Gratitude shouldn't need a holiday

Just like Christmas makes us want to give more, Thanksgiving encourages us to think about the things and people in our lives that make us grateful.  But wouldn't it be awesome if we had this holiday attitude everyday?

Being grateful can really alter your state of mind, in a positive way.  I think it makes us better  if we realize that those things and people in our lives are truly a gift.  But it's easy to take them for granted, and sometimes we need to look beyond ourselves to be totally aware of those gifts around us. Thanksgiving week I volunteered through Boston Cares at a food pantry near Boston.  I've been to a few different pantries over the years, and I'm surprised at the vast difference between them and what they can provide for their local families.  It's quite a humbling experience to fill and hand out Thanksgiving dinners to hundreds of families who can't afford to go to the local grocery store for their turkey and all that goes with it.  For me, filling the bags with a few often-bruised fruits and vegetables, some canned food and a box of stuffing, knowing that bag of groceries and a turkey will have to feed a family, brought grateful to a whole new level.

Growing up the last of 12 siblings in a blue-collar, post-military household, we didn't have a lot.  (My father retired from 20+ years in the service after sibling # 11 was born.)  We ate some pretty nasty food because it went a long way and was cheap.  (But strangely enough, some of what we grew up on would now be considered gourmet -- cow's tongue, beef kidneys, heart)  I don't ever recall not having relatively "decent" food on the table,  (the afore-mentioned and powdered milk notwithstanding!), and while some of our Christmas gifts may have been refurbished from a yard sale or the trash, our tree was always brimming with the gifts underneath it.

  I do remember sitting on the dining room table when I was 5 o 6 while my mom tried clothes on me that someone had left at our door.  The house I grew up in was a small ranch, originally 3 bedrooms and 1.5 baths, until my father added two bedrooms. There were two parents and 12 kids living there for a while in our little middle-class neighborhood.  Sadly, our "block" has undergone some changes over the years and now looks and feels very ghetto.

But while there are some things I would change about my upbringing, I am grateful for my humble beginnings.  I believe we are who we are either because of, or in spite of our life experiences.   With me, it's both.  I am grateful for family because i have a large, fun, loving family that because of distance, I see only once or twice a year.  When we are together, i realize how fortunate I am to call them family.  And I am grateful for family because of the loss we've experienced -- loss makes you appreciate those in your life that much more.

I've found that being grateful comes easily with a quick look around or through people I've met.  Taking a short walk in someone else's shoes, or sometimes even thinking about the steps my own shoes have taken me can also give gratitude new meaning, even when it's not the holidays.

Elevator Phobia -- Justified!

I used to not mind elevators.  In fact, as a kid, my sisters and I thought they were fun.  We grew up in a town with only one, and on rare occasions that we'd get to go with our dad to Yuma's super tall, 7 floor Crescent Center, we'd consider it a real thrill because it meant we'd get to ride the elevator.  As I got older and rode them regularly, I began to develop a minor dislike for them.

What clinched my growing fear of elevators was, ironically enough, a ride in one to the top of the World Trade Center some 25 years ago.  My sister Anne-Marie and I decided to visit Windows on the World for a drink one night.  A group of slightly tipsy teens attending their prom at Windows on the World took an unexpectedly long ride with us in the elevator.  The ascent to the 104th Floor should have taken only a few minutes, but the elevator inched its way upward, painfully slow.  It was evident something was not right!  I had been in buildings higher than Yuma's Crescent Center many times before -- maybe not as high as the WTC, but I had been to the top of the John Hancock Tower and the Prudential Center in Boston, as well as the Empire State Building.  I know elevators, specifically express ones, travel quickly enough to high floors to make your ears pop. There were no popping ears here -- only increasing jitters as it took more than 20 minutes to reach the top.  I will say the tipsy teens in their fancy clothes did take the edge off as they made comments that made everyone laugh!  Once at the 104th floor, we all breathed a syncronized sigh of relief and exited the elevator.  Anne-Marie and I took a seat by the window for a now-much-needed glass of wine.  A short time later the ride down took only a fraction of the time, ears popping on the way.

