Dream Big or Play Small?

Play small. Hide your light.  Don't be authentic. And most of all don't dream big. Don't dream at all. Find the most ordinary, unremarkable goals to pursue.

This is the message my children get every time they leave home.

Conform. Conform! CONFORM!!!

It's for their own good.

You can't afford a good four year college so just go to the tech.

You'll never be a good enough pianist to get into music school.

You'll never be big enough to be a college football player.

You can't be in the Olympics.

What gives these people the right to step on the dreams of a child? Childhood is not about being reasonable.  Childhood is not the time to be bound up by limits and restrictions.

Dream big. Imagine that you're a famous football player for the NFL. Imagine that you're a concert pianist travelling the world. Imagine that you're a ballerina, an airline pilot, a teacher, an astronaut, a doctor...anything.

Believe that you can make it into the college of your dreams and get a scholarship too. Believe that you're going to marry the perfect partner.  Believe that you will find your dream job.

It is not my place, or yours to prepare the children of the world for disappointment and failure. It is our job as the caretakers of future generations to encourage their dreams. To encourage them to get up after they fall. To dry their tears.

Unfortunately too many teachers and coaches and parents, for the good of the child, step on their dreams.  Fame and fortune aren't for the likes of you. Success means playing it safe. Get a job and a mortgage and spend the next 30 years doing what you're told. That's the message our future is getting.


Don't even try to change the world or make a difference.

The voices and the dreams of the children drowned out by the well meaning intentions of those who know better.

My children come home and tell me what they've heard. I see the looks on their faces. They still believe in themselves but they no longer believe in those others who tell them they can't do it, they aren't good enough. They have lost their faith in you, their teachers and coaches. They don't trust you any longer.  They will no longer confide in you.

My children are told over and over that they can do anything,  go anywhere, be anything they chose. My belief in them and the messages they hear at home and their self confidence combine to be strong enough to combat the negative messages.


My heart aches for the children that don't have that resilience, who have lost their dreams at such a young age.

I will fight for my children's dreams. I will fight for their self esteem. I will fight for their future until they are strong enough to fight for themselves.

Dream big. If you can imagine it, you can achieve it.

Enduring Impermanence

The only thing that we can be sure of in this life is that nothing stays the same.  As time marches on, so comes the changing of the seasons, birthing, aging, dying. Life rolls on, like the relentless beating of the waves against the shoreline. And just as that shoreline will change shape over time, so too do our lives.

Constantly changing and reshaping what is.

People come and go, in and out of my life like the ebb and flow of the tide. Pulled in by the moon and then just as quickly pulled away again.

Each one leaves their mark on my heart.

Sometimes they are there for just a moment.  Sometimes they stay for years.

Sometimes they walk away. Sometimes they are torn from my life by death. Sometimes they just fade away from mutual indifference.

My heart remembers them all.

The stories told on a plane or a park bench.

The stories shared over a dinner or in an email.

The shared smiles and laughter.

Each person giving small bits of themselves to me and accepting bits of me in return.

I remember and I cherish the moments.

Each person, whether they stay for a moment or for longer leaves something behind. There is something of value shared.

Perhaps I gain a new appreciation for pies or trees. Perhaps I learn to value a school teacher or a policeman. Perhaps I gain a deeper understanding of life in another time, place or circumstance. Perhaps I learn about myself, my wounds, my fears, my judgments.  Perhaps I am comforted or entertained.

For a moment, here and there, I am not lonely.

I am forever changed by the bits I gather from others and the bits I give away.

Day after day, these people flow through my mind. Where are they? Are they happy? How did things turn out? The answers are not for me to know.

Sometimes I can reach out, a text, an email, a phone call. I'm thinking of you. Your bits are still with me. I love you.


Yet other times there is no way to reach someone.

The constant ebb and flow of the waves on the shore rub the rocks and shells and sea glass together. Here and there - you never know who you'll bump into next or how long they'll stay by your side.

Cherish each moment. Savour the bits that are shared.  Freely give your own bits away, a smile, a hug, a story. Together we are rubbing the rough edges off of each other.


Once I sat alone, lonely and afraid while I watched fireworks light up the Las Vegas sky. Then Angela joined me on the bench. For an hour we were friends. For an hour she shared her bits with me.  I learned much about myself from a wandering 79 year old lady. Then she moved on, never to be heard from again.  Her imprint on my heart remains, as does yours.

I haven't forgotten.

The Hardest Thing I've Ever Done

My boy called me the other day.

Hi Mom.

That voices makes me melt inside and my heart swell with love.  Just a few weeks away from his 20th birthday. I haven't seen him in 3 months. I haven't heard that voice in 3 months.  We text often but this time he called.

I love that boy more than he will ever know.

From the first time I felt his tiny body move inside my belly, night after night when I rocked him for hours, through the screaming, the fighting, the years of counseling, right up until the day he left, my heart has never wavered.

It is a love like no other and he is the hardest thing I've ever done.

My son has Asperger's Syndrome. He is on the autistic spectrum. He has sensory dysfunction, attention deficit, and learning disabilities.

For years I was told that he was a bad kid and I was a bad mom. I might have been a bad mom, definitely a new mom, a scared mom, an insecure mom. But I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that my beautiful boy was not born bad.

I defended him from those who said mean things about him. I fought with the school system to get him help. I drove him to counseling.  I committed him to the mental health unit to be evaluated.  I called the police on him when he was violent.

And I cried. Day after day I cried. The only thing I did more often than cry was pray. More than anything I want my boy to be safe and happy.  I don't know what that looks like for him but it is my daily pray.

I fought for my boy, for days, weeks, months and years. Yet I was the one that took all his rage and frustration.  I was his bad guy and it was all my fault.

Not only did I cry and pray, but I questioned every choice I made, every step of my parenting journey. Was it my fault? Did I do it wrong? Is he this way because I did something while I was pregnant?  Or because I didn't do something?  Did I not love him enough? Did I not give him enough? It's bad enough that my first born must suffer but even worse that he blames me for his suffering. I wasn't a good enough mom to deserve his love. The days when I held him as he raged and cried,  I got no thanks, no appreciation.

I would have done more if I could.

Three months since he went away to school. Three months since I've seen him.
Three months since I've heard his voice.

My boy brought me to tears with just a few simple words.  How are you? he says. And then later, when I tell him I'll send money he says thank you.

Simple words but I'm not sure my son has ever before, in 20 years, asked me how I was.

He had to leave me before I stopped being the bad guy.


The hardest thing I've ever done....

...carrying him.

...birthing him.

...rocking him.

...fighting for him.

....fighting with him.

...advocating for him.

...medicating him.

...letting him go.

The only thing that came easy was loving him.

Do You Love Me?

I feel raw, exposed, broken.  Everything hurts.  It's too much, too hard.

