just sayin......



source: tumblr

 I was reading about a recent study where researchers found that women are the unhappiest we’ve been in 35 years.

I know, right? At first glance, a big “huh?” came to my lips too.

I mean, we’re all living large and creatively our loud, running around with wolves (and packed calendars), and as the 80’s manifesto on womanhood proclaimed; not only bringing home the bacon, but also frying it up in a pan (perfectly crisp no less), while never letting our man forget he’s a man, and um, (what’s the rest?) oh yea, roaring. (Well – some of us anyway.)

So, what the heck would we have to be so unhappy about?

The University of Pennsylvania researchers who conducted the study say, “While it's wonderful that women have more choice and opportunity than ever before, the increased opportunity and subsequent pressure to succeed in so many dimensions may have led to an increased likelihood in believing that one's life is not measuring up.”

Well, (slapping the side of my head) shut the front door, Francis.
Ya think?

Which reminds me of Katie Makai’s observation that, women will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find just the right outfit to feel good, but haven’t got a clue where to find inner fulfillment or how to wear joy anymore.

Could all this unhappiness be because we’ve been brainwashed into believing that our fulfillment comes in places it doesn’t exist and from trying to force our round selves into too small square holes?

If it’s true that we’re unhappier than we’ve been in 35 years, (and I believe it because I talk to women every day) I can’t help but think it’s because we’re living in a world that doesn’t fit us or honor who we inherently are. We aren’t hard wired to compete with each other and find ourselves lacking. We are hard wired to nurture each other. To support, affirm and empower each other. To tend the fires of hearth and home and create unified and loving community.

We were made to create, sustain, birth and bond; to tend, feed and nourish. Structurally, our bodies were designed to enfold and our arms were made to hold. We were made to be soft and seek peaceful comfort – in mind, body and spirit. We were made to love and follow our hearts – trusting in our intuition, inner knowing and sense of timing.

“……the increased opportunity and subsequent pressure to succeed in so many dimensions may have led to an increased likelihood in believing that one's life is not measuring up.”

What if (starting right now today) we stopped measuring ourselves against each other (or anyone else) and sat ourselves down, asking what made us truly happy and then, listening to ourselves, did what our hearts told us to do? What if we never had to feel embarrassed or ashamed or “less than” as a result of our individual choices? What if, at the end of the day, we didn’t care whether we “measured up” in the world outside ourselves? What if we finally took our power back and defined for ourselves what “living up to our full potential” and/or success meant?

And what if it was all bodaciously and deliciously not just more than enough, but also a half cup more?

I think they’d have different results to that survey, but then that’s just my (not necessarily humble) opinion and what do I know anyway?

Yea.
Just sayin’ y’all.
(wink)

Oh yea.  What if we spent today remembering and reconnecting?  Would it make a difference?

for this we pray....

Twenty something years ago, one of my dearest friends and I combined our spiritual traditions, and starting with the Penitential Rite from my religion, and praying an Al Cheit from hers, we created our own fall ritual.

Rising with the sun and packing up our journals, we would head out Hwy 22 to the Reservoir, a sacred place for both of us where we felt the majesty of God all around us in the splendor and beauty of nature. We spent the full day in silent reflection and writing, the only words we spoke out loud being lines from the prayers and petitions we recited together as we walked the paths, sat on the earth, turned our faces heavenward and let ourselves soak up the reconnection and oneness with ourselves, each other and God.

I was thinking about those times a lot this week. Missing them. Missing her. And thinking about how, despite our best intentions otherwise, the practice fell away into our fondly revisited bank of “remember when” in the wake of moves and miles apart and time zones.

So my phone rings at 5:30 am central.

“Are you up?” a voice asks.
“Yes” I say, (even though I wasn’t) stalling for time and trying to figure out who’s calling me at this time of the morning.
“Go to your computer – I sent you a picture.”
“What are you doing up and why are you sending me pictures?” I say, realizing it’s my friend and it’s 3:30 am her time.
“Just go check your email.” she says.

So I do. And it’s a picture of the Reservoir: 

And then she tells me that she’d been thinking about our fall ritual a lot this week and how much she missed it, and that if we both looked at the same picture of the same place at the same time, it would be like we were there together and we could pray our prayers as the sun rose.

And so we did. Just like old times.

Starting with mine:

I confess to almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do; and I ask blessed Mary, ever virgin, all the angels and saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God. May almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life. Amen. (Penitential Rite)

Adding hers:

We violate that which is Eternal when we violate ourselves: for our failures of truth, for acting out of fear, for paralyzing ourselves with our thoughts, for perpetuating vindictiveness by not forgiving, and for sustaining guilt.

