Two Days

So a few days ago my mother and I were having our daily morning conversation (snuck in between me leaving the house, hitting Dunkin Donuts and arriving at work; hands-free talking, of course) and bemoaning what was going on in the world. There had been yet another random terrorist attack on a beach, innocent people slain for no apparent reason. Two dangerous men were still on the loose as they had been for nearly 3 weeks with no one being able to track them down. Another hate crime was being reported. Yet another angry man with a gun had killed people in a house of worship.

And I told her what I always do, that it pains me to know my great kid is growing up in a world like this. When I grew up – in a galaxy long ago and far away – everyone kept an eye out for each other. During the summer, you went outside after breakfast and – except for a lunch and dinner break – stayed out until it got dark. And that’s how you knew when it was time to go home. The street lights came on and it was like magic. Kids raced off to their homes (which were really apartments or railroad flats in the neighborhood I grew up in) and, if we were lucky, we got to watch a little television. Life was simpler, we didn’t have fears, we trusted and knew our neighbors, we didn’t worry because we didn’t have to. Nothing bad ever happened.

When you have children, you hope that their world, their life, their future will be better than yours. And all that changed on September 11, 2001, at least for my great kid and me. Did you ever feel truly safe again after that? Do you worry that something bad is always lurking around the corner? Did you ever think this is the future my kids, and their kids, have in front of them? That they’ll never have a truly safe childhood has always pained me.

But there are days when I am still optimistic about this world, our country, my great kid’s future being better. And two of those days happened this past week.

I once had great health care through my former employer and it was pretty affordable. And then I didn’t (a long and tedious tale about how much a company values your contributions to their bottom line until they don’t any more). Until the Affordable Care Act came along, I struggled every year trying to balance good coverage with affordable costs. But after the ACA became law, I was able to get very good health insurance at a price I could truly afford. I was grateful, so grateful that our lawmakers recognized that everyone is entitled to be able to get good health care.

And then the challenges to the law started and – without revisiting history because most of them are brought by people who’ve never had to worry a moment about being able to afford their health care coverage – they finally got resolved once and for all this week when our nation’s highest court upheld the law. And I knew that my son – who will also lose his health care this year when his father stops covering him – will be able to get health care on his own. I won’t have to worry for either one of us that we’ll be bankrupted by medical costs because we don’t have medical insurance or that we’ll be forced to make a decision about paying for health care as opposed to giving it up. It was a good day for America. That was Day One.

The very next day, the Supreme Court declared that gay marriage is legal. I am a religious person, deeply so, and I understand people being unhappy with this based on religious reasons, I truly do. But my God is a loving God who embraces all people and loves them regardless of who they are or who they love. And since it doesn’t affect my life one little bit who someone marries (except for my own ill-advised marriage, which affected me a whole lot), I don’t know why it matters to any of these angry people who would rather spew hate than embrace love. What I do know, though, is that when my son said to me that night that he had never been more proud to be an American, I rejoiced because it meant he knew that when our founding fathers said that we’re all created equal, they didn’t intend to exclude people.

So for the first time in a very long time, I have optimism that the future my son – and your kids and your grandkids – will face will be better. Because more people have been included in our country instead of being excluded or marginalized. Because we all are better served when we all have access to the same benefits and rights that others have always had. Because we’re the greatest country on earth and we should all want each other to succeed and thrive. Because it’s time to live and let live and love and let love. Our time here is limited and we only pass this way once but this past week our future, our kids’ future just got brighter. Embrace life, embrace freedom, embrace love. It’s easier than you think.

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Regrets, I’ve Had A Few

So another birthday has slipped past me, thankfully. Although I don’t much like celebrating them, I do look at them as a time to assess things, to take my emotional temperature and gauge where I am, where I’ve been, where I need to be headed. And this year is no different in many ways except that I’m trying to figure out whether the regrets I’ve experienced are worth the pain and self-examination they sometimes bring.

I regret the time I’ve spent trying to unravel the riddle of why people close to me chose to wound me with their words, for reasons I still don’t understand. I regret not always being brave enough to stand up for myself, to tell people how I feel. I regret believing certain people despite my better judgment. I regret not being a more patient driver (and honking too often, if you ask anyone in my family). I regret not always following through on things that I know I should do. I regret losing my temper too often over things too trivial to warrant such a reaction. I regret not telling the people I love often enough that I do love them. I regret that I seem to be hardwired to internalize my issues, to not reach out to others to talk things through, to not ask for a hug, a prayer, a good thought, a hand to hold.

