Brave Heart, Brave Soul. She who is brave is free.

  “I think as you grow older your Christmas list gets shorter, because the things you want can’t be bought.”  ~Unknown    I’ve always loved the winter season, especially during Christmas time. As a little girl I’d bounce around the house with joy and curiosity watching my mom decorate. Hanging stockings, stringing lights around the tree all while listening to Christmas music fill the house. I’d dance in delight with the smell of cookies coming from the kitchen and the perfectly wrapped gifts piling up under the tree.  I remember waiting eagerly for each and every Christmas special. Everything felt magical. My excitement and enthusiasm built until Christmas day finally arrived.  As children, this time of year is wondrous and many times mesmerizing too. But as we become adults, Christmas can become complicated, burdensome even. It’s not that the magic is gone. We’re simply aware of life’s complexities. We carry stress and anxiety and at times feel more awkward at family gatherings. Being

    I’ve been grappling with what’s around the corner lately. In fact, I’ve been thinking a lot about this subject. Pondering where I’ve been and where I’m going. What I could have done differently. What I can change. Some days I have a pretty good idea. Others I have no clue. But what I do know is this: I've lived a full, imperfect life. I’ve been bold, loved fiercely and unconditionally. I’ve definitely made hundreds of beautiful memories along with a good number of painful ones too.      Yes, I’ve made mistakes. Lots of them. Horrible and excruciating ones. I’ve fallen flat on my face. Landed on my butt. Are there moments I’d like to do over? Of course, certainly there are. But I have no regrets. Everything in my life has happened for a reason. Every step has led me to where I am. Every slip-up and blunder has been a teacher.      I have faults. Many of them. I’m lacking in more ways than one. I’ve been completely in the wrong and to blame many times. But I’m human. It’s a fact

“I like weird people. The black sheep. The eight balls. The left centers. The wallflowers. The underdog. The loners. The rejects. The outcasts. The odd ducks. The eccentric. The broken. The lonely. The lost and forgotten.” ~ Unknown    I grew up the oddball. Maybe you did too. You know, a little weird? I was different and not in the funny girl kind of way either. I was always too much for a lot of people. And honestly, it’s been that way my whole life. People either love me or they hate me. I rarely find anyone who falls in between. If you're a member of this club you know exactly what I'm talking about. You and I have never been what anyone expects; or to be honest, who they want us to be. I’ve never moved in the popular circles. I’m a wallflower and a book worm with a big imagination. Even now I’m not a girly girl, but I’m not a tomboy either. I was and have always been somewhere in-between.    To this day, I’m still the oddball. I’m sensitive; and believe it or not, I’m quit

  Let's get real today!  Be genuine and authentic. Speak truthfully, wholeheartedly with intention. If you're a spoonie, you probably know where I'm heading. If you're not. Pull up a seat, sit down and join the conversation. There’s a lot here to unpack. Ok, my question today, if you're dealing with any form of chronic illness, is this. How do you deal with family, trolls or outside influences who call you a phoney? Every spoonie has a muggle in their life or two or three even who invalidates their illness.Those who make it abundantly clear you're putting on an act.  You don’t even have to think about it. Names are already coming to mind, aren’t they? Let’s face it, you know the drill. It's an old routine and we all know how it goes…You need attention. You're dramatic. There’s nothing wrong with you. Oh and my personal favorite....you're faking it.  These kinds of people can’t grasp how you can actually be THAT sick, at all. I mean, come on. You don&

Life is full of change. Just like an equinox or solstice we move through seasons of our lives too. Days, weeks, months and finally years fade away. We grow, although painfully sometimes. We love, and we give, take away, grieve and learn even if it’s the hard way.  Our trees bloom, flowers blossom and our fruit ripens. And then suddenly it happens. Branches crack and split and fall off. Leaves no longer return and we understand. Our youth is declining and we’re getting on in years.  Maybe we have regrets, and maybe we wish we could change parts of our story. Prune a little better here and water a bit more over there. But as we get up in years, there's a realization that we can’t go back. We can only move forward. As time passes and seasons change our memories begin to fade. The faces we once knew disappear. Our minds slow but our hearts still hold on. Summer is a distant memory. Still warm and bright but clearly a hazy memory at best. Spring slipped away too quickly. O ur families g

