redemption

Forgive me, but I'm going to be an obnoxious parent for a moment. Particularly given that Bub's last meet did not go so well...

36.525 (Finally--the necessary 36!)

First place vault

First place beam

Fourth place floor

SECOND PLACE ALL-AROUND

There were no tears this meet. THANK YOU JESUS. Which was a particularly good thing, given she had four friends from school there and seven family members!

She and her buds claimed the podium for all-around. Above you have first, second, and third!

Thank you for your patience. We now resume normal programming.

Oh wait, this IS normal programming...

for my mom...

...who has waited patiently to see a picture of my tree. or one of my trees, namely the one she created all the 100 snowflakes for as my birthday present this year, despite her insistance over the past 39 years that she would gladly teach me to crochet, as that was the only way i was going to come by a tree full of snowflakes.

thanks, mom.

oh, and my kiddos thrown in for good measure. it is for my mom, after all...

disappointment and dilemmas

She sat staring at her brunch—face pale, eyes vacant. This was not our daughter. "I don't feel well," she whimpered, sipping her lukewarm raspberry tea. "You'll feel better after you eat something, Bub," I replied. The same turmoil I'd been feeling all weekend returned. How do I handle this? What's the best thing to do? My stomach churned. I wish to God I knew. But I didn't. And I still don't, even in hindsight.

Life is full of these handbook-less parenting moments—I realize this. I know I am not the only parent who struggles to know what is best for their child on a given day. But somehow the addition of gymnastics to our lives has increased the number of these moments in a rather disproportionate way, and I am left feeling like I'm faltering (and failing) more often than not.

This weekend was meet number two of the month, just one weekend after State Championships. Practices are Wednesday nights, Friday afternoons, and Saturday mornings. Dilemma number one: do we opt for the additional Monday night practice, like many of her teammates do, and give her a competitive advantage, or do we allow her to have at least one afternoon (I work T/Th so she goes to her Grandma's and isn't at home) free for being a child? We choose to forgo the additional practice, and spend Monday's at home, reading and relaxing. Her friends do not, and their scores reflect that. What's a parent to do?

Most of the time, we do not have practice on Saturday mornings on the weekend of a meet, but this weekend we did. This was a good thing, as it meant we didn't have to miss a practice. More time to work on the events that trouble her. A good thing, right? Or no? Dilemma two: do I opt to keep her home and let her rest and rejuvenate, or do I take advantage of another opportunity to get more confident on her bar routine? I choose to send her, some moms choose to keep their girls at home. Which choice was better?

Having practice on Friday nights and Saturday mornings means missing a lot of social events. Sleepovers, birthday parties, mother-daughter events for school—most fall on Friday nights. She finally gets invited to an event on a Saturday afternoon—a couple of hours at Fort Rapids, an indoor water park. She loves water parks, she loves the friend who has invited her. She's tired, but she's had a nap. She never gets to just be a kid and do things with her friends. But the meet is tomorrow. Dilemma three: Do I allow her to go, or no? I consult with her father, the Voice of Reason within our household, and he agrees she needs to be a kid. She goes to the water park. She wakes up today tired and with a sore throat. Wrong decision, or no?

We get up for church this morning, unable to sleep in because I'm teaching Sunday school and Tom's running camera, and we're all out the door by 8:30ish. We leave church and head to brunch, to fuel our gymnast for her meet, and she announces she isn't feeling well. You can tell it to look at her. She is not her normal self, by a long shot. Dilemma four: do we pull out and go home, or push through? We get some cold medicine, and within an hour she is feeling better. We push through. But is it the right thing to do?

The meet begins well, with a 9.15 (out of 10) on her floor routine. She's shooting for her 36 today—she needs two within the season to move up to level five next year. Both of her buddies have achieved it—but both of her buddies practiced all summer while she was out with a broken arm, and both attend the additional practice. Dilemma number five: do I break it to her that she's not likely to catch up to them this year, or let her continue to hope (and continue to be disappointed)?

Vault is decent—another 9.15. She's done better, but she's done worse. She squeaks out an 8.65 on the bars, which is a full half point improvement from last weekend, and I make a mental note to point that out to her. You can't spend four months out with a fracked up arm and expect to get a 9 or above right away on the bars. But I digress. She heads in to her final event, the beam, needing a 9.05 to get her 36. Should be a piece of cake. She took first place on beam for her age group last weekend. The 36 should be in the bag.

