Love Advice

I will never pretend to be an expert when it comes to love. If experience dictates expertise, what I know well is that matters of the heart can cloud our vision and skew our judgment.

I once had a crush on a guy who was horrible for me. I couldn’t see his shortcomings, only his charm and wit. He wasn’t an honest man, but he was gregarious and had confidence I wish I possessed.

When a dear friend questioned what I liked most about this guy, I listed his attributes.  He was well educated, confident and funny. When she asked how he made me feel; I realized that I mostly felt anxious and unworthy. This led me to question my attraction and I came to recognize my thoughts as delusional and my attraction as addiction (as defined by “wanting something that is not healthy for you.”)

My heart wanted to feel something and my brain twisted the truth to oblige. That’s how addiction works. The addicted piece of your world will find a way to deliver that thing that you’ve told yourself you need. In my case, I thought I needed love. What was delivered was anything but.

What I know now is that we have everything we need inside of ourselves to feel what we want to feel, but it takes commitment to do the work necessary to arrive at a healthier place. That journey begins with self-awareness and moves upward toward forgiveness and love.

With the upcoming celebration of Valentine’s Day, my wish is that the powerful perspectives reach a soul who may need to be reminded of his or her greatness. If I could, I would share with my younger self the following.

My hope is that above all else, you understand that you are lovable and loved. Love is not something you need to earn or prove.

My wish is that you engage with the world form a place of worthiness– of knowing that you matter. Live the truth of worthiness by practicing self-compassion and by embracing imperfection. Practice courage by showing up, letting yourself be seen, and honoring differences. Share your stories of struggle and strength and always make room in your life for both.

Teach compassion by practicing compassion with yourself first. Set and respect boundaries; honor hard work, hope and perseverance; and tolerate differences of thought, appearance, and world views.

Learn accountability and respect by allowing yourself to make mistakes — and make amends.

Be self-aware by seeking to understand, rather than judge. Surround yourself with people who appreciate every part of you.

To know joy, practice gratitude. To feel joy, learn how to be vulnerable and move through fear.

I don’t wish for you pain, but accept that it is a part of life. Celebrate those who will allow you the gift of finding your own way through it so you may know your own strength. Because you are stronger than you think.

Be yourself. Life is a gift and is filled with perfect imperfections. Live with authenticity and speak your truth (even if others disagree) so that you may know trust.

The Crack in the Strategy

In my early twenties, my approach to life was bitter. I trusted nobody and believed the world was filled with more evil than good. All I needed to validate this belief was to watch the nightly news.

Then I turned my television off for nearly two years; and shielded myself from main stream media and negative people.

Circumstances changed and my life perspective pendulum shifted to the opposite extreme where I viewed the world as a magical place.

Inside of that timeframe, I was delusional enough to believe that if I demonstrated kindness and compassion and loved others enough, they would come to see the world as a magical place, too, and perhaps begin a kindness campaign of their own. My perspective was that the only thing the world needed was enough love to help it heal.

Unfortunately, there were cracks in this strategy. The first crack was the belief that I could change another person’s behavior; the second crack was that the world is only a positive, loving place.

The truth is this: people are going to behave how they choose to behave and the world is a mix of good and bad; light and dark. That is the nature of our planet and it is in perfect alignment with how it was created.

Without bad, we cannot experience or understand the definition of good. Without poverty, we cannot understand wealth.  Without war, we cannot relate to the power of peace. We need both. Contrast helps give meaning to its opposite.

I am not a pessimist. In fact, I am an obnoxious optimist. But what I believe is never going to change the structure of how it was created. If a piece of fruit contains the genetic code of an apple, but I believe it to be an orange, it will not magically turn into an orange.  That would require a genetic engineer.

The same is true of people.  But we are not genetically engineered to be bad or good.

We are genetically engineered to be human. We get to choose our path and what meaning we give to it.

I believe all people have the potential to be great and powerful. By power, I do not mean title, money or influence.

We are created with the same amount of awesomeness available to us, but unfortunately, some choose to dwell in fear, greed and entitlement and make decisions for themselves (and their families or organizations) based on those belief systems.