I do all I can to avoid that broken spot inside me.  I send a text and another one.  Scroll through Facebook.  Read a trashy romance. Turn the TV on.  Law & Order.  Grey's Anatomy.  Everybody Loves Raymond.  It doesn't matter what it is.  For a little while I can focus on something else, the imaginary pain and turmoil of other lives.

I reach for food.  Hot sweet tea soothes the ache, warms that frozen spot.  Chocolate pacifies the hurt. Only for a moment, eat more or move on to the next thing.

I get desperate so I pick up the phone and call my sister.  Her voice washes over me.  It doesn't matter what she says.  Half the time I don't even know, her kids, my kids, our mother, whatever...  I need that human connection.

I long to go home, to be surround by my people, my country but I know it will only soothe for a moment and then I'll feel like I don't fit here, not anymore.

I run from one thing to the next, piano lessons, soccer practice, dentist appointment, volunteer at the school.

I'm great at small talk.  Of course I'm fine.  How are you?  I can talk about anything, with anyone.

But there's this part of me, aching, needing.

Something.

I reach, grasping for anything that might make it better.  Raw and oozing and broken inside.

A desperate loneliness.

My guy comes home and wraps his arms around me.  I tuck my nose into his neck and breathe in his scent.

Do you love me?  I ask.

You know I do.  He answers.

For a moment, just a short moment, the ache eases.

I'm lonely.  I'm insecure.  I'm needy.

I feel invisible.  I feel unheard.  I feel unloved and unlovable.

Do you love me?  I ask and ask again.  Maybe if you tell me often enough I'll feel it.  Maybe if you say it often enough the aching pain inside will ease.  Maybe if you tell me over and over I'll believe it.

No, the pain doesn't ease.  The ache doesn't leave.

I live with this, never quite good enough.  People walk away, move on, leave me.  They don't call. Don't write.  Don't visit.

I'm a stranger in a strange land.

I tuck my littles in to bed.  Kisses and cuddles.   I curl up, in flannel pajamas with pink elephants.  A cut purrs on my feet.  Tears fill my eyes and I fall asleep.

Every day the same, running, eating, texting, talking, reading, watching TV.

Do you love me?

Until one day I stop.  I don't eat.  I put down the phone.  I log out of Facebook.  None of it makes a difference.  It's all just different ways to hide from the same pain.  No more.

That raw, broken, oozing part of me won't get better by anything out there.  Nothing anyone else does will help.  Nothing anyone else says will heal me.

Do you love me?  

Yes, I love me.

Even when every one else leaves and I'm alone with myself, I love me.

Even broken, needy, lonely and insecure, I love me.

Even when I'm hiding from my pain, I love me.

Even when I'm making stupid choices, I love me.

Even when I fail, I love me.

Even when I cry, I love me.

That has to be enough.

Living With Wet Panties

Did you marry a frog and expect him to behave like a prince?


Did you drop out of high school and expect to land the job of your dreams?

Did you spend $1000 on a beater car and expect it to get you from here to there without breaking down?

I heard some good advice lately... if you invest your time and energy into a douche bag, you can't get upset when he acts like a douche.

This was followed by a fascinating simile.

It is like using light day pads and expecting them to keep your panties dry when you pee yourself. Either you invest in some Depends or your get used to having wet panties.

This made me think, what am I investing in?  Most of the time, I invest in me.  I'm sure that's a good investment.  Yoga, meditation, college, long walks, early bedtimes, good books, adventures with friends, snuggle time with my littles.  I do this because I know that I'm valuable and worth taking good care of.  It is worth it to me to invest my time, energy and emotions into me.

I invest in my children.  I cook for them.  I drive them to sports and music.  I volunteer in their classrooms.  I help with homework. I sing them songs and laugh and dance and play with them.  I know they are valuable and it is important to me to invest in them now, before they grow up and move away.

But, I've made my fair share of bad investments over the years and I'm sure I'll make more in the future.

Have you ever peed yourself?  I've been pregnant 7 times.  That means for about 63 months of my life I've had someone sitting on my bladder.  A sneeze, a cough, a laugh, can lead to leakage.  It didn't happen often but every time it did, there was the same emotion.  Ugh.  I can't believe it.  A little bit of shame, a sense of disbelief and then the awful uncomfortable feeling of wet panties.  I should know better, have more control.

Over and over again, we invest in light days and then feel the shock and shame when our panties get wet.  What does this look like?  The boy that cheated on his girl with you, then you found him with someone else.  That car that was a great deal and looked good but was rusted out and wouldn't pass inspection.  The fantastic job that paid good but had horrible hours and a nasty boss.

Unfortunately these are the things we regularly invest in.  We put our time, our money, our energy and our emotions into these things because they look good, they smell good, they sound good.  We become attached.  That's my guy, my car, my job and when we discover they aren't as good as we thought, we're stuck.  They're already ours, we're already invested.  The shame of the wet panties is compounded by the shame that we made a bad choice.  We convince ourselves that we can stick it out, it will get better.  We put more and more money into the car, we work even harder at the job, we spend even more time with the lying, cheating guy.

The more we invest, the more stuck we get, the more shame we feel.  We should have known better.  Yet here we are, with a job we hate, a bad relationship and a car that won't get us down the street.  It is our pride that keeps us stuck.  We don't want to admit that we made a bad investment.  The smart choice, as soon as you realize that you've made a bad investment, get out.

Get out now!

Don't wait.  Don't keep investing your resources thinking that it will get better.  Do your really want to live your life with the shame and discomfort of wet panties?

I promise there is not a single person in this world who hasn't wet their panties at least once.  We've all done it, a job, a guy (or girl) an investment.  We've all pinned our hopes and dreams on something or someone and gotten disappointed.  Instead of wasting your energy, your emotions, your time, move on, forgive yourself.

Invest in quality.  

Life is Short

It was more than 20 years ago when I decided that I wanted to fly. I'm not sure what put that bee in my bonnet but there it was and there it would stay. I wanted to fly in a hot air balloon. I wanted to sail above the earth in a wicker basket.
I don't like calling it a bucket list but for lack of a better term... this was the first item on it.

#1 fly in a hot air balloon
#2 ...
#3 ...
#4 ...

Over time I started to check off those items. It matters little what they were, what matters is that I was doing what I wanted, living fully, gathering up experiences, finding my bliss.

But that first item remained elusive.

I live in a town with an annual balloon festival. I've watched the balloons go up over and over. I've awakened at dawn to see them sailing outside my bedroom window. I've taken care of my friends children so they could go up. My children have had the opportunity to crew a balloon and fly and I even dated a balloon pilot (briefly).

But my feet stayed planted on the ground.

One day, as I wandered the balloon festival by myself, I stopped to ask a question.  All the other balloon baskets were square, why was this one triangle shaped? I was pressed into service, can you do this? Can you hold this? Can you turn this off?