I am nervous as she begins, remembering that her warm-up was a little more wobbly than usual, probably because of her head cold. I breathe a short prayer, but that is the last breath I take for what seems like an eternity. She is still wobbly, fighting to hold on to poses that normally don't sway her. I pray harder. She wobbles again. And again. And then, my tenacious little fighter falls off the beam. I curse under my breath, trying to keep my disappointment from escaping my eyes.

She finishes, but she is not happy. She dismounts, fakes a smile for the judges, and makes it barely ten steps before bursting into tears. 8.4. There will be no 36 today. Both her friends make 37s, and my daughter is inconsolable.

Dilemma number six: had I made a different choice on any of the decisions above, would it have changed today's outcome? And if so, am I partially to blame for her disappointment? Or worse, totally?

Where is the handbook for THAT?

what remains

The day began innocently enough as far as epiphanies go. After a slow start due to a late night the evening before, we were finally all up and moving—moving tubs and bags and boxes up from the basement to be dug through and sorted and stored or gotten rid of. I was nearly jubilant as I plowed through the last ten years worth of stuff (which had heretofore been accumulating en masse all over my basement, already a pit to begin with) trying to determine what were keepsakes and what was simply not worth keeping. Baby clothes, teething rings, books, baskets, tennis shoes, clothes out of date, out of style, out of size. Three carloads to Goodwill later, I was nearly finished.

Laid out before me were the remnants of babyhood to be sorted and stored, and then my work would be finished. I perused the items carefully—which child did they belong to? Was this handmade? By whom? Would they want this for their own children? I tried to identify all the important information one would want to remember but would never be able to in twenty-some years. It was at this point I picked up the dog.

He was cute—a soft, shaggy brown mutt about the size of a webkinz. I couldn't remember for the life of me to which child he belonged. I noticed he had stitching on each ear—one ear read "record," the other, "play." Easy enough, I figured. I'll press play and see if it gives me any clues.

I pressed play and out came my own voice. "Hi Buddy! I love you!" I crooned. Problem solved. It was my son's. I was not prepared for what happened next.

The recording wasn't over. After my own "I love you," there was a second's pause, and then an 18-month old voice echoed back, "I yuv you!!!"

If this afternoon in my life were a scene from a movie, that moment would look like the scene in Ratatouille when Anton Ego, the food critic, takes his first bite of Remy's ratatouille and is sucked back through a wooshing vortex of memory to his mother's kitchen some thirty or forty years earlier. I could almost feel my hair swoosh around my ears as I was transported instantly back to chubby cheeks and cherubic faces and wet kisses and infectious laughter. I lost it.

I sat there in the middle of what will never be again, and I couldn't pull myself back together. And that's when it all finally came clear in one heartbreakingly obvious moment. It was more than just mourning the passing of these stages in my children's lives, though I am wont to do that ad nauseum. No—it was something more, something deeper, something I've never spoken. Something I've ignored and stifled and stuffed and shrugged off but could never quite get rid of. And there it was, all messy and snotty and out in the open. I. Want. Another. Baby.

There. Will. Be. No. More. Babies.

There will be no more babies. After two difficult pregnancies, one of them with multiples, I couldn't have dreamed of putting my 34 year old body through that, let alone my nearly-40 body. I knew, when my son was born, we were done. I simply couldn't do that again. The nine months of terrible pain, the destruction of my body, the disruption to our lives, the months upon months upon MONTHS of screaming, diaper changing, screaming, sleepless nights, and did I mention the screaming? No. There will be no more babies. I knew this six and a half years ago. I know it still.

But there is a difference between knowing and knowing, and my heart began to understand that difference this Saturday knee-deep in blankets and bears and binkies and baby books. I grieved on and off all afternoon. I grieved lying awake in bed, unable to sleep with pre-meet nerves. And I grieve it now, wiping tears between paragraphs, putting it all into words for the first time and perhaps the last.

There will be no more babies. Surrounded with what remains, I closed that chapter yet again this weekend, flipping forward once again to the school-aged years where I will continue to suck every bit I can out of each and every moment available to me. As Buddy listened with curiosity to his younger self, he crawled in my lap, wrapping his slender arms around my neck. "I still love you, Momma," he reminded me. I held him too tight for a little too long, and I told him I loved him, too.