But here’s what I don’t regret.

I don’t regret quitting my job when I did so that I could spend more time with my parents and my great kid. I got to drive my son to school and pick him up every day after I left and the conversations we were able to have – without me checking the clock because I had a deadline to meet or a project to complete or a meeting to attend – were some of the best talks we had. I got to spend every waking moment at the hospital every time my darling Dad was admitted the last few months of his life. I got to hold his hand and tell him I loved him as he slipped from the world. None of that could I have done if I hadn’t retired early when I did. I didn’t have to ask for time off from work or have to deal with corporate types who measured your worth in how many days you were there and whose philosophy was straight from a Janet Jackson song: what have you done for me lately?

I don’t regret the brief, too brief amount of time I had with the love of my life, a man who died so young with so much to give, so much talent he hadn’t yet been able to share, so much life to live, so much love to show his children. Because meeting this man and knowing that I was the love of his life too makes my heart soar at the same time as it breaks because our future ended before it could really begin. How many people, though, never have that kind of love in their life? I did and – even if it never comes again – I can live with that and never, ever regret it.

I don’t regret my ill-advised marriage (a term that always amuses my wonderful cousin, Susan) for a moment. Although it was not good on many levels, I don’t and won’t regret a moment of the pain because it gave me my great kid, my joy, my reason for being. It made me realize that my self-worth didn’t depend on the opinion of someone who valued me so little. It launched me into a life where I had to fend for myself, take charge of all the decisions and advocate for my great kid when his other parent walked out of his life. It made me stronger, braver, more resilient, more careful, sometimes less trusting but content in the knowledge that I did what was right.

So in this year of looking forward because – like driving your car – viewing things only in the rear view mirror of your life gets you nowhere fast, I want to regret less and embrace more. I want to be able to articulate to those special people (and I hope they know who they are when they read this, both friends and family alike) how much they lift me up every day. I want to write again and have someone think it’s good enough that they want to pay me for it. I want to see my great kid succeed and soar in college and beyond, living his dream and never being afraid to try, to fail, to love, to trust, to laugh, to cry, to hope.

But mostly I want not to regret anything any more. Life is too short and my time left on it is not worth wasting on the “what if” situations but better spent on embracing the “what is” scenarios. And maybe if you read this blog in a year from now, you’ll see that I’ve succeeded. I sure hope so.

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My Catholic School Teachers (and How They Made Me Who I Am Today)

So a week or so ago I learned that my son’s Catholic high school – which has been in existence for over 125 years – is closing at the end of this school year due to a decrease in enrollment and rising costs. I can’t begin to tell you how sad this makes me because I know the quality of the education my great kid received there, as well as at his extraordinary Catholic grammar school. I also know that the moral and spiritual foundation that they built upon has helped him – and many other students over many years – become good, caring, honest and spiritual members of their communities.

I too was blessed to attend Catholic school my entire life, right through college. And not only was the experience extraordinary, I still have friends from grammar school (hi, Ginny!), high school (my beloved DC girls, over 100 of them) and college (the best man at my ill-advised wedding. As I’ve said before and am sure will say again, I got rid of the husband but kept the best man as my friend). My parents met their best friends of 55 years when their son and I started kindergarten on the same day. These men and women who came into my life via my Catholic schools are some of the finest people I will ever hope to know and I suspect many of them will say that their Catholic school education was the bedrock that their future lives was built upon.

In a time when most of our teachers were nuns – women who had dedicated their lives to teaching and God – my own mother was a teacher in my grammar school. It was the perfect job for someone who wanted to be home when her kids were home, at a school that is still open and celebrated its 100 year anniversary just a few short years ago. She taught first grade and one year had a class with 68 students. (I’ll wait a moment while you digest that number.) She never had fewer than 50 students in her classes and when she left the school to move to another state, so many children wrote her cards and letters (all of which she kept) that it was an embarrassment of riches. She was told again and again how she had changed their lives, not only through teaching the basic subjects but nurturing her students’ belief in God.

When the school had a Mass to celebrate its 100 year anniversary, all of the teachers who were present were invited to walk down the main aisle of the church to sit at the front. As they walked, they were met with goose-bump inducing thunderous applause as both parents and students from many years cheered them for all they had done, sometimes with little acknowledgement or appreciation and certainly at a tiny salary.

