Christmas and Alex

I have said that I do not want this blog to be about sadness, but there are some things so profoundly sorrowful that I am making my own exception.
It has been 15 ½ years since Alex died. That means 15 Christmases have passed. One would think it would get easier, and I suppose that is true in some ways. But the pain of his absence, and the person he would be now does not ease. My coping skills are better, but the pain in my heart is acute. It no longer has the power to keep me hidden away, but I try to hide my sorrow in plain site. Everybody wants me to be okay, and I understand that is about their love for me, but I have such a deep sadness which defines a big part of my heart. It is impossible to ignore, particularly at the holidays.
So, I will just say it. My heart hurts, my tears hurt, my body hurts, with a sadness so deep that I rarely speak of it anymore. There are no new things to share about Alex, because he cannot make new memories. I miss him; who he was and who he might have become. My sweet, sweet, boy who would now be a man at 32 years old.
When I drove away from the cemetery, after leaving his wreath, I felt as if I were leaving my baby behind. My husband pointed out that he left us behind. But try as I might I couldn’t make him understand that it was not a logical thought, but a feeling.
I cannot rationalize my pain to make it go away. I must acknowledge it, and then move away from it as much as possible. Alex would not want me to continue to suffer, and I am trying not to. As I have said before, success can sometime be measured by just getting out of bed. And I am doing much better than that. But my heart still hurts, so I guess that is just how it will be.

Dark days of winter

I have been absent, huddled under a blanket, and petting my doggie. These dark days that have descended since we went off of daylight savings time, take some getting used to. It is 5:00 PM and all is dark. Not a creature is stirring, not even me. I want to cuddle, and huddle, and turn on the fireplace. I want comfort food, comfort heat, and comfort chair. I turn into a hermit, mostly. There are those days that I have to leave, but I don’t really want to. Once out, the old Terri comes roaring into place, but it takes some nudging to get me out the door.

Perhaps it is age, or maybe some depression, or maybe just acclimating to the change as we approach winter. Whatever! I feel the need to find my cave and hole up for the winter. So if I am absent once again, you can find me at that place of soothing comfort with a cup of hot cocoa. I will emerge when my hands have warmed, and I have once again become used to non-daylight savings darkness at the twilight of the evening.

Reading

I feel very grateful that in this life of mine, which is becoming narrower by virtue of disability, that I have a love of reading. Always there is a book with me; there always has been one.

I remember years ago friends telling me that reading would become a thing of the past when I had children. That really didn’t happen. If a person wants to read bad enough, a way will be found. I always took time here and there to read a book.

My children witnessed this, of both myself and their dad, and they became avid readers. I remember Larry Peterson, the principal at Alex’s high school, telling everyone at Alex’s funeral that this boy always had a paperback tucked in his back pocket. He would take Larry into these lands of fantasy when they spent some time together before the class that Larry was teaching. I still have the bookmark in the spot where Alex reached in the Star Trek book he was reading.

I lost my reading desire, except for books about grief, after Alex left us. But slowly the desire to be swept away into a different life found its way back into my psyche. It took a long time for the complex novels and speed to come back to me, but it finally did.

Over my lifetime, part of my reading has been the joy of ownership of the books that I so love. I would buy what I wanted to read, and a bookstore was my candy land. After Alex’s death, though, I no longer felt the need to own that which gave me so much pleasure. Slowly I have donated much in my own little library, and have never regretted it.

During this time I discovered Wilinet, which is an acronym for the Washington County Library Online. A search can be made through this service, which is free, to locate any book in any library within Washington County. When located, I can have it sent to my local library in Sherwood, and pick it up there. This can take as little as one day, or if it is a new bestseller, months. I am okay with this. I always have a book in my hand, but feel good about returning it.

Now John is doing the same thing. We are saving tons of money. Being avid readers can be very costly, and as we approach retirement we are becoming more frugal. I love this as a way to “have my cake and eat it too.” As we prepare to sell our house within the next couple of years, I will continue to purge the books I love, but do not need to be with me.

I am attaching a link for Wilinet for those who live in Washington County and would like to give it a try. Happy Reading!

Season of Change

On this crisp fall day, dangling my feet in icy creek water, I gaze in awe at the kaleidoscope of fall colors bursting forth from the trees and foliage. I breathe in that special autumn tang, which is the unmistakable and the undeniable existence of movement from the summer season. This mellow time of year has finally arrived, and all my senses know it.