And then, yet again, I let him go.

airborn, take two

Bub had her third meet of the season today. Fourth place all-around for her age bracket. Would have been higher, but learned a hard lesson about gravity on her dismount from the uneven bars. (Translation: she fell on her FANNY.)

Giving that the apple does not far from the Perfectionism Tree, she of course is not happy unless she's at the top of the podium. After a frank discussion about the fact that she's outscoring some of her teammates from last year even after being out for four months with a COMPOUND FRACTURE, she calmed down. But she's still aiming for that top spot...

Here's a couple shots of her in action!

No wonder I get so nervous!

Way to go, Bub!!!

a few pix

With good friends at the lake a few weekends ago... Hiked, played tag, ate lots of good food. And saw five bald eagles at the wildlife refuge!

Me and the hubby (AKA "The Old Man")


Boo at the Zoo (Subtitle: The Lamest Year Ever)

catching up

I suppose it would be so much easier to share pictures on FaceBook, but I just can't bring myself to jump into that black hole of time-sucking oblivion. So, here is what we've been up to this fall!

Bub's first "official" USAG meet. 34.95 overall score (out of 40). Not bad for a kid who was out for five months with a broken arm!

The day after the meet, we met up with the rest of my family to go hiking in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. This is us with my folks and my "little" brother and his family.

The kiddos climbing on the rocks. My mom emailed me the next day and said she couldn't sleep that night because she kept having visions of her grandchildren falling off rocks. I had to laugh. No reason. I certainly did NOT have the same problem...



I love my Bub... She's such a happy kid!


This past weekend we camped at Pokagon State Park in northwestern Indiana. We used to camp here frequently when I was growing up--I've not been there for almost ten years. It was great to go back!



My Buddy! Could he be any cuter?!?!

Loving the fall color!

just "venting"

With a full day of no kids ahead of me, and a sinus infection that persuades me not to go to the gym this morning, I sit down to the computer with a cup of Vanilla Chai with cream (real cream, because I'm not losing weight anyway) and anticipate a full day of writing and, quite possibly, napping. As my tea steeps, I bustle about getting things in place, so as to be undisturbed for the rest of my morning. I pull up pandora.com, "tune" it to my George Winston station, and settle in.

As I boot up the computer, I hear a metal clanking outside my kitchen window that sounds as if it's coming from my driveway. There should not be metal noises coming from my driveway. I stop and listen for a second or two, conclude our neighbor must be home and getting ready to mow his yard, and go ahead and pull up my email. Then I hear it again.

It really sounds like it's closer than his yard, I think. But it has to be the lawn mower. Can't think of what else it could be. I go on reading. I hear it again. Finally curiosity gets the best of me, and I get up to look out the kitchen window. Nothing. I look out the back door. Nothing. I look out the kitchen window again. Nothing. Then, I hear it again. And I realize it's not coming from the kitchen window, it's coming from the kitchen.

I turn toward to noise, coming from above my refrigerator, to find a tiny beaked head sticking out from my kitchen vent into my kitchen. Then a little foot. Then a wing. Then the noise, again, and all appendages disappear. I freeze in shock, then, as its head appears again, realize I need to do something before I have a freaked out sparrow flying around my house, freaking out both myself and the cat.

But what do I do? As much as I like birds, I certainly don't like them that much that I want one flipping out and flapping in my face! I start to dial my husband at work, then realize he probably is not going to come back home at 9 AM to deal with this. I know that Beth, though on her way to the grocery, has just dropped her kids off at school near my house and I may be able to catch her before she's too far north to come back. I breathe a prayer, something like Dear God please let her answer her phone and come help me even though she is going to be even more freaked out than I am, and hit the button for her cell phone. God is merciful, as is Beth. Help is on the way.

But help to do WHAT? I don't know how to open the vent, nor do I want to open the vent. It is becoming apparent I need to call my husband. I speed dial the office and the new receptionist answers. "Good morning, Lorie! How are you today?"

"Um, I'm good, all except for this BIRD in my KITCHEN--is my husband there?"

She transfers me with an "Oh my!" and puts my husband on the line, who is less than enthusiastic about the issue. Of course, he's not the one watching the bird try to escape into the kitchen, where it's going to freak out and flap all over and, let's be honest, likely POOP all over everything. He says he can come home at lunch. That's not working for me. He instructs me to pull apart a cereal box and tape it up around the vent until he can come home. That, I can do.