Ever since then I've been wary of elevators, and feel myself tensing up if the doors hesitate the slightest bit.  Glass elevators are ok -- if I can see out, I'm in control of my fears.  Whenever possible, I choose stairs over elevators, and I always avoid riding solo in one.

But last week while in New York, my friend Cindy and I were attending an art show on floors 2-5, so we opted to start at the 5th floor and work our way down.  We had just walked a decent amount through the chilly streets of New York (cabs are hard to find during rush hour!).  Even though I usually prefer stairs when only five flights are involved,  Cindy suggested we take the elevator to the 5th floor and walk down.  Six of us, five women and a man, pile into the tiny elevator with no room to spare.  The doors close and we lift  about 3 feet, and then drop a foot or so with a clunk. All six of us look at each other, saying things like "that didn't sound good." and "uh oh, are we stuck?"  I push buttons on the panel with no results, and then someone reaches over me to push the emergency call button.  A muffled voice says "hello."  "We're stuck in the elevator," we reply.  The voice responds "Are you stuck in the elevator?"  One of us says "yes."  Then, no response.  This happens two more times.  With the third "Are you stuck in the elevator," all six of us reply with a  harmonious 'yes!'

For forty minutes we waited for help to arrive.  As I thought about how one of my worst nightmares had come true, Cindy passed out breath mints (did I mention how small the elevator was?)  and an anti-anxiety pill for me.

The six of us became fast friends as we facebooked our predicament, texted our kids and friends, and tweeted.  We took group selfies, played Nelly and Tim McGraw's Over and Over on the iphone while attempting to dance, and laughed about the what-ifs.  I was comforted by the noise outside and an occasional rap on the elevator door, confirming that we weren't stuck in between brick walls.

Once the elevator technicians arrived, it was only seconds to get us out.  A small crowd awaited our release, greeting us with a glass of wine.  Cindy and I viewed the art and went to meet friends at a nearby restaurant, grateful the 40 minutes wasn't longer!  And for the rest of the weekend, I used the stairs!

Haven Gave Me Courage

Some of you have heard me talk about the Haven writing retreats I went on.  Here's a little reflection on them. 

Haven gave me courage

My heart was gaping and yearned for distraction. 

The hole that was torn wide open with Jeff's death on September 11, 2001 had healed somewhat with time.  It's true that my heart will never be completely healed.  I still feel the loss of my husband every day, but I've learned to live without his physical presence in my life, not because I wanted to but because I had to.

 And I learned to let someone else in -- even though it took me nearly 8 years.  I discovered love again.  It was a different kind of love that I felt for Jeff, but it was definitely real love.  I don't believe love can ever feel the same anyway.  The man I was seeing seemed to understand the trauma I felt losing Jeff in such a surreal tragedy, and that made him special to me in his own rite.  

Then in August, 2012, after being together for 3+ years, the man I loved, trusted and felt safe with, ended "us," leaving my heart wide open once more. The words ‘I can’t do this anymore’  rang through my head like a broken record stuck on the most ear-piercing verse. There I was, left reeling. Alone. Feeling completely empty again.  But I would persevere, because I had to, and this time, because I wanted to.  (Somehow we've even managed to maintain a friendship of sorts, even two years after the breakup.) 

I was determined to be ok.  I had survived worse -- much worse.

So with my “month from hell” upon me -- the anniversary of 9/11, my birthday and Jeff's birthday, all within a week,
our anniversary a few weeks later, and facing the empty nest with my youngest having gone away to college – I plunged back into life. I decided to do things for ME, that would make me feel ok with not being part of a couple.  I did it for 8 years, and I thrived.  I could do it again.  To help get there, I searched for an adventure.

I heard about Haven retreats from a facebook friend. I had always wanted to go to Montana, and I needed something to re-invigorate my writing.   So I took a huge leap of faith, jumped out of my comfort zone without looking back, and booked a Haven retreat.