I want to wallow in this luxurious bed of leaves, and listen to them crackle beneath me. I can almost taste my contentment as this season of change moves forward. The temperature is perfect for this special time of reflection in mother earth’s sanctuary of water and trees.

Fall is really here in all its uniqueness, solitude, and beauty. I could stay in this moment forever, as my wounds feel soothed and my psyche is comforted. What greater gift is there than these moments which renew our very being?

Kindness

Sometimes the mind just likes to swirl around and not land on anything specific. I feel like writing, but do not have a specific subject in mind.

I notice this fall, that there are several of my friends in distress….sad times. I worry about them and am not able to help. I know the futility of wishing this, so mostly I try and just listen. I remember that is all I really wanted was an ear of comfort and empathy. Outside of feeding someone who is hungry, or providing clothing, etc for others to keep warm, there is little that can be done for heartbreak, except pray.

Most of my friends are of a similar age to me. We have some issues that resonate, and hearts which can be broken. It is pretty amazing, though, how a broken heart can be pieced back together. But to my mind, it is never an exact fit again. There are gaps and jagged edges which just do not go away. We carry the scars of each battle, be it our own grief or hurting for others.
I do think this torn up heart becomes a better citizen of the world. It has experienced so much agony, that it is ready to accept others for their reality, and try not to judge to harshly.

I know that I am ready for kindness. The world has become very unkind everywhere, be it our own politics or world matters. It is sometimes forgotten that we each have our own world view, and that it is not necessarily about making others unhappy. Kindness for no other reason than to be kind, is one of the best things in this world.

Rain

I don’t mind rain, really. However, sometimes I am not prepared for the gray skies and the tears of heaven falling upon me. This summer weather transitioning into fall weather is tricky. I never know what to expect when I get up in the morning. Sometimes the forecast is wrong!

Today I didn’t want rain, but it didn’t care. It gently dropped to the ground in an almost drizzle form. The skies show no let-up, and so my dream of a sunny day must wait until another time. They predict heat again next week, but that is then and this is now.

Sometimes the weather emulates my mood. What I want though, is for the weather to be sunny so that my mood will reach up and be elevated. But in this moment the dreary sky and the little spit from above keep me in a place of gloom. I don’t like gloomy moods, but occasionally they come upon me for no good reason.
So, for now I am trying for gratefulness in the lovely green of Oregon. Without this rain there would not be this gorgeous symphony of color, which sustains me throughout the year.

I think what I need is a ride through the Columbia River Gorge. There may be places as beautiful, but I don’t believe greater beauty exists. Fortunately for me, I am taking that ride through God’s country this upcoming week. Something to look forward to and something to rejoice about.

A little piece I wrote about the most beautiful place I know:

Driving along Interstate 80 in Oregon I have such anticipation upon entering The Columbia River Gorge. The elegant and sweeping highway winds through the foothills which frame the view that can lift my weary spirit. I always gasp in amazement at this awesome spectacle.

Year round the colors are like the air I breathe. They extend deep into my pores as I once again absorb the different greens of all the trees, which surround the incredibly beautiful Columbia River. This is pure joy, for many miles, in what is a treat for the eyes and solace for the soul.

Watch Out Behind You!

This is a little story that I wrote while attending college. It was for a class I took on body image, and it made me take a look hard at my values and prejudices. This is the first one of four that I worked on. One day I hope to have these published.

Watch Out Behind You!

I have one. Most people have one. They come in all different sizes and shapes and provide necessary functions for our bodies. What is this wondrous thing that follows behind? A butt it is, and by any other name it would still be a butt.
What would I do without by behind, which holds up my pants. I always wear pants, so this is very important in my life. “Honey, do these pants make my butt look fat?” I see this look of horror rush over my husband’s face when presented with this no-win questions. “Of course not!” he answers.
We’ve been married 38 years and he has learned, through the many times I have asked this question, that there is only one correct answer. Smart man! My butt has gone from small, to medium, to fat, to medium. Sadly, it has never gone back to small. I would rate my butt as medium to fat at this stage of my life. With just the right pair of pants, it can look like a medium butt.
At a glorious 56-years-old, I have finally come to terms with my bottom and the many other necessary parts of my body. It is wonderful to be older and understand that the fluid nature of body size does not reflect character. It may reflect mood; depression, happiness, sadness, or just a love of food. My butt has been the recipient of many of these moody experiences, from the food that enters through my mouth and exits through the rear.
It has also been part of the process of birthing two children and was then the beneficiary of stretch marks. These are truly marks of valor, because anyone who has managed labor and then the birth process can attest to the pain of it. What an experience! Having my first child at a teaching hospital, I was the proud laborer who had a bevy of student doctors and nurses watching my butt, and other appropriate regions, for the ejection of the baby. At least one of us was very happy for that moment, because I could take my private parts back to cover. This experience did leave me with the advantage of being much less modest throughout life.
My butt has been with me since birth, and I have used and abused it. By this I mean the self-hatred I directed toward it when it was not the size I wanted it to be. Most of the time these days, my butt and I are in a pretty easy truce. Every now and then I give it a good talking to for not fitting just right into those pants I have spoken of.
I like this truce. I appreciate my butt for being there for me. It continues to provide a pants holder, a physical function, a place for my husband to pat. I still wish it would fit perfectly into every pair of pants I own, but overall I have come to terms with my derriere.