Sure I can.

Have you ever flown?  No?  Well hop in!

Really? Me? Now?

I've been holding on to this dream for over 20 years. I wasn't ready. I didn't have time to get excited or get someone to take pictures or to post about it on Facebook.

Hop in!

The balloon lifted, softly, gently. We floated higher. It was what I've always wanted and it was nice.

Yes, nice. Certainly not something that would pull me out of bed at dawn over and over. It has been years of waiting for this moment and it was just nice. What a let down. All these years of anticipation for something that was merely pleasant. Check it off the list and move on.

But not every experience is merely nice.  Sometimes, the most unexpected thing will cause your heart to leap, bring joy where none was expected.  For me, this was sailing. I've never once thought of sailing, never considered it, certainly didn't put it on the list.  Yet, the day came when I landed on a sail boat in the midst of the bright blue ocean.

This didn't excite me. It was just another day.  But it quickly turned from just another day to the most incredible experience of my life. I love the sea.  I love the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, the boat rocking under my feet.


The ocean thrills my soul. For a day on the ocean I would leap out of bed at 5 am, any day, every day. I will hoist the sails and point the bow into the wind. I'll steer around the lobster pots while I listen to the cry of the gulls. This is my heaven on earth.

I don't think it matters what it is that makes you leap out of bed in the morning, as long as someday you find something that brings you that kind of joy. If I hadn't gone up in that balloon I would have wondered for the rest of my life. If I hadn't gone along with my friend when she wanted to sail, I never would have known where my bliss was waiting.

This is what I was looking for when that balloon lifted into the sky. This is what I was looking for when I zip-lined down a mountain,  when I went white water kayaking, when I went para-sailing and when I set off on that stand up paddle board.

I am greedy.  I want to find more of those things that thrill my soul.  I want to leap out of bed every day wondering what I'll find today.  I know I'll experience many things before I find that one that I just can't live without.  That's okay.  I'll just keep living fully and gathering up experiences.  Life is too short to let any opportunity pass by.  You never know, today might be the day  This experience might just be THE ONE.  What have you got to lose?

Hop in!

Facing my Demons

We all have those parts of us that we don't like. It might be something physical or it might be a characteristic or maybe some of each.

Over the years I've come to terms with these little bits and pieces that make me me. I don't like the fact that by the time I was 25 years old my hair had turned gray. I wish I could lose some weight.  I have small boobs and lots of stretch marks from giving birth seven times. Whatever!  I also kill plants and small animals. I do to many things at once. I cry all the time. I'm painfully shy. This is me.

We also carry our wounds, our fears and insecurities. Those memories from our past that tell us we aren't good enough, aren't lovable, aren't worthy. I've made friends with those parts of me too.

But what happens when you bump into a part of you that you find absolutely abhorrent?  I'm not talking about a little bit uncomfortable.  I mean, when you see something that makes you turn your head away in disgust. I mean, when the idea fills you with fear and makes you sick to your stomach. What then?

I think the comfortable thing to do is to bury your head in the sand, look the other way, pretend it didn't happen, doesn't exist.


Wasn't me!


Didn't do it!


A complete and utter denial of a part of myself that lives and breathes and exists inside me.


Rejection of the self.



How long can one go on in denial? A lifetime I'm sure. But is it healthy? Is it right? What kind of damage is done to the self when a part of it is rejected and denied and perhaps even hated.

I don't know the answer. I'm still in the space of rejection, denial,  disgust.  I can dye my hair but I don't mind the roots. I accept the stretch marks on a body that carried and birthed seven times. It is okay for me to be quiet and shy. I've stopped trying to garden. I've gotten rid of the fish tank because I think it is wrong to kill a new fish every week. I've come to terms, accepted and embraced what makes me me. I acknowledge that I am special and wonderful...

except...

There is still this part of me that I deny.

Not me. No way.

It's not a bad thing. I didn't do anything terrible.

But there is this demon that is a part of me. It lives and breathes and grows ever bigger in my mind as I reject it.  Running from my fears, refusing to acknowledge it.

Not me.

Eventually, unless you want to spend a lifetime in hiding you need to stop running, stop denying, stop rejecting those parts of yourself that you don't like. Not just the little things but the big, ugly, disgusting things.

Stop!

Pause.

Turn and hold your hand out to the demon within.

Name it.

Feed it, stroke it, offer it love, compassion and acceptance.

Perhaps, in time, it won't be so scary or foul.

Perhaps, in time, you can make friends with this demon.

You never know unless you take the first step.

Turn and face the demon within.

Lessons Learned from a Stilt-Walking Pirate

The bar was crowded that night, music blaring, people talking.  I stood with a drink in my hand, next to Chuck.  He was there on business.  I was there for an adventure.  Life is too short and I wanted to gather up experiences, to live fully. 

I looked up and saw you.  My world stopped, music faded, Chuck disappeared.  You towered head and shoulders above other men.  You, with your swashbuckling ways, your earring, your day-old beard and your balloon sword.  From the moment I saw you my heart was yours.  I climbed up on a bar stool, we put our arms around each other and posed for a picture.  You asked me to guess your name.  Shawn.  I kissed your cheek. You gave me your phone number and then you moved on.  Work the crowd, make the tourists happy.  I figured, even though I texted you, I'd never hear from you again.  That would have been okay, disappointing, but okay. I may have fallen head over heels in love with you the second I saw you, but you were just doing your job.

I returned to Chuck's side, distracted, a little shell-shocked.  Wow!  First lesson learned from a stilt walking pirate - there is such a thing as love at first sight.  

Your shift ended, the pirate costume came off and then, there you were standing in front of me.  I didn't recognize you right away without the costume, my gaze slid right past you and you laughed at me.  At that moment, Chuck and everyone else in my world faded from existence.  Nothing mattered but you.  You came back.  From that very moment, I was yours.  I would have gone anywhere, done anything, to be with you.

So began my adventures with a stilt-walking pirate, dancing under the stars, riding an inclinator, walking hand and hand through the city, among the tourists.  I couldn't take my eyes off you.  It was almost dawn when you returned me to my hotel room and we went in separate directions with no idea if we would see each other again.  But you came back again and again.  Until finally it was time for me to go home.  I asked you if I could give up my life back home and my children and just stay with you forever.  If you could do that, you wouldn't be the kind of girl I'd want.  I got on an airplane and I cried as I watched the palm trees slip away.

So ends the adventure.  But the lessons were just beginning.

I learned that two hearts can be connected, two hearts can know each other, even if they've never met before.  I learned that there is a tie that binds hearts together.  I learned that sometimes, logic means nothing.  I learned that I can know someone in my heart and not in my head and that that is okay.

