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

  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