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

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 famil...

  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 somet...

  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 seamlessl...