Healing the Wounds of Jealousy & Envy
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Healing the Wounds of Jealousy & Envy

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.

Releasing the Shackles of Shame
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Releasing the Shackles of Shame

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.

Disaster Games
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Disaster Games

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.

Work the Vote – Get “Cheated!”
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Work the Vote – Get “Cheated!”

“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.

Play in the Time of COVID
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Play in the Time of COVID

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.

“See that Syl sits on the front row.”
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“See that Syl sits on the front row.”

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.