We evade that which is Eternal when we evade ourselves: for those times I turned a deaf ear on the cries of children, and for those times I turned a deaf ear to the small child within me, for those times I believed I was alone, and for those times I believed my temporary difficulties were permanent.

We deny that which is Eternal when we deny our own depths: for the misdeeds we have committed with our bodies and our souls, for not being present in the moment, and instead being caught up in worry and fear, for not allowing ourselves to rest and to play, for focusing only on our shortcomings and not on our strengths and beauty.

We betray that which is Eternal when we betray ourselves: for the blessings I lost by not trusting myself and others, for the pleasures I failed to enjoy, the opportunities I failed to grasp, for withholding love and support, for being judgmental of myself, for doubting my ability to be loved and receive love from others.

By these namings, I acknowledge my errors, confront them, accept them, and commit myself to avoiding them in the year ahead. By these namings, I let go of fear, regret, bitterness and resentment, and in recalling this pain, I take responsibility for it, heal it, and commit to replacing it with joy in the coming year.

And I seek atonement.

And ending with ours:

Amen.

all these years later....

Monday was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 73, and even though the 6 year anniversary of her death is coming up next month, my heart still skips a beat when I think of living the rest of my life without her.

I miss my mom.
I want my mommy.

The bereft little girl within me stomps her feet and screams in outrage at being left alone.
The bereft woman within me lets the tears of sadness and longing roll down her cheeks in silence.

Even now, all these years later.

I knew I would miss her, I just didn’t realize how much. I miss our phone calls. I miss our conspiracies and our laughter. I miss the security of knowing that however rocky our relationship may have been, she was never more than a phone call away.

And our relationship was rocky. We loved and hated each other with equal passion. My mother and I had been estranged off and on for a lot of years before she died, but for the last year and a half of her life, we worked on putting the pieces of our broken relationship back together.

Sometimes it was really good and sometimes it was a painful rehash of past history and resentments. My mom hadn’t really changed, but I had. Distance had given me perspective, compassion and understanding. And maturity.

I finally understood it was never about me personally, and I let her off the hook. And in that last week of her life, I never left her side. I climbed up into the bed with her and held her head to my heart, stroking her forehead, kissing her temple - whispering all the things I wanted to say into her ear.

For the first few days, she resisted me, but by the end, she held my hand as tightly as I held hers, and tried really hard to whisper back.

Maybe that’s what I really grieve – that brief period of time when nothing else mattered, when there was no history (hers or mine) big enough to come between us in those last days.

On the last day the hospice chaplain came out of her room into the sunroom and told me she was hanging on because she didn’t want to leave me alone in the world. All these years later I still remember that October day so clearly, the crispness in the air, the smell of wood burning in the fireplace, and staring out the window at the birdhouses and chimes that lined the eaves around the deck as a soft breeze blew through.

I nodded my head as the chaplain told me what I needed to do, and I walked down the hallway to her room, looking at each family photo that hung on the wall before climbing back into the bed with her.  We lay there, face to face and I reassured her that I would be ok and she could go even though what I really wanted to do was hold on as tightly as I could and beg her not to leave me.

She died before I got the chance to ask her how I was supposed to live the rest of my life without her, because some days, even now, all these years later, I don’t know. I just don’t know.

Monday was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 73. And if she was still here, I would’ve flown out to be with her this week like I always did on her birthday. And I would have snuck out to buy her balloons for every year she was alive, and taken her out to dinner and made her wear a crown.

I miss that.
I miss her.
I want my mommy.

I so do.
Even now, even still, all these years later.

And Mom, if you’re reading this, Happy Birthday – I love you and I miss you.
More than either of us knew.

for the love of progress

Yesterday was spa day – my day to sleep , rest and rejuvenate.


Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while know I have a chronic immune deficiency which requires an IV infusion of immunoglobulin every 6 weeks. Without it, my body has no resistance to bacteria, and even the simplest of infections becomes life threatening.

(I ended up in the hospital for 5 days and almost died from a pimple 4 years ago – not exactly a dignified way for a Queen to check out – ya know?”)

Ever conscious of the power of positive thinking, I dubbed the four hour infusion process “spa day” and the IV administered immunoglobulin my “go juice.”

Whatever works – right?

CVID as my illness is dubbed, has numerous side effects – one of the most impacting (for me) is chronic inflammation throughout the body. Which equals pain and sore aching muscles.

As if the immune deficiency wasn’t enough to deal with all on its own, I also have serious spinal issues due to an old war injury. For the last 3+ weeks, I’ve been unable to walk without crutches – because of serious inflammation in the back/spine and the resultant (excruciating) pain.