I learned how important it is to follow my heart, trust my emotions.  Defying logic, accepting that I don't ever act on impulse or run off to play with strangers, but this one time, my heart spoke louder than my head.

Months later I was on my way to a first date with someone when I got the text from you that said that there was really no future between us.  I knew that.  I knew that from opposite sides of the country and opposing lifestyles, there was no where for us to go, not together.  I determined not to cry so as not to have mascara streaks running down my face when I got to where I was going.  I learned that together or apart, with or without talking to you, I'd always love you.  Those ties that bind my heart to you are stronger than time, stronger than distance, stronger than logic.  I learned that a part of my heart will always belong to you, whether you want it or not.  

I learned that I could love without expectations.  I need nothing from you.  It is enough that you exist, over there, on the opposite side of the country.  Just because you are, I love.  You don't need to do anything, say anything, be anything.  I will love, always and completely, just because.  

And then I learned, that love isn't enough.  I did expect something from you.  I expected you to believe me when I said I loved you, even if you don't believe in love at first sight, even if you can't love me back.  I expected that you would recognize my love for what it was, deep and everlasting, not some infatuation with a pirate costume.  I've never once cared about the stilt-walking pirate, but always loved the man behind the costume.  That one thing that you couldn't give me, hurt my heart.  

Finally, I learned that I can cut the ties that bind.  I can let go of love.  I can let go of expectations.  I can stop sleeping in your t-shirt night after night.  I can wish you happiness and love and joy.  I can find my own happiness and love and joy.  

I know now that all those lessons will stay with me.  I know that the imprint you left on my heart will always remain.  But the point to a lesson is to learn it and be able to apply it to the next situation.  I don't know if I could love the way I do if I hadn't first loved a stilt-walking pirate.  I don't know if I could embrace adventures if I hadn't first followed my heart into an adventure.  I don't know if I could let go of people if I hadn't first learned to let go of a pirate.  

I'm a better person for having known a nine foot tall, stilt-walking pirate.  I have no regrets.

Letting Go, Making Space

For some people, letting go is easy. Others need to hold on. Some people collect, filling their home with a combination of treasures and trash.  Other people let go, never keeping anything they don't love or use regularly.  There needs to be a balance between new things coming in and old things going out or else eventually the house is full and you drown in your own stuff.

Can you say the same about your heart?

Someone I love used to say, "There's always room for one more." And I believed it.  Love is constantly expanding. There is always room for one more in the heart. Isn't there?

Recently I participated in a releasing ceremony. It's purpose was to declutter the heart. To prepare, we had to write letters to those we wanted to release saying all that needed to be said. Then the big day arrived. Participants entered the sacred circle, we surrounded ourselves with the four elements, wind, water, fire and earth. God was invited to join us and help us cut the ties that bind us to these people so we could release the unhealthy relationships and move on. Then a little voice added "or create new healthy relationships with these same people." Brilliant!

There was a pit in the center of the circle and one by one we placed a letter in the pit and watched it burn. We took turns stating "I release you and give you to God with love." Name after name, letter after letter, some smoldering and fighting the flames and others burning up fast and furious. With each name and each letter we visualized the tie holding us to that person being cut. In my mind there was a big pair of scissors. Some ties brought wrenching pain, others not a twinge, some brought tears, others a sense of release. Name after name, letter after letter. "I release you and give you to God with love."

Honestly,  I thought it was stupid.  How could this make any difference?  Eventually it was over and we left the circle in the sand.  Did this somehow change me? Is there really a purpose to cleaning your heart house?

But as days moved on and time kept marching little things started to happen.  I cleaned house literally. Those earrings that he gave me when we were dating, had to go. The t-shirt someone else gave me, that I still sleep in years later, even tho I'm sleeping beside someone else now, it was easy to throw that into the give-away box.  The necklace that my very first boyfriend game me when I was 13, came out of the drawer and went into the give away. It was a start.

Then I decided to clean out my email.  All the sent and received love letters, deleted. Next came the contacts on my phone, numbers and emails, people I haven't talked to in years, deleted.

Did this happen because I set the intention to let go?

Maybe there is a reason to clean your heart house. I swept out regret, anger and resentment.  I mopped up grief and hurt.  I dusted all the cobwebs of memories out of the corners.  Then I looked around and liked what I saw. All that is left in my heart is people and memories that make me happy. My friend calls this 'value added'.  There is no space in my heart for people that make me feel bad, people that aren't there for me, people that offer up guilt or fear or sorrow. The only people left in my heart add value to my life.

I have always been an advocate of decluttering, with cleaning closets, regular trips to donate to the thrift store, and throwing trash in the trash. It is important to me that there is space in my house and the more stuff you have to take care of, the less time you have to play. If you don't love it or use it every day, get rid of it. Yet I've never thought of applying that to thoughts and emotions and relationships. I've always held on to people, maintaining contact long after it is time to move on.  No more!

There is space in my heart now for people that love and value me. I am worth it. All those people that have walked away over the years, who haven't called or emailed or texted or visited, they aren't worth getting upset over. I've made space in my heart for the people that want to be a part of my life.  For anyone else, that doesn't have the time or interest...

I release you and give you to God with love.

Be happy.

F*ck'em All

I'm a good girl. I know it. I always do the right thing. I mail Christmas cards and thank you notes. I do the chores before I play. I volunteer. I'm mostly always on time. I hold my tongue when I'm irritated. I go to bed on time and get up early. I'm a good girl.

But lately I'm trying on a new attitude to see how it fits. I call it the "f*ckem all" attitude. I say it's a bad attitude but I'm not really sure that it is a bad thing.  I'm tired of doing the right thing all the time. I'm tired of holding my tongue.  I'm more interested in doing what I want, when I want. Is that wrong?

So it occurred to me that we are all doing exactly as we choose, every minute of every day. No way! you might exclaim, but hear me out... I got up early this morning and got my kids ready for school, made their lunches and drove them there. I choose to do this because I value clean, fed, happy children.  I choose to clean the kitty litter because I really don't like the smell of the nasties. I choose to scrub my bathroom toilet because I don't like sitting to pee on a toilet covered with little boy drips.

Are you with me? There are people that don't clean the toilet or the kitty litter. There are people who don't make lunch for their kids or brush their daughter's hair.  You may hate your job but I bet you like it better than being homeless and hungry.  I promise there are people who are homeless cause they didn't want to hold down a job. Every moment of life is a choice.

The difference is that now I'm choosing to please me. Does that mean I have a bad attitude? I think it just means that what you think isn't as important to me as what makes me happy. Is it wrong to pursue my dreams and my happiness with a single minded determination?  I don't think so. Wouldn't the world be a wonderful place if we all put down our guilt and our shame, left the shoulda,  woulda, coulda behind and did what we want. Take responsibility for our own happiness.  Acknowledge that what you are doing right now, you are doing because you chose too.