My flight left Boston on Jeff’s birthday – September 18. Mid flight of the first leg I realized that I booked my car out of one airport, while I was landing at another. Ooops.   After some begging to the rental agent on the layover, I was able to fix that snafu. While checking in, I noticed my license had expired … 3 days prior, on my birthday. I prayed the agent wouldn’t notice. I think he did, but opted not to pay attention to it since he knew I was in a bind already trying to get a car. My little travel mess-up meant that I would drive two hours to Whitefish, but I was fine with that. I wanted to see Montana, not just go there. I thoroughly enjoyed the trip, stopping on the way to take pictures and soak up the stunning Montana scenery. 

Walking Lightly, where Haven is based, was amazing. I was greeted by David, a truly kind soul who walked me upstairs, and told me to choose my room. The decision was easy – I chose the room with a picture window over-looking the small lake. Haven had just become my Heaven. Any nerves I had were gone. I felt my burdens lift. Meeting the wonderful women I was spending the next four days with confirmed that this was just the distraction I needed. Over the course of that time, we wrote from the heart, pouring out the details of our lives that defined us, tormented us, amused us and excited us, with Laura Munson, our writing mentor, at the helm. We laughed, we cried, we laughed some more, we encouraged each other and we constructively critiqued each other’s written word.  We became friends – Walking Lightly Sisters in Writing friends.  

Since then I’ve gone on another Haven retreat, this one in Los Cabos, Mexico. It was very different from Montana, but the women, fellow Cabo Wordshakers, were equally inspiring, as was Laura, and the environment. I came home with more new friends and a renewed appreciation for my own writing.

Through Haven, I gave myself the best gift ever, one that I knew I truly deserved – the gift of self recognition, acknowledgement, and time for myself.  And in return, Haven gave me confidence in my writing, and courage to face, rather than run from, that which we can't control.

Family Vacation -- ties that bind

When I was a kid, family vacation meant piling in the old station wagon early in the morning for a one-day road trip to the San Diego Zoo and the beach .  The 12 kids, or however many were available to go, would occupy every seat and empty spot in the old car,  leaving little room for some towels, an igloo jug of watery koolaid and a bag of peanut butter sandwiches, storebought butter cookies, cereal and powdered milk, and donuts, if we were lucky. Being the youngest and smallest,  I always had to sit in the front between my parents for the three-hour journey from our home in Yuma, Arizona to San Diego.   Sitting up front, I missed out on the fun of dropping things through the holes in the floorboards and watching them dance on the steamy asphalt from the back window.

About two/thirds of the way to San Diego, we'd stop in Pine Valley, CA for the bathroom and breakfast at the picnic tables, which involved the hostess donuts brought from home, or a rare treat of the little boxes of cereal that could be torn into a bowl.  We'd arrive at the zoo just as it opened to maximize our time there.  We never rode the tour bus through the zoo grounds -- that cost more money than my parents could afford.  We always walked our weary legs through every inch of the hundred-acre zoo.  I remember visiting the giant tortoise that supposedly gave kids a ride.  But every time this excited little girl sat on the tortoise, he refused to move until the next kid got on!  The squirrel monkeys were my favorite because they were so cute, and my least favorite animal was the orangutans.  I have a distinct memory of them throwing poop at us and I thought the way they ate bugs they'd pick off each other's back was gross. 

After we had seen all there was to see in the zoo (or as much as we could see in half a day), we'd stop at the gorilla busts in the entrance and take the traditional picture of us sitting on the bust.  This past year when I was at the zoo with Julia, I insisted on taking a picture with the gorilla.  I remember them being different, but everything looks different through an adult's eyes.