The best course of treatment for my spinal issues is a steroid epidural – which would be relatively simple in most cases, except that the steroids, along with bringing relief, also suppress the immune system. And I need three of them, 2 weeks apart.

Connecting my pitiful dots?

So the epidurals and the infusion of immunoglobulin had to be coordinated within a six week window.

And in that meantime I was in misery. Total and complete “I can’t do this anymore” misery. The ONLY thing that brought any relief were a combo of muscle relaxants and high level narcotic pain medication that pretty much left me non-functional.

I had conversations I don’t remember having. I lost whole days. I wet my pants. I fell (deeply) asleep sitting up at my computer holding a dish of ice cream and once in the middle of eating dinner with my head down on the table. I cried over nothing and laughed at things that weren’t funny. I felt bullet-proof.

(If you were the unlucky recipient of any of that – I sincerely apologize - really.)

BUT………..
I had the first epidural on Thursday, the infusion yesterday and in between slept 12 hours at a stretch.

And………
today is Day 5 off of crutches!!

Woo Hoo!!

I still have pain and I walk a little falteringly and I have two more epidurals to go – but I can handle it with a whole lot less medication than I was having to take.

And I put that in the “very good thing” category.

Oh – and in case you’re wondering, yes……I’m keeping my promises:

to listen to and honor my body.
to not push it so hard.
to lay it down and let it rest when it’s tired.
to never again take walking for granted.
to kiss my legs (I can’t reach my back) every day and say thank you. outloud.

I’ll keep you posted.

opening to who I am

I receive all kinds of inspirational messages in my inbox each morning, and one of my favorites is my “morning bone sigh” from Terri St. Cloud. I lovingly call her St. Terri of the Clouds and if you know her, I’m sure you understand why. She’s the self made woman behind Bone Sigh Arts – a woman who shares the journey we all share, in words and images that speak to our hearts and souls.


Like this one that came today:

“ to let the love in
she had to put the fear down.
to put the fear down
she had to trust herself.
to trust herself she had to believe in herself.
to believe in herself she had to love herself.
to love herself she had to open to who she was. ”

“to love herself she had to open to who she was……..”

Who am I?
And what is it I have opened to?
Beyond and beneath the surface?

It might surprise you.

Not that what’s on the surface isn’t me – it is. But only a part.

And it’s not (for the most part anyway) that I purposely hide it.
It just doesn’t always come up in conversation because I no longer feel the pressure to marginalize or minimize myself by being the first one to tell you how imperfect I really am underneath that surface.

If you’re around me long enough, you’ll eventually find out for yourself because I’m too busy living me to live anything or anyone else these days.

I am creative, and passionate and eclectic and artistic.
I hate (hate) housework.
I am a free spirit.
I am smart and witty.
I read trashy romance novels for diversion.
I can be incredibly hard on myself.
I am fun.
And a loyal friend.
I spend too much money on clothes and accessories.
I don’t like everyone or want to hang around them.
I can be selfish.
I am compassionate (sometimes to a fault).
And a voracious reader.
I am kind.
I hate shaving my legs.
I won’t go out in public without make-up.
I create sacred space and have an innate ability to gather people together.
I believe in love.
I can get whiney.
I can be gossipy and judgmental.
I am a natural leader and teacher.
I love philosophical conversations.
I do a lot of service (volunteer) work.
I’m a mini hoarder.
I was bored by the book “Eat, Love, Pray” and didn’t finish it.
I try to live my life as a good person.
I procrastinate.
I make people laugh.
I cry at sadness.
I have days when all I want to do is nothing.
I’m a great mom and I have amazing children.
I’ll drink almost anything but plain water.
I don’t always finish what I start.
I make promises to myself I don’t keep.
I love my husband.
I get on my knees and pray every day.
I don’t like exercise.
I try to always do the best I can with what I have.
I’d rather eat out than cook.
I don’t facebook or twitter or want to learn how.
I am not neat, organized or tidy.
I have big dreams.
My desk is buried under piles of clutter.
I am somewhat daring and take chances.
I’m great at encouraging others.
I love being a grandma.
I once bought new underwear instead of doing a load of laundry.
I don’t always love myself.
I’m really bad at returning phone calls or answering email.
I can care too much about what other people think of me.
I’m generous and love giving things to people.
I practice please and thank you as a spiritual act.

So there you have it.
Me.

I’ll tell you that one of the greatest benefits of being in my 50’s is that I am (finally) able to be ok with who I am. To accept it and me. To no longer feel the need to point out my pathology in detail at every opportunity or think of myself as something broken and needing to be fixed.

