We check our watch when the cashier engages in conversation beyond the required, “Did you find everything that you were looking for today?” as if a trip to the grocery store is a treasure hunt.
Yesterday I didn’t know that I would do what I did, but I sure am happy today that I did it.
“For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind.” Ralph Waldo Emerson It’s Christmas. Emerson’s quote was spot on today. I started to write…
What does that mean? Do I hate Christmas?
The fallacy of forgiveness is that when we seek it, that action alone is equal to redemption.
Writing every day for 120 days is all right. It’s not a burden, but it does require clarity. Sometimes the fog settles in. It has this week. Outside it’s soupy,…
It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Her mother was supposed to be with him, but he drove her away for years. And this year she finally left. Sad and heartbroken,…
“Pursue the things you love doing and then do them so well that people can’t take their eyes off of you.” Maya Angelou I was looking for inspiration. Craving more…
So, “it’s like trying to grab hold of fog” …
Do you renounce Satan? I do, the other congregants and I said in unison.
There is nothing selfish by withholding our own light from leeches. You can’t enjoy life when others suck the life right of you!
I’m angry at myself because when I think of how people view me, this twice-divorced woman, I imagine they think I am an idiot but I’m not.
Note: I published my first draft last week. This is the version I will use today, Tuesday, January 30, when I lead my first Al-Anon class. The topic is Step…
Sometimes, I feel like the battered wife, always coming home for more, but I have the role wrong. I should not identify with the one being battered, I should identify with the batterer. How many times I have questioned fate, and blamed God for the present and past.; decisions I made, yet wanted to distance myself from.
I never fully considered the upside of “suffering” but after reading Janine’s poem this morning, I smiled. When I awoke this morning, I was intent on finding beauty today. I was intent on finding joy. I was intent on writing something uplifting this morning. I was intent on appreciating happiness. I found it in Janine’s poem.
God didn’t abandon my Grandma when Ellen died. He surrounded Dorothy with the likes of her mother Ellen, strong women, kind women, determined women, who together made her the woman that she was.
I yearn for quiet, and a long walk. The type of walk I enjoy most in the forest preserve, when all that I hear are my feet crushing the snow.
I thought of that concept this morning. Blissful ignorance. It would be nice to remove the thoughts that taint our opinion of others. Nice is an understatement, in fact, it’s life-changing. I found a way to do that on Monday.
We are always told to “Put yourself in their shoes” or “Walk a mile in their shoes” or some other iteration. And I have tried over the years to do just that. I recall sitting in court at 26th and California, listening to the public defender plea with the judge or jury as a death penalty was considered and begging for forgiveness. Those moments almost always made me think about how we choose our paths, and ultimately how our environments contribute to our behavior.
Acknowledging and accepting what we have; isn’t that what this day is about? A savior was born in a manger on Christmas Eve because his parents didn’t say no. Mary and Joseph didn’t cut and run. They didn’t resist, they humbly accepted the scene as God presented it, and what a gift they gave us.
My favorite story which makes me believe in fate is from January 1942 at St. Bernard’s Hospital. Patricia Craven and Dorothy Burns shared a room in the maternity ward. Patricia gave birth to Pasty, and Dorothy gave birth to Marie. The mothers would meet again 27 years later when Patricia’s son, Jerry, married Marie.
I visited my surgeon’s office the next day, where I gladly assumed rabbit pose to make the hernia appear. My surgeon felt it. We scheduled surgery. I’m hopeful that tomorrow’s surgery will prevent last Tuesday’s pain from happening ever again.
Some 28 years later, I was working as the Obituary Editor at the Chicago Tribune when Pat Carroll died. That morning I was not faced with my own mortality, but my own existence. What if my mom never became a nun and never met Pat? Well, like death, life is certain, too. I wouldn’t have been born, let alone working at the Tribune.
Sin was a big deal when I grew up. There were cardinal sins and venial sins. Committing a cardinal sin would land you in hell. My father had little tolerance for liars. He was adamant that liars are the worst sinners of all. If you are not truthful, you can’t be trusted. And if you aren’t trustworthy, well your life will be very lonely.
My mother nor I had finished reading the collection. That afternoon we read poetry aloud to one another. It was intoxicating. Short of her sharing in my daughter’s birth, that afternoon will stand as one of the best, most intimate, loveliest moments with my mom. Later that evening, she did it again, reading the poetry to a group of women, who were strangers not an hour before. I was reminded of the first time she took the pulpit and read from the Old Testament at St. Thomas More. Her grace, presence, and ability to project every nuance of those readings had me wanting to tell the whole church. “Hey, that’s my mom.” I felt the same way that night. And like many experiences this past year, I believed that book, and every poem bathed in Gluck’s own pain derived from her own divorce, was meant for me to read and to listen to.