Author: Theresa Huber
Copyright © 2008

Be careful what you ask for: Irony

I guess these early days of fall-approaching have put me in a reflective place. This has recently popped up in my mind, and I realize what an irony it is. I do not view this as a sad accounting, just an accounting of growth.

After Alex died I became a freight train of movement toward having my son known everywhere, and that included the whole world. There were articles for the local papers; poetry; television; state laws; speeches; anything I could think of. I witnessed to all that I would carry the torch of his memory.

So, that said, I wrote a book which is available at Amazon, worldwide. In 1999 and again this year, I created poster/signs for The Compassionate Friends Conference, in memory of all our beloved children. Alex’s name was centered at the bottom of these 45 and 152 signs, respectively. People came from all over the world and his name was witnessed.

This year was the 15th anniversary of his death and much of this I did to commemorate him. There is really so little to do at this time and space. What I realized though, is that I gave up the torch-carrying role many years back, and no longer felt the need for strangers to know him. Those who know and love him don’t need me to beat them over the head with said torch. But isn’t it ironic that after letting go of this desire for his visage and name to go worldwide, it happened, but it no longer matters. The greater world community can never really know him and while they may care in a global sense, it is not possible to mourn the death of each individual who is unknown to you.

I asked God for help with my plan, and I do not regret that Alex's name is out there. But it in no way alleviates the pain in my heart about his absence. My growth is in the letting go. Irony abounds.

Coffee

I haven’t mentioned that my blood is composed of caffeine. More specifically, the caffeine which comes from coffee. Starbucks is the name and coffee is the game. Yes, they have other drinks available, commonly known as the foo-foo drinks, but their core is that Americano. It has four shots of espresso, topped off with some hot water. This is nectar to the coffee aficionado. I can feel it humming through my system, as all of the organs turn on. My brain engages, and I am ready to do battle with the day. A day without Starbucks is a day without sunshine.

I know there are other coffee shops which sell good stuff, but there is a comfort in knowing that whichever Starbucks I visit, the drink will always taste the same. The ambiance is slightly different, but not enough where you feel to be in a foreign land. In fact, when traveling the local Starbucks feel like a piece of home, to me.

I keep my Starbucks card auto-loaded with money, so I can always stop for a moment which is mine. Even if it is late in the day, and I am drinking decaffeinated coffee, it still feels like a treat. I love the aroma, and I love the taste. Nothing can beat that for this person.

I could rhapsodize on about my first cup of the day, but I am sure that the point has been made. I love it, it loves me, and coffee has proven to be good for the colon. Hooray!.

Almost Autumn

I love the onset of the fall months. There is a tang in the air and a crispness to the mornings, which are the indicators that autumn is close. The leaves are starting to give up their color and the temperatures are giving a nod to the coming season. And if that isn’t enough the State Fair starts today. All the wonder and fun of the next season is upon us.

For me the change of season can be challenging. Even though fall is my time to wallow in, I find myself getting sad while approaching September. Every year I go through this, and these days it takes me awhile to figure out why.

It doesn’t take long for me to recognize that I have a body memory of a different time; a time when I was getting my boys ready for school. Maybe everyone goes through this, but this beginning of the school year was ripped from my life after Alex died. We were denied his Senior year and all the fun and excitement that goes along with it.

These days I do not actively think about his senior year and what might have been, but my body remembers the sadness I experienced at that time. Even the joy of Morgan’s senior year and graduation was not enough, apparently, to remove this from my body. It helps to recognize that this is a stored memory, and that it has been a long time since I did the school prep thing for the boys. Up until a year ago I was doing my prep to start school at the end of September, as I pursued my own degree.