Often we do what we do because we don't like the consequences of doing different. If you don't go to work, you lose your job, then you lose your house, then your wife leaves you and takes the kids. Well that sucks, might as well go to work and avoid all the unpleasantness.  See, that's your choice.

So my choice is to say f*ck'em all and do what I want. It doesn't matter if you like it or not. I'm tired of doing the right things for the wrong reasons. I still do the right things sometimes cause I like to volunteer and I like clean toilets. That's just me. But more and more I do exactly what I want, when I want, how I want. I'm gonna take a day and go sailing. I'm gonna curl up in my hammock with a trashy romance.  I'm gonna go out dancing or stay home and go to bed early. Whatever!

What I'm not gonna do is worry about if I've hurt your feelings for doing what I want to do. I'm not gonna do the right thing because it will make someone else happy. I'm not gonna carry guilt or fear.  If you have a problem, well f*ck you,  f*ck'em all I say, cause that is your problem and I'm not carrying your problems any more.

It Takes a Village

My friend Ellen once said 'It takes a village to rescue a dog.'  I  contemplate my Quacker Jack who was found as a new born puppy, abandoned on the side of the road in Mississippi, with his Mama and lots of little puppy siblings.   A veterinarian student discovered the family and brought them to a shelter. The people at the shelter worked to find a no-kill shelter in the north that would take them in. The transport team brought them to New Hampshire.  The shelter found a foster family to care for them until the puppies were old enough to be adopted. So many people touched the life of my dog before I ever met him. I'll always be grateful that they took the time to care for him so that he could become my dog.

For me it doesn't stop there...it takes a village not just to rescue a dog but to raise a child.  If all those strangers can impact the life of a puppy in his first eight weeks of life, what about all those people who wander in and out of the lives of my children? Aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins, teachers and coaches, parents of friends, the list is long. Each person touches my child, some good, some bad but they all leave their mark. I hear the stories, what the coach thinks, what the teacher says, how that other parent behaves.  It is all fair game for dinner table conversation.

Some people are only there for a sport season, or a school year. But some stick around for years and years. It would be naive of me to think that my children don't love these people who circle the fringes of our lives. I've seen it. I've heard it. I've felt it.  Too often I don't give these peripheral people their due. Perhaps I don't see their value. Perhaps I take them for granted. Yet they are there, in the trenches, raising my children with me. Even when I think I'm on my own, they are there. The teacher planning a lesson or grading a paper, the coach volunteering his time four nights a week, or the parent that feeds my kid dinner and tucks him in for a sleepover.

My son with Asperger's went to a private school. For six hours a day he was under the care and supervision of another woman.  She helped him. She advocated for him. She disciplined him. For six years. Then she died. The sense of loss and grief I felt was extreme for this woman that I barely knew. But what I did know was that my son loved her and she loved him. I remember asking him if there was anything I could do. He replied, "No, you can't bring her back."  That was the moment that I realized how vitally important the village is, to me and my children.

I'm part of the village now. I cook dinner for other people's kids. I ask your teenager about his girlfriend, his grades and his summer job.   I've had the raincoat talk with boys that aren't my own. I pick up your kid when he gets hurt on the playground and walk him into the nurse. I sit at school and listen to your children read and I hear their stories.  I cheer for your kid when he hits a home run and then I hug him when he's crying on the last day of school.  I'll even tell your kid to stop throwing rocks when she is being naughty.

I'm part of your village and you are part of mine. Just recently I hugged my son while he cried.  Together we mourned the death of his friend's father. Papa is gone. He was a part of our village and he will be missed. Never again will I take my village for granted. I see the time and effort and love that you put into my children.  I appreciate it.  Speak wisely,  act with kindness. My children are watching you and you matter to them and to me.

On Wounds

After a beautiful afternoon on the water I beached the kayak. I stood up, wobbled a bit and put one foot out of the kayak and into the water. That foot landed on some slippy rocks and went flying. I went under, dumped the kayak and ended up soaking wet with a terrible bruise on the back of my leg.

I dropped one of the boys off at kindergarten. I put the baby in the back, got her buckled into her car seat and then slammed the back door of the car on my finger. The blood poured. It took a nice long visit to the ER and some stitches to put the tip of my finger back together.

As a child I was running in the hall, I slipped and fell, hitting the side of my head on the baseboard. The top of my ear was cut open. A trip to the ER, and stitches left a permanent 'mutant' ear attached to the side of my head.

I stepped on some glass. I sprained my ankle. I sliced open the side of my arm, left it gaping and bleeding.  Cuts, bruises, scrapes, broken bones, blood, stitches.... wounds.

Each wound leaves a mark, sometimes permanent scars, other times temporary,  bruises fading through black, blue, green and yellow.  Sometimes the story is traumatic, remembered for all time. Other times the scars remain and yet the story fades out of memory...wounds.

All of those are surface wounds, here today, gone tomorrow. The bumps and scrapes of a human existence. Unfortunately there are wounds much deeper. Cuts and bruises on the heart and soul of a person. Wounds that scab over, yet can seep and bleed at the slightest touch.

Often these wounds go unrecognized. They lie there under the surface, oozing and festering.  Then, someone, completely unaware, makes a comment that rips me open and leaves me weeping and bleeding. I lash out, blame them for being cruel. Yet it is not their fault that they bumped into one of my unseen wounds.

Each time someone brushes up against my wounds, I hurt, I cry, I probe the tender spots, like poking at a bruise to see how deep the hurt goes. I'm learning to see that the hurt comes from within, from the scars on my heart and not from something that someone has done to me. As I look at my wounds, poke and prod, weep and wail, I'm letting the poison out so they can heal clean.

It isn't pretty. It isn't fun. But I feel that it is necessary.

I've also learned that all too often I poke into someone else's wounded spots. My intentions are good but it hurts them none the less. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause pain. I don't even know what I've said or done. The hurt remains. It is easier to forgive myself because I recognize the wounds of the heart.

I realize now that there is nothing I can do to ease the pain of someone else's heart wounds.  There is no bandage for the blood. There are no stitches for the gaping holes in the heart.  All I can offer is my sympathy. To those whose wounds I've touched and to myself as I struggle with my own inner wounds.

We all carry wounds deep in our heart. When I say something or do something that hurts you, I offer my most sincere apologies for poking at your wounds. When your words or deeds scrape up against my wounds, I forgive you and I thank you for calling my attention to another area that needs my loving attention so that I can heal my wounds.

I Have a Dream

I have a dream that one day all of God's children black man or white, Jew or Gentile, Protestant or Catholic will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old negro spiritual "Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty we are free at last."