Belief systems can change and adjustments made to how we define good and bad. Power is not found in denial. True power comes from our ability to recognize and choose.

We can choose to be a victim, or we can choose to be empowered. We can choose to judge or we can choose to accept. We can choose to believe what we believe, but our beliefs do not render its opposite untrue.

We can shift our perspective to a powerful perspective of forgiveness, acceptance and love, but that doesn’t mean that those energies of our ego (fear, entitlement and greed) no longer exist. They must exist.

But because something exists, does not mean it is powerful.

Power is Choice.

Powerful Perspectives are found when we seek to understand what motivates our choices.

Are your choices motivated by fear, greed, and entitlement or are they powered by your ability to accept, forgive, and love?

You can’t do both at the same time. Choose wisely.

What you wish for

I sat by my fireplace and meditated on my financial health for the upcoming new year.  My goals were to honor my financial commitments, take care of my young son, and have the ability to save a specific amount of money. I also wanted this to happen by doing what I loved to do. The amount I wished to save was a stretch, but not necessarily what I would call a miracle. I wrote my goal in the form of an intention into my journal, clearly specified the amount, gave thanks to the universe for it being so, and went about the business of my life.

As a single mother, my priority was to be present for my young son and build a business that could sustain us through the highs and lows.  My goal to be self-employed was important because I felt it would allow me to do what I was born to do while also being flexible enough for my son’s needs. I couldn’t visualize how a commute would work for my family situation and I didn’t spy many classified ads in my small-town paper seeking my specialized skills.

Six months passed and business was steady, but my financial obligations were such that I wasn’t making progress in the savings department. I didn’t give it too much thought until the day I was asked to submit a proposal to a larger company seeking my services. I interviewed the primary contacts to learn more about their project needs.  One of the interviews didn’t go as well as anticipated and I found myself put off by the energy of the potential client. That didn’t stop me from submitting the proposal but it did prompt me to increase my hourly rate.

I was selected as the vendor, but had mixed emotions about accepting the project. I contemplated the pros and cons and found myself frozen inside of the decision. I feared that the negative person would put a damper on my work and perhaps hinder the outcome of the project. On the other hand, the income would provide a financial cushion. The ego was motivated by money, but my spirit was motivated by contribution. I didn’t want to make a work decision based solely on financial gain. Confounded, I turned to meditation.

It was in the quiet of that time when an overwhelming sense of calm came over me. It was then that a small voice inside my head whispered to “approach your work as if working for the Divine and not for man.”

I decided to accept the contract and approach it with an open heart rather than a judgmental one. With contract signed and deposit it in hand, I realized that the project income would allow me to exceed my savings expectation by exactly $100. I giggled at this because it became clear to me that the Divine had a sense of humor; as if it to say, “perhaps you should have taken a bigger leap because I am able to do so much more. I make miracles happen every day.”

That project became one of the benchmarks of my career — in more ways than one. The person I had judged as “difficult” became a respected colleague who taught me more than they could ever know; and the outcome led me to become a certified life coach — a role that brings joy and purpose to my life nearly every day.

I carry the lessons of that project with me and every year make a “wish list” that far exceeds what my mind can justify or rationalize. I get into trouble when I attempt to control how, but they typically come true, particularly when I let go and “let them happen” in ways that will surprise me.

I write this message today to remind you to dream big and believe in the power of your intentions and wishes. Approach the year and your life with powerful perspectives and trust me when I say that what you want can and will come true. Not in the timeframe or necessarily in the package you expect, but what your heart desires will arrive and it will be powerful.

For tips to help your new year’s resolution stick, read more here:

Forgiveness Found in Unusual Places

Walking into the dental office that morning was more difficult than running a marathon.  My palms were wet with sweat, my legs felt heavy as lead, and my breathing was quick and strained.  As I reached for the door, I braced myself for the smell of anesthesia and the sound of drills grinding teeth. The thought sent a wave of nausea over me.  The next steps were blurred as I entered the waiting room and approached the registration desk.  I was greeted by warm, smiling faces who immediately escorted me to the chair of impending doom. They knew I was “one of those patients.”

