I have tears in my eyes as snow flakes swirl outside my window. Wind blows wisps of white in circles of stark beauty. It is the month of May and Mother’s Day weekend falls amid winter’s welcome.

Sedona-Grace is outside bundled to the hilt.

She sails past the front of our home on a hot pink scooter.

Morning started first with an adventure to find what kind of animal left footprints deep in snow. My little explorer then transitioned into faster movement with the aid of a side-kick — wheels maneuvering through mixtures of slush and mud.

She is undeterred.

I glance up every now and then to see her push her little body forward – propelled by music sung from the top of her lungs. I feel emotion rise further as Sedona-Grace perseveres in elements leaving most of us cozy — inside.

Not this one.

Not living proof of my own scarred and haunted womb.

Like a comet shooting towards the endless atmospheric universe, she trail blazes upward and I’ll be lucky if I can grasp the tail end of her glorious effort.

This is the fearless, limitless Sacred Feminine inherent within a vibrant, joyful Soul.

I remember Her, too.

As a little girl, I used to ride my purple bicycle and explore the neighborhood streets near home. I felt both freedom and curiosity about life beyond confining restrictions of home, rules silently stifling spirit.

Somehow, at some point, this part of my Soul fell quiet – retrieved in small moments gathered up from tears falling.

The reclamation of ourselves is no small feat.

And as I watch my own daughter unfold, I wonder if I can swallow past a deep ache.

She will face so many (more) challenges and though I can access ferocious protection — it won’t be enough. She will be further exposed to events I cannot control – events which may carve their own scars across a chest of Innocence.

How often I hold her in my arms – rocking her back and forth like she’s still no more than a few minutes old. I cover her head, face, neck and arms with kisses upon kisses. As if these imprints can protect all I cannot.

A candle nearby flickers. My coffee grows cold as minutes pass. I contemplate sentiments of Mother’s Day from a vantage point new to me – also.

For many, many years I chased Maternal need, longing and reparation. I could not conceive of mothering myself. Necessary, yes. Capable? Never quite sure.

Until now.

She awoke amid molten lava rising within –  from a piercing eruption I thought would destroy every piece of life held dear. How wrong I was. Although the burning lasted, and lasted, and lasted – it did not annihilate.

In the center of layered ashes, a golden heart gleamed. My own maternal, feminine, discerning knowing formed in the shape of Love eternal. I picked up this unexpected manifestation and held it close to my chest.

Reunited.

Dearest daughters, there is a home within no matter life’s detours and it expands outward in wildly beautiful trajectories.

Trust.

And in the reclamation, I invite savoring of awareness to all the ways our/your woman/ness includes maternal gifting not only to your own heart, but the hearts of those around.

Uninhibited by any pandemic, the Great Mother, reaches down, out, and through into any receptive spirit.

More than ever – She soothes and comforts those who might weep on a day when others can feel the warmth of their children.

More than ever – She reveals our ability to inspire, connect and encourage despite the isolation and disruption of life as we ‘knew it.’

More than ever – She brings awareness to beauty while holding any type of hidden heartache.

More than ever – She lights up any space and inhabits it with Grace.

This is Her.

And She is here…here…here.

Reinvention wasn’t kidding.

I should have known – the way she pushed Self-Doubt off the porch last summer with a mere flick of a finger. Unfortunately, I was too dumbstruck by her very existence.

Each time we sang hymns by firelight her voice rang clear, strong.

“It…is well…with my Soul….”

At this point in the story winter had long settled in. Subzero numbers replaced inviting outdoor fall temperatures and most nights we found our ourselves wrapped up in handmade afghans like snug little bugs.

Mid-Life never failed to find her spot. Several months ago we’d gotten together and Mid-Life wore the usual ‘know-it-all face’ like things she’d seen over the years made her a local expert on all parts: Jen.

I tolerated her rants. Barely.

This time it was an uninvited commentary of work dynamics, personal life disasters, self-care failures and mothering mishaps while perusing books on the shelf as if to ask ‘did you learn anything from these‘?

And I hated she was wearing that black t-shirt again with ‘805’ across the chest. Santa Barbara was 20 years ago. There was no going back-but she wore the damn thing at least once a week.

Finally Reinvention set her mug down on the brown coffee table and told Mid-Life to sit.

“Look” Reinvention said. “Quit.”

“Quit, what?” Mid-Life retorted.

