I don't know how to tackle this subject and do it justice. I just know I have to try, even If I stumble. Do you find it as strange as I do that we have to actually point out that black lives matter? Do you wonder why it isn't that something that everyone in our multi-faceted nation takes for . . .
This is my hope. That what's going on now will turn the tide for humanity. That we will realize that caring for one another is what's really important and that we will go forward with that framework. That we remember who we are: interdependent human beings who inhabit this earth together. That's . . .
Oh, California, I can't quit you. I've tried to leave. I've left once. I've said I was leaving. But then a day like I just had comes up and I know, I can't leave you. I can't. I wrote the original version of this post BC (before Covid) and it's even truer today. San Jose isn't on the coast, but . . .
Every five weeks I'd sit in my colorist's chair and ask "how much grey do I have now? Is it pure grey, silver or salt and pepper? Is it time to go gray?" With only a quarter inch of growth, It was always hard for her to tell. After all, I'd had highlights and some base color for decades. But she'd . . .
"Sometimes, our lives overlap with others, only briefly. We share troubles, laughter, or learning and move on, Afterwards all we will hold in common is a memory. The chapter passes like a storm, or sunshine, or an ordinary day. But the heavens always send us something new. A chance, a lease of . . .
I know. She looks rather like a madwoman, doesn't she? Would you believe I have my mother's 1950s RayBans that resemble these sunglasses? Only hers has rhinestones in the corners. From the late 1950s early 1960s. I feel closer to her when I wear them. It is, after all, Mother's Day. Her 1950s era . . .
The deep sorrow of loss and grief can be almost unbearable. So when a friend whose beloved son died some weeks ago said that the Guided Journal through Grief at A Healing Spirit is playing a major role in her healing , I was glad to hear it. I, too, know the pain of grief. Of course, we never . . .
We're living in a wilderness of unknowns, of uncertainty, where around any corner could be the moment that takes our lives. Some of us spin out in anxiety, some avoid thinking about it, and others go deep within. I am in that last category. So here's what I'm learning in my 8th week of isolation . . .
It was bound to happen: a time when in order to survive, we're called on to use critical thinking skills. Many of us are ill-prepared to do this because we haven't been taught to evaluate what we see, read or experience. We're taught to buy it lock, stock and barrel. Or it's just a knee-jerk . . .
"Not all of us can choose what we give up: the things we love are taken, or never ours at all. Life is defined not by what we let go, but by what we let in: friendship and kind words, frailty and hope. To be human is to be imperfect, and to accept that is to thrive. No path is always strewn with . . .