I was slightly dazed as the assistant secured the dental bib around my neck and asked if I wanted headphones. We agreed the noise would help drown out the sound of the drill.

As the chair reclined, my body tightened as if life-sustaining oxygen was being squeezed out of my lungs by a boa constrictor. Regardless of the nitrous oxide being pumped through my body through a small masked funnel across my face, my anxiety level was at an all-time high.  Inhaling deeply, I attempted to relax my mind and my muscles to endure a routine dental procedure.

Without warning, my sobbing began.  When the assistant left me to gather my thoughts, I scolded myself and questioned why I was reacting like a child.  As the nitrous drunkenness took hold, memories flooded my brain.  I was under the lights of an ER strapped to a table.

I was six years old and my mom and dad had scheduled a night out, leaving us with a high school-aged neighbor girl.  My parents had given us specific instructions to stay in the house and obey the sitter, but the weather was warm and I was aching to be outside. I lied to the sitter and convinced her to let me go for a bike ride.

My bike was sweet. It sported a yellow banana seat, chopper-style handlebars and glittered string confetti hanging from the handles. My dad added reflective lights to the spokes and mounted a fancy orange flag on the end of a white stick to the back of my seat.  When I peddled fast, the flag would whip in the wind and make a whistling sound.  I pretended to be Evil Knievel soaring across Grand Canyon when I jumped curbs. I felt daring and free.

The alley behind our house had a storm water run-off drain that was covered by a metal grate with bars about two inches apart.  I had cycled past it a dozen times before, but that day I decided to ride over the top of it going top speed.

Unfortunately, the tires on my bike were smaller than the distance between the bars on the grate and when my front tire hit the grate, it slide between the bars and locked up.  The intertia continued to propel me forward and threw me onto the concrete.  With my hands on the bars, I landed directly on my face. Then I blacked out.

When I regained consciousness, I was in a frightening room with bright lights, muffled voices, white coats, and the realization that I couldn’t move my arms.  They had been strapped down to a table so the doctors and nurses could do their work.  My mom stood nearby watching them stitch me up. Beyond the physical wounds, my heart hurt the worst. I told myself I was a terrible, horrible, awful kid for having ruined my parent’s night out. I thought the accident was God’s way of punishing me for lying to the sitter.

I didn’t realize it then, but that moment shifted my entire existence. I had appointments with doctors and weekly appointments with the dentist. Not only was each visit a reminder of my offense, but the accident also changed the shape of my mouth and jaw.  My smile was never the same.  I once resembled my sisters, but was never again confused as a twin or triplet when we went out.  I felt like an outsider in my own family.

In the dental chair that day, I realized why I was subconsciously – and consciously — terrified by the dental chair. It wasn’t the smells or the sounds, while still unpleasant, it was the reminder of the negative messages I told myself as a six year old.

After my appointment, I stopped at a state park and gave those messages back to the universe.  Odd as it sounds, I forgave the little girl for being human and adventurous and thanked her for being courageous in a frightening place.  The little girl with the broken mouth and face was finally at peace. I put her to rest inside my heart.

Driving home that day, I questioned how many other negative messages I had inadvertently carried into adulthood and decided to recycle them, too. I chose to re-shape my belief system and dwell from a place of power.

When we operate from a place of awareness and pay attention to the messages of our soul, it gives us an opportunity to dwell in possibility and live in a Powerful Perspective.

To learn more about the Powerful Perspectives coaching process, or schedule an introductory coaching appointment, kindly email:

Crayon Stained Stories

My favorite slacks were a well-worn pair of khaki capri’s purchased on sale at the Gap. They were casual and comfortable and often became my default weekend-wear.

One weekend when my son and I enjoyed breakfast at a greasy spoon, the black crayon he used to play tic, tac, toe ended up in his pocket, and eventually found its way into my dryer.  In the heat, it melted into chunks of black gunk.  The lovely black glue adhered itself to every piece of clothing in that load, including my favorite khaki capri’s.

