On the Bright Side

As our kids grow older, my husband and I like to take credit for the parts of their personalities that we are particularly fond of while claiming, of course, to have no idea where the not so impressive qualities could have come from. I would have to say that I’m a full-fledged Type B personality, while my husband is more like a Type A - Type B. Nothing rattles him, but he doesn’t exactly know how to relax. He’s always thinking about his next move, whether it is pre-downloading the next Netflix binge before a current series has ended or planning our retirement. He never sits still, but also rarely gets stressed about anything. I, on the other hand, though I too rarely get stressed, am more of a ‘roll with the punches’ kind of person. I’ve actually been quite proud of my ability to look on the bright side and accept life’s curve balls with grace. As for the kids, we have two boys, and one steers his life the way my husband does while the other rides the waves like his mom. Observi...

I’ve always fondly referred to my closet as my “Room of My Own” and my copy of Virginia Woolf’s book is front and center on one of the shelves. My closet is full of my creative endeavors. Paintings on the walls, journals upon journals of songs and poetry, and even about a hundred pairs of rose colored glasses that I bought on a whim on my 40th birthday when I had dreams of starting RoseyShades, the “attitude accessory” company. It’s my Dream Cave. But recently when I was spring cleaning, I saw these pieces of me - really my favorite pieces - sitting dusty on the shelves, and it made me wonder if I was living my life ‘in the closet.’ Is my coveted Room of my Own, brimming over with creativity and dreams, actually a reflection my poverty of courage? Woolf lived in an era when women held considerably less legal and economic power, and were often ‘shackled’ to a life they did not choose. In response to a quip she’d heard from a Cambridge professor about women not having the intellig...

“Retreat!” As a verb, it means backing away from a battle. As a noun, it is a place of rest and relaxation; a place to recharge your batteries away from the hustle and bustle of life. At face value the words seem at odds, but the command, “Retreat!” urges a movement away from stress at the risk of failure or breakdown, and a retreat urges the same thing! Opening up space to reconnect with our inner selves and spirit requires a break from daily roles and responsibilities. If we remain entrapped in the din of our daily life our gifts and talents may never grow. In order for our authentic selve to EMERGE, we must retreat. Last April I felt an urgent need to retreat. Let’s just say it was an EMERGEncy! I went home to my beloved Mid-Hudson Valley in upstate New York and attended a workshop at the Omega Institute called “Channeling your Creativity,” facilitated by Alanis Morissette and James Van Praagh (which, I confess, was a huge catalyst - what an opportunity!). When I booked the trip...

As I gently guided the hour-hand around the large clock in my living room, literally removing an hour from my life, it struck in a more visceral way than it usually does. Maybe it was because the clock whose hand (more like arm) I was moving was so gigantic that the act of fast-forwarding through an hour of my morning seemed larger than life, but in the act of being a mechanism of time, I was really tuned into what I was doing. I went into the usual rote dialogue in my head that tells me to regret that I am losing an hour of sleep, an hour to run an errand, an hour to do whatever, when my little dog gave me one of those adorable sideways head tilts that wonders, whatchya doin’? So I explained to her (in that syrupy sweet voice that such a head tilt always elicits) that “we” were losing an hour, and our whole day was going to be shorter now. And then it occurred to me, no one should be more exited for Daylight Savings time than my dog. I had forgotten that we have a tradition during ...

Life`s a Beach By Jonna Shutowick. M.S. Ed.   My inspiration this month comes from the Starfish Story. Before I begin, let me recount a version of the story here for you, just in case you haven’t heard it before:  A young girl was walking along a beach upon which thousands of starfish had been washed up during a terrible storm. When she came to each starfish, she would pick it up, and throw it back into the ocean. People watched her with amusement. She had been doing this for some time when a man approached her and said, “Little girl, why are you doing this? Look at this beach! You can’t save all these starfish. You can’t begin to make a difference!” The girl seemed crushed, suddenly deflated. But after a few moments, she bent down, picked up another starfish, and hurled it as far as she could into the ocean. Then she looked up at the man and replied, “Well, I made a difference to that one!” - Adapted from the Star Thrower by Loren C. Eiseley After my first year a...