With all of that knowledge the wisp of sadness remains. I can only acknowledge it, and then try to move on to enjoy this time of crunchy leaves, cooler weather, and a wistfulness for what is coming. The thing is, my year begins in September, period. I can’t move it in my mind, so I must deal. And I am.

What’s Next

I wonder if others have felt like I do right now. Waiting. Waiting for what, is the question. I have a sense of impending ‘something,’ but I can’t put a finger on it. I don’t believe it is impending doom, but I think change is coming again and I resist. Even though I am older now, it has always been a challenge for me to sit easily with change.

I know the stereotype of an older person is one of inflexibility. I don’t believe I am an inflexible person, but then would I know it or admit it, if true. So assuming I am not inflexible, what is this opposition I have to an adjustment in my life? Perhaps it is because change has not really been positive in my adult existence.

As a grown-up I have experienced the loss of friends (through relocation); the loss of innocence when Morgan was so ill as a baby; the loss of Alex as a tragic event which nearly cost me my own life and almost redefined my very DNA; the loss of that feeling of ‘All is right in my world.’

Maybe I hit on the answer, above, when I said the loss of innocence. When things happen to us, we can no longer view the world through those ‘rose-colored glasses.’ I know many in society have never been able to do that, but I fooled myself into thinking that my life was impervious to tragedy because I held on with a death-grip. If I could control all around me, then nothing bad could happen. What I soon discovered is that I have absolutely no control in this world other than what comes out of my mouth and what I think.

So once again change is coming into my life. I can feel it, but I refuse to dwell in the place of negativity. That is a dwelling without hope, and I can never return to it. My next change will be about a lovely retirement with my beloved husband and a happy life for my sweet son. And of course I cannot forget Truffle. She brings a smile to my face all day, everyday. She was change, and that was a wonderful thing.

Come on ‘CHANGE,’ let’s step it up to a positive realm, but maybe it could be more of a fair fight this time. It is only right.

Slow juices

I feel in a creative slump today and am not able to settle down to write. My plan had been to write daily, but I don’t feel like penning drivel. So, I will take a break until the juices start flowing again.

Sleeping

Yes, I did sleep that wonderful relaxing slumber that I had dreamed of. I awoke at 9:00 and was alone in the room. My dear friend had gone down for breakfast and brought a tray for me. Wow, what service! This was the cherry on top of the whole trip; Debby taking care of me. It has been a long and stressful few weeks, and my friend went out of her way to help me truly relax. She did the driving and provided an ear for my errant thoughts. Thanks Debby.

Dessert

August 20, 2009

Ahhhh! The dessert was so worth the trip. We ended up at the bakery/bistro that makes the dessert for Lola’s, which is where we originally thought we would go. Anyway, the bistro fit more into our desires. We had wonderful food choices that were out of the norm, like a bread salad. Yum. I asked if they had nice bitter and strong coffee, and the waiter said, ”Welcome to Seattle. We have Starbucks.” I could have kissed him. About six cups later I was coherent and truly enjoying the small donuts with exotic dipping sauces and the caramel flan. Debby and I shared these luxurious confections and left this little adventure in cuisine with wonderful memories on our palettes.
We then drove up to Snoqualmie Falls, which is gorgeous. I am not sure how this has eluded me since I am native to the Northwest, but I haven’t ever been there. The falls sit below the massive hotel, which is built into the cliff. It is luxurious and wonderful. Even though they were not serving in the dining room any longer that afternoon, they let us sit at a nice table by the window and plied us with tea. Not only that, but two hours later when it was time to go, they would not hear of a bill. The tea was on the house. I was amazed. I know it was only tea, but that sort of generosity from a big restaurant is almost unheard of these days. I know that John and I will make a trip there to enjoy this establishment even more.

Sleepless in Seattle

August 19, 2009

What a nice time I am having on my getaway with friend Debby. We have a lovely room at the Embassy Suites; each our own bed and a spacious living room. Cool air runs through the vent system and comfort is the name of the game. But I can’t sleep. I hate this part of travel for me. That would be the first night sleeplessness. I notice each twitch of my leg and each phantom pain of the body. This is the ultimate of ridiculous because I know tomorrow night I will sleep the sleep of angels, and wake up refreshed for the trip home.
This is a short little getaway to visit a restaurant that I saw featured on Food TV. Or more accurately, a dessert I saw highlighted. We are going tomorrow, after a night of no sleep. I know I’ll love the experience, but I hope I don’t nod into the soup.