When I discovered my khakis covered with melted black crayon, I had a melt down of my own.  I threw an adult-sized temper tantrum and yelled at Cameron for being irresponsible and spoiled. I stomped around the house, carried on about the tragedy and ranted about how impossible it would be to replace them.

Cameron apologized for the crayon, but I was too upset to notice his grief and regret until his sobbing jolted me back to reality. I saw the reflection of my rage in his eyes and realized how my words were impacting his world.  I felt awful. I scooped him up, hugged him, and apologized for being mean spirited.  I asked him to forgive me for my temper.  I was still upset, but promised to find another way to express my anger. We agreed to look for a solution together.

We scrubbed, soaked, bleached and purchased every creative concoction that promised to remove challenging stains, but nothing worked. Every failed attempt sunk Cameron’s hopes and sparked guilt for my human, but horrible reaction.  When we exhausted our resources, we acknowledged defeat.  My favorite pants had become black-wax khakis and were destined for the dump.

With the heart and wisdom of a child, Cameron timidly told me he liked my khakis better covered with black gunk. He thought they made them look interesting and unique. He’s a sweetheart optimist, but I recognized it was his attempt to make everything ok and realized the distinctive flair of our hand-made pants provided a unique opportunity for me to be a better mom.

Later that week I volunteered at Cameron’s school and showed up in his classroom wearing black-wax pants. When I walked in, Cameron noticed my pants and instantly smiled his precious smile. Later I overheard him whisper to his buddies that my outfit was unique and hand-made. He said they made me look pretty. I secretly celebrated our crayon-stained story had a better ending than its beginning.

A regrettable reaction gave me the opportunity to create a new and powerful perspective with my son.  I don’t wear them anymore, but I’ve kept the crayon-stained pants to remind me that some things are more important than pants and story endings can be re-written.

Letting Go

The buzz of the alarm jolted me to life at 4:30 a.m. Barely awake and aching from the previous day’s workout, I debated with myself to roll over and go back to sleep, or get out of bed to meet my friends at the running track.

Against my body’s wishes, I shoved off the warm blankets, got out of bed and walked toward the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face, looked into the mirror, and asked myself what the heck I was doing. This was the kind of morning where the will to succeed outweighed the desire to give in.

Along with two other friends, I was following a training plan for an upcoming 10-mile race and that day’s workout called for mile repeats. A mile was four laps around the track and the goal was to run a mile at top speed, take a minute to recover, and then do it again. On the first lap of mile 4, I noticed on one side of the track was the full moon and the other side was the rising sun and in between were magnificent stars. It was a spectacular feeling of smallness that momentarily distracted me from my effort and made the other three laps zip past. When we finished our run, we cooled down, stretched and went our separate ways.

We would meet four or five times a week to vary our distance and speed and keep each other on course. More than once I gave thanks for the team waiting at the Y; and begrudgingly became accustomed to the 4:30 alarm. I wasn’t always pleasant and admit to cussing them out when they suggested we get up at 4:15 to run long before work. That was the day I discovered my threshold. With the encouragement of my partners, though, I pushed through and later felt gratification for mustering the strength.

Our runs weren’t just about running. We spent hours together and crazy as it might sound, it became my Prozac. We honored each other with the promise that what was said on the run, stayed on the run. We vented about work and mourned painful loss. We shared stories about mutual friends and chatted about weather, moon phases and shooting stars. We shared stories of our kids and observations of the insanity we call humanity. But mostly we celebrated each other’s success, regardless of how large or small.

It was during those runs when I felt most alive. I felt I had purpose and control over one area of my life.

We trained for several months and never missed a scheduled run. We tapered our distances, rested and felt confident for our big day. We traveled as a team to the race and joined others who were running for the cause. The temperatures that morning were cool enough for long sleeves at lineup, but warm enough for short sleeves after mile one. It was overcast, but clearing, and I was feeling well prepared to meet my goal. I had hydrated and slept well and had my favorite pre-race meal the night before. I was shoulder to shoulder with 2500 women who were all pushing beyond from where they had come. The national anthem brought tears to my eyes and life in that moment, was perfect and complete.