“This isn’t the time for finger pointing. Jen’s world is going to speed up quick and everything you thought she’d ignored — well, she didn’t. She’s paid more attention than you give credit. You aren’t driving this bus- so sit back and zip your lip. Change your shirt, wash your face, fix your hair, sit closer to the sunlight and see what happens. And…if you (still) can’t say something nice – don’t say anything at all.”

I grinned. Reinvention must have met my mother in her travels because both Mid-Life and I heard that one before.

She left in a huff.

When Mid-Life returned a few weeks later my daughter was the first to notice she wore a white t-shirt with a Peace Sign. As she stepped through the mud room and into our kitchen we both went straight for two coffee mugs bearing fortuitous statements: “You can” and “You will.” She took the former, I took the latter.

Reinvention arrived only a few moments later.

Every time she entered my home – the whole atmosphere shifted.

This woman was pure glory.

So when one word came out of her mouth — I just about dropped my mug — because she said it strong. Fierce. Like a human agent on a mission from the Unseen Realm.

“STOP.”

“What?” I looked around.

“Excuse me?” I answered. Baffled.

“Stop. Now. This crazy, stress filled soul crushing life. You crossed the threshold, leaped over the chasm, made the break, paid your penance, carried your baggage long enough. I’ve listened to you since last summer. It’s time.  I’m looking around and a lot of this stuff has got. to. go. It doesn’t fit anymore. You’ve repented, grieved and run yourself ragged with a weight breaking your back. I told you it was time to live last June and I meant it.“ 

I challenged her. Defensive. Argumentative. Frightened. I’d never been free from the chains of my past. I hated that they dragged behind me, I wanted my daughter to know different. But I couldn’t get free. Good Lord, I had tried.

She looked at me.

Mid-Life squirmed.

I felt something twist inside my gut.

And I’d never seen Reinvention’s eyes burn so bright.

The truth was a huge part of me had been dying for several years. I knew it. My daughter knew it. I was in a beautifully terrible bind and although convicted by Reinvention’s wisdom last summer — I metaphorically ran the other direction (as evidenced by changing: nothing).

I watched her stand up and extend a hand.

“I brought 6 boxes of Hefty trash bags.” She said.

“We’re starting in the basement – and we’re starting: now. Get up, Jennifer and follow me.”

I stumbled down the stairs, behind her, like I’d forgotten how to walk. Mid-Life in tow –not much better at it either.

Reinvention began in one corner without a word. She loaded (and heaved out the back door) one bag after another. Parts of my life I’d held on to – some for decades. There went my 20’s. I remember that snapshot by the beach and pieces of broken hearts.

We’d only just begun.

Here came the 30’s. Oof. Those fragments filled about 25 bags alone. Why in the world did I keep those wedding dresses. Holy cow I forgot about those pictures. And here comes all my diaries from California, Tennessee and Kansas City. So many words. We mostly worked side by side. I’d pull one or two things apart from the massive heap of shit and she’d say, “alright. but watch yourself.”  Sigh.

Poor Mid-Life looked like she wanted to disappear as I removed years and years layered in shame, sorrow or guilt. At one point my sweet daughter came downstairs and asked if she could help. “No, baby girl. This is mama’s job.”

When we hit the 40’s I thought I’d have apoplexy. More journals, images and bits pulled off shelves, or out of closets, sang like mythological sirens towards destruction.  But Reinvention grabbed my hand and pressed on.

We worked until dawn. One floor after another cleansed of damaging debris. I couldn’t believe it was happening. Mid-Life crashed at some point on my living room couch. I covered her with a multi-colored blanket and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. She wasn’t so bad, after all.

I heard Reinvention take the red broom and dustpan back to it’s hook by the door and stand for a moment in my vintage kitchen giving everything one last look.

I knew she was leaving this time for good.

God, I was scared.

I’d never been so weightless or free.

As if reading my mind, Reinvention moved closer and put her ancient hands on either side of my face. She first kissed my forehead, then drew back, kept a steady gaze and said with measured intention: “Trust.”

And so…

I did.

Self-doubt is a relentless menace -regardless of birthplace. And telling him you’ve ‘got his number’ won’t stop momentum in the slightest. He doesn’t care a whit about whether you can identify his malfunction. He has one agenda: ruining your life. Nestling deep into neural pathways he’ll light big blasts of bullying fireworks; kick back and watch the show.

When this happens some find blessed refuge from concepts defined by religious beliefs or meditation practices-led by individuals who found their ‘center.’

