And when I thought of it that way, I compared it to a home search. I used to think a home without a fireplace was a deal breaker. Then I bought one and I learned to live without.
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 was three-plus hours of cardio, that made my heart pump and sing.
After she was busted she found the guts to tell her own.
“Shush up,” she said. Looking down at her from the top of stairs, “Now that’s enough, go lay down.”
July is a month of metamorphosis. We move to our next best iteration. I find that transition occurs best when we are present; living a life that revels in the here and now, is open to what’s next, and avoids the rabbit holes of what if’s that force us to sacrifice our authentic selves for the fakers, cheaters, and liars.
Of course, there are a few things missing, from turning on the radio to peeing and trips out to the trash, but that is pretty close to what I expected and intended my Saturday to be.
“You aren’t stuck on this,” she said.
Little did I know negotiation, whether overt or complicit, would include paternity and likely murder.
“She always believed in love,” Dawn said.
Why is that? Because we are afraid to write it. Afraid to be vulnerable again, and to possibly be open to rejection, again. It’s a worn out tawdry paperback, even Goodwill won’t accept.
“You swear on your grandma’s soul,” she asked.
This morning the alarm went off in the middle of a dream. It startled me. It’s been quite a while since I woke up to practice yoga on a Friday morning. It felt good to be back into my Friday routine.
Fridays signal the end of the work week, and it’s always in the same place sandwiched between Thursday and Saturday right near the end of the calendar week. Friday’s arrival comes with a sense of relief, accomplishment, and anticipation. There is a reason why we say TGIF, because Fridays are a great reminder of new beginnings.
If you haven’t laughed in a while, please do so. I promise you’ll look at the world a little warmer than you did the moment before. And if you haven’t spoken to or seen a friend who has the ability to make you nearly pee your pants, please get in touch.
I don’t want to work for anyone anywhere. I want it to mean something and make a difference, and while that may sound Pollyannaish, it’s true and the truth is my north star. I want to inspire and be inspired.
I smiled. We all smiled. The other three agreed. In unison, oh yeh, he was my favorite, too. They went on and on, and I told the story of my regret, and how I just found pictures and a letter of and from him, and yes, I admitted I had thought of him, both recently, and often.
My opening quote struck a chord with me this morning because when I read it I didn’t think of myself at first, I thought of two women who I shared the evening with last night. I think they are both courageous.
Like a champ, yes, that is how I feel this morning. As if I ran a relay race in record time last night, with friends and family cheering my team and me on, all the way to the finish line. This morning’s quote about the absence of fear nailed this morning’s mood.
Those lines are delivered by two characters. The sincerity and vulnerability of the lines, though originating from one, is shared by the two, both of their desire to be seen, to be understood, to be appreciated, and to be loved is so fervent that it is palpable.
It is your year, too. So enjoy it. Own it. And by God, do what Oscar said, “Be yourself. Everybody else is already taken.”
Yesterday morning I spoke with my sister and shared my blues about being alone Christmas Day. Bridget will be with her father today, and I am not making Christmas dinner, which we’ve always shared with my parents. I was dreading being alone. In spite of my little pep talk, about subtracting “no” and “can’t” from my vocabulary, I was falling right into the trap I desperately wanted to avoid: Self-pity.
Remembering my Grandma’s smile
Remembering my Dad chasing us around the house tickling us as kids
Remembering my Dad’s beard in the morning when he came home from a shift at the firehouse
Remembering my Dad rubbing his scratchy beard and cold face on our cheeks as we ate our breakfast
The threshold is God’s waiting room: Have you ever read something so lovely? I see the world through God’s eyes on walks with the dogs when I hear every bird, when I stop to appreciate the Hawk – in sheer awe of its wingspan – hunting for prey, when I awake and stand at the window counting the different colors of the morning sunrise, when I take the dogs out for their last visit before bedtime and bask in the moonlight, when I kiss my daughter goodnight and tell her that I love her, and when I place my head on my pillow each night and thank God for every moment when he made his presence that day. This is the best waiting room ever.
Journey. How many inspirational quotes have you read about the word journey? I equate journey to the word life, excluding when I have blinders tightly fastened for fear I will…
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.
Much like Maya Angelou, I never met a day like today. The day had not begun when I walked to the garage. I entered a yard of darkness. The sky above was so clear and black with its stars so sharp and plentiful that it appeared to be randomly pierced by a dart that invited narrow streams of light to emerge, all of which were superseded by the size and splendor of the sensational half-moon, whose white light just bathed me as I walked out to the garage. I stood in awe of its beauty. I stood grateful for the moment and the presence of mind to welcome yesterday’s ending and today’s beginning.
There are these moments in our lives when a person comes into it, presented like a perfectly wrapped present, with a tag reading, “Enjoy this gift. Love, God.” And that is what Maggie was, and remains. A constant source of laughter, love, and friendship.
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.