One woman's reflections of past and present - people, places and things that contribute to the joy and sweetness; the sorrow and hurt of an everyday ordinary life.
The house is quiet, the night is still only a few more hours until the end of another year, I celebrate with no loud reverie or dancing on the table, but our family tradition, Chinese food to go. My husband and I play a game of Cribbage and listen to Johnny Mathis sing "Auld Lang Syne". I watch shadow flames from the wood burning stove move across the wall, and reflect on the miracle of life in each passing day - days quickly passing by, like a passing parade. The blessing of family and cherished friend, of love and laughter and happy times. And long days laden with sorrow and fear - death. Like winter; cold and gray, bringing a heavy heart, and tears. But the days carry on, until Spring again, bringing new life and birth, and hope. And so it is, the New Year comes.
Fifty years have passed since President John F. Kennedy was killed. It hardly seems possible so many of us, who were so young when the President was shot on November 22, 1963 , are now older than he was when he died, and yet we remember that horrific day and where we were like it was yesterday. Several 'friends' on Facebook posted memories :
* I remember the day like it was yesterday! I was in choir and Mr. Salter talked to us after the PA announcement. Then we gathered in the cafeteria. No one was eating, and you could hear a pin drop.
* I was standing in the East Quad when I heard the news on the PA system. No one spoke, many shed tears, and most of us held our breath hoping it wasn't true.
* I was in P.E. and walked into the gym and saw Mr. Taschner sitting in the bleachers with his head in his hands, crying. I don't think I had ever seen a grown man cry before.
* I remember being in science class. It was such a sad day. I remember going home watching TV, and crying for days. I still have the newspapers from that horrible time. No matter the politics, everybody loved Kennedy.
Yes ! I remember too, I was in 8th grade at St. Rose of Lima school in Maywood, California, and can see in memories eye, an obviously sad, teary eyed Sister Mary Agnesine tell the class the President had been shot, and feel the solemn silence that followed like a darkened room after the lights are turned off. Then we prayed.
That following Monday school was closed so students could be at home to watch the coverage of the Presidents funeral procession. Perhaps the image of Mrs. Kennedy and her two children standing in front of the White House, and little John-John's sweet salute as his fathers caisson passed by has left the most lasting impression on us. So tragic, yet so tender. If the bombing of Pearl Harbor joined our parents generation together , the assassination of President Kennedy certainly bound ours. And television played a big part. For the first time as a nation we not only grieved singularly , or within our own community , but collectively as a nation, witnessing together on live TV the killing of a president, his funeral and burial, then the murder of his assassin.
In a recent New York Times Book Review article titled Kennedy, theElusive President, Jill Abramson, executive editor of the Times wrote , An estimated 40,000 books about him (JFK) have been published since his death, and this anniversary year has loosed another vast outpouring. Yet to explore the enormous literature is to be struck not by what's there but by what's missing. Readers can choose from many books but surprisingly few good ones, and not one really outstanding one.
Whoa! That 40,000 books have been written about President Kennedy is amazing to think about, but what strikes me more is Abramson's contention that none are worthy, that not one is really outstanding. She sites biographer Robert Dallek as saying historians are not really impressed with him , they see him more as a celebrity who didn't accomplish very much.
In the scheme of things , I suppose a thousand days isn't all that long to accomplish goals set out in campaign promises. But I would submit Kennedy's mark isn't necessarily his political imprint, but the imprint he left on the American psyche, and how his glow, and positive outlook attracted young and old alike. And today, let his words sound loud and true, Ask not what your country can do for you, but what can you do for your country.
When the dark of night seems long and sleep escapes me because thoughts unwelcome replay again and again in my head - I try to divert worries about my mothers health, my fathers health, my husbands well being, my sons well being about present day finances, and future concerns; Wars, and rumors of war; and the sad state of world affairs by thinking of a movie I saw, a song I heard or book I read. Sometimes I practice a method dear Grandma Cooney used when she had trouble falling asleep - to mentally name all the presidents of the United States in proper order. This night, I find by the time I get to Fillmore, Pierce, Buchanan I'm more awake than ever. It's only when I open my eyes to see soft colored moonlight stream through an opening in the slated shade opposite the king size bed my husband and I share that I'm reminded of the perfect Light , Jesus Christ and how I can cast all my cares on Him, because He careth for me, and for all (1 Peter 5:7) The worrisome thoughts once twirling and swirling around like an enemy wanting to deprive me of sleep are quieted now. The peace of The Lord fills my soul, and sweetly, sleep comes
Writing a blog has become quite popular over the past years, and for a variety of reasons. I believe many of us, including me, like to express ourselves via of the written word and pictures. Some write a blog to document their family life, others to expound political views. Some as a pulpit to share religious faith, or to promote a recently published book. Or perhaps tell about a hobby, recipes or game. All have their place, and shed light on topics that meet someones interest.
