An amaryllis plant stands tall on my kitchen counter. I wonder if it has any idea how beautiful it is. At first, it was simply a nondescript, brown knob. Then, seemingly overnight, it became a tall, green stalk. Little by little, a perfect flower appeared. Soon, I thought, it will shrivel and die, as plants do. But that’s not what happened.
SHOPPING: What should we get for Uncle Impossible? Where can we find that widget Dad wants? We’re blowing the budget, Marion! But, John, it adds up; we have so many to buy for! Where did I hide Mildred’s gift?
You’re about to receive a thanksgiving gift. No, I didn’t forget to capitalize the “t” in “thanksgiving.” This gift has nothing to do with turkey, stuffing, pumpkin pie or spending a day with your favorite (or not-so-favorite) relatives. The gift being offered to you, by several authors and philosophers, including myself, is even better than that. In fact, it’s priceless.
I see your suffering. I hear your cries, I see you stoically masking your fear, your anguish. I see the resignation, signifying that no hope remains. Floods, fires and earthquakes are heartquakes.
Do you remember the classic book, “The Velveteen Rabbit,” by Margery Williams? It’s the delightful tale of a stuffed bunny that becomes real. If you can suspend the grownup, practical voice that says, “Yeah, right! As if a stuffed animal can become real” you might just learn something. Because all the best children’s stories offer meaningful messages for people of all ages.
I knew that 2025 was going to be a big year for me. It certainly started out that way. In March, I celebrated one of those significant “big number” birthdays, filled with gifts, congratulations and lovely surprises.
“And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” This quote by Anaïs Nin has always resonated with me. It vividly highlights the effort it requires to live fully, to become who and what we are intended to be.
Why is it that, though we all agree the best things in life aren’t things, we constantly invest so much of our energy in acquiring things? Why does it have to be a Van Gogh, a Lexus or a Versace, instead of simply a pretty picture, a car that runs or a dress that fits?
Life is a journey, as we’re often reminded. My own life has taken me to mountaintops of joy, valleys of despair, and everything in between. Recently, my internal journey, conversations with my authentic, interior self, has been a wild ride. One filled with twists and turns, unfamiliar passageways winding through darkness and shadows–and finally, the arrival of a moment of clarity.
Although I wrote this on the official first day of spring, in our neck of the woods we never quite know when to trust that winter is truly over. It might be today, tomorrow, or April (or May?) before all chances of snow are past. I think of spring as a lovely young woman, winking at us from over her shoulder, as she sashays in and out of Northeast Ohio. Unpredictability, I believe, is just part of her very considerable […]
Years ago — eons ago, actually — I wrote an article entitled, “What I Know for Sure.” It was about things I could count on not to change, things that were written in stone, so to speak.
News reports from California show us weary firefighters who, with smoke-stained faces and gritty determination, struggle to hold the line against Mother Nature. We see the anxious faces of those whose homes lie in the path of destruction—people who have had to pack up whatever they could carry, leaving their beloved homes and precious possessions behind. Worst of all are the reports of lives lost. Of homes, schools, churches, entire neighborhoods and communities gone forever.
You may think all the gratitude I’m about to express is inspired by Thanksgiving. You may find it hard, at this moment, to feel grateful. Your life may be filled with such tribulation that your overarching response, understandably, is disappointment and an aching heart, rather than gratitude. On the other hand, maybe life has been so good to you that you’ve forgotten to be grateful. Aren’t blessings meant to be taken for granted, you may ask, since they’re so abundant in our lives?
Have you ever asked yourself what you know for sure? I remember a magazine article years ago that posed that question. Occasionally, I revisit it. Odd as it may seem, my answers today are pretty much the same as they were decades ago. I’d like to believe this means I’m wiser as well as older, but I’m pretty sure it means I have to keep making mistakes that lead me back to what I most value.
Helping hands. Often we use that term metaphorically, as a way to illustrate the love and encouragement that others offer us. Lately, though, I’ve been considering helping hands more literally. I’ve been noticing the mystical language of hands — the hope, comfort and support they offer those in need.
A number of years ago, I found myself sitting in a huge, old ship captain’s house, built in 1876, along Lake Erie. I settled myself in the parlor, a square, high-ceilinged room. Rocking gently in a big white rocking chair, facing a large, lovely watercolor of rowboats lined up at a dock, I blissfully sipped my coffee.
I swear to you: I am losing my alleged mind. Lately, there have been just too many events, too many changes and too many emotions in my life. Many of the comfy boundaries and pathways in my life are shifting, in flux. The dependable patterns in my life are slipping away. I feel like I’m walking along a path made of jello. Or sand. Or quicksand.
A year or so ago, I asked my granddaughter Kate, then age four, to tell me a story. As she spoke, I was intrigued by how her imagination flows from one thought to another. She has no boundaries; she simply lets her mind take her wherever it wants! Her story starred her favorite stuffed animal, Fox, that I gave her when she was two. Ready?