It took a lot of years to let go of that – but having done it, I no longer feel like a fraud in my own life.

I am just me.
Gloriously human.
Warts and all.
Over all, I think I’ve turned out rather amazing.

There are some things I’m working on because I want to improve certain aspects of myself.
And there are some things I’m not working on because I’m ok with how it is or I am.

In the end, it really IS all about putting the fear down, trusting in myself, believing in myself and being open to love.

“ to let the love in
she had to put the fear down.
to put the fear down
she had to trust herself.
to trust herself she had to believe in herself.
to believe in herself she had to love herself.
to love herself she had to open to who she was. ”

Yep – that’s the story I want to share today too. 
And St. Terri of the Clouds, if you're reading this today, thank you for the daily words that so often say exactly what I'm feeling with such simple profundity!

for the love of comfort food

Growing up, the only kind of cereal allowed in my mom’s pantry were cornflakes or cheerios. Once in a while we might score and get sliced bananas or raspberries on top of our cereal but never, (and I repeat - never) were we allowed to sprinkle sugar on top. It was plain old (boring) cheerios or cornflakes each morning.


Like typical children, we begged and pleaded at the grocery store, but the answer was always a firm and non-negotiable “NO.” I believe my mother would have willingly died before she would’ve allowed a box of sugared cereal to sit on one of her shelves.

Which is not to say I didn’t have my outside sources for the contraband.
I did.
Sleep-overs at girlfriend’s houses and weekends at grandma’s.

The first thing my grandmother and I did on our weekends together was head to the grocery store. She would push the cart up and down the aisles and tell me I could have anything I wanted.

Anything. And not just cereal.

So I would choose all the really cool, yummy stuff – like TV dinners and canned chicken noodle soup with oyster crackers, boxed mac and cheese, a couple 6 packs of Tab and Dr. Pepper, Wonder Bread, chocolate milk and Fruit Loops. Oh, and a can of Spam so she could make her famous fried spam sandwiches slathered with Miracle Whip on the Wonder Bread.

All of which my mother would have died fighting before allowing into her house or feeding to her children. For my mother, the gourmet, food was art.  For my grandmother it was about love and comfort and nurturing.

I haven’t been grocery shopping in about two weeks and my cupboards were (sadly) resembling those of Mother Hubbard. So, with me needing some groceries and my hub needing some stuff to finish a project, we head out to the Wal-Mart Super Center.

“You have your list?” my hub asks.
“Right here.” I say showing him.

I hop on a motorized cart, he grabs a basket and we each go off on our separate ways to accomplish our tasks and fill our lists.

But, the most amazing thing happened over on the cereal aisle. There I was, reaching for the box of Kashi, when I SWEAR I heard my grandmother tell me to toss away the list and pick out anything (everything) I wanted.

Really. Clear as a bell, I heard it. In her voice, the same way she used to tell me that when I was little.

I got a little teary eyed.
And I crumpled the list – going up and down the aisles, gathering my goodies:

Fruity Pebbles, Cocoa Krispies, Lucky Charms, Sugar Puffs and Captain Crunch with Crunch Berries. Cinnamon Life, Sugar Pops, Fruit Loops, and chocolate Frosted Mini Wheats. From there I headed off to find a loaf of wonder bread, a jar of miracle whip, 2 cans of spam and a half rack each of Tab and Dr. Pepper. Oh, and as I passed by the dairy, I threw in two half gallon cartons of half and half and a big flagon of hazelnut creamer for my coffee.

Grandma would have been proud.

“Ok - I’m done.” I say, motoring up to my husband in the hardware department.

He looks in my basket. At the nine boxes of cereal , loaf of white fluff bread, jar of miracle whip, 2 cans of spam, gallon of half and half and the creamer. A minute or two goes by.

“What happened to your list?” he asks.
“What list?” I answer.

He looks at me. Nods.
“Well then, let’s go.” he says (cherrily) and we head towards the check-out.

“Wow, you must really love cereal.” the young checker says as she scans the boxes.
“Love it. In fact I could eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner.” says my husband.
“It kinda looks like you’re going to.” says the checker, giggling.
“Yep.” says my husband (resignedly) looking over at me.

Last June as we were celebrating our 31st wedding anniversary, a young woman, newly engaged, asked me my secrets for a long and happy marriage. I told her I didn’t know if there was a secret to it or not – and I still don’t.

But having a husband who loves me and (for the most part) indulges me in my idiosyncrasies and is willing to eat a bowl of cereal and fried Spam sandwich for dinner - and pretend he likes it sure helps.

