"It's never too early nor too late to reach for your dreams...
but it's always too late to quit."
"It's never too early nor too late to reach for your dreams...
but it's always too late to quit."
Certainly, we know about the wild jealousy of romantic betrayal, marked (these days) by obsessive Facebook lurking into the wee hours of the a.m. Hopefully when the better “Next!” shows up, we’ve eased off on that sad behavior; reduced it to peeking over the FB fence from time to time, to make sure the ex is still overweight and miserable. Yeah, that’s not the kind of jealousy I mean.
I was back in New Orleans, it was two months after my mother passed at our lake cottage in New Hampshire. Something woke me up at 4 a.m. and I couldn’t go back to sleep, despite the calm and coziness of my husband and two cats breathing steadily next to me in bed.
Three Gentle Suggestions for releasing Shame and allowing Life to restart. Are you tired of feeling depressed and bad about yourself? Shame is a dark cloak we wrap around our inner light, woven of all the harsh voices that insisted that we were not good enough and we will never be good enough…But here’s the kicker. It’s all in my head now.
In early October, in time for the glorious turning of the leaves, my husband Dan and I flew to New Hampshire for my mother’s interment at the Contoocook Village cemetery. The stone was etched just right – a delicate, pink granite complement to my dad’s bronzed military plate. Of course there was beauty and magic. My cousin saw seven hawks circle over our small masked gathering as Sylvia’s voice, reciting the Apache prayer, rang out from a portable speaker to our ears and hearts and settled on the painted trees.
“Why? Why would they do this to people?” I was on the phone with my sister Karen. It was a bitter cold January afternoon in 2005.
I was still in our nation’s Capitol, attending a conference, a sharing of the evidence around the contested 2004 presidential election that was decided in my home state of Ohio on November 2.
Just as our mama Sylvia was a clothes horse, she was also an ardent correspondent. Receiving a stamped envelope, address handwritten, a card with a landscape or a silly cat, graced with a few thoughtful words, was a “big boost” to her day.
Something has occurred to me. As I have mentioned before, our mother was timid. And shy. In groups of more than two, her stories and jokes were as wobbly as her confidence.
Those of you who met my mother, or saw her photos online, would all agree that Sylvia Myers Willoughby was a determinedly fashionable woman. In the rehab hospital, healing a cracked pelvis at 88, mama (pronounced as in “Downtown Abbey” with emphasis on the second syllable) chose her outfits carefully and always added accessories.
So picture my dear mama (emphasis on the second syllable – as elocuted in Downton Abbey) Sylvia Myers Willoughby, age around 88, sitting comfortably in a corner of this settee, crime novel in hand. It’s cocktail time at the Lake, which invariably involves gin and tonics and a tray of sharp, sweating Vermont cheddar perched atop Triscuits.