The horn sounded and the sea of runners moved across the timing mats in waves. For the first mile, I weaved through the crowd, hoping to clear a path. Miles 2 and 3 went by in a blur and I started to get in my groove. Somewhere between miles 5 and 6 I realized that I was off my pace and my heart began to sink. I continued forward and at mile 8, forsaking modern day miracles, I knew I wouldn’t make my goal.

Every finish line has its story and it is powerful every time. More often than not, the finish line represents victory, but on that day, it represented defeat. I replayed each mile, wondering where I had gone wrong, and with each reiteration I cursed myself more. I had no good reason and it didn’t add up. I had nothing and nobody to blame but the day. I felt disillusioned and wondered why I tried.

The finish line haunted me and the miniscule five minutes defined who I was. I had lost my perspective and was focused on the result. My energy had gone into my training; something I thought I could control. As it turns out, I have no control at all.

I’ve come to realize that Powerful Perspectives are not about control; they’re about letting go. And not just finish times, regret, sorrow or loss. It’s about experiencing and embracing what’s in front of us that matters the most. Yes, goals are important and they help us define success, but the power is in the journey, not the finish line at all.

An Extraordinary Pumpkin

With each skin cream treatment, the pink blemish on the side of my face appeared to sizzle like eggs frying in bacon grease.  The center of the blemish turned brown, rimmed in swollen auburn and orange rings. The blemish was a form of skin cancer and was being treated with cream, instead of surgical removal. The removal process involved five days of treatments for six weeks.  Halfway through the regimen, what was a tolerable light pink blemish had become a hideous fried scab the size of a cigar burn.

I consider myself healthier than average and take care of what I’ve been given, but it seemed to be vain to be focused on physical appearances that morning.  As I prepared to make my way out the door, I was not my typical life-coach self. I was feeling ugly and self-conscious and my hair had been styled to hide my swollen face.

Feeling sorry for myself, I inched through the morning and avoided as many people as possible.

At lunch, I took a hike along a beautiful nature trail and found a bench over-looking the city. I sat and let the hot tears of shame come. Between sobs, I pleaded with the universe to give me a sign and help me make sense of my life.

When I had exhausted the tears and gathered my emotions, I walked with my head-down and crunched the fall leaves beneath my feet.  On the path a few feet away, I noticed an oak leaf glimmering with the stunning colors of autumn — burnt orange, auburn and brown.

As I admired the rich colors and breathed in the crisp air, it occurred to me the colors in the leaf were similar to the patch on my face and I began to cry again. This time the tears cleansed and helped me realize that beauty comes in all shapes, sizes and colors. I carried the leaf to the end of the path and released it to the wind as I thanked it for its message.

Later that evening as I finished up dinner dishes, I got a call from  a client who owned 40 acres of land north of town.  His love of the land and gardening led him to plant strawberries, rows of sweet corn, melons, cucumbers and pumpkins.

This client has become a dear friend and had kept my son and I stocked with fresh fruits and vegetables all summer; including more sweet corn than a family can eat in a year.  We were so blessed by the abundance coming from his generous and prosperous green thumb.

This call was to inform me he had another surprise for us and asked if he could drop it off at our house.

Moments later he showed up and handed me a mammoth 50 lb. plus pumpkin with an over-sized handle.  The pumpkin seeds, he said, were genetically engineered to produce an extra large stem to hold the weight of the pumpkin. He thought this pumpkin would be good for Cameron.

Then he handed over one of the most unusual and special gifts I’ve ever been privileged to receive. It was a 30 lb. pumpkin that had unusual markings in the skin that read “Samantha, Happy Halloween!”  When I asked  how “the pumpkin grew those words,” he told me the following story:

“Before I planted the seeds in April, I blessed them.  In June when the pumpkins turned green, I took a sharp nail and carved gently into the skin of the pumpkin. As the pumpkin continued to grow, it healed itself and scabbed over, leaving a  small reminder of the wound sustained earlier in the season. The scab is a sign of the pumpkin’s endurance and strength.”