I write 2 lane highway, my own personal blog of One woman's reflections of past and present - people, places and things that contribute to the joy and sweetness; the sorrow and hurt of an everyday, ordinary life. Every six weeks, I also blog for Writing North Idaho , a web retreat for writers, news, opportunities, and knowledge sharing.
I posted a blog this morning on WNI about self help books. While its purpose was to share about a genre different from fiction, non-fiction, mystery and romance, it was also to honor my brother, Walt as it would have been his 59th birthday today, September 4. If you click onto link below, I think you'll see the connection between the two; Self-help books and my brother, and why the memory of what we shared will always be with me.
I put away my iphone and ipad today
and sat on the old log swing
in peaceful reverie
looking out over the bluff
at Lake Coeur d Alene
watching boats stream
by like a slow passing
parade. I heard the sweet
sound of joyful laughter
echo through the trees
of family and friends
sailing and skiing and
swimming in the
cool, deep blue water.
In memories eye I turned
to another summer
and another lake a
long time ago - 1963. I
was 12 years old, visiting
my Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Betty
and cousins, Shauna, Kevin and
Kim. We were at Bear Lake
in Utah, and my uncle was determined I would learn to water ski - and indeed
I did, but only after his persistence and
patience in teaching me how, and calm
reassurance not to be afraid, that I could.
For many summers after, I skied a lot,
now that I'm old, not so much. But ever am
I grateful for an uncle's loving guidance
to broaden my world to include
the joy of water sport, and help build
my self-confidence. Back in the present
I study the lake and watch
those on the water, hoping
another uncle is with his niece
doing the same for her
as my uncle did for me
A few weeks ago a visitor to my home asked if I ever grew tired of the view from our deck. I honestly answered, "No, not ever". One reason , the view is never really the same - but ever changing and different, not only with each season, but day to day, sometimes hour to hour.
In early morning the lake glistens in the rising sun, as though covered with a million billion jewels. By late afternoon, the cool blue water is more like a mirror reflecting a perfect image of curvy mountains and majestic trees bordering the shore. This evening, the sky, so vast and wide is clouded in blueish gray, the mountains underneath shaded with a muted , purplish hue. The scene seems other worldly and surreal, making it easy for me to envision a land of make believe - a distant place far, far away where dreams come true, and loved ones dance and sing through wooded land, greeting each other with joyful embrace. Yet, what I see isn't make believe, but up close and personal, very real and nearby. It's as though nature's beauty wraps around me, like a cape keeping one warm in winter .
All is quiet, the air is still. A ray of light peeks through the heavenly sky, and a moment of grace engulfs my soul. I am roused from my reverie , and grateful for the view I see every day , close to home where family and friends come and go, building sweet memories for us to grow.
One of my favorite things to do on Sunday in summer is to sit outside on our back deck in the early morning, before my corner of the world is awake and rustling about. I drink a cup of coffee and read my devotional; I give thanks to God for the gift of nature, and the beauty that surrounds me. All is peaceful. Calm. Flowers are full of color. Evergreen trees, like royal stewards of the forest, provide cool shade for birds taking rest, and deer in the meadow. Looking up at the pale blue sky, lightly clouded over with strands of wispy white adds to the serene way I feel. The lake glimmers under the first bright rays of sunlight, and I'm reminded of diamonds and glittering jewels , but that comparison seems too cliche. While diamonds can be beautiful to behold, and have monetary value - or can be the cherished keepsake of a beloved family member, looking at one doesn't help elevate the soul, or draw us to consider ways of the spirit or ponder the wonder of life like the splendor we find in being still, contemplating God's glorious creation. A soft movement of air brushes against my arm, I look up at the sky once more, and smile.