My Mom (and every teacher there) made virtually no money because Catholic school teachers are among the most poorly paid teachers there are. But they don’t teach at a Catholic school to get rich. They teach there because they know that shepherding a child through school doesn’t just mean book learning; it means teaching them right from wrong. It means showing them that you should never look down on another person unless you are helping them up. It means prayer to start and end your day (a practice I still follow). And it means remembering that you can be as smart as can be but if you haven’t learned to be a good person who practices the golden rule (or the Ten Commandments), it doesn’t matter how educated you are.

I was lucky (as were my parents) when my sister and I went to grammar school. There were so many people who belonged (and contributed whatever they could) to our church and sent their children to our school that tuition was free. When I started high school, I think our tuition was a few hundred dollars a year. (It doesn’t sound like much but it was actually a hardship for my parents to send me and my sisters there but they did it because it mattered to them so much. Thank you, Mom and Dad).

College was a whopping $2,000 a year when I went (and I was blessed enough to have won a full scholarship so I didn’t have to pay at all) but I know my parents would have found a way to get the money to send me there. They believed that continuing the education that shaped not only my mind but my heart and soul was an investment worth making.

Times have changed though and fewer of us go to church on a regular basis. Our schedules are too busy, the time for the services aren’t convenient for us, we have something else we need to do. As more people drifted away from church (and as their weekly donations dried up), tuition costs started to rise and admissions started to drop. By the time my son went to Catholic high school, the tuition was over $8,000 a year.

And trust me, it was a sacrifice to make it work but we did. Because I knew those dedicated  women (and they were all women in my grammar school and high school) had – with every lesson, every discussion, every trip to church to say a prayer, every project – shaped and formed me into this person I am now. A person who still goes to church every week. A person who becomes incensed at the injustice in the world. A person who knows that there is a heaven, a heaven where I’ll see my darling Dad again. A person whose faith in God lets me be open to feeling his presence and accepting the signs he sends me (Baldheaded Woman for sure).  A person I hope my son wants to emulate.

I have great respect for all teachers and in no way mean to diminish what teachers in public schools do. My wonderful cousin, Dan, teaches art in public school and makes the lives of his students better every day. But I am the person I am today because of my Catholic school teachers and classmates. And now a whole generation of children in my community won’t have that opportunity because yet another school is closing. I’m sad for them but I hope that they’ll take the best of what they’ve already learned from their great teachers and pay it forward. If they do that, then they’ll make their teachers proud, their parents happy and their communities grateful to have such caring and compassionate and smart people in their midst. Godspeed, Cardinal McCarrick High School, and thank you for making my great kid who he is today.

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Save Us From Our Selfies

So we all (or a lot of us, anyway) seem to live and die by social media every day. Looked at your friends’ posts on Facebook to make sure you haven’t missed anything major (although most posts rarely rise to that level)? Check. Tweeted your 140 characters about the latest thing that has you engaged or enraged? Done. Posted a photo to Instagram or liked someone else’s? Most definitely. We’re with it, we’re on it, we’re trending.

But selfies have seemed to reach some kind of critical mass. And I don’t pretend to be innocent on this. I’ve taken my fair share of selfies and posted them, telling myself it’s because I want my far-flung friends and family to see where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing or had that ever-so-rare experience – a great hair day.

Just recently I counted nearly 50+ selfies on a social media site from someone I know, all taken within a several hour window. And Kim Kardashian has published a book called Selfies which is just – you got it – pictures of her. (I assume people will buy this. I don’t know why.) And it got me thinking. What happened to just enjoying the moment and not having to stop anywhere and everywhere to document it? Why can’t we just be?

And now we have a new weapon of mass destruction to assist us in this narcissistic path we pursue: the selfie stick. For $20 or so, you can buy this contraption to clip your phone on to so you can get a better perspective of yourself when you snap a selfie. Already these things have been banned on rides in Walt Disney World because the dopes using them think extending their phone on a selfie stick while hurtling through a ride is safe and that their need to document the experience is more important than the safety of those around them.

I love looking at people’s pictures, don’t get me wrong. But many of the best pictures I’ve seen and remember are the ones that exist only in my head, the snapshots my mind has taken and filed away under memorable moments that I can recall any time I want.

The look on my darling Dad’s face the first time my great kid was placed in his arms. My parents’ faces as they walked in on their surprise 50th anniversary party and saw a friend they hadn’t seen in 40 years, who had flown in from North Carolina just for the day to surprise them.