After the zoo we'd go to Mission, Pacific or Ocean Beach for the afternoon.  We'd have our lunch of sandy peanut butter sandwiches and the watery grape koolaid, swim in the ice-cold waves, make "drippy castles" in the mud at the waters' edge and hunt for teeny crabs that scurried near our feet before burrowing in the mud as the tide went out.  Late in the day after we were sufficiently sun-burnt and our bathing suit bottoms drooped from little loads of accumulated sand, we'd pack up, rinse off at the bath-house showers, and begin the journey home, usually having to stop along I-8 to fill the car radiator that always over-heated.

Family vacations with my kids are a little longer and a bit more elaborate than we had so many years ago.  But our family getaways of then and now have one thing in common -- San Diego.  My kids love going there each summer as much as my 11 siblings and I did when we were kids.  Jeff and I had taken the kids there for a few days when they were little, and the kids and I went back about 7 years ago to fulfill my long-time dream of renting a house on the Mission Beach Boardwalk.  Anytime I had been to San Diego even through adulthood, I always stared with envy at the people renting on the boardwalk and thought how fun that would be.  So one Spring after searching on line, I found the "ultimate beach house" right on the boardwalk near Belmont Park and started a new Schmitt family tradition.  Several of my sisters now rent just off the beach and we spend the week together, sometimes as many as 30 of us.  It's the one time of year the cousins, from the babies to the adults, get to spend time together and get to know each other.  We each host dinner one night and do s'mores on the beach.  We rarely leave Mission Beach to do anything touristy, so the entire week we spend with our butts parked on the beach, catching up on each others's lives, walking the beach looking for sand dollars and shells, or riding our rented beach cruisers on the boardwalk.

This year the last day I was there, I went for a swim with my sister Anne-Marie.  A bunch of the family was hanging out  by the water when the kids found a piece of kelp about 20 feet long.  We started using it as a jump rope and entertained ourselves, and others on the beach, for more than an hour.  

We sang old jump rope chants we used to sing in grade school and had more fun that we've had together in a very long time.  It's amazing how that washed-up sea plant brought us together, from the 4-year-old great niece to the 69-year-old sister who took pictures, and gave us a memory that will be with us for a long time.

Saying goodbye to everyone after the week together is always emotional for me.  It's the one vacation my kids and I take that ends with us wishing we had another week.  The time I spend with my siblings and their kids and my kids is something I look forward to all year long.  Because we all love it so much, we always suffer through the post-vacation blues when we get home.  This year the funk was rather strong for me -- once I got home I missed the sights, sounds and smells of the ocean right outside my door, and I missed my family.  There's something to be said for having siblings a shout away.  As small as the world is, the vacation week leaves me wishing it were even smaller so I could be closer to my family year-round.  

I guess next year I'll have to rent two weeks …

Happy Father's Day, Mom

Thirteen years ago I became a father.  There's nothing too unusual or earth-shattering about that, except that I was already a mother.

But when Jeff was killed, I, like too many moms and dads who's other half dies or walks out on them, I inherited double parenting duty.  Ask any single parent, and they'll tell you what a daunting task it is. In my case, it was particularly challenging because of the kind of parent Jeff was.Unintentionally, parents usually take on a parenting personality -- like the disciplinarian, the "fun" one, the nurturer, the protector, or the "cool" one.  I can't say that either of us would have qualified as "cool." Jeff was too goofy to be cool, and I think the kids consider me anything but cool.  I'm fine with that, though.  Jeff was definitely the fun one, and once he was gone, so too was the fun in our house for a long time.  I knew in spite of my sadness of losing Jeff, I could still nurture them and love them with all my heart.  I would give it my best shot to make them feel safe regardless of what had just happened to them.  But I knew I couldn't replace the fun in the same way he brought it.  He had a knack for making them laugh.  He created silly games that almost always involved candy.  And his inherent goofiness just made everything more fun.

He was also caring and devoted to our kids.  I was pretty sure there was no way I could live up to that, but I gave it everything I had, not to replace Jeff, but to be there for the kids as Jeff would have been -- to be Mom and Dad in the best sense that I could.

