An excerpt from Seeing My Path…
“Remember when we were a kid and didn’t care? Do you remember back before we worried if our ears were too big, whether we talked too much, if our eyebrows were too caterpillar-like, or if our arms and legs were too long and skinny?
Can you remember a time before we started to think there was something wrong with us?
Let’s be that kid pulling a red wagon full of hopes, dreams and lessons to be learned.
Let’s be that kid before she’s hardened by disappointments, dashed hopes and unfulfilled dreams.
Let‘s be that kid before she lets the doubts change her opinion of herself – before she began to believe the criticisms or hurtful comments from others.
Let‘s be the kid who believed she could do anything and thought she was lovable and likeable and a joy to be around.
Can you imagine anyone not wanting to be around our kids? Try to feel that way about us. We, above all, know our intrinsic goodness. We know the depth of our character.
Let’s be the kid who is proud of the stories she writes and the cakes she bakes and the pictures she draws and the forts she builds.
Love us as much as we love the kids.
Forgive our screw ups.
Believe in our intentions.
Allow us to grow into who we are.”
*Notes from a conversation with myself, on a high plateau, somewhere in the middle of Montana.
Dear Universe,
She never could get up on water skis. Oh sure, she tried.
On my third hike up 
Love isn’t grand gestures, flowery platitudes, or mountains of toys. Love doesn’t require self-sacrifice on the part of the giver. Love doesn’t demand service from the recipient.
She’d just walked in the back door from checking on the neighbor’s dog. Time to start baking treats for the church banquet and making calls to beg for donations for the school fundraiser, in between loads of laundry. She had the T.V. on for background noise, even though she didn’t have time to watch anything.
They’d been walking hand-in-hand down the sunny side of Main Street. She stopped in front of a window displaying candles, flower arrangements, leather-bound journals, potpourri sachets and tiny jars of hand creams. Just then the door opened and they were enveloped by floral and citrus scents, sandalwood and patchouli.
Jenny can’t fall asleep unless she leaves her lamp on. (We’re working on that.) I usually wake somewhere in the night, stumble down the hall, reach over her sweet, eyelash-framed face and quietly turn off the lamp.
As I walked through Target looking for something to get the kids for Easter, I passed the poofy, over-the-top Easter Dresses. I remember getting a couple Easter Dresses for Jenny.
“There’s no such thing as certainty.”
My grandma called it goulache (goo-lah-key). She didn’t use paprika like they do in a genuine Hungarian Goulash. My version is more of a whatever’s-in-the-kitchen-pantry variety. It’s a take on spaghetti sauce only the vegies are chunkier and the sauce is wetter. I always make a big batch so as to have some to put in the freezer. It’s great to have extra on hand for ski days or those days when I’m not wanting to go to the store, which happens to be just about every day.