Except, there’s a few who aren’t standing at the gates of either option.

I know I’m a part of that motley crew. Vulnerable, tired and suckered in by seductive logic frames.

Anyone who’s lived long enough will experience the consequence of stupid decisions. And some of us (me) will make really bad decisions more often than we ‘should’  — busting all parameters of ‘acceptable windows of learning.’

I don’t know exactly who makes those rules -it’s like there’s a term limit on getting your shit together and if you reach a certain age and your life doesn’t reflect ‘that’ — no other explanation counts. Before too long, words like “mental illness” or “personality disorder” start heading your direction and let me tell you –Shame and Stigma aren’t far behind. Whether it’s true — or not.

When I came to the Northeast two years ago, I packed up as much Grit and Determination I could find in order to accomplish one objective: build a new life for me and my daughter.

But our culture has a trajectory for how things need to go, generally speaking, and if a person lives as an outlier to those ideas…well, let’s just say, Self-Doubt descends like a heat seeking missile.

At least he did in this little corner of the planet.

It took me a long time to acknowledge his presence. Which is funny, and a little pitiful, seeing as how he managed to create (and install) enormous, poorly made billboards all around with statements like:

“You’ve been here for a while now. Shouldn’t things have turned out better than…this?”

And other not-so-nice sentiments like:

“Anyone paying enough attention knows you’re just hiding up there in shame.”

Oof.

Well, telling him to just Shut-UP works – sometimes.

Not often enough.

Then Mid-Life sort of sits around, a lot, on my overstuffed chair and gives that knowing (annoying) look while she’s flipping through a National Geographic “uh-huh, yeah…. you’re on the downhill slide, closer than ever to 50. Good Luck with all this.”

Mid-Life is like that well intended, ‘honest’ extended family member who comes over every weekend because no one else lives closer. She says whatever’s on her mind because she likes to keep things “real.” Lately I can’t get her to leave.

So.

When Reinvention knocked and I answered the door – I honestly thought she was selling something illegal.

Self-Doubt just about elbowed her off the porch with his arrogant buffoonery.

But She’s good. She’s got this stance. Like Harriet Tubman or Sojourner Truth.

She’s just not moved.

I still made her stand outside for a while.

Letting her in meant shoving Self-Doubt aside — requiring every fiber of strength.

He knew it too.

I debated for a bit until Mid-Life opened her yap and said “Come on, Jen, what do you have to lose. I mean: really.”

Finally opening the front door I gave Reinvention a look of despair.

She winked and with the slightest flick of her finger tipped Self-Doubt right off the porch and calmly walked inside.

Mid-Life eye-balled her a bit but didn’t say a word.

Reinvention sat down, opposite Mid-Life, and all I could think about was how the couch she chose reminded me of Chattanooga, TN.

I almost started in on that tangent but she put a finger to her lips and said “Shhhh…..wait.”

Reinvention’s arms were covered in scars and she had a limp. She wore bright clothing and a sky blue scarf around her shoulders. Her posture was straight, shoulder’s back, eyes steady. Chin up.

She was old–

and she was beautiful.

And then she began to speak:

“Stop leaving food out for Self-Doubt. He’s not a victim in need of rescue. He’s nothing but a destructive bully. Get him off your lawn and never let him back. He’ll never tell you the truth. Ever.

Trust the forgiveness you’ve given others and yourself. Whether they acknowledge you, or not, doesn’t change the truth of your own heart. You aren’t in exile. You Belong.

Do not buy the terrible lie of being defined by Critics, Grief or Losses experienced. Those are only some of many Teachers. Use that wisdom as a restorative function for building a maternal legacy your daughter, and your daughter’s daughter’s will remember.

They need your lived example of choosing Love, Hope, Kindness, Compassion, Resilience, Honesty, Accountability and Self-Forgiveness over bitterness, suffering, angst, blame, hatred or disconnection.

Refuse comparisons. I promise you have no idea what their lives are truly like. Keep the vision of Service and Meaning you’ve developed over the years. Collaborate with others who walk similar paths. I will help you. Believe. Live.”

I can’t remember when, but at some point she motioned for me to come sit next to her. And when I obliged, she took my hand and held it for the longest time. She didn’t care I’d used 1/2 a box of Kleenex while listening. Wouldn’t you know, Mid-Life ended up sitting on the other side and although she saved her two-cent comments for another time – her energy felt different. Kinder. Softer.