Of course his absence was palpable every day.  But it was more evident at times when only a Dad will do, like when our son needed to shave for the first time, or tie his own tie, or even have his first legal beer.  Plenty of moms and sons share an interest in sports, but as much as I am a diehard sports fan, it was a "Matt and Dad" thing, and although he never told me, I know going to a Bruins or Red Sox game with mom wasn't quite the same.  The girls had their Dad things, too -- hiking, working side-by-side around the house and yard, listening to music, shopping without looking for "sale" signs -- things that weren't quite as fun with mom.

I often feel so sad and helpless that they were cheated out of a long life with their super dad.  They deserved more.  And so did Jeff -- he was gypped out of a life with his awesome kids who saw him as their hero.  He considered being a father the most important part of his life.  But intense hatred against our country took him from them, from us, and left us with just memories in his place.  All we could do was not die with him emotionally, but instead, live for him the way he would have wanted us to -- with laughter, love, respect for others, and a sense of humor.  

Sometimes I struggle with a feeling of failure in my attempts to be two parents in one, but one Father's Day the kids gave me a gift (a basket of some of Jeff's favorite things) and a Father's Day card that said in their own funny way, "thanks for being both mom and dad."  My reaction came in the form of tears -- happy and sad ones.  The confirmation from them that maybe I hadn't done such a bad job afterall was the real gift.  Now, each Father's Day, the kids search for just the right card (usually an irreverent one), they write Mom over the Dad, and give it to me to say thanks for trying not to replace their dad, but for doing my best to fill his enormous shoes, and keeping his memories fresh.

So if you've dreaded Father's Day because your Dad isn't there, use it as an opportunity to say thanks to the Dad in your life, even if the Dad in the physical sense is your mom.

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The 9/11 Museum -- showing the reality of the day

     Time is fleeting.  It passes quickly, even though the difficult moments in life sometimes seem to last forever.  Once you get through them and look back, time feels different.  Sometimes it seems as if years were a minute, and other times years can feel like a lifetime.
     Recently I took a step into the past, nearly 13 years ago, to September 11, 2001.  I tried to distance myself from it while I was there -- but what happened on 9/11 many years ago affected my family and me so deeply it was impossible to pretend.

      It's hard to see the numbers "9-11" or think of the date without reflecting on such devastating loss of thousands.  It's significantly bigger than my own suffering.  It represents the suffering of 3000 families; the suffering of our nation, and the suffering of the more than 6500 military families who grieve their own losses as a  result of 9/11, not to mention the more than 50,000 soldiers who were wounded and 100,000 who continue the battle within themselves with PTSD.     
     As I descended seven floors underground into the just-opened 9/11 Museum, I felt strange.  I don't know how to describe exactly what the feeling was.  Eeriness comes to mind. My son Matthew and I shared the "odd" feeling.  We found seats toward the middle of the "Foundation Hall" and waited for the dedication ceremony to start.   To our left we stared at the massive slurry wall that remained intact -- the  only thing that made you realize you were underground.  Seated at the front were the President and First Lady; President and former Secretary Clinton; Governors Cuomo, Christie and Pataki; Mayors Giuliani and Greenberg; and God knows who else.  We listened as speakers, dignitaries, survivors and family members reminded us what made that day so devastating -- the loss of so much human life -- the destruction of families and how we rebuilt ourselves.  But we heard about heroism, too.  Stories that gave us hope.  The dedication was about tragedy, death, recovery, heroism, resilience, community and hope.  For once it wasn't about the speakers, or giving props to dignitaries.
     After the emotion-driven ceremony, we walked through the exhibits, saving the Memorial Hall for the next day to experience it with the girls. We didn't follow any path, rather we just meandered around, seeing things in no certain order.  We walked by a wall of a beautiful mixture of blue tiles, each one signifying the life of the  nearly 3000 who died, each one together creating a mosaic of the awesome blue sky that blanketed the Northeast that morning.  Across the tiles are the words "No day shall erase you from the moment of time."  Powerful.  The most meaningful words there.