As he finished his story, I stood in awed silence for the timing of the pumpkin delivery and the magnificence of this marvelous gift.  The tears that came for the third time that day were now healing tears of gratitude.

My client and friend had scratched the skin of that pumpkin months ago to produce a magical pumpkin for the Halloween season.  He would have had no idea back in June that my skin would be wounded and scabbing in much the same way that day.

This gift was more than a remarkable pumpkin, it was a miracle and the sign I needed to renew my trust and faith in the universe.

My skin, ego and scars were no longer the focus of my day. My attitude instantly turned to Powerful Perspectives of awareness, appreciation and love of a particular pumpkin and precious act of a friend.

Each fall when the pumpkins arrive, I stop and give thanks for the special gift of friendship — and the power of signs and miracles.

When we look for miracles, they find us and make us aware of their power to heal and bring us to a better place.

What may be an ordinary pumpkin, becomes extraordinary in an instant.

Parenting the Precious

Maggie was born with cerebral palsy and would never walk, talk, feed or dress herself. Her parents were told she’d be lucky to live past the age of two.

Maggie grew and was nurtured by an incredibly strong, courageous and beautiful mother and grandmother who never complained about the circumstances of Maggie’s life. They loved her and treated her as they would any child. They shared stories of her victories and progress and they bragged like any proud parent or grandparent would. The condition of Maggie’s body was secondary to the condition of her soul.  They saw Maggie for the love she brought to their lives.

She communicated with her family in a way they understood and brought a sense of celebration to every single day.  When she turned three she was transported by a wheel chair to make it easier for her mom to move her around. As fate would have it, Maggie defied the odds and continued to thrive.

At age five, Maggie started kindergarten. She was the same age as my son. They went to the same school and attended many of the same school functions. I got to know Maggie’s mom on a friendly basis.  While I watched Cameron play with his friends or race from game-to-game at the school carnival, Maggie’s mom wiped drool from her face and fed her from a spoon. Maggie would give her mom a sideways smile.

In the time I spent dropping off my son at the playground and waving goodbye, Maggie’s mom would face weather conditions and curbside snow to haul the wheel chair out of her van.  As I zipped past, Maggie would be strapped into the chair and her mom would be carrying her backpack and supplies into the school to meet the special assistant.

Maggie’s mom always waved and smiled.  I rushed to my next thing, giving silent thanks for my son’s perfect health.

In the third grade, Maggie’s body began shutting down and she was admitted to the hospital. Her schoolmates rallied around her and sent personalized cards.  They created a poster the length of the hallway and each student and faculty member signed a get-well greeting.  They collected hugs for Maggie in the form of monetary donations and they hoped she would return to school quickly.  From home, my son and I would check Maggie’s caring bridge website and send good vibes for healing and peace.  We looked forward to the day she would return to school. Maggie’s Spirit was stronger than her body and later that spring, she passed away.

On the last day of school, I saw Maggie’s mom in the hallway and my eyes filled with tears of compassion.  I hugged her and told her I was sorry for her loss.  Her response was gracious and bold. “I didn’t expect her to live past the age of two,” she said. “I was blessed by every moment, every day.  I had the privilege of spending an extra 7 years with my angel.”

I thought about our children’s paths and how different our experiences had been. Maggie’s mom and I had been pregnant at the same time and given birth a few weeks apart. While I was busy rushing off and giving thanks for perfect health, Maggie’s mom was giving thanks for the blessing of another day.  While I watched with sympathy as she wiped Maggie’s drool from her face, Maggie’s mom was happy for one more moment with her child.

I began to question why I was comparing my relationship with Cameron to her relationship with Maggie and determined that in my sympathy, I was judging; in my gratitude for perfect health, I was judging; and in my compassion for her loss, I was judging.

She was happy simply living in the moment and being with her child.

I wondered if I were truly the lucky one for having a son with perfect health, or was she the lucky one for having a child whose presence was a constant reminder of precious time and small joys? Was I genuinely “compassionate” for her loss, or was I thinking her burden had been lifted?