The memory of watching my Mom hold my Dad’s favorite baseball cap in plain sight so my son could know my Dad was with us as he walked down the aisle after graduating from high school, just a few short months after my Dad died. Waking up after surgery and seeing my Dad and my son looking down on me.

Turning around at my last high school reunion and seeing the face of my friend, a girl we had been trying to find for 40 years with no success, and bursting into tears of joy at the sight of her. Seeing the faces of my high school friends last summer when they made me insanely happy by coming to my surprise milestone birthday party. Watching my son get on a plane or in a car each time he heads back to school after a summer vacation or a Christmas holiday and feeling my heart break just a little.

None of these things are documented anywhere. Except they are. They’re imprinted on my brain and my heart, where I get to rummage through the shoebox of my memories any time I want and recall one of them at a moment’s notice.

Have we become such a self-absorbed and narcissistic culture that we have to stop – sometimes in the middle of the street – and snap a selfie to hold on to the memory? Is what we’re doing that important to anyone else besides us?

So yes, while I’ll still take an occasional selfie, I’m going to try to focus instead on snapping a virtual picture of a scene, a moment, a person, a place and keep it in my head. I wouldn’t trade those pictures for anything at all.

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My Mom, My Everything

So today is my mother’s birthday and when I ask her – as I do every year – what she wants, she always tells me the same thing. “I want you not to fight with your sisters”. If that was possible, I would have done it gladly years ago. (Just kidding. I love my sisters and we don’t fight. Too much).

Anyway, I thought long and hard this year about what I could do to really make her birthday happy, although this is a woman who has been happy virtually every day of my life. I can count on my hands the number of days when she’s experienced true unhappiness (or at least when I’ve seen her unhappy) and most of them had to do with the death of her brother and my darling Dad. She embraces life, even when it’s not great.

We’ve always had joy in our house because my parents entertained so much. There was always laughing and love, hugs and kisses, food on the table, church on Sundays and friends (both ours and theirs) coming and going. And my Mom and Dad made this happen, every day, every week, every year. We were loved beyond all words and we knew it. We were blessed. And my Mom was the driving force behind all of it.

Far too often we wait until it’s too late and never tell the people we love how much we love them. Or we never let others know the goodness of their heart, the generosity of their spirit, the kindness in their soul, the understanding and compassion. So if you’ll indulge today, I want to tell you about my mother and why she is such a special person.

Not only did my mother lose her own mother shortly after she and my Dad married, she had her own father and brother move in with her and my Dad (with a baby – that would be me – on the way) and both stayed with my parents, my grandfather until his death and my uncle until he married. Their doors were always open for anyone who needed a place to stay. And that continued right through high school and college when my Mom would awaken on a Sunday morning to find our friends (does this ring a bell, Jimmy Courage?) asleep on the couch, the recliner, the floor. Everyone was welcomed with no questions asked.

She’s the person who remembers everyone’s birthday (and if my second Mom/cousin Cooky reads this, she’ll back me up) and always always sends a birthday card. She literally sends out about 100 birthday cards a year. For the younger ones on the birthday list, she always includes a $5 bill so they can buy a little something. And it’s not just closest family; it’s her brother’s grandchildren because she wants to carry on his legacy. It’s Cooky’s grandchildren (all 7 of them). It’s the children of my Burke cousins. It’s what she does because – as she says – she can.

When she’s able to, she’ll tell me she’s putting “a little money” in my great kid’s bank account (and I know she does the same for my niece and nephew).  A few weeks ago when I was so under the weather I couldn’t work a full week, she let me know she’d put some money into my bank account so I wouldn’t find myself short on cash. She is generous to a fault, not only with her money but with her time and words.

My high school friends love her and insist I bring her to our occasional lunches. When any of them need prayers for themselves or a family member, they contact me and ask me to have my Mom pray for their intentions. She’s got a long list of people she prays for every day, including me. I know God hears her because I know some of the miracles my friends who’ve struggled have experienced. She’s got connections in heaven, if you ask me.

Many of you who may read this (and, if you do, my deepest thanks for reading my random thoughts) may be too young to remember the Vietnam War. But there was a unique program designed to help people remember the service members who were either prisoners of war or missing in action. You’d send in your $3.00 and get a bracelet with the name, rank and date of loss. And the organization that made these asked people to commit to never take them off until the prisoners of war were released or the remains of those missing in action were returned home. My Mom’s bracelet said Harley Hackett III.

