When you think of a closely held dream for your life that has not been realized, are you filled with hope or despair? Are you proud of the work you’ve put in toward that dream, or ashamed that you haven’t done enough?
If you are in any way feeling depressed, as we all wait for life to improve outside our doors, I recommend starting up your Bucket List.
Why do this, when so little seems possible? Just my point.
A Message for your New Year:
“Do Not Fear the Future!”
A Poem shared with Love & Hope.
It is YOURS
in Partnership with the Divine…
I truly feel blessed to be able to introduce you to my dear buddy, Frederick Ponzlov – award-winning actor, acting teacher, director, produced screenwriter (Undertaking Betty), and channel…
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.
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.