No warm sunshine this summer day only rain, like heavenly dew falling from a cloudy sky to wet the fields, and help keep our forest green; to splash the birds and bathe the deer, giving drink to a thirsty garden like waters of baptism refreshing the soul
May 30, 2013. My brother passed away three years ago today. It's not the kind of anniversary one marks on the calendar and looks forward to with anticipation and glee, but melancholy that a life is no more , gone too soon from his mother and dad, and family and friends who loved him
I choose not to wallow in grief, but to commemorate the life of my beloved brother, and life long friend. I remember his walk and the way he stood straight and tall, the color of his eyes and happy smile, the sound of his voice, and how he laughed when he got really tickled over something silly someone did or said.
Walt died and left this earth to be with our Lord on the other side, but he also lives in my heart and memory. And I know , come what may, some things can never change. He will forever be his mothers only son, and my little brother.
Posted below , a memory of Walt titled Lil' Cowboy, a poem I wrote three years before his passing. It was published in Write On ! Poetry Magazette February 2007. The verses came to me as I had been thinking of a time when Walt and I were kids, visiting our Grandmother's house in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Walt loved everything cowboy. Clothes, hats, boots. His favorite was Roy Rogers. Mother enjoys telling the story, and I remember it, too when a neighborhood boy knocked on Grandma's front door. When mom opened the door the little boy asked if Roy could come out to play. Mother replied, "Honey, There isn't anybody named Roy here". The boy answered with a definite "Huh-huh ! My new friend, he said his name is Roy Rogers!"
Lil' Cowboy When my brother Walt was just a boy he dressed like his hero a cowboy named Roy in his cowboy shirt and cowboy pants, cowboy boots and cowboy hat. A holstered six-shooter at his side, he walked around with cowboy pride Eating cowboy cookies, singing cowboy songs his cowboy cat tagging along He aimed to please and do only good just like his hero Roy Rogers would
A day of remembrance for the fallen brave, those that died on the battlefield in a land not their own, far away from family and home - Oh! the anguish, the tragedy of war We decorate their graves with flower and flag, sing patriotic song and march in parades And with somber thought remember, freedom isn't free the cost is high, the lives of beloved sons and husbands no longer here
*** My great-great Uncle Andy Norton died in France World War I (RIP+)
It is a perfect May day. I water the potted Geraniums, then sit down and stretch my legs on the chaise lounge. So peaceful and restful. For the longest time I look up and stare at the vast , voluminous sky, like I didn't have a care in the world. Its brilliant blue draws me in like a cool pool on a hot summer day.
I try to penetrate its depth with my constant gaze, but it remains distant and mysterious. Majestic. Only known to angels on wing.
Clouds drift slowly by until they gather together like friends at an afternoon social. I study each one and notice their different shapes and sizes. All look beautiful to me. I wonder, are there silly clouds? Serious clouds? Is one trying to lord it over the other ? To be more important and popular ? Then I notice a new cloud roll in, all puffed up with its ego and self perceived charm, proclaiming judgement on what's best for the other clouds, and what kind of clouds they should be. A few of the clouds scatter and are gone, no longer welcomed, and lost forever to their fellow clouds - all because of bias spoken by puffed up, self important cloud.
Still staring up at the sky, and looking at the clouds I reflect on the song Both Sides Now, popularized by both Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins and wonder about Mitchell's lyrics, and what she meant by clouds.
I've looked at clouds from both sides now,
from up and down, and still somehow
it's cloud illusions I recall.
I really don't know clouds at all
From the earliest days of listening to this favorite song, I interpreted clouds meaning life - life as in friends.
Then, looking more and more at the clouds, I recalled another long ago May when I lay in a hospital bed, my body broken and nearly left for dead after suffering an auto accident, along with dearly beloved others, and how two very special clouds (friends) were ever present by my side. I had a serious head injury. At first the doctors told my mother they didn't expect me to live, and if I did I may suffer brain damage, and at the least I may never walk again. For three months I was in traction, my lung collapsed, my back broken, my femur crushed , and nearly every bone on the right side of my body broken. Other than my mother, brother and grandmother, Diana and Mary Kay visited me nearly every day. They decorated my hospital bed, hung a Robert Redford poster on the wall, and sneaked pizza in for me to eat on Friday nights.