Ribeye

A ribeye steak has nothing on Ribeye the dog. He trotted into my life as a favor to his owners. They had an emergency in their family and needed immediate care for their bulldog, Ribeye. I’d never had a dog in the house before and wasn’t immediately taken with the idea, but this was urgent and they needed help. So….Ribeye came to join us for a week.
His owner Christine said perhaps we would fall for bulldog’s, when I mentioned that we were considering getting a dog. I remember thinking that it wasn’t too likely. That lasted about 2 hours.
When I fell, I fell hard. This wonderful bulldog became my companion. He sat by my feet all day long, within easy reach for that delicious petting. I could feel the tension leave my body with each stroke to his soft hair. Over and over I stroked him and fell in love with my four-legged friend, and he accepted me into his pack.
He’d snort around with his short muzzle looking for any dropped morsels, and then come back to my chair to be stroked some more. I’d get the sideways looks from him, which spoke of happiness. That is all he asked for; love and perhaps a little food mixed in.
We told our friends that we would love to have Ribeye anytime at all, and we meant it. They took us at our word, and we got to have him for another two week period. That was an amazing time, and cemented the notion that a bulldog was for us. We couldn’t have Ribeye, but we could have his kissin’ cousin.
Our little Truffle, a French Bulldog, came to us just a few weeks after Ribeye died. It was a death that was unexpected, and it saddened all who loved that doggie. He was known throughout NW Portland for his personality and good nature. He was special beyond words, and I will always remember the very first dog I ever fell in love with; a bulldog named Ribeye.

The Compassionate Friends

This organization, TCF for short, was instrumental in saving my sanity. I remember the first meeting that we attended, just 3 weeks after Alex died. The chapter leader, Patricia, held her arms open, drew me in, and let me cry on her shoulder. This was our first meeting. I have never forgotten her kindness. The second thing I remember is hearing people laugh. I couldn’t understand it at the time, but later came to learn that this seemed a safe place to experience momentary humor. Everyone attending has lost a child, so they knew where my spirit was. I felt like I was in a warm embrace at every meeting I attended. Some of those people have gone on to become the dearest of friends.
Recently, the national conference was held in Portland. It is hosted in different cities each summer. As I walked in, I once again felt this wave of acceptance and comfort. Much of the time now, I am the one offering the comfort. At 15 years it feels right to help the newly bereaved understand that they will not always feel the way they do right now. There is a future. It is a different future than they imagined, but it is there waiting to be redefined. We live on for many reasons and others that we love, but we also live on in memory of our beloved child….mine is Alex.

For those who have a need or knows someone who does, I have posted the national link.

Nurturing Hands

I had a massage the other day, with a Licensed Massage Therapist (LMT). I have been seeing Lisa for 10 years now and there isn’t a time when I don’t come out of it with my body feeling so much more relaxed and my spirit soothed.
The massage itself is almost beyond description. Each person will experience a uniqueness because of their body issues. My legs and feet are the hardest to tolerate because of their disability. But then Lisa moves up the back and to the neck, and I moan as the tension subsides. The legs and hips are mandatory and necessary for my mobility, but the back and neck are what I look forward too. That is where I carry my stress.
Lisa’s hands are strong and she works the back like I am a piece of bread dough. I thank God everyday for her ability and for her friendship.
I guess you could say an LMT is like the proverbial hairdresser; they hear everything. It is so calming that the woes or joys of life just find their way out of your mouth. Plus, there is the added benefit that you are on your stomach (for at least half of the visit), and don’t have to look at your listener. Your secrets are safe because the LMT has the same ethical guidelines of a doctor. There is confidentiality. If there were not, they wouldn’t be very busy. To laugh, to cry, to share, and to just be quiet are the hallmarks of the dimly lit, soothing room with light music, where it is all about feeling better.
For me, Lisa has become a valued and dear friend and our time together feels more like conversations. I am also her confidant, and I feel ethically bound to not disclose her private thoughts. Beyond ethics, she is my friend, and I do not discuss my friends in relation to what they have shared with me. If I speak of friends, it is to share their joy or sorrow with the hope of prayer and good thoughts for them. I try to live by the golden rule of “Do unto others…”
I wish that I could offer half the comfort to Lisa that she brings to me. Thank you Lisa.

