collaboration and tons of hand-holding. I’m stoked!”

Her announcement came as no surprise. Natalia is still basking in the soothing afterglow of the publication of her second novel, ‘The Hunt’. This outing continues the roller coaster dips and twists in the life of detective Douglas Faye, a man torn between solving crimes and fixing his tangled love life. The applause she is grateful for comes as she reached a second literary level.

Natalia is also getting a robust response from her poem, published online in ‘The Haunted Zone: A Horror Anthology by Women Military Veterans’. Here’s a taste: “I hear a lone bird singing its unique song I enjoy. I take another breath, just hanging on.”

This genre is a good fit, I often remind her. Halfway through college, Natalia paused and volunteered for service in the Army – the toughest branch of the military behind the Marines – and considered carving out a career protecting her country. In her case, an injury forced our young soldier to change direction. Poised to tear down the walls that separate her from accomplishing her goals, she returned to college, paying most of the tuition from the monthly disability check she gets from Uncle Sam. A year later, she had a degree in criminal justice and investigative forensics.

Unlike so many of her friends, the word ‘quit’ isn’t in her vocabulary. It’s anathema to her. As her dad, I sense that’s why her untimely departure from the service left regrets. Her poem, she explained, attempts to record the sensory experience of someone on their deathbed. “I didn’t realize all this was pent up inside me,” she said, her deep blue eyes illuminating the nooks and crannies of the dining room. The subject of her poem, she admitted, “is a little creepy, but also comforting.”

That defines Natalia. Always searching for ways to pump meaning into daily life and in the lives of others. Translating bursts of situational awareness is her specialty. Her finely tuned ear is activated when, for example, we’re driving and she detects a noise that shouldn’t be a noise. Applying the deep knowledge of a well-paid mechanic trained in the ways of Asian-built powertrains, Natalia troubleshoots.

Relying on his same sensitivity, Natalia organized her writers’ group on Facebook and other social media platforms. “I was at a stitching group,” she recalled, “and I started thinking how this same concept could work for writers. We come together once a week to give each other advice and help. I really wanted to help local writers. It makes me feel good inside.”

Locating the writers’ group was a glittery touch of serendipity for Jonathan Thompson. Just before Christmas, he was sitting alone in the mezzanine dining area of the neighborhood Wegman’s, high above the produce aisle, cursor winking as he kneaded ideas that powered the anime projects he’s immersed in.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at a knot of people writing and reading aloud their writing. At the center of the action was Natalia, serving as the gatekeeper at the creative incubator. Intrigued, he sidled over to the opposite side of the room to be a part of the atmosphere he longed for.

It was love at first site. “The camaraderie is a big driving force,” he enthused. The always strenuous writing process, he went on, is a journey to “describe the world around us the best we can using the words we can. Natalia has a serious passion for the group. She is always there to listen, to help improve others’ work. She’s very eager to help people’s perspectives.”

This month, the family will gather to celebrate a joyful milestone. It was in 1994, Natalia, then a bewildered six-year-old, entered the front door of our home and changed our lives for the better. She knew no English. No memories of ‘Forever 21’, ‘Donkey Kong’ or ‘The Lion King’. The child had no inkling of life beyond the decrepit warehouse, high in Russia’s Caucasus Mountains, that doubled as an orphanage. “When babies there cried,” she remarked, “I always snuck into the babies’ room to make sure every single infant was fine. The caregivers smiled.”

Meanwhile, in short order, her parents made sure their new addition was baptized into the Greek Church. The ceremony, at Saints Constantine and Helen in Annapolis, engraved rich remembrances.

That’s our girl. Brimming with enough love to fill bowls of velvety avgolemono soup – and borscht, naturally.

Assuredly, a gift from strawberry fields.  Forever.