Those words from Martin Luther King Jr began a speech I presented in high school.  It wasn't about black equality or religious freedom. It was about the power of  a dream. A dream held close to the heart that burns in your soul, shapes your thoughts and guides your actions.  I chased that high school dream with a single minded determination until I achieved what I wanted.

It's been many, many years since high school and probably that long since I had a dream that burned so brightly in my soul. Part of that long ago speech stated that to live a life without a dream was to live without a purpose, an empty life. Yes my life was pretty empty and without purpose. Yet a few years ago something changed...

It started with a thought, a barely formed idea. I tucked it into the back of my mind and left it there to percolate like an old fashioned coffee pot.  Another thought, another idea, something I saw, something I read, something someone might have said, I just kept tucking them away and allowed time to bubble and brew and move those thoughts around.

Eventually a vision began to take shape in my mind.  It became clearer and clearer until the picture formed and I could close my eyes and see it.

Journey to Peace Yoga and Wellness

I stand in this 100 year old barn with the walls rough framed and the wiring half done and I don't see the cobwebs and the squirrel nests. I don't see the scars in the floor and the cracks in the window panes. Instead I see something beautiful.

I close my eyes and I can see the mural on the wall and the labyrinth on the floor. In my mind I can walk through the rooms. I can see the books on the library shelves and the boutique full of New Hampshire made crafts. In my imagination I have welcomed so many people and taught class after class, Laughter Yoga, Restorative Yoga, Yoga and Acupressure...



This is my place, my dream, where people can come to find themselves, to celebrate their authenticity. This is a place to slow down, to reconnect with yourself, your soul, your Source and your dreams.

Perhaps what Martin Luther King Jr dreamed of and what I dream of is not so very different.  He dreamed of a world where people could come together regardless of race, religion or nationality and accept each other as equals. I dream of a place where people can come together regardless of race, religion, nationality, gender, sexual preference and economic status and be free to be their true authentic self.  I would love it if we could all be free to express ourselves, free to celebrate our uniqueness,  free to explore our wounds, free to face our fears and mostly, free to chase our dreams.

Whispers in my Ear

Dinner was done, the kitchen was clean, my littles were in their pajamas and playing quietly. This is when I found myself curled up in my bed with the covers pulled over my head.

Sit with your emotions, I could hear the voice of Margaret, my meditation teacher. It isn't necessary to understand them, just be with them, accept them. So I did nothing. I lay curled up in my bed. I felt the clawing fear in my gut, the churning of un-voiced emotions. I felt the tears leaking out of my eyes and leaving a trail down my cheeks.

More than anything I wanted my guy to come home and find me, to distract me from my fears, my pain, my wounds. Eventually he did, but not soon enough. I had too much time to wrestle with my demons on my own in the quiet of my bedroom. Fear! Fear that grabs you and holds you frozen in its grip. Fear that eats at your soul like a cancer. Fear that turns a strong capable women into a weak and whimpering shell.

This fear whispers in my ear, who do you think you are? And snickers at my hopes and dreams. The constant refrain "you're not good enough" over and over and over...different words, same tune. You will fail. You'll never get it right. You're not smart enough. You're not pretty enough. You'll never succeed. You're just not good enough.

In a few more days I will have finished my last class. I will be a college graduate. I know I'm a good student. Class after class with a final grade of 100%. This I can do. But now it is time to embark on a new phase. I have a dream. It's a good one and very well planned out. The yoga studio is under construction. The marketing material is ready, the website is built. There is no reason I can't succeed. But that voice keeps whispering in my ear...

Who do you think you are? Do you really think people will like you enough to come to your yoga classes? What makes you think you have what it takes to be a healer? You think people will trust you with their fears, their wounds? You've made a mess of your own life and you think you can help others?

The whispers come with mocking laughter and I hide my head under the blankets and cry.

Fear and doubts and insecurities are not rational. I know that. This is not my truth. These are the lies that my ego feeds me. These fears do not guide me. I recognize them and then step towards them. Never again will I not do something because it scares me. This is my new truth.

Eventually I get out of bed and blow my nose.  I read stories and I kiss my littles and tuck them into bed. Finally, my day ends and I go back to bed. That voice continues to whisper in my ear and I fall asleep with the tears leaking out of my eyes.

Morning meditation comes with the sunrise and while I sit in silence, these words pop into mind... I am worthy.

Yes, yes I am. I am worthy of love. I am worthy of success. I am worthy of financial abundance. I am worthy of deep and lasting friendships. I am worthy of peace and joy.



In the silence of the sunrise this new voice speaks to me and the whisperer is silent.

Missed Opportunities

My heart hurts.... It aches for missed opportunities.

How many times do people choose the easy path?

How many times do people choose to do the "right" thing?

How many times do people choose the path without complications?


Not me, my path is messy and full of drama and complications.  There is no right or wrong choice, only my choice.  I made the choice to live with an open heart, to explore whatever my Source puts in front of me.  Sometimes it hurts.  Most of the time it is not easy.  Some days I'm afraid or lonely.  But every time, I choose to step into my fear.

Over and over again I meet people who, because of fear, because they are just not capable of opening their heart, reject the messy unpredictability of life.  It is safer to stay home then embrace the unknown.  It is safer to keep your feet on the ground, then to fly.  It is safer to be alone then to love.


There are always excuses... it isn't the right time or the right place or the right person.  The situation isn't right, there is the possibility of getting hurt.  There are what if's?  But I would rather discover the what if today, then live with the I should have... or I could have...

Sixteen years ago I met a man, we liked each other, a lot.  But I had children and he had been abused as a child so he was never going to be a father.  His fear and his wounds were greater than his love.  I've never forgotten him or the lessons I learned from him.  He was bound by his childhood wounds.  Parents beat their children.  He would never be a parent because he didn't want to beat a child.  He couldn't even contemplate a different way.  Yet my parents beat me and I've never once beat my children.  No, there were no wooden spoons or hair brushes broken over their backsides.  I never used a hot wheel track to whip them.  I found my own way, a messy, complicated way that is full of love and rewards.

A few years ago, after getting divorced, I met another man.  We went on a date, he kissed me.  He started calling every night, he asked me out for a second date, then fear got the best of him.  He hadn't dated since high school.  His wife had divorced him.  He was no good at relationships and he didn't even want to try.  He created his own reality of fear and loneliness.  He closed his heart to me and what could have been.  I moved on, always wondering what might have been and if he ever found a way to let his love be greater than his fear.

This story repeats over and over and over.  A woman who is too afraid of what her life will be like so she doesn't leave her husband and instead chooses to live in unhappiness.  Another woman who thinks that no one will ever love her so she stays while her husband has an affair and mistreats her.  A child who is so downtrodden that they won't even swing when they're up to bat or try something new or speak their truth.

 This makes me appreciate those people I meet who embrace their fear and step into their authentic self.  Perhaps a woman gives her phone number to a man she meets or a child zip lines out of the window of the barn.  Each time, they acknowledge their fear, they recognize the discomfort and they do it anyway.