Beth arrives, questioning what, exactly, the cat that sits at the front door to greet her is good for, if he can't deal with the bird in the vent. She reminds me she's terrified of animals. I remind her I'm aware of that, and assign her the task of handing me the tape.

I climb up on the chair, just seconds after the last escape attempt, and the bird goes still out of survival instinct. Yes, that's right, I soothe, you just be real still and I'll pretend I don't see you, okay? I manage, despite my height deficit, to finally get the box secured around the vent, and Beth goes on her merry grocery-shopping way.

All is eerily quiet now, with an occasional flutter or clank from above the fridge. (Why is "fridge" spelled with a "d" and "refrigerator" is not?) It is 9:45, and it will be a few hours before my husband comes to free the little critter, hopefully without my help, but most likely with. I regard the poor creature--stuck in a deep, dark place, unable to get help, light and open space on the other side, just out of reach. I know how this little bird feels. I want out, too.

But freedom is coming. Help is on the way.

As long as my attempt to keep it from escaping doesn't suffocate it in the meantime.

Sure is quiet up there now...

a taste of freedom

It is 11:30, and my house is eerily empty. I have both anticipated and dreaded this moment for months, if not years. After ten years of child-filled days, I now have three days a week to myself. Having already had breakfast with one of my best friends, now also child-less, I'm not quite sure what to do with my afternoon.

Today will be filled with getting done all that has not gotten done this summer. Paying bills, updating accounts, catching up on emails--all sorts of fun awaits me at my computer. I might even unpack from our weekend. Maybe.

Buddy is now at lunch--I try not to picture possible scenarios, as they all, currently, in my own fearful mind, involve him ending up in tears. It's just best that I not go there. Not today. Not any day. He will be fine. He will be fine. He will be fine.

I will try to turn my thoughts to balances and budgets and bookkeeping. I will try to not watch the clock. I will try to work first, and will try to play later, as well. I will try to not call out to an empty room, "Listen, Buddy! There's an airplane!" I will try to reserve this time for myself, and fill it only with what I want to do. I will try to not miss my Buddy, and wonder what he's doing every moment. I will try to focus on being an adult without children, if only for a few hours. I will try.

Then, once they are home and tired and whiney and bickering, I will remember why I couldn't wait for today to come. And I will sigh a sigh of both contentment and frustration, and I will both look forward to and dread Friday, when I will do it all again.

the big day

I really have actually done a little writing, but have been on the road and getting these kiddos set for school. Hope to post some of it tomorrow, perhaps!

My baby, first day of first grade. Where has the time gone? (Where have his CHEEKS gone? Not to mention his TEETH?!?!)

My FIFTH GRADER. Ugh. I am getting OLD. (Isn't she pretty?)

Two peas in a pod...


...all the way down to their toes!

my baby starts first grade tomorrow morning. which of us do you think will get the least amount of sleep?

our last days of summer vacation

If my dear friend Bob thought it strange that we spent part of our last spring break in Indianapolis, he will be completely flumoxed by the fact that our summer "vacation" was spent in Springfield, Illinois.

The kiddos in front of the state capitol building. (Should that be capitalized? I'm too tired to care...) It was one of the most beautiful domes (from the inside, of course) that I've ever seen.

Hangin' with the Lincoln Family at the White House. I HIGHLY recommend the Lincoln Presidential Museum. Very, VERY well done.

Yep, that's corn. Right next to our camp site. BUT it's the BIGGEST darn corn I've even seen--which says a lot for a girl who grew up next to a corn field. (To give perspective, I am 5'3" in shoes. That is BIG corn!)


Was thrilled to find out my good buddy, James (we've been friends since kindergarten), got back into the country the week before we drove right smack dab through the town where he's doing his Ph.D. Stopped and had lunch, then made him late to go sell his textbooks. Oops.

Not the most exciting vacation, 'tis true. But when you spend over $3000 on a broken arm, you make do! We had a great time with my folks, and it was great to see all the Lincoln sites during his bicentennial year. Now, to prepare for school!

another go ‘round

I was kinda sorta almost doing okay-ish with the thought of my baby starting first grade a week from tomorrow. That is, of course, until I looked at this.

I had all sorts of fears for my daughter's first year of school—fear, of course, being what I do. In the end, it was all good, as everyone assured me it would be. The role my daughter was cast in has fit her well, and I am eagerly anticipating the playing out of her fifth grade run, though I wish I knew where those adorable cheeks went.