I don’t have the answers, but I suspect we were both lucky, and both right.  I’ve come to believe that any time we compare, we judge.  Because when we compare, something must be right, and therefore something must be wrong.  I’ve come to realize that the universe doesn’t make mistakes and nothing is ever wrong, just different. Anytime we think something “should be” we judge and dishonor “what is.”

Inside of awareness are gratitude and forgiveness and the Powerful Perspectives that teach us self-love.

Transforming Darkness into Light

We met at a function that called for business casual conversation.  He worked the room like a professional, making small talk and thoughtful introductions to colleagues.  It was clear to me this wasn’t his first networking event.

His hazel eyes were intense and deep, but I can’t say I was attracted to him at first glance. In fact, my first vibe was one of mistrust and deceit.  It wasn’t until he emailed me several weeks later that I was able to get a better read.  His energy, via email, was softer, kinder and inquisitive. He had read my work on-line and was curious which rivers I had fly-fished, a hobby he also enjoyed. I responded to his inquiry with an intrigue of my own and thus began a journey of discovery.

Hundreds of emails and several months later, we met for lunch. We talked about the industry, but other motivations took over and the conversation became more personal.  No longer did I see a man motivated by greed and power; but instead saw him for his soul.  He was a global thinker with big energy and I admired his perspectives on people, politics and process.  His life experiences vastly differed from my own, but he listened with intent when I spoke of my truth and history.  He loved good stories and reveled in the drama that was my specialty.

We found reasons to contact each other on a regular basis and our friendship and connection deepened.  We met for coffee, shared stories of our adventures, stole moments throughout our day and spoke of the desire for more time alone.  I lost track of time and space when we were together and basked in the first and last communication of each day. I found myself magnetized to a man who didn’t make sense to my mind, but seemed to make sense to my heart.

Our relationship had several factors working against us including what we valued, the trajectory of our careers, and our significant age difference. But because my heart was experiencing bliss, my mind dismissed my doubt. I broke my own relationship rules and made excuses to friends for reasons he said he was unavailable to meet.  What he called code names, I called flirtatious fun. When he didn’t respond to messages I sent while he was traveling, I chalked it up to him seeking adventure.

When I wasn’t a priority when he returned, I refused to believe it had anything to do with me.  Sadly, I ignored the glaring red flags.

It wasn’t one big thing, but a compilation of several small things that led me to face the reality that where I was headed wasn’t a shared path. It took tremendous courage to ask the questions I knew the answers to, but with resolve and support from friends, I found the strength to speak my truth and seek his.

I can’t explain why the obvious was surprising to me, but I found his truth difficult to reconcile with my own. Perhaps I was hoping he would see how his words had not aligned with his previous actions and intentions.  Or maybe in my fantasy world, I was hoping to be swept away by his sudden awareness of our potential possibility.

That didn’t happen and over the course of the following weeks, I found myself feeling used and misled. I went to a dark place of hatred and regret and wallowed in the self-pity of stupidity for many moons.

I took time to vent, then took the time to heal.  As a storyteller and believer in all things mystical, I wanted to believe in Disney’s depiction of the “once upon a time tales.” I now believe that true love is much more than fictional fantasy.  Love is what motivates the heart; logic is what motivates the mind. Relationships are a balance of both and call for an “and” to be successful. Dismissing one for the other is operating from a place of “or” that will eventually self-correct.

Balance is the natural consequence of time and nature, and if we wait long enough, anything can realize its potential. It wasn’t until a new relationship entered my world when I recognized my role in the former.

Odd as it may sound, through the heartbreak of other’s participation in my path, I transformed my relationship with self.  I’ve learned to follow my heart, but also trust my head. I’ve learned to stop expecting others to live up to their potential and instead accept them as they are and hope they see their own potential.  I’ve learned not to make somebody a priority when they only make me an option.

I’ve learned that transformation and powerful perspectives are not typically found through the everyday mundane. It’s inside of fear or love where the greatest possibilities exist.  These experiences give us strength, enrich our lives, and gain us access to wisdom only found in sadness and grief.

I wish I could say that life is meant to be joyful, but the truth is, I have no idea what is meant to be. I only have the power to recognize what is, and that is enough.  Inside of “what is” exists the power to create the potential of what will be.