Then Reinvention folded me into arms. She smelled like Lavender. Tears kept streaming down my cheeks. I heard her whisper “You really aren’t the first I’ve had to visit. You aren’t alone.”

I later learned Reinvention brought an old 1987 camper and claimed a spot at the local KOA before ever coming over. And when she said she’d stick around for as long as I needed, she wasn’t kidding.

Now, most evenings, she stops by and we burn together all the nasty billboards Self-Doubt ever made. (Every once in a while he’ll lurk near the property but Reinvention just shoo’s him away like he’s nothing but a pesky housefly.) Mid-Life often waits in the kitchen, but I suspect she’ll head on out before Summer’s end. She simply can’t help herself.

As the blaze starts Reinvention often takes my hand and starts to sing:

“It is well…..with my Soul.”

Last night — I joined in.

It’s a brand new morning, the end of another week and Sorrow keeps pounding on the back deck door like if she stays out one more second she’ll freeze to death. With these winter subzero digits she’s not all wrong.

I’m half-tempted.

Shuffling in she bears a small glint in her eye, like she knows I needed her (ugh).

I watch her head straight for the cupboard and pull down a mug that reads: “Give me coffee and tell me I’m pretty“.

Handing it to me she says, “I’ll take it black.”

“I live to serve” I retort. To which she ignores.

Reaching for my own cup of liquid coherence — I give the stink eye.

I didn’t invite her over and I don’t want to listen – even to her silence.

Especially the silence.

But my uninvited companion knows the weight on my heart today. I’m in the middle of a hard place that matters — straining to see the light.

It looks so dark.

I fear neglect, harm, narcissism, selfishness and pain are happening to people I love and Sorrow isn’t feeling too helpful.

She comes alone, sits, and I’m quick to forget the gift of Presence.

(To be fair, Wisdom is probably locked out on the front porch but I don’t want her coming in – either.)

(Not yet.)

Whenever Wisdom comes around I feel like I  failed another yoga class or forgot to be smarter. Again.

Well, right now I’m worried about the well being of children I care about. A lot.

I  want coloring around the kitchen table. Playing games next to the fire. Building Lincoln Logs and reading stories from books printed in 1976.

And most of all – I want them to know Love.

All of which I am powerless to make happen.

I live here, they live there and a there’s a whole lot of tree’s in between.

Okay, maybe Wisdom can come in. I’ll scoot my fat butt over – make room.

She keeps showing up anyway…like a literature evangelist minus the pamphlets — holding on to something I keep losing in the dark.

She trusts a Benevolence so far beyond what I can see, predict or control with a belief both inspiring…and impenetrable it’s maddening.

I watch Wisdom pick out “Jesus and Coffee“– pour the last bit, sit down and look at me.

I want to be so immature and roll my eyes with her mug of choice but head for the rant instead:

“So….here we are….on this little spinning blue ball of a planet suspended somewhere in the universe with one primary ‘task’ we’ll never achieve: “to love”. Well, no-thanks. I’m too judge-y and too angry.  When handed a big steaming plate of hurt, fear, uncertainty, confusion, anger and surrender — I take that hot mess and dump it in the garbage. I like taking charge of situations — make them better. Confront the barrier. Find a way in. It’s visceral. And, just so you know, I’m not alone. There’s a lot of us out there who don’t have time for the gobbledy gook of nice ideas and better behaviors.”

“Uh-huh” — they say, except for…
“Except for what?!” I retort.

“Except for when you can’t actually “do” anything at all. When you’re in an emergency room, or on the couch after taking a call, or after the letter falls from your hand and you’ve heard the news.”

Wisdom keeps going…

“These moments represent a part of adulthood you have to teach your children:  now. They need skills and abilities that will help them move through and accept parts of life deeply unfair and imperfect.

Discernment can help but you probably left him at a park bench last week when you thought you had time for a midday chat.”

I know she’s right.

Suddenly I feel an arm around me.

I inch away.

Wisdom inches closer. These guys are pro’s.

They know, with a little love of their own to give,  I’ll find my way out of this paper bag.

Something, someone bigger than me does hold all this in a Palm far greater than mine. Because…I was never meant to.

Today, it’s not complicated.

I have to let go of a situation I want to hold close forever. I have to surrender and trust in an unseen force that claims it’s got my best interest at heart…and (more importantly) the best interest of those I love.

I don’t know, yet, how to teach Sedona-Grace the full power of all this Surrender stuff but I’m willing to try.