All I can say is - that's LOVE.    
It so definately is........

remembering 9-11

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Ten years ago I was out west visiting friends and family. I was having such a good time, I had called the airlines in an attempt to change my flight back home so I could stay an extra day and fly home on the 11th. But, the only available ticket was on a flight that departed at 6:05 am, so I decided to keep my original ticket and fly home as I had been scheduled – on September 10th.


I’ll be the first one to point out that had I been able to change my flight and fly home on the 11th, I wouldn’t have been anywhere near the planes that went down that day – I was clear across the country on the West Coast. But an hour into my flight, I would have been on one of the planes that were diverted to Canada and landlocked there for 3 days until the air space was cleared for safety.

Being unable to change my flight didn’t have anything to do with keeping me safe or away from terrorism. I believe it was because, quite simply, I was meant to be home on September 11th - to do the work I was doing at that time as a grief counselor and lay minister. I believe I was brought home a day early to be at the vigils and lead the prayers that so needed to be prayed as we all staggered and were brought to our knees in the wake of terrorism and unfathomable tragedy.

The same prayer I pray today on the 10th anniversary of 9/11:

Today we humbly ask, Father, Mother, God,

that you would wipe the tears of all in need of comfort.

That you would warm the heart of one who would grow cold from bitterness.

That you would lift the head of one who is bowed down in sadness.

We pray now for the strength to rise again, build again, and love again

We pray that you will help us rebuild our broken lives and mend our broken hearts.

We pray that we might be an instrument of peace in a world that suffers, we pray that you

will give us the courage to face evil and the faith to believe that good will never be

defeated, and there is no darkness more powerful than the light of love.

Hold us close to your heart, Father, Mother, God, through our tears, and our sorrow.

May we see a vision of a new tomorrow, but may we also always remember that day, that

time, that our hearts felt - for ourselves, for those who went down in the flames of

buildings and airplanes, for their families and loved ones, and for the world that grieved with

us in our great tragedy.

Every one of us remembers the tragedy of that day clearly - the looks on the faces of those on the street, survivors and those searching for lost loved ones, the looks on the faces of the emergency personnel and first responders, and the incomprehensible devastation of Ground Zero.

But amidst those images and remembrances, I hope that today we also give thought to the days that followed 9/11 – when we grasped what was truly important to our hearts – when we reached out to one another across time and distance, when we forgave old hurts and laid aside inconsequential and/or petty differences – when we made time in today for what we had been putting off until tomorrow.

The Dalai Lama was asked what he felt when confronted by man's hatred and fear. He replied that he felt great compassion.

Not sorrow, or helplessness, not rage or fear, but great compassion.

And when asked what should or could be done about the violence in the world, he replied, "Turn towards one another and pray, unceasingly and without end."

That’s how I started my morning today. In prayer. For those who lost their lives, for those who lost loved ones, for those that have lost their belief in light overcoming darkness, good triumphing over evil, and love being more powerful than hate, for those who are still trying to make sense of a senseless act, for those who hold onto hatred and fear.


I pray. Today and all days.
That’s all any of us can do.
The prayers matter.
And make a difference.
Really, they do.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury,pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

and where there is sadness, joy.

Amen

(from the prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi)

for the love of shopping

And somehow, it all came together perfectly.........

Our very own Fairy Godmothers, Widdershins and Deosil were there...  



I had the perfect pair of shoes...
(modeled for you here by a stunt double)



The "OPEN" sign was lit......



and the store was stocked with really, really cool stuff arranged really prettily.....



 Don't you just want to hop in your car and come on over?  (wink)

for the love of dreams

Almost exactly three years ago, I quit my "day job", threw caution to the wind and followed a dream.  I always laugh when people talk about formal "business plans" because mine was (quite literally) "why not?" with a little bit of "if not now, when?" thrown in for good measure.

"If you build it, they will come."  (Field of Dreams)   

The vision and passion behind the dream was to create a gathering space where I could empower women by giving them the gift of their own inherent sovereignty and divinity.  And so the retail gift shop and wellness sanctuary was built.  From the ground up. 

And it was (if I do say so myself) a masterpiece of beauty, born out of love.

Shift Happens.         

A lot happened this past year - all of it bringing me to a place where I knew I had to take a step back and look at where I was and where I wanted to be. Under the pressure of increasing overhead and a declining economy / recession, owning and maintaining a business wasn't fun anymore.  The joy was gone and I wanted to get it back.

Some things had to go so that some things could stay.  It was time to scale back and simplify.  That's when I decided to move.  Driving through downtown one day, I saw the "For Rent" sign in the window, and the rest is, as they say history!

my new space at 914 Clinton St.