Rest and Read

Ah…it is Saturday. In my life, I cannot understand why it being Saturday makes a difference in my outlook. John is semi-retired and home everyday. Our life is in a very nice place in that regard. But the weekends seem to have a freedom that isn’t apparent on a weekday. I know it is a mindset, but nevertheless it feels nice to lounge around and not look at the many things that need to be done.
While I can wax-exultant about having our Truffle, there is one thing I didn’t discuss and that is the hair. She sheds; she sheds a lot. It seems that I have to wipe down surfaces almost daily to keep the dander from flying. Truffle is worth it, but on the weekends I take a break from cleaning the hair surfaces within our family room. This doesn’t really sound like a big deal, but perceived (by me) dirty tables bug the heck out of me. I must clean them.
So, with all that in mind, I am heading to my easy chair to read my book.
Happy Saturday.

A TRUFFLE A DAY

This Truffle a day will not make you fat or make your face break out. She has chocolate chip eyes, red fawn hair, velvet ears, and will kiss your forever. We got her at 10-weeks old and she weighed all of two pounds. She looked just like a piece of chocolate candy to eat, and totally blew off the top of the cute meter.
We must watch out for that fast little tongue, which is inside that little French Bulldog body. She has no tail to wag, but can jump a foot high to let you know she is there. Each time I leave, she circles at the doorway with “pretty please” etched on that little expressive face. When I return she is joyful like no person I have ever seen. Her unconditional love is soothing to the psyche and the soul.
As I awake each morning, even if I didn’t sleep well and am still so tired, I start to smile anyway. I rush out to my four-legged companion and see she is sitting up, looking around, and ready to start her day. When I open her Truffle sized little house-crate, she extends her front legs and back legs as far as they can go and then shimmy’s forward to me. I pick her small self up, and the kissing begins. After she tires of that, we make a trip outside and then come back to my recliner, where I raise the footrest and she snuggles in between my legs for a well-deserved nap. (We have been up all of 15 minutes by then.) Oh, the life of a doggie.
I never knew that I could fall in love with dogs, but when it hit, it was fast and furious. I finally know what people have been talking and acting silly about. Trust me, I am one of the silliest. She is my sweet pumpkin, and I baby her unashamedly. I have missed so much by not starting a love ‘affair’ with our hairy companions earlier in life. I feel sad for that, but I also realize that perhaps Truffle came into my/our life at the perfect time. My heart may have been too fragile to fully experience the joy she brings.
Truffle cannot take away the sadness of Alex’s loss, but she surrounds that sorrow with lightness and delight. I am unable to stay in that place of gloom as I play with my puppy and let her kiss away the darkness.
This Truffle a day is better than an apple. She is love.

Again

Today I heard from a friend, who had been thinking about me, because another friend of hers had lost her son in a car accident on Friday. As many know, my son/our son, died in a car crash on March 15, 1994. That is over 15-years ago, and yet it can sometimes feel like yesterday. As I ponder the family who have now joined the ranks of the-many-who-have-lost-a-child-to-death, I can be blown back to that time and intensity of loss. I do fight this off as much as possible, because it does not serve me or anyone I love. It will not bring Alex back. I want to be able to help the newly bereaved in small ways, and so I must protect myself from myself and wandering into no-mans-land.
Those who have not been around a newly bereaved family can help by not saying things that are hurtful, such as; “God must have needed him” or assorted other things like that. Whatever a persons spiritual belief, that doesn’t help in the moment. Coping with the death is paramount, along with grieving, and finding a new way to be in the world without the beloved child in it. Say nothing except you are sorry, and hold your friend. Perhaps a meal brought in would be very helpful. Hang in there, because this is the fire-pit that shows real friendship, which becomes deeper and forever. The bereaved family will never forget your kindnesses.

Another Day

Those words can sound sad and defeated, but I really try to rejoice in one more day, which gives me the opportunity to start fresh. So this day involved time spent with my sister, time spent with my mother, and time spent with my dear friend. Lest I forget, the special moments with my husband and son are closest to my heart. I feel fortunate to have such richness in my life, and when another day comes again I hope to greet it with the enthusiasm it deserves. Despite sorrow and other pitfalls of living, time does move on, and I intend to meet it head to head.

Inspired

Today I went to see the movie "Julie and Julia," and felt inspired to go back to my writing. I cook with words and let my talented husband cook with food (mostly). My word cooking has lain dormant for over a year, while I took a breather to raise a French Bulldog puppy, otherwise known as a Frenchie. What a joyful experience this has been and continues to be. Our very first doggie is the best.