Captain Hackett went missing in action on July 9, 1973 and his body was never recovered. And to this very day – 42 years later – my Mom still wears his bracelet because of the promise she made when she put it on. She’s never taken it off and I know she never will. That story should tell you everything you need to know about my Mom

She’s had her share of ups and downs, good times and bad, days when she and my Dad didn’t have 2 coins to rub together but always had love and faith and belief that God would get them through anything. And He did and He does.

The last few years have been tough for all of us with my Dad’s illness and death and my Mom having her own share of heath issues. But now she’s amazingly healthy, a marvel at keeping active both physically and mentally. A woman who likes a bad joke as much as the next person. A person who enjoys seeing a good movie and then talking about it, dissecting it later. A Mom who always lends a hand, who somehow know when one of us needs her and never judges, never criticizes, never blames. A mother – and a grandmother, an aunt, a cousin, a friend – who sees the best in everyone, who loves her children and her grandchildren more than anything and who is the reason I try every day to become the person she thinks I am.

So Happy Birthday, Mom. My words are my gift to you this year. You inspire me, you lift me up, you let me know how much I’m loved every day. I thank God He placed me in your care because He knew you were the perfect Mom for me. And you are and I love you for that and always will. And I’ll try not to fight with my sisters this year.

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I’m Going To Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter

So after my great kid headed back to school after his long winter’s nap (and I’m not kidding; he napped a lot when he was home. Seriously, a lot) I started the process of readjusting to life alone again here in my little cozy nest of a home. I’m been trying to downsize, inspired by the great Peter Walsh who has shared his ideas on how to declutter your house in 31 days. And in the process, I’ve been coming across old letters, cards, notes and reading each one before I make the decision of should it stay or should it go. The concept of having something tangible in your hands to look at, to hold, to carry around with you is very compelling and the decision on whether something is worth keeping is at times dificult.

And because we literally had to put pen to paper to write these notes and cards, it seems to me that we often put more effort into our thoughts and our wishes for the person on the receiving end. Because putting it down in writing and sending it off, unable to retrieve it from the intended recipient, seems to me to have required a certain level of care and thoughtfulness and consideration for the object of our affections.

So much of our communication these days is through social media. Other than my mother who – God bless her – never forgets anyone’s birthday and always sends a card (usually with $20 tucked inside so the person can “get a little something for themselves”), I actually – and I suspect I’m not the only one – get very little real mail any more. I get plenty of mail, don’t get me wrong. But it’s catalogues and flyers; bills and requests for donations; coupons galore and far too many magazines. (Note to self: download magazines on your Kindle and stop killing trees by getting paper copies.) So when I do get a note or a card, it’s a great thing. The anticipation of ripping open the envelope, taking out the card or note and enjoying the words someone wrote just for you is thrilling. It’s like getting a little present at the end of the day. And when someone tells you that they’ve kept a note you wrote them or a birthday card you sent them, there’s just no way to top that simple pleasure.

But we’re all so busy that we’ve conditioned ourselves to believe that a Happy Birthday shout-out on Facebook to one of our dearest friends is OK. That expressing condolences when someone says they’ve lost a loved one or are remembering someone close to them on a birthday or anniversary is acceptable. That congratulations on a baby or a wedding or an accomplishment is the same as the written word in a card or note. Deep down, we know – or should know – that it’s not.

In going through my cards and notes and letters, I found notes my Dad had written in his chicken scratch handwriting after I got divorced, urging me on, telling me I’d done the right thing, letting him know he and my Mom were always in my corner, encouraging me to believe that a better future was ahead for my great kid and me. And those notes now are all I have left of my Dad, gone now almost 4 years. How could I ever throw those away?

I found a Mother’s Day card that my great kid had colored and printed in his 5th grade boyish handwriting telling me that he would always love me no matter what and would always take care of me and thanking me for what I had done. And all I had done, truly, was give birth to him and try to live my life as my parents lived theirs, so that he could learn to become a good person by example, as I had (I hope) become a good person by watching and imitating and soaking up all my parents said and did and practiced and preached.

I discovered a poem that the love of my life had written for me, one I had memorized years before and which I carried around in my heart, but to see his words again on paper, to hold that paper in my hands knowing his hands had held it too, hands I’ll never hold again because he had died too young and too soon, means everything to me. It means I still have him here with me.