The new location is only a block west of where I was, but I am nestled across the street from a coffee shop and tea house, next door to an art gallery and a hop, skip and jump away from a really cool restaurant with roof top dining.  This neighborhood is like an artist's colony and I am so loving it already!  



beautious and spacious - my blank canvas

So, when I first opened my store, I started off small and added to it over the three years - bringing in furniture, fixtures and display (as it's known in the trade) bit by bit and piece by piece.  I had no real concept of everything I had until we started moving it all:





I have a lot of furniture, fixture and display.  Not to mention box upon box of inventory.  

It all came over all at once.  Nestled, propped, lined up and stacked into every corner, nook and cranny.  Standing in the middle of it, I can admit it was rather daunting.  But just as I asked myself "where do I even start?" the girlfriends showed up - bearing gifts of coffee and candy; graciously offering up their time, creativity, companionship and able bodies!

We've spent the last 4 days unpacking and arranging and hanging and the blank canvas is being filled in and coming together.  Beautifully and bodaciously.  The vision I had for what I wanted it to be is coming to life.  And I am so beside myself excited!   

Today is our day for the finishing touches so I can be open for business at 10 am tomorrow.  And although there's still a lot to do, I'm not worried.  I know it will all come together and by tonight we'll be dancing with the music and toasting to the future.

I'll take pictures to show you!

So yes, today I surround myself with the love of dreams, and visions, and passions and creativity, and girlfriends.  And a husband who patiently moves the heavy stuff and seems to have just the right tool for whatever is needed! 

for the love of kindness

Right now I am in medical limbo as I wait for doctors to coordinate and medical records to be transferred so I can be enrolled in a pain management program and hopefully (keeping fingers crossed) find relief from the pressure against my spine and muscle spasms in my back.


I am still on crutches.
I hate them.
I hate being dependent and reliant on them.
I hate not being able to move around freely.
I hate that I can’t just get up and go any place I want to get up and go.

Although (as I shared in a previous post) I have dealt with “back issues” for a whole lotta years, I don’t know what brought on this nerve condition so quickly - I was walking one day and the next day I wasn’t. And as the days turn into weeks with no easing up or improvement, I wonder what’s ahead of me.

This has forced me to replace my arrogance with humility – acknowledging the limitations of my physical body instead of always pushing at it and fighting against it which is what I have done for years.

Some days I nod my head with resolve, knowing I’ll do what I need to do just as I’ve always done what I needed to do in various other situations. At the least, I’ll “endure”, as Cinderella put it on a previous post.

Some days I cry.

And some days I try to strike up a deal and bargain with God.
“If you just let me walk again, I promise I’ll listen to and honor my body.”
“I promise I won’t push it so hard.”
“I’ll lay it down to rest when it’s tired.”
“I’ll never take something like walking for granted again.”
“I’ll kiss my legs every day and say thank you. Out loud. Every day.
Really, I will. I promise.

For the record, let me just say I don’t believe this is some form of punishment or punitive action from God – I just figure he knows some people who know some people and he’s got definite influence in all the right places. It’s worth a shot anyway. Kinda like W.C. Fields, “looking for the loophole” – ya know?

On another note, it’s been interesting to see and live life from a different perspective – as a handicapped person. To be the recipient of eye rolling, impatience, intolerance and yes, prejudice.

Like when I stopped at the speedy mart on my way into work for a cup of coffee and a woman cut in front of me to get to the door and then let it close on me instead of (kindly) taking 60 seconds to hold it open for me. Or the person who glared at me and sarcastically said, “excuse me, do you mind moving out of the way?” as I tried to maneuver myself, my purse, my purchase and my crutches through the check out at the grocery store.

Believe me, I don’t want to be in your way anymore than you want me to be in your way.

But then there are other times when I truly witness the kindness of strangers, like the two little boys on bicycles who asked me if I needed help as I tried to carry some stuff from the parking lot to the store. Or the man who got up from his table at the restaurant to hold the door for me yesterday when I went across the street to pick up lunch. Or the woman who was walking by on the sidewalk at the same time I was trying to unlock the door and stopped to help me get inside, and then asked if I needed her to help me in any way.

So where does LOVE come in today? In the kindness of strangers as they pause in the midst of their busyness to reach out a hand. To offer a simple courtesy.

Simple acts of random kindness.

“Be always kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

Some obviously – like me on crutches.
And some not so obviously.
But battles all the same.

What simple acts of kindness can you share today?
It does make a difference.

Really, it does.

day five: for the love of school

oh yea - with a book bag like this I would rule the halls of academia.