While our other friends were sunning at the beach, busy with their lives, finding new loves and getting engaged (all in right order), Diana and Mary Kay helped cheer me with their colorful stories and constant encouragement. They brought laughter to a broken spirit, and joy to a broken heart. After being released from the hospital I spent another two and a half months in a full body cast. When at home, Diana came to live with my family and me, to help provide for my needs while my mother was at work, and Mary Kay brought over her parents cool car and removed the front seat so I could fit my plastered body into the back, to cruise the boulevard with the girls.
At 19 years old, I don't know what I would have done without them. I doubt I ever let Diana and Mary Kay know how much their friendship meant, how important they were to my getting well, how their example of friendship is one I hold today in high esteem, and strive to emulate. To be there for my friend, whenever in need. Not to judge, condemn or ridicule, but to listen and love.
And looking once again , up at the clouds, I think how important it is to speak the best of our friends, whether in our presence , or far away.
Days seem short, the night so long for the troubled heart and wearied soul Words that hurt, carelessly spoken by 'faithful friend' festers like a boil, and lingers on, deflating the spirit and severing the bond of what once was. Which is better - to ignore the slight of those so admired? To release the mockery of those held dear? Or hold forever the pain they impart by their lofty, haughty ridicule and lack of respect ? I say goodbye to that, let it go and forget, for surely, in another ten year no one will remember
Today is my Mother’s 80th birthday. I celebrate this special day, and all her days, and how she has chosen to live her life. Full of joy and gladness. Gracious, generous and kind to family and friends; To strangers in the store or someone in need, Mama offers an encouraging word or some good deed.
Our Mother’s unconditional love was a safe haven for my brother, Walt and me. Mom often told us we were God's precious gifts to her, and made us feel like we were the most important people in the world. Walt and I knew we could always count on Mom. No matter what. She laughed with us, cried with us, and gave us confidence to pursue our dreams. Her example of walking in faith, and trusting in the Lord that all will be well continues to be a good guide for me, and her grandsons Gavin and Garrett.
One of mom's endearing traits is the way she always makes time to listen to others, and seems so interested in what we have to say, no matter if it interrupts something she is doing; working on some project, doing chores, relaxing. Recently, she reminisced how for years she never saw the end of a TV show because either my brother or I, along with one of our friends, would run into the house to share some exciting event with her. Always 10 minutes before the movie was over! Never once did mom say to us, “No, not now" or "I'm busy, come back later". Mom always gave us her undivided attention and seemed to gladly listen to whatever we had to share .
I celebrate my darling Mother and her birthday, but know there is no gift I can give her to match the precious gift she has given me my entire life, the sweet gift of herself. How blessed both Walt and I are to be our Mother’s children.
I baked cookies today, and thought of my Grandma Cooney. In my memory there isn't anyone who made better tasting cookies than Grandma ! I'm fortunate to have many of her recipes. That's because one year for Christmas, when I was 13 years old, one of Grandma's gifts to me was a small metal recipe box , so reminiscent from the early 1960's, filled with a variety of recipe's - Biscuits, Bread, Cakes, Cookies, Pastry/Pies, Meats, Vegetables, Sauces and Salad Dressings, each one carefully handwritten on a
3" x 5" card. On top of the box it says, "Favorite Recipes From My Grandma Cooney".
That box still sits on my kitchen counter, and Grandma's favorite recipes have become my favorite recipes, especially Thumb Print cookies. This morning while I was adding 1/2 cup brown sugar to 1/2 pound butter, and rolling the dough into the shape of a wagon wheel, I couldn't help but smile feeling Grandma's presence very near, and the hope she was smiling too.
But perhaps the most important recipe Grandma put in the box is this one, the recipe for living life:
"Remember, petite, to find some way to be happy. For when you are sad you grow plain - when you are plain, you grow bitter, when you are bitter, then you are very disagreeable and a disagreeable woman has nothing, neither friends, nor love nor contentment"
Thank you , Grandma, for your long reaching guidance, and everlasting love.
I worked hard yesterday around the house, taking care of chores and cooking , and painting the front room. So when evening fell, and and the sky grew dark I was ready to relax, and watch one of my favorite actresses from the golden age of Hollywood , Greer Garson starring in a movie on TCM. To me the roles she played were always women to be admired, full of spunk, and loyal. The first thing I noted about the movie, Her Twelve Men was it was filmed in 1954, the year my brother, Walt was born. Reading the credits I also learned Tim Considine and David Stollery - from Mickey Mouse Club fame also starred. A much younger Tim and Dave than I remember seeing in Disney's Spin & Marty series.