  So, what does it mean to be chronically ill? What’s a spoonie? And what the heck is spoon debt?  Why are some folks called muggles and what exactly is mu ggle sick? Well, those are all pretty good but loaded questions to be fair. I’m no expert, but I am familiar with the lingo. Why? I’m a spoonie. Not a muggle. I have sick days and I have good days. I have flare ups, brain fog and just plain I can’t days. Truth is I’m long past muggle (normal) sick. And no, I don’t look sick to most people. In fact, if you’re not inside my inner circle you’d have no clue what it takes just to get up and out of bed most days. Not to mention the energy required for a shower. I go into spoon debt often. If not daily. I’m always borrowing spoonfuls of energy from one day to get through the next. Hence the words, “spoon debt”. And no, I never quite catch up.   My tired isn’t muggle tired. When I say I’m drained I don’t mean a long day, a few hours of sleep kind of worn out. I mean something else. It’s pur

  I’m not a giant among men or women. I’m simple to be honest. I prefer books over people. I love to cook, but I’m not a chef.  I love taking photographs, but I’ll never be a photographer. I’m a happy person. But I know sadness. She comes to call every now and again. And if you asked me to pick up a 100-pound sack, I’d give it my best shot. But the truth is I’d fail. Miserably.   Through the years, though, I’ve learned something about being strong. It’s full of shortcomings. Real personal strength comes from somewhere other than the physical world. We find it on a spiritual plain. No one leaves this world without enduring pain or disappointment. We all experience weakness. But encountering sickness, let-downs or defeat isn’t failure. Quite the opposite actually. Strength doesn’t come from winning; it comes from learning to fail gracefully.    See, when we truly find strength she comes from a deeper place, flowing through us, pouring out of us seamlessly. Strength is a quiet creature. S

  “Freedom is not about the size of your cage or the power of your wings or the non-attachment to a person or a thing. Freedom is about being so truly, madly and deeply attached to your own soul that you can’t bear – if only for a moment – a life that doesn’t honor it.” ~ Andrea Balt    Maybe it’s the fact I’m growing older. Or maybe I’ve just gained some accidental wisdom with my older age. Who knows exactly how or why? It’s an age-old question. Did the chicken come before the egg or the egg before the chicken?  Pun intended, either way, I’ve aged. I’m gray-haired with multiple lines showing across my face. I’m not the vulnerable young woman I was once.  But I’m not yet past my prime. Though I’m absolutely not a spring chicken anymore either.  I don’t know when it happened. But it did. One day I woke up and everything was different. My hands had creases. My red hair wasn't so red anymore. My eyes didn’t glimmer quite as much as they used to. And yes, I felt tired but my heart, eve

  “’The moment a child is born, a mother is born also.” ~ Rajneesh  As children we adore our mothers. Moms are our first home, friends, teachers, storytellers, and builders of our imaginations. They pack our lunches, give us the last of the ice cream and make sure Santa delivers, without fail. Moms laugh at our silly jokes, listen to our wild stories, replay our favorite movies repeatedly and frame our artwork on the wall like a Picasso.   Moms pick us up when we fall. Wipe our tears, dust us off and stitch us up. They’re our first confidantes, champions and defenders. Moms tuck us into bed, read our favorite bedtime stories and sing to us as we fall asleep.  Moms are the first to chase the monsters out from under the bed or out of the closet. They’re the first to soothe our screams in the middle of the night and make room for us in the bed. Moms are our safe places and our go to any time of day or night, anywhere. We trust our moms. The safety we find inside their arms is unquestionab