Lessons of an Ordinary Life

I tend to think of my childhood as something I survived. It’s not to say my parents didn’t do their best, but unlike my siblings, I wasn’t born with obvious natural gifts, and I struggled to understand where I fit in.

My oldest sister, Tiffany, was highly intelligent and walked well before her first birthday. She took to reading early and consumed books whole.  She had a great memory and her energy seemed to flow best through the pages of books.  This gift served her well in school where she earned straight A’s with what seemed like little effort.

My sister Mardy was the family comedienne.  She was dramatic, quick-witted and a master at repeating jokes. She was a social butterfly and once won a look-alike contest for her physical resemblance to Reba McIntyre.  She could also captivate a room, Chelsea Handler-style. She was also born with outstanding rhythm and style and rivaled Prince with creative dance moves and attire. I still think she has a future in Hollywood.

Leslie was my parent’s undisputed favorite.  She was easy going and pleasant and didn’t inherit the drama-queen gene.  She had more athletic talent and intelligence than her three older sisters combined. She was confident and comfortable in her skin and could have conversations with teachers and coaches as easily as her classmates. If my sisters or I muttered or thought about using words like stupid or gay, my mom would wash our mouths out with soap.  If we talked back to our dad, we could expect the wrath of the Incredible Hulk. Leslie could throw a fit of profanity at my parents and they would embrace it as family entertainment. My sister’s and I still call her the golden child.

The youngest of this tribe was the only boy, my brother Timothy.  He was born with soft, focused, intense energy and was nicknamed TR.  We thought of him as a real-life doll and took turns dressing him up in little clothes.  Our mother announced that having a boy meant the end of the babies in our family, and I think we secretly appreciated TR for ending the streak. When he entered kindergarten, he politely, but firmly, changed his name from TR to Tim. He excelled in sports and had inherited the linear mind of my father, giving him an edge in math and engineering.  When he was thirteen, he scored so high on the ACT that he was invited to attend a military academy near Chicago.  The rules and curfews that applied to his older siblings didn’t apply to him and his full name has yet to be used in our house. In fact, we tease him and call him “baby boy” because he still has our mother wrapped around his little finger.

I was the second born and arrived six weeks early. I was a pigeon-legged preemie and needed leg braces and special shoes to learn to walk. My parents thought I had special needs because I didn’t speak until I was three. When I finally talked, I muttered the phrase, “more Jell-O please.”  I may have been a late bloomer, but at least I was polite and continue to enjoy talking. When I was six, I was in a terrible bike accident that changed the shape of my face and jaw, giving me a different appearance than my similar-looking siblings.  School didn’t come easy and I was told I would never be the student my sister was.  It was said to alleviate the pressure of living up to my sister’s academic accomplishments, but my mind translated it to mean I would never be as smart.  I played sports, but wasn’t the superstar my siblings were, and I was more comfortable standing on my head than on my feet.  I couldn’t tell a good joke to save my soul and a nun at my high school told me I should have a back-up skill because she couldn’t see my future writing career.

I rebelled through most of my late teens and early twenties, meandered through my mid-to-late twenties, and attempted to conform in my early-to-mid-thirties, all the while searching for my gifts and a place to fit in and feel normal.

It wasn’t until my life hit a dead-end that I decided to take the time to reflect on the values and messages shaping my life.

I went searching for the truth and realized that being different was my natural gift.  I didn’t know it then, but my quest for normal is what makes me normal.  The older I get, the more I understand that the quest is what life is all about.  I’ve also learned that fitting in is over-rated and comparing your life to others is futile.

I’ve learned spontaneity and unpredictability keep life interesting and I’ve learned a child-like perspective is creative and healthy.

I’ve learned the gifts of my childhood were rich and have learned judgment of self and others destroys the here and now.  I’ve learned life is a series of ordinary moments and to remove the word “should” and honor “what is.”

I’ve learned that Powerful Perspectives turn the ordinary into the extraordinary and begin with awareness and move upward toward acceptance and love.