As sure as the sun rises each morning, I know with certainty she will come. She’ll glide over mountain tops — skim the ocean blue. Test her wings with doves in flight to land within my view.
Anyone close to my heart who passes over will find a portal back to me in my dreams. I never know the day or time of their return. Family and friends drawn to the light can see the door stays ajar — enough for them to squeeze through.
They come to share eternal bliss found in freedom from mortal pain. To assure me…
Love has everything to do with anything
LOVE can seldom be returned in the exact manner of which it is given.
LOVE is the singular reason for all joy and pain.
LOVE is all encompassing in that it can heal a wound or prolong the suffering.
LOVE is never enough in and of itself — it thrives on nutrients of compassion, empathy, sensitivity and understanding.
LOVE is not a concept, commodity or control mechanism — it’s a vehicle of freedom from constriction and ALL that binds.
LOVE is the ultimate sacrifice of oneself — a generosity of spirit where vanity…
Some stories breathe to take shape through other people — to deliver an extraordinary message of the human spirit that can motivate us all. This story was told to me twice. Could have been the original storyteller forgot he told me the first time, or the universe needed me to hear it again until the proverbial penny dropped.
There are no coincidences. Everything happens for a reason. I don’t believe in chance encounters either — we meet people for a reason, even when it’s brief. …
A thin sliver of creamy lemon goodness sat waiting, smudged in a frosty, glass pie dish. The last piece hidden behind a large container in the back of the refrigerator and her last pie. Every holiday, my mother-in-law would bake the entire family’s favorite dessert using lemons from her own tree in the front garden. They were always plentiful — in full golden bloom, as if she had a personal relationship with the lemon gods.
This Christmas would be different. It wouldn’t be at my husband’s parents’ home. They were aging and no longer able to host such a large…
It was love at first plink when I could stand on my tippy toes with my chin scrapping the edge of the keyboard of my grandparent’s piano. Fascinated by the sound I’d plunk, bang, thump — do whatever my tiny fingers could do to make the instrument talk back to me.
Music is in my DNA. My paternal grandmother was a classically trained pianist who played and sang with the Fisk Jubilee University choir in the early 1900s. The touring ensemble composed of African American students sang spirituals acapella to raise funds for college. My dad could play too.
I love it when it works and hate it when it doesn’t. Some might say it’s always an operator’s error if something goes awry. Maybe. The other day I was trying to add a drive to my computer — it started acting all brand new.
It refused to cooperate with my commands. The nerve! Then, it rendered me speechless, which is hard to do when I’m on a roll — ask my husband. When I sheepishly gave up — reverted to what I was doing before the brilliant idea to add a shared drive, it played a mean trick —…
While Alzheimer’s continued to ravage my mother’s brain like Pac-Man on steroids eating brain cells instead of dots, I struggled to adjust to her evolving transformation. She wasn’t the person she used to be, and she’d never be the same. Her life consumed my days for the past year. I still worked while taking care of her.
I arrived at her place one day when a neighbor drove by, stopped, and from her car window asked, “how’s your mom doing?”
“She’s hanging in there, but it’s so hard.”
“I know, but you’re very attentive — she’s lucky to have you…
Creative writer, health nut, observationist.