 Back in my day (geez – I can’t believe I’m old enough to say that…) the Tuesday after Labor Day was when school started. I remember the excitement even though it’s been 48 years since I went to school for the first time. My mom told me I was up at 5:00 am, fully groomed and dressed, eating my bowl of cereal; my “book bag” propped up and ready to go by the front door.


And unlike some of the other first graders who held onto their mother’s hands and were reluctant to be left alone, I independently found my cubbie, stored my stuff, sat at my desk and told her to leave.

I guess I knew even then that I was born to be a student and I would love it there. Being in the hallowed halls of learning was my sanctuary and refuge. In fact, I was one of those kids that never wished for school to end and summer begin. And I counted off the days until I could get back there.

I miss the first day of school. I miss signing up for classes, gathering up the syllabuses and heading off to the campus bookstore to peruse the aisles for hours – “filling my order” for everything I’d need for the upcoming term.

Mostly I miss the heady aroma and sweet smell of new book bags, and spiral notebooks, and text books and freshly sharpened pencils.

If I had copious amounts of discretionary income laying around, I’d be back at school today - working on my Ph.D. in something - not that I need the degree, or want it, but just to have a valid excuse for being back in school and spending every single second of my time reading and studying and taking notes and writing papers.

Yep – I LOVE(d) school. And the first day of school.
How about you? Got a story about the first day of school you’d like to share?

day four: for the love of family

Grandma always made you feel she had been waiting to see just you all day,

and now the day was complete. ~Marcy DeMaree

As our kids got older, Sunday became the day we made time to be together and share a meal around the dining room table. Both boys could pretty much always be coerced with promises of homemade chocolate chip cookies or a big pot of soup and homemade bread.

As they grew up and went out on their own, those home cooked Sunday dinners became even more important to me – a way for this mama to call her children home as a reminder that no matter how old they may have become (in years) or how big they were (in stature), they would always be my precious little boys (in heart) and I would fuss over them and spoil them just like when they were little.

Truth be told, I could have had them stay my precious little boys forever.

But life called them to it, and all I could do was let them go, with blessings I didn’t always want to bestow and having to share them (graciously) with others when I wanted them all to myself. They are both incredible young men my boys, one married and one about to be married, and if I had been the one to choose their mates myself, I couldn’t have chosen better than they did. I am blessed and lucky that way and I know it – showing my appreciation at every opportunity. My daughter in law and soon to be daughter in law are the daughters I never had myself and I love spoiling them too.

So , back to my point……yesterday was Sunday and mama needed her mama fix, which is (again) to gather her children around the table and share a meal. Except mama is neck high in the middle of a huge and overwhelming move (my new store location) and the thing that is getting ignored is my house and so even if I could find my kitchen in the mess that used to be my house, I couldn’t move around in it anyway because I am still on crutches.

(sigh)

But not to be stopped, we make plans to meet at a restaurant we all love and frequent. So as we’re being seated, I clear the space next to me for my granddaughter to sit. And the minute I’m seated, I take her into my lap. Enthralled, we’re all involved with each other – catching up for lost time so to speak.

But I keep getting interrupted by things like having to look at a menu, and ordering, and being part of a conversation and then being told to eat.

Oldest son: I used to be the center of attention.
Husband: Me too.
Me: (holding my graddaughter – oblivious to everything around me)
Oldest son: She used to feed me bites of her food like that.
Husband: Me too.
Youngest son: Well what about me? She cut my meat for me until I was 22.
Oldest son: We should’ve just handed Mom Olivia and ordered her a mint and she’d have been happy.
Husband (ever budget conscious): Yea – I could’ve saved the price of her entrée.
Oldest son: Next time.
Husband: Remind me.

I look around the table. At the men I love – and I know they’re feeling displaced. They used to get all my attention.  But as cute and precious as they are, they don’t fit on my lap anymore, or let me smother them in kisses or laugh in delight when I blow on their bellies like this: 

The princess Olivia  - 5 months

But the next time we're together I'll try my best to give them equal time.
Even though I can't make any promises.
Seeing the picture I'm sure you can see why.

day three - for the love of bliss

Ode to Hafiz from Christine Mason Miller on Vimeo.

This is where I would LOVE to be today and what I would LOVE to be doing.....

home.
at the ocean
walking in the surf
the smell of sand and sunlight combined
the sound of the waves playing my favorite song
the breeze in my hair
gulls overhead
a paint brush in my hand
and Hafiz.

Bliss.  Oh yea.
That would be bliss.

Where would you LOVE to be today and what would you LOVE to be doing?

day two: for the love of brave girls.....