Her Twelve Men is a sweet , lighthearted comedy, perfect for a viewing after a busy day, one to lift one's spirit , and make one smile. I remember reading it was Greer Garson's last movie for MGM , and was thinking of other great MGM movies she starred in (Mrs. Miniver, Valley of Decision, That Forthsyte Woman) when a scene with her and another young actor appeared on screen.They were drinking tea , or maybe it was hot chocolate. No matter, what caught my attention was the cups and saucers they were drinking from - the very same VernonWare Organdie pattern my Grandmother Vivian used every day ! The same cups and saucers that graced the table whenever we had a meal at grandma's house. The same cups and saucers I helped wash and dry after dinner.
The movie ended on a happy note, and I was ready for bed. As I closed my eyes, I thought how sweet movies used to be, and more especially of my grandmother, and her dishes, and the dear memories they invoke.
When I was very young a long time ago, I had no worries or cares. The world was bright, and all was good. The future seemed a distant place, far from where I stood. Family and friends filled my home with merriment and cheer, where we laughed and played , and knew each other well. But years have passed , and we grow old, some no longer here,only the memory of their sweet song softly lingers still
As I lay down to sleep to night, memories of this day swirl around my head; First, my husband greeting me with a good morning hug, then outside to split some wood, while I make pancakes on an electric grill, the two of us eating our fill,and discussing the news of the world. Our voices unheard but to the two of us, our concerns , and worries, and hopes , and fears no one will ever hear.
I was fooled . Thought spring had arrived. Even put my snow shoes away. But today I awoke to snow, and a cold winter day. We kept our wood burning stove blazing bright, helping to keep the household warm. Tonight the wind continues to howl, and bang against the door. I shiver and sigh, my old bones ache; I sit in the chair with my book , but think of blue skies and warmer days.
I'm 62 years old. Life, or the end of life seems to be creeping in more and more. Of late I hear of so many I have known who have passed from this earth to their Heavenly home, or suffering with terminal disease. Dear ones that helped shape my life , and will always bring sweet memories to times past. Just a few hours ago, I learned about another from my youthful days who is suffering so, and about to part from this world. I , along with his family and many friends, pray for Dave Weldon, trusting our Lord is ever present with him.
I remember those early days of our childhood when we attended St. Rose of Lima school together, learning the foundations of our Catholic faith, and giving the nuns a run for their money. We were lively children. During our grade school days, Dave played on the basketball team, was an altar boy and the first boy I kissed playing Spin the Bottle at our eighth grade party. After St. Rose , we were classmates at Bell High , and in later years neighbors living across the street from one another on the modest street , Flora Avenue. Our younger brothers, Walt and Mike were pals.
For many years Dave and I shared the same friends, including his high school girlfriend, Pam . Eventually, we all moved on and our lives took different turns; careers, marriage, family, and we lived lives happily ever after. Yet, we still recall that time long ago when we knew each other when., and how sweet it was.
God Bless you, David Weldon , the boy you were, and the man you grew to be.
Who am i ? To think my thoughts are so lofty , and worthy to share with others i am nobody, except for those i know and love - they are the best part of who i am
It was late , twilight, when I went out snowshoeing today. The landscape, with its soft shadows and shaded hues was especially lovely. I made several tracks across smooth white snow before I stopped to take in the magnificence of the trees all about me. They stood perfectly still, not even the slightest breeze brushing their piney branches. All was quiet, peaceful, not a sound could be heard, except my own breathing in and out. I couldn't seem to move, like I was locked in place, as though the silence held me captive. My thoughts slowly shifted from the challenges of my day to something more lofty and grand. A prayer of thanksgiving escaped my lips, grateful for God's creation so wonderfully displayed in nature
A ray of sunlight breaks through the cold, gray sky to shine on snow-covered trees, the frozen ground, and bird in flight; Bringing hope for the morrow before dark of night
The cold of winter with its icy roads and snow covered ground, and colorless days of muted gray no longer seems like the welcome visitor one is happy to see, but a tiresome quest who has exhausted her stay
i sit alone (my husband has gone to bed) and listen to music; Favorite vinyl albums played on a Pioneer turntable from the late 1970's Considered an antique to youth of today, for me a sweet gem from long ago yesterday - the familiar sound of Peter, Paul and Mary, Neil Diamond, and The Carpenter's make me smile remembering those days gone by
My beautiful north Idaho even in January with its cold , winter days and the earth and trees covered in snow lifts my soul to praise God's grandeur and splendor of nature in every season and all ways
Yesterday was a grey, snowy day in north Idaho. A good day for staying in the house to read, write letters or go to a movie. My friend Patty and I chose the later. We met in town at noon - the weather didn't seem to bother the many folks milling about, most in coats, many with the identifiable North Face logo, and colorful scarfs and knit hat. Patty and I looked the same, all bundled up when we walked into Riverstone Theater to see Les Miserables., the much talked about movie musical adapted from the stage and based on Victor Hugo's timeless novel of the same name. It was a perfect movie to see on a cold January day. I would say a near perfect movie in every way, to see any day.
