Thirty years ago, I was a single mom with the extremely unglamorous job of selling sandwiches door to door in office buildings on Sunset Boulevard. Some of these stops were talent agencies. It was mortifying to be rolling my sandwich cart into the trendy rooms where talent agents were working the phones on behalf of their clients, even though I’d stopped acting when I had my daughter Sophie.
Although I have written ANGEL LADY, our film about a glitch on a TV that may or may ot be a Angel, and hosted for almost five years the HOW TO CONNECT WITH ANGELS podcast, I personally have never encountered one.
Until last Saturday around 2:45 pm CST.
I suggest going to bed earlier as a solid guarantee that you’ll wake up feeling better and more hopeful about Life. It’s obvious that folks everywhere are drained by the horrendous events we’ve endured. Also, drink half your weight in ounces of water. Yet, despite extra rest and hydration, there are lots of days when I’m reluctant to put my feet on the floor.
I lost my Dad when I was in my early twenties. He was only 50 years old when he died of a massive heart attack. I was devastated. He would never walk me down the aisle, never hold his grandchildren. I would never, ever see him again. A huge void yawned before me.
You may assume that the person writing this “How To” is an expert on the subject of Self-Confidence….I am not! This is my pain point!
After my twenties, Huge Doubts plopped itself down on a couch in the dark, dank living room of my ego. Any time I thought of doing something courageous in pursuit of my dream, Doubt sat up and wagged a warning finger.
“Don’t get your hopes up, girly. You know what happens.”
I have lived with a heavy cloak of depression wrapped around my spirit for a good part of my adult life. It’s been severe enough to warrant a prescription. The anti-depressant kept me from falling further into the darkness and doing harm to myself. The worst period was during my last years living in Los Angeles…
Now that my beloved prim and proper mama is deceased, I feel free to share my spicy example of a miracle that unfolded when I chose to express gratitude rather than wallow in self-pity. For those seeking romance, true love, or escapist entertainment, this is for you. I do want to warn you, that there is some advice lurking here.
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.
I am here to disperse my mother’s final remains on paper. In the few short weeks after her death, I have unearthed a small mountain of cards she stored away – received from family and friends.
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.