Every hard lesson learned  has made me a better human being- for her, and for any other child (or human) I needed to love.

I am certain it can do the same for you – if not already.

“Sedona what is the most important thing about being a mom?“

“It’s that I need a mom…or I wouldn’t even be here.“

“What’s the most important thing a mommy should do?”

“Make sure I’m safe…and make sure you’re safe too.“

My daughter sailed into La-La Land about 6:30pm last night and I wanted to follow suit. Maybe get over this cough I’ve had since Christ was a child. But that didn’t happen.

Instead, I laid in the dark feeling an unexpected solidarity with other women doing some – same version of being a full-time working mother.

I understand the “role/combo” isn’t a newsflash.

In fact I read a cartoon years ago that had a man standing on a sidewalk berating a woman for leaving her children because she was ‘going to work’ and then the next slide was the same man berating her for staying home (with her children) — doing “nothing” to contribute.

The entire sociological piece of “mother’s damned if we do(work)/damned if we don’t” is too big for this post.

But it is real.

We’ve carried the ‘privilege’ of advancement for decades now and if I truly resented it; I would also resent the exorbitant student loan debt directly tied to my PhD.

I do not.

I stand on brave shoulders.

I’m grateful.

And I am tired.

Like a so-tired it’s sitting underneath the word “tired” in some crazy separate language symbolic abstract drawing kind of experience version of the word.

A type of tired that still allows me to have pre-frontal cortex functioning without scientific back-up.

Ineffable, really.

And let’s face it. I’m old. On the border of geriatric. My daughter just six and I turn forty-five in short order.

This is vulnerable for me.

I personally know more than a few working moms who integrate yoga with a good run on the side. Regularly.

I could too.

I have the treadmill. I think about using it. A lot.

And I like the words “Self-Care” or sweet mantra’s such as “Be Good to Yourself.”

But writing truth about private imperfections when brave faces and fortitude are all that’s on the culturally acceptable menu is not easy.

Sometimes there just isn’t enough Brene Brown out there to make women more empathic.

Fessing up takes guts because we fear the whisper or the nod.

At least I know I do.

• I’m fat. (Well, eat less and move more! it’s not rocket science.)
• I’m drinking too much wine every night. (Oh reaaaaaalllllly……??)
• I wonder if I made a mistake by choosing a career. (I do think the children suffer with your long hours)
• I sometimes feel like the worst mom. (Well……….your past IS a bit on the rough side.)

Because I remember being that woman who, too quickly, quipped back nonsense. Hearing friends lament the impact of those roles.

Before motherhood.

I had soooooo many (un-thoughtful) answers to their problems. I couldn’t shut up and just get the fact I had ZERO idea about their experience.

An “answer” wasn’t the answer at all.

A little humility and a “yeah, I have no idea what it’s like. Here’s a cup of coffee. I’ll straighten the kitchen while you take five and stare out the window.” could have gone a lot further.

What’s more *this* is all so inevitable and unchanging — generations upon generations, being female, choosing to honor a calling and becoming a mother is always, always, always going to be hard work.

Just think. When I am fifty-five my daughter will be sixteen years old. Probably running her own business: calling shots and taking names.

I think I’m looking haggard now?

I’m going to start laughing again. The half-crazed maniacal sort.

A mother’s work is never done. A woman’s work is never done. (Didn’t Kate Bush write an epic song called “A Woman’s Work?)

It’s *never* done.

And here’s the kicker.

I don’t want it to be.

I love being a mother to my daughter.

And I wouldn’t change a thing about my professional life.

I’ve just changed and I think, somewhere, all women do if we hold these two roles in our world.

We knew we would when the job offer came, or the baby was born. We weren’t stupid.

But getting used to this new part (aka: bone weary fatigue) is like an acquired permanent appendage. Not as creepy as a third arm, or a strange growth we can’t cover up.

But it is a part that isn’t pretty. Just like those secret truth’s.

My version of TIRED is NOT pretty. I don’t know if it ever can be.

And I want to put out there that it’s okay.

I’m not alone. You aren’t alone.

I think back on my year in Japan. It was 1993 and I was visiting Harajuku with a friend. We saw Elvis impersonators lining up the beginning of a particular section that rocked out with band, after band, after band: a literal cacophony of western music/Japanese style.

As I stood there observing “Elvis” do his thing; I looked at other American tourists. We caught each other’s eyes, smiled, and gave the nod. We just understood what Mr. Japanese Elvis never could. Some things you just can’t recreate.