When I met my guy, he was afraid, he didn't want to be involved with a woman who had the responsibility of seven children.  But when it came right down to choosing between love and fear, he chose love for me over fear of responsibility.  I admire that about him.

My best friend lives her life without apologies.  I may not understand or agree with her choices, I may not parent the same way she does.  We make different choices about our priorities and our lifestyles.  But I deeply admire her ability to be her most authentic self, regardless of other people's judgments.  She inspires me.

Sometimes life is messy.  Sometimes  life is complicated.  Sometimes life is even painful.  But the wonders and joy of living fully make up for the messy times. The fun and excitement make up for the complications. The abundance of love in my life make up for the painful times.  I wouldn't have it any other way.  When I recognize that someone is closing their heart and taking the easy path, my heart aches for the missed opportunities, but I'm forever grateful for the reminder to keep my heart open, to experience all that life has to offer, to love fully and deeply.  Life is too short to worry about the messes and the drama and the hurts.  I'm busy filling up on the adventures and the fun and the joy.

Finding Beauty in This Moment

I don't set an alarm, ever, but I'm always awake by 6 am anyways. I hit the ground running, shower and dressed, kids up, dressed and fed, lunches made, papers signed, bags packed. Feed the dog, start the laundry, don't forget to brush your teeth... The list goes on and on. Kids to school,  work, laundry, house cleaning one kid has an appointment at the orthodontist,  another appointment at school, the dentist, the eye doctor,  the grocery shopping, pick up kids from school, check the chickens for eggs, clean out your lunch boxes, who has homework? Clean the bathroom,  flip the laundry, what's for dinner?

Finally, my littles go to bed. But it doesn't end. Clean the kitchen, fold the laundry, do my school work, start the dishwasher,  feed the cats, clean the litter box.  Eventually I can fall in to bed, exhausted. This is the American dream?  This is my life.

But is this all there is? Why do we run all day? What is the point to this rat race? Is there some personal satisfaction from this? Or is it a routine that gets done because that is what is expected?  I don't have the answers. I do what must be done to take care of my children and my home. What I do know is that in the daily routines of living there is beauty to be found.

Before I leave my bed in the morning I lay perfectly still and savour the feel of my cats on my feet. When I meditate my cat comes and rubs against me and purrs.  On the way to the shower I look out the window and smile at the sunlight reflecting on the river. I wake up my girl with a song and hugs and kisses.  We share a little snuggle. I turn the music on, loud, and we dance and sing together. While I'm driving here and there I see a beautiful flowering Northern Catalpa tree. I notice the great blue heron in the water and the little tiny birds in the parking lot of the store.  I pause to check out a dragonfly.  I stop at the deli and Bob, the deli guy, gives me a hug and a kiss.


There is beauty to be found in every moment if you can just open your eyes to see. It is in the world around us the trees, the flowers, the birds, the animals. But also in the people, a newborn baby, a parent tending to their child with loving patience, a woman helping her elderly mother, the twinkle in an eye, the smile on a face, the touch of a hand.




Our problem is not that the beauty is not there, our problem is that our eyes are closed to the beauty that surrounds us. We all have the choice to open our eyes and see or  to walk through our days with blinders on. I know I have somewhere to be and something to do but this moment, right here, right now, has something valuable to offer me. I might find it in your smile. I might find it in the feel of the breeze against my skin. I might find it in the sweet taste of the strawberry in my mouth. I might find it in the glory of the sunrise. One thing is for sure, I won't find it if I don't first pause and look for it. I won't find it if I rush blindly from one chore to the next,  one place to the next.


Some day my littles will be grown and gone. My chore list will dwindle. The piles of dirty laundry and dirty dishes will disappear.  The endless rounds of appointments and sport practices and piano lessons will cease. No more little voices will be wondering "what's for dinner Mom?" And then where will I be?

I don't know what that long distance future will hold. But I know that this moment, as I sit at the edge of the water listening to children play and splash, I feel the water lapping against my feet, the breeze blowing my hair in my face, the sun warm on my skin...I see beauty all around me and I cherish this moment.

The Silent Epidemic

My grandmother was raped by her father.  One day, he decided to start selling her in the barn to his friends so she ran away.  At 15 years old she married my grandfather.  Oh, sweet safety. She spent the next 20 years having babies, living in poverty and working her fingers to the bone.  I don't know if my grandmother was safe or if she was raped or abused again.  I do know that her husband, my grandfather, raped his daughters and taught his sons that it was okay to rape their sisters.  I know that my mother and her aunts were raped by their brothers, their father, their uncles.  It was just the way things were.

I know that when I was ten years old, I received my first kiss, complete with tongue action, from my cousin.  I was the chosen one.  I was special, petted and flattered.  I was afraid to say no, afraid he wouldn't love me anymore if I didn't let him have his way.  What followed was five years of sexual molestation.  I was introduced to the dubious pleasures of sexual intimacy.  I was afraid, all the time.  I looked for ways to avoid him.  I raged silently in my head at my mother for not knowing, though I never once said anything.  She should have known anyways.  Couldn't she just look at my face and feel my fear?



Just before my 15th birthday I found my voice, my courage, my power and I said no.  NO!  Remembering, brings back that same fear and nausea.  That moment, when my voice burst out of me, when I said out loud, the word that I had been screaming in my head for so long, when I pushed him off my body and ran... that moment remains etched in my mind and my physical body. NO! NO! NO! That moment I chose to give up his love and approval so I could live with myself, so I could reclaim my power.  No more was I going to be a silent victim.

One year later I went on a road trip with my aunt and a number of cousins.  When we hit the mid-west I was given the option to visit my brother on a farm where he was working.  These wonderful people brought me into their home.  Little did I know, the same uncle that had raped my mother, was leaving me as a birthday present for a 70 year old man.  He groped me, he kissed me and I was horrified.  But I was not a silent victim.  I used my voice.  I said NO!  I pushed him away.  I called my mother on the other side of the country, in tears.

What followed was even worse.  My brother spent the night protecting me.  The next day my aunt picked me up and took me back to her family where I heard over and over that it was my own fault.  If I wasn't so pretty, if I didn't wear short shorts, if I didn't leave my beautiful curls hanging down, that old man wouldn't have been tempted.  And really, it was just a kiss and a grope, he really didn't do anything wrong.  I was sent to an emergency foster care family and then took my first plane ride across the country back to my parents.

For months I wrapped myself in jeans and big flannel shirts.  I braided my hair every day.  I became silent and withdrawn.