So maybe having a few shoe boxes full of old letters and cards and scraps of paper might take up a some valuable closet space but I can’t, I won’t let them go. These words from people I love made me and still make me the person I am today. How could I ever let them go?

Take time when you can and write someone you love a note of encouragement, a thank you for a kindness, a wish that they’ll feel better, a promise that you’re there for them if they need someone to listen. You’ll feel better doing it. And I promise you that they’ll never forget that you did it. Everyone wins.

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Let It Go

So the past few years have not been my best, for all sorts of reasons. The weight of what I carried inside of me was a burden that I have been finding it more and more difficult to handle alone. I am not a person who is comfortable, typically, with sharing my struggles with someone else. Some of that may just be the way I’m programmed; some of it may be that I don’t want my burden to become a weight to someone else by virtue of sharing it with them.

I had become consumed with anger and sadness and a great sense of mistrust based on the actions of a few people. People I had believed in had betrayed me, some on a massive basis. People I had loved treated me unkindly because they have no edit button in their head. (Suggestion to anyone reading this: just because you think it doesn’t mean you have to say it). People I had trusted abused that trust. All of it left me feeling like a bird with a broken wing and I became a person who blamed myself for trusting people and believing they would change. I didn’t think I could trust anyone ever again. It made me sad to be this person, a person who looked back and thought of how optimistic and hopeful and joyous I had once been. My health suffered, my ability to reach out to people and socialize was compromised, my need to just stay home in my little nest where no one could hurt me was overwhelming.

But I reached a tipping point a year or so ago and the floodgates opened and I began to share some of the things I had been hiding. Hiding not because I was ashamed of any of it but because I wanted to avoid my notion that people would try to solve my dilemmas, some of which couldn’t be resolved by anyone but me. And, lo and behold, it helped. I shared – maybe I overshared – the things that were bothering me with a small group of people, some I had known all of my life and some I had only known a short time. But they were all people who I knew wouldn’t judge me or criticize me or blame me for the consequences of other people’s actions but would continue to love me and support me and believe in me.

So things got better, not right away and not quickly, but they did start to get better. But what I still carried around was the “why me?” persona I had adopted. I didn’t get – and maybe I never will – why some people did what they did. I don’t understand people being able to live with themselves after they’ve hurt someone so badly. I can’t comprehend why “I’m sorry” is not part of their thought process. (And when I mentioned this to someone, she suggested that the problem is theirs, not mine. So true but so hard to accept).

This year, as Christmas approached, I was in a better place but still not a great place. Having my great kid home helped me a lot and he and I started having some fairly deep conversations. Because he too had been where I’d been because of people being unkind to him, or cutting him out of their lives for stupid, silly reasons. His wise-beyond-his-years thoughts and words really propelled me forward. And maybe it made me open to what happened shortly after he arrived home.

Christmas Eve night, as I went to sleep, I was counting my blessings and knowing that I have been given so much. I said my prayers before I slept and, as I did and do every day, asked my beloved Dad and God to show me the way. And that night, they did.

I had a dream that night, one so specific and yet so vague (the way a dream is when you try to recall it moments after you wake up and realize it’s already gone). I cannot tell you much about the dream except that some of the people who had hurt me were there in some way in the dream. And they were there for a reason, I’m sure. To leave my dreams, to leave my thoughts, to leave my heart forever. Their power over me was gone.

I woke up Christmas Day feeling so much lighter in spirit and in my heart. I knew that my Dad and God had done this for me. They had shown me the way; they had given me back my trust in people. They had taken away my sadness. They had lifted up my spirit and made me believe again. And I know some of you may not think this is anything but a coincidence or wishful thinking on my part and I respect that. But I know what I know and this is what happened to me. Many of you know how – when I need my Dad’s presence – Baldheaded Woman somehow begins playing on the radio for me and I know he is the guiding force behind that. And as sure as I know anything, I know my darling Dad and my God were behind this. They gave me back a part of my life that was missing.

So I can let it go, all of the bad stuff, the unhappiness, the anger, the bitterness, the blaming. Instead I can thank God and my Dad for hearing me when I needed them and pointing me towards a brighter new year.

And that is my wish for you. Look forward instead of looking back. Spend time only with people who bring positive things into your life. Let joy and hope fill your heart. Reach out to others. Lend an ear or give a hug. Don’t judge others because they don’t look or sound or talk like you. Do good in this world. Because what goes around comes around.

Happy New Year and I thank you all who always take the time to read my ramblings. You lift me up every day.

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