This movie was wonderfully cast - from Anne Hathaway's Fantaine and hearing her sing the hauntingly lovely I Dreamed a Dream to Samantha Bank's Eponine to Daniel Huttlestone as the child Gavroche.
While some critics bemoaned the singing voices of Hugh Jackman and Russell Crowe, I thought their voices were strong and steady, filled with just the right emotion, and natural for the way Jean Valjean and Javert might sound. Listening to Valjean (Jackman) prayerfully sing
God on high hear my prayer In my need you have always been there He is young He's afraid Let him rest Heaven blessed Bring him home, Bring him home, Bring him home
was only one of many times I was moved to tears and held out my left hand for Patty to give me a tissue to wipe my eyes. I thought of all the sons, including my own, and the fathers and mothers who passionately pray that same kind of prayer when their child has gone through struggles or in harms way.
After learning his friends - the friends he talked and laughed with, dreamed dreams with and were so full of hope have all been killed , Marius (portrayed by the charming Eddie Redmayne) touches our hearts with his sad, lilting voice when he sings these lines from Empty Chairs, EmptyTables
That I live, and you are gone. There's a grief that can't be spoken. There's a pain that goes on and on
and we think of our friends, the ones we laugh and talk with - so very dear to us.
On the inside cover of the Broadway album from 1986 is written, Les Miserables is a great blazing pageant of life and death at the barricades of political and social revolution in Victor Hugo's nineteenth century France. Yes. But also so much more than that, as Hugo himself wrote in his letter to M. Daelli, publisher of the Italian translation of LM
"YOU ARE RIGHT, SIR, WHEN you tell that Les Miserables is written for all nations. I do not know whether it will be read by all, but I wrote it for all. It is addressed to England as well to Spain, to Italy as well as to France, to Germany as well as to Ireland, to Republics which have slaves as well as to Empires which have serfs. Social problems overstep frontiers. The sores of the human race, those great sores which cover the globe, do not halt at the red or blue lines traced upon the map. In every place where man is ignorant and despairing, in every place where woman is sold for bread, wherever the child suffers for lack of the book which should instruct him and the hearth which should warm him, the book of Les Miserables knocks at the door and says: "Open to me, I come for you."
It is a story of love, and loss, of sin and redemption, of hope and moral courage; A story of friendship and faith. Never give up. Press on. Hold to the high road. Choose the better part. Freedom .
The blending of Hugo's novel with lyrics of Herbert Kretzmer and music by Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schonberg is brilliant, elevating the tale of Jean Valjean and his question Who Am I to new heights.
White and fluffy and soft, i first think of cotton falling from the sky; Then of prisms that glisten in the light covering the field like a blanket on a king-size bed, and draping evergreens in winter cold. Snow.
For me, New Year's Day 2013 starts with homemade huckleberry pancakes and basted eggs breakfast, the Rose Parade and college football games, then quiet moments sitting in front of the fire resting and relaxing, reading Flannery O'Connor, and Russell Janney's Miracle of the Bells. Gary and I play Cribbage, and watch deer just outside the window as they nibble at each other's muzzle.
It's cold and grey outside, the trees flocked with snow, but this day, like every New Year's Day brings a feeling of excitement; An anticipation something fresh and beautiful lays ahead. It allows us to shed the mistakes and missteps of the past year, and a freedom to renew the failed resolutions we didn't quite meet in 2012. To strive again to be more generous and kind; to forgive. To lift the spirit of family and friend. To hold a hand, to understand.
How many of us don't long for peace in our families, communities, our nation; our world? With this first day of the new year, I have hope peace, and love can be found.
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