Sunday, October 9, 2011


I think this message is timely for the beginning of a new week.
I went to a birthday party this weekend for a 70 year young person. All was lovely. the venue, the people, food and music. There was of course a reason to celebrate good times. There were acknowlegements, speeches and words to live by.

The birthday celebrant held in his hand an RSVP. It was the first one he received after the invitations went out. From a special person in his life. Yes, I'll be there the RSVP said.

But something happened. With best intentions to be part of a celebration, the sender of the RSVP suddenly had passed away a week earlier. It matters not their age, or their intentions. They were gone now. Sometimes we shouldn't wait for an official occassion to share freindship or love. That moment may not be there for us. We have to do it at every chance we have. May you have moments in your life this week, that you take the time to make a difference.

Monday, October 3, 2011

The Truth about Diaries

     Yesterday, I read a story about diaries. Oh, how profound their contents can be. The author journaled everyday for years. 
    In elementary school, I kept my first diary. It excited me writing about my feelings and secrets. It even had a flimsy little "lock and key" to keep the contents private. My friends told their diaries everything on their minds, their hopes, dreams and problems.
     My mother found my diary while changing the bed sheets while I was at school. Tucked under the corner of the mattress. She knew I had it. It was from a gift exchange at school for the holidays. The problem began when my mother read it.  Now, my mother was European with a very limited formal education. As a young girl in war torn Europe her life was very different than mine. (a tragic story for another time).
     She had to read and translate. The literal translation of one language to another does not usually translate well. I had been angry with her one day, actually many days, as I deemed her way too strict and controlling. I wanted to be like the other girls. So I wrote my story, from the perspective of an eleven year old and motivated by what my friends wrote in theirs.  I wrote words that were angry and emotional. But there wasn't an issue in trying to translate my entry.
    I had written that I hate my mother. Imagine how she felt reading my words. You don't need a translation for that. I didn't see her face when she read it since I was at school at the time. By when I came home, she met me with a stern look on her face.There wasn't any evidence of hurt coming from her. At least not from my view. There was anger and rage and lots of screaming. About how lucky I was to have parents. How she wished she still had hers. I don't know how much she thought about what I had written over the years. But I certainly learned how powerful words are.
     Because of that, when I write, I think about honesty. And I think about perception. There are times when I find it hard to put the words down without wondering how it would affect the person reading it. Sometimes, maybe too often, I give them the benefit of the doubt. I give them that little bit of opening to feel that it is not just about me and my opinion, but it is my perception at that moment. I would like them to read it one day. One day when I feel they might understand what I write and why I write. Not to judge, but to understand. To grow. To go back and read again for new perspective. That goes both ways, for me and for them. Because only in the revelation of trying to be honest do our words speak the truth.
   I write this in honor of my mother's birthday today. I knew long ago that she understood. I love you Mom.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

OK, I'm Admitting

I am admitting that I am not perfect. So what you say. No big deal. Ahh, but it is a big deal. But not in the way you might be thinking.

 It's not that I wish I were pefect. Sure, I used to want that. Or I thought I did. I thought it was possible. But I can't even define what a perfect person is or does. People that think they are perfect, or close to it, are really just stuck in place.

Imperfection is growth. It still has potential and possibilities. Imperfection is not afraid. I love imperfection that has a positive and yet a relaxed attitude. I have seen growth in myself, especially in the last few years. I had grown tired of being whatever I was supposed to be for others. It definitely wasn't working. I wasn't even sure that my efforts were going to be accepted, let alone appreciated. That's not a good feeling. Unsure. Hesitant. Doubtful. That was me. Because no matter how I added up my list of efforts, accomplishments or attempts . . . my bottom line of perfection just was never enough. It was never going to be any more than that. Attempts. You see, I forgot the major quotient in the math problem. ME. The more I am not striving for perfection, the more I can strive for being realistic, being better, being sincere. The less I worry about perfect, the more I can use my energy to just do. I don't believe I might fail.  I believe I will grow. I will be more because everything I do adds to my worth. I am open to knowing I might fail, but I probably won't. I will accomplish more than I thought. I am not afraid. I am enlightened. I am inspired. I am confident. Happiness comes from inside factors, not outside ones. I finally figured out how to do the math story problem that I always disliked. Add a "genuine" me to the total. I'm discovering that maybe math isn't so bad after all.