I am a card carrying and proud member of the Brave Girls Club. I LOVE Brave Girls and everything it stands for. I LOVE Melody Ross – both her writing and her art. I LOVE reading the blog and I subscribe to “A little bird told me – your dose of daily truth.” I’ve done Soul Restoration 1 and 2 (and LOVED them), and one of my goals for next year is to attend the Brave Girls Camp in person.

I wanted to share this piece of love from the Brave Girls blog.  (If you think the words are great, you’ve gotta see the pictures that go along with it - click on the link above to see it!)

Once upon a time, you were a little girl…

Life was simple and carefree...
You dreamed big dreams without even knowing they were big...
And you did the things you did because you felt like it…
You weren’t afraid to try new things…
because everything was new…

You didn’t worry about what other people thought…
Or what they said…
You were YOU because you didn’t know how to be anyone else.

Are you starting to remember?
Can you start to feel her again…even just a little?

Cause guess what, sweet girl…
She’s still in there.

Will you remember her?
Please find her again…then listen to her.
She is so wise….
When you find her remember:
She has a tender heart.
Speak kindly to her.
Make sure she knows that mistakes are okay.
Be patient with her as she learns and grows.

Love her.

Run through the flowers with her, play make-believe, dream big dreams, believe in goodness, find joy in everything around you, make life simple the way she liked it.

It might take time…but find her….she is you…
…the real you.

for the love of (dance) shoes

I always wanted to be a dancer. Mostly for the shoes. I love dance shoes. (Well ok – I love shoes period, but I especially love dance shoes.)

It's been a love affair for as long as I can remember. 

When I was little, my grandmother let me play in her closet. It wasn’t the fur coats or vintage dresses or even the jewelry that drew me in – it was the shoes. My grandmother loved to dance and she had quite the collection of glittery ballroom dance shoes for me to choose from.   

When I was 8, I begged my mom to sign me up for tap lessons.  Admittedly, I really didn’t care about tap dancing per se, but boy oh boy did I love the shoes.  I wouldn’t take them off – I wore those buckled patent leather Mary Janes everywhere I went and all the time – even to bed.  (I thought they made me really cool - tappity, tap, tap, tap.)

Then as a teenager I became enamoured with flamenco. But again, it was really all about the shoes (and ok – the flower behind the ear and red lipstick.) When everyone else was wearing water buffalo wedge sandals with their wrap around tie-dye skirts; I wore my dainty soft leather tee-straps and clicked my heels dramatically. (I thought I was all kinds of exotic and mysterious - ole'.)

And..... of all the things I ever bought on my travels, my most prized souvenir/possession was a pair of purple suede shoes I bought at an outdoor market in Argentina just so I could take tango lessons from a guy named Oscar who was suavely latin with dark smouldering eyes and who wore a walnut around his neck. Ok – so that was one time that it wasn’t entirely about the shoes, but they did play an integral part.  (Cheek to cheek, I pretended I was Evita and he was Che.) *blushes*

(pausing to regain my composure)

But of all the dance shoes I have ever owned, nothing comes close to the shoes my best friend gifted me with to celebrate “the big move” as I “dance my way” into my new store location.

I pulled them out of the sack and was (literally) struck speechless by the audacity and bodaciousness of these “stand back and take notice; bow down before greatness; all hail the Queen; I rule“ statement of these shoes in....(dramatic pause)  red (and I do mean red) glitter (no less).

Just begging to be filled by my feet.

“OMG” I squeal upon first look.
“They just screamed Queen Dani and I knew I had to have them for you."  my friend says.
“Absolutely,” I affirm a little breathlessly, “Did you get hurt fighting off the crowds to get them for me? ”
“Just a couple scratches” she shrugs, “But it was worth it.”
“Oh yea,” I say nodding my head vigorously, “I can do some serious dancing in these babies.”
“Yep…or ass kicking.“ she points out.

These shoes were not made for amateurs or the timid – they were most definately made for a Queen, and not just any queen either - nope, they were made for me.  We were destined to be together.


I’m sure you’ll agree - once you feast your eyes on THIS: 

bow down

Yeppers, I love these shoes.
I so seriously do.
Because they DO scream all kinds of me for a whole lotta reasons.

Whether I put them on for a little dancing or for some kicking ass (and taking names.)

And I love my bestie, who understood how much I needed these shoes right now.  And because I know she probably didn’t really fight off any crowds of people getting them for me, but let me believe she did because it makes me laugh to think it.

That's my story on, this  - day one of 30 days of love. 
Do you have a story of shoe love and/or best friends? 
I'd love to hear it - please share!