My son, on the other hand, is causing me great concern and distress as we gear up for his elementary school debut. Not nearly as gregarious as his sister (read: at all), my fears for my son include sitting alone at lunchtime and prowling the playground by himself at recess at best, and being teased or bullied over his slight frame and sensitive spirit at worst. My stomach gets all knotty when I think of it—when I picture his sad little face, unable to hold in all that sad and having it spill down all over his cheeks. I just can't bear it. Tell me I'm being unrealistic. Tell me I'm being overly concerned. Please, someone tell me it is going to all be okay.

At day camp this summer, my Buddy never made a buddy. This is not unusual—in all his time at school and church, he has only made one good buddy, and that friend chose him two years ago and latched on to him like stink on a dog and has not yet let go. So after two days of camp, curious if the social situation had improved any, I asked him who he played with at free time. "Nobody," he responded. "The other boys don't want to play with me."

"How do you know that," I responded. "Did they tell you that?"

"No, I just know 'cause they ignore me when I try to play with them."

He delivered the line matter-of-factly, and I responded in-kind, but inside both the fear in my spirit and the lump in my throat grew.

In a two or three weeks, God-willing, this will all be behind us and Buddy will be settled in both scholastically and socially. There will be a lot more prayer between now and then, as prayer is the only thing I can do in this situation. It will be a long two or three weeks, as we wait for the dust to settle and the cast list to be posted.

Then, once that is behind us, I will be free to obsess about how impossible it is that my BABY is in first grade. If I can contain myself that long…

ready or not, here she comes

She hurtles down the run-way full speed ahead and jumps onto the spring loaded board, exploding upward with a force that belies her size or age, and lands that force directly upon her arms, which then propel her into the air and over the top of the vault. I cringe internally, then breathe a sigh of relief as she sticks her landing, the arm having carried her there. The arm is healed—but my heart is not. I have a feeling this is going to be a long, long three hours.

Bub is back in the gym after her four month arm ordeal, and she is back with a vengeance. Having broken the arm a mere three days before team tryouts, her coach informed me, once released by her doctor to return, that she'd been invited to join the team based on her coaches recommendations and her scores from the past year. Lots of prayer and a huge financial leap of faith later, my daughter is now a competitive gymnast.

Today is practice number three, but the first I've been able to attend. I am, as is usual, surprised by my daughter's strength and ability. Other than not being able to execute the round-off double back handspring yet, she looks pretty darn good. She's got some work to do, but, quite frankly, no more than some of the girls who have been continuing to work for the past four months.

There is some fear that will have to be overcome, but her first week back has already re-bolstered some of her confidence. This is essential—for us both. Her team manual reads, "While winning is not so important, trying to win represents everything we strive for. Trying to win means coming to practice every day, working hard, overcoming fear, getting up every time you fall down, setting and achieving goals, and getting up on a 4" beam to perform skills difficult to do well on the floor. We do not try to win in the abstract. We try to win in the real world where rules apply, comparisons are made, judgment calls are the norm, grace under pressure is expected, and where falling and failing are part of everyday life."

She must be ready. To fall. To fail. To get up. To go back.

And I must be ready, too. To catch. To comfort. To trust. To let go.

As for which of us will have the harder time, I cannot yet tell you…

the state fair: a photo essay

top ten things i love about the fair:

1. for one whole day, i don't feel fat, frumpy, out of style, or underdressed.

2. i leave with a newfound appreciation for my own children. i get to watch my daughter be my daughter...

...and my son be my son.

3. the sky lift. the best three bucks ever spent after ten hours on your feet. (with the exception of the 25 cent massage chair...)

4. fried dough with sugar on it. 'nuff said.



5. the ferris wheel. what's not to love?

6. more food on a stick than you can shake a stick at.



7. the state fair youth choir. summer of 1986. ah, the memories...

8. baby cows. can you get any cuter?

9. bright, colored, twinkly lights. lots of 'em.

10. cows made out of butter. only in america.

hope you enjoyed! we sure did!

milestones

As this is a milestone year, I have been thinking about what I want life to look like during this season. To that end, I have set a few goals. Feel free to harass me about meeting them.

1. (I can't believe I'm putting this in print) Complete first drafts of More and Fear Not.
2. Return to and maintain my normal weight by working out four times/week.
3. Take two spiritual retreats, one alone and one with the Hubby.
4. Attend a writer's retreat at The Convent.
5. Be intentional about deepening my intimacy with God, my family, and my friends.

