Last week’s blog generated a lot of mail and I value and appreciate the feedback and shared stories I received from so many of you. A few men wrote in wondering if Michael had given his permission for me to publish the story and I quickly wrote back to say yes, most definitely.
It's a snowy day here in New England and I'm sitting in my livingroom watching Poupon run from window to window trying to catch the big, fluffy snowflakes falling outside just beyond his reach. He's determined to keep at it despite the fact that he never gets the prize. Poor dear...
I'm learning to release any and all expectations.Expectations are troublemakers disguised as hopeful intentions.If you're looking to experience the magic of the season, you might want to let go of expectations, too.
This morning I woke up worrying. It didn't start out that way. I opened my eyes to bright sunlight and smiled as I felt the warmth of Michael's body next to mine and the familiar weight of Poupon cuddled on top of my feet.
Ever since I was twelve years old, I've called myself a writer. The title felt legit. I didn't need to publish a book or have a byline in a magazine. As far as I was concerned, the fact that I kept a journal and wrote in it nearly every day gave me license to call myself a writer.
It’s Thanksgiving week here in the states, a time to appreciate and give thanks for the blessings in our lives. This year I have so much to be thankful for – lots of time at home with Michael, a deeper, more soulful connection to nature, the unconditional love of my adorable, albeit demanding cat, Poupon.