Six months later I stood in front of a judge and the whole little town.  My RCMP officer was named Heather.  She spent all day with me, encouraging me, lending me her strength.  I couldn't have done it without her. But I did it.  I testified and he was found guilty.  The thing that stood out for me the most, was when I went to the bathroom in the courthouse, a girl followed me in.  She said that in the beginning she couldn't understand why I would do this but she got it now.  She told me that he had done this to many girls in their little town, but no one would speak against him.  And then she walked away.

Getting a guilty verdict was so powerful for me.  It allowed me to speak again, to live again.  I stopped wearing men's flannel shirts, I let my hair down.  I started to contemplate the idea that this wasn't my fault.
By no means did my life get easier.  I've always struggled with self-esteem, with finding my voice and speaking up for what is right.  I was lucky in that my cousin never raped me and never hurt me.  I was lucky that a 70 year old man didn't force himself on me when I said no.  I was lucky that I had the support of my parents and so many friends.  And I am lucky that I have a heart big enough to forgive.

These early events shaped so much of my life.  My first husband was actually physically and verbally abusive.  The raging fights where he took away the phone and my clothes and wouldn't let me out of the bedroom, the days when he locked me out of the apartment and told me that I would never see my babies again, the fists through the wall and finally the day when he grabbed my arm and wouldn't let go, though I told him he was hurting me.  I found my line when he crossed it.  No man will put his hands on me in anger and hurt me.  I took my babies and left.

My second husband was emotionally abusive.  I spent years in a controlling relationship, with my self-esteem being eroded a bit at a time until I was so swallowed up in fear I couldn't do anything, couldn't even make a phone call. It took me years to find the strength and the courage to get out and still I struggled with finding my voice.

One of the most compelling reasons for ending abusive relationships was because I didn't want my sons to grow up thinking that was okay.  My boys have watched me been abused for years.  Figuring out how to break the cycle is hard.  In my home we talk about it.  We talk about what is okay and what isn't.  We talk about what it looks like.  We talk about respect.

I took two of the boys for a college tour and on campus they were holding a demonstration, all about sexual violence and how no means no and how you have to get consent before sex.  My sons signed a contract that states they will not perpetuate violence against women and then they pinned on a white ribbon.
Just after that there was a domestic violence rally in the city.  I took my boys and we listened to the statistics and the stories.  We marched through the city with our candles.  No More Silence - No More Violence we all proclaimed.

The statistics are scary.  In the county were I live one in three women are victims of domestic or sexual violence.  I am one of them.  There are thousands of acts of violence against women every day in this country alone.  At what point do we stand for the victims, give them the power?  This is the hardest thing to talk about.  It comes with so much shame and guilt.  I know that even now, 30 years after my cousin first kissed me, I have guilt.  I was a very small child and I was afraid to say no.  It was my fault.

I am not a victim anymore.  I am a survivor.  Not only did I survive the traumas of my childhood and my marriages, but I have healed my heart so there is no anger towards those who harmed me out of their own fears.  Now I talk to my sons about sexual violence.  I talk to my daughter about using her voice.  I speak for my own needs.  There will be no more silence in this house.  I will not contribute through my silence to this epidemic that rages through our nation and our world.  Someone said to me that if women stepped into their power, men would no longer treat them like that.  I feel that we need to bring the subject into the light and teach people everywhere that physical, verbal and emotional violence is wrong.  Teach it in our schools so children can recognize what it looks like. Talk about it in our homes.  Support the victims, let them know that it is not their fault.  Support the abusers so they can find healthy ways to get their needs met.  And above all, tell the stories, bring it out of the closet and into the light of day.  This happens, every day.

Walk down the street, go to the mall, look around at a concert or a ball game... one in three of those women have experienced an unspeakable horror that has forever changed them.  These horrors may have shaped us but they don't define us.

I am one in three.  I know that I am not alone.

On Love

What is love?

This is a question I've been contemplating for many months and it has occurred to me that though we all have a basic understanding of what love is, what it really means is different in each situation and with each person that uses the word.  I love chocolate.  I love my kids.  I love my dog.  I love a trashy romance now and then. I love my parents.  I love watching the stars.  I love swimming.  I love you.
Ah, that's where it get's tricky. Most everyone will understand exactly what I mean when I say I love chocolate because we all have something that we feel like that about.  When I say I love my parents, well that becomes a little more difficult to define.  That is much more complex, based on the years of the relationship and what may or may not have happened over those years.  But still, most people can wrap their minds around that concept without too much difficulty.  When I say 'I love you' everything gets much more muddled.  Does that mean I want something from you?  Does that mean I expect you to behave in a certain way? Does that mean that if you hurt me I'll stop loving you?  Does that mean I need you to do something?  Does that mean that you aren't free to be you?

I've spent many years trying to figure out what it means to me to love someone.  I've read a number of books trying to wrap my mind around the subject and clarify what it really means to me when I say "I love you."  All of these books have something interesting to say on the topic of love.  The one that most resonates with me is a little old book called Mister God, This is Anna.  Anna describes love as in my middle.  I know you 'in my middle.'  Once I love you, you become a part of me.  It isn't about knowing you in my head, it is about knowing you 'in my middle.'  Some people we see with our eyes.  Some people we know with our heads.  Other people we see and we know with our hearts.  To me, this is love.  The ability to see truly with our hearts is allowing our eyes to see, our heads to know but putting all that aside to love with our hearts. 

What it all boils down to, love to me doesn't ask anything of anyone.  We are all deserving, just by being.  My heart is open.  I love.  I don't expect you to be or do anything.  I don't need you to be or do anything.  I acknowledge and appreciate your uniqueness just as you are.  I understand that not one of us is perfect and I don't expect you to be.
In loving I know that I don't have to do anything.  It doesn't mean I'll be with you forever.  It doesn't mean I'll talk to you regularly.  It doesn't mean that I expect you to be there for me.  It does mean that there is a corner of my heart that will always belong to you.  That will never change.  No matter where you go, what you do, my love remains.  Truly loving someone means accepting them in all their imperfections.  Truly loving someone means encouraging them to be the best they can be.  Truly loving someone means supporting them in their dreams. 

The great thing about loving from our heart is that there is no limit.  When your heart is open, there is always room for more.  Every time you love someone, your heart expands to make room.  I always think about the Grinch who Stole Christmas and how his heart grew when he discovered love.  That is the way it works.  Every time I had another baby my heart grew.  Every time I fell in love again, my heart grew.  Every time I got a new cat, my heart grew.  When I met you, my heart grew some more. 
My goal has been to learn how to love with no lines and no limits.  I'm not there yet, but I'm close.  I want to love in a way that celebrates authenticity.  I want to love in a way that spreads joy.  I want to love in a way that encourages growth.   Love shared, should make both us more. 


  Love doesn't break people down, love doesn't make people less.  Love is constantly expanding, spreading, growing. 


My love is a gift, freely shared.  Whether you chose to accept it or not, it remains.