I have rough outlines completed for both manuscripts. Don't ask me about my weight. Did you not hear me say I had a birthday? Retreat number one is scheduled for October. I am already saving money for the writer's retreat in the spring. As for the last one, not really sure what that will look like.

Wish me luck.

writing date number two

(Wrote this last week, but couldn't post it because we were at Spend-Bucks and I was NOT about to pay for an internet connection.)

My mind won’t get quiet. Neither will my daughter. Writing date number two begins. One hot Tazo Passion tea and an iced decaf white chocolate mocha. “I’m cold,” she tells me, hanging tight to her iced coffee. My tea is still too hot to drink, her cup is nearly drained.

She scrunches up her nose at my computer/reading glasses. “You look better without glasses,” she tells me with a consoling tone. “No offense.” A smile to ease the blow. Personally, I think they’re cute. But I’m three days away from turning 39. What do I know?

“Only three days?” she asks.

“You gonna write or what?”

I struggle to tune out—the Big Band tunes over the loudspeaker blend with the trio of men talking business at the next table, and my earbuds don’t block out either, but at least make it impossible to discern what they’re saying, helping me to concentrate on writing rather than eavesdropping.

“Hey! It’s all gone!” She slurps what’s left clinging to the ice in her cup. I’m about to make her move to the other side of the table so she stops reading what’s on my computer screen. She giggles. But she’s still reading.

And talking.

And I’m still trying to write. Trying to focus. Trying to clear my mind and shake off the tension of the day that lingers like the smell of cigarette smoke after a night out. I can’t get rid of it. Stubborn, this feeling in my insides. It will not be coaxed away.

“I like that,” she says. “It will not be coaxed away.” She hates that I keep quoting her. But it hasn’t caused her to be quiet and write yet. So I’ll keep at it.

“Good idea.” Pencil to paper, her side pressed against mine, we begin, finally, to write something.

bub's big adventure

A "Proud Momma" moment--please forgive me. Bub started her National Youth Leadership camp this week. She was nominated by her teacher and accepted into the program. She wrote letters to help raise funds, and came up with half the money "herself." Pretty exciting!

catching up in photos...

Some highlights of our summer, since I've been remiss...

The Hubby and I at Young's Dairy, celebrating my birthday.

Bub (with her "bionic arm") and Buddy hiking at Glen Helen, same day.

Ditto--Glen Helen. "Cool Mom" overroad "Mean Dad" and let them get wet. Do I rock or what?

Bub's fish--LOVE this picture. From her week at "Quilt Camp" with Grandma and Grandad.


Buddy, hiking with us while Bub was gone.

My college roomie, Holly, and I, doing our best Calvin and Hobbes impersonations. She and her family spent the 4th of July weekend with us.

Hol's cutie patootie, who is exactly four days younger than Buddy.

The kiddos having fun 4th of July weekend!

Had to put this in because it makes me LAUGH OUT LOUD. My jock-brother's son, AKA "The Monster Fairy," on his fifth birthday. Great show hands!

a new year

Yesterday was my birthday. I begin my fortieth year with these wishes from my mother:

How to Make A BEAUTIFUL LIFE--
Reflections For a Daughter On Her Birthday

Love yourself.
MAKE PEACE with who you are
and where you are
at this moment in time.

Listen to your heart.
If you can't hear what it's saying
in this noisy world,
MAKE TIME for yourself.
Enjoy your own company.
Let your mind wander among the stars.

Try.
Take chances.
MAKE MISTAKES.
Life can be messy
and confusing at times,
but it's also full of surprises.
The next rock in your path
might be a stepping-stone.

Be happy.
When you don't have what you want,
want what you have.
MAKE DO.
That's a well-kept secret of contentment.

There aren't any shortcuts to tomorrow.
You have to MAKE YOUR OWN WAY.
To know where you're going
is only part of it.
You need to know where you've been, too.
And if you ever get lost, don't worry.
The people who love you will find you.
Count on it.

Life isn't days and years.
It's what you do with time
and with all the goodness and grace
that's inside you.
MAKE A BEAUTIFUL LIFE...
the kind you deserve.


The people who love me found me this weekend. For that I am immensely grateful.
Thank you, thank you, thank you...

Here's to a new year.