It’s like that now.

This post is about finding you, mom, out there in the community and catching your eye as you try and order a coffee from Dunkin Donuts so you can make it home for the shift change…your bleary eyes meet my bleary eyes and I smile. (I get that you might not be able to.)

That’s kind of the whole point. I feel you.

Maybe when we’re 65 we’ll meet again and swap stories about how we made it – because this writing hasn’t even touched the third dimension of integrating needs of a relationship – and our part in all of that.

Another time.

Rest for now….when you can.

For every word I wanted to learn, spell or put into a story – Sedona-Grace writes numbers: proud of her process.

Hungry for more.

And despite her artistic flair for people in motion – she is just as drawn, literally, to all things mechanically inclined.

(Hello upcoming math classes for Sedona-Grace. Good-bye Mommy having a clue.)

That’s our dance. My poetic yin to her Lego-building yang.

And for the most part I can figure out what she’s trying to communicate. But I’m only mostly successful when I get my own perspective out of the way.

Motherhood offers anchorage to one of the most important interpersonal life skills: to know our kids means looking at the world from their perspective.

Sounds obvious. Parenting 101.

This morning Sedona-Grace asked “Mommy, why don’t you remember what you just said? Is that because you are a strange human?”

I think I answered yes.

Truth is, I will always be a little on the strange side.

I am different.

I am other.

And the best way for me to find connection is by entering her world with curiosity, kindness and empathic attunement.

I believe I was successful  (maybe) twice last week. When she was sleeping.

Most of the time I’m battling dragons like Impatience, Stress, Impatience, Forgetfulness, Impatience or simply Getting-Out-The-Door – with no patience.

Which brings me to something spiritual I feel every time I say good night. Our day has ended. We’ve said prayers together and tomorrow is a new day.

And that, right there, is The Moment.

I’ve done my best as a mom, I’ve been forgiven for what I’ve done. And no matter how much I missed the mark I have tomorrow.

From the  open door and through the hall I hear her sweet small voice:

“Good night mommy. I love you one-hundred-fifty-nine plus a thousand.”

“Good night Sedona Grace. I love you one-hundred-fifty-nine plus a thousand, too.”

“The way we talk to our children

becomes their inner voice.” – Peggy O’Mara

I don’t know how often this happens to you, but several days ago I found myself doing that thing where I wonder when life is going to stop throwing another curve ball.

It’s like I have a senior moment and my pre-frontal cortex rewinds to adolescence.

I don’t want to remember “the gray” of adulthood ….or “holding the tension of both/and” when it comes to dealing with the day in and day out.

I’ve got one finger stuck in each ear singing “La, La, La, blah, blah, blah—please shut it with your high falutin’ mature perspective.”

Because I want the scene from Stargate. I want to step through a threshold from one dimension into another and look around with awe saying “Yesssssssss. Exxxactly. My life is here because THIS (better) world was the new frontier.”

And no, I’m not talking about Heaven.

I mean now. On earth. In this lifetime.

Where all the craziness falls into place and life is experienced without a (couldn’t see that one coming) situation blinding siding your Wednesday morning.

I want three days, at a minimum, of life protected from an intrusive mosquito of a circumstance.

I know… Mommy’s immature magical thinking happened again.

Sedona-Grace says “Knock, knock. WAKE UP.”

Thankfully these mental road trips don’t last too long because 1) I can’t leave my daughter unsupervised for that long and 2) it’s foolishness.

I can’t speak for your situation but I accept that I’m  a geriatric single mom of a five year old daughter who’s ten times smarter than me with an energy level that puts my ancient self to shame.

And my “Arrival” to the “Right and Good Life” I needed to choose does (and will continue to) include toilets overflowing or a 2.5 inch screw in the wrong place of a brand new tire.

Because Pioneering towards “Healing, Peace and Contentment” on this side of Mother Earth will require responding to a washing machine that sounds like an old motorcycle revving up in your basement while Sedona-Grace is making “happy water art” all over the bathroom floor…and the only clean leggings I can find to put on, while racing up and down the stairs, are these bright yellow ones found at a garage sale that literally make me look like a big banana.

Oh. Well. A part of me thinks it’s pretty funny.

YELLOW leggings?

But that’s me and life with my girl: Gorgeous wildflowers, fierce hugs, chronic lower back pain and stunning views.

We are joyful, we are resilient and we are on our way.

“If you can’t make it better, you can laugh at it.”
― Erma Bombeck