     What I saw next I wasn't ready for.  After seeing the pre-9/11 World Trade Center in all its glory as a backdrop for countless Hollywood movies, and as a shopping, tourist and financial mecca, I entered the time warp and found myself back to September 11, 2001.
    This room is intended to educate the public, not traumatize those of us who live the horror of 9/11 every day.  The graphic nature of the exhibit is necessary for visitors to grasp the reality of the worst attack to hit American soil.  I felt sick in there; I found myself hyperventilating and rushed through, taking in only glimpses of its content.  I noticed the "early exit" door for people who found it too difficult to stay.  But I passed by it rather than through it, continuing on to the "post 9/11" exhibit.  This showed how the country banded together, casting aside prejudices and political party lines to support those most seriously affected. The exhibits also contain items from survivors as well as recovered personal affects from those who died -- watches, ID cards, money, a firefighter's helmet, shoes, photos. There were damaged firetrucks, an ambulance, a door of the medical examiner's car, massive columns of bent steel.

The next day we came back as a family.  I cautioned the girls onthe "day-of: room, but they chose to go through.  They seemed more interested than I think they thought they'd be.  In the "Memorial Room" we searched together for Jeff's picture among the 3000 plastered in organized, alphabetical rows on the wall, floor to ceiling.  His is toward the top,too high for me to see well.  We plugged his name into the electronic table that showed his pictures and a voice recording of me talking about Jeff and his love for his kids.  

     We passed by the shingled blue wall again and entered the room available only to families.  Here we can peer through a window into the "repository" where the unidentified and some identified remains are kept.  We left there not sure what to feel, and took the escalators back up to street level where the controversial museum store is.  People ask how I feel about the store -- I'm guilty of buying a Survivor Tree key chain and a little tray my daughter wanted.
     My overall opinion is the museum is well-done.  With more than 3000 families' points-of-view to consider, they could not have possibly pleased everyone.  But the museum I think will serve its purpose -- to educate current and future generations about 9/11, and encourage people to remember those who were killed.  The walk back into time is necessary to tell this unfortunately true story, that even now, often seems too surreal.

Celebrating motherhood

Today is a celebration of moms, and brings back the memories of the days we became moms.  Three times in my life I've been subjected to excruciating, gut-splitting pain.  And each time I chose to endure that pain, for some reason refusing an epidural or anything that would relieve the feeling of being turned inside out from my bellybutton.  I didn't scream; I didn't swear; and I didn't blame Jeff for "causing" the misery. Even the delivery nurse suggested i could let out a holler or two, and even as I heard some ear-rattling, haunting screams from adjacent rooms, I hardly uttered a word.  Just once when I was in labor with Matthew, I did ask Jeff to leave the room while he ate the cookies that I baked for him in anticipation of a long night.  The smell of them was more than I could tolerate.   From those three "episodes" of pain came beautiful little people -- a boy and 2 girls -- who've grown to be beautiful big people and my best handiwork.

Motherhood is the most powerful, life-changing thing that has ever happened to me, and I'm sure most moms would agree.  It's strange that moments after childbirth, when they put that little naked being on your chest, you forget the torture you just experienced.  Maybe it's the joy of motherhood that makes you forget -- that same joy that enables you to endure the worst moments.  Like when your kids are sad; when their hearts are broken; when they are sick and nothing you do makes them better; when they get so mad at you they say things they don't really mean but that hurt you anyway.  The joys of motherhood far outweigh the difficult moments.

For at least a few years motherhood lets you feel like the most important person in the world to someone.  Then the little someone grows up, and you wonder sometimes how important you are to them anymore -- until they surprise you with a simple hug, a random "i love you," a thank you, or a surprise letter (even if the letter was prompted by a school project) telling you how much you mean to them.  It's the little things that can make my heart melt.

Growing up the youngest of 12 kids, I had a lot of mother figures to learn from, and of course my own mom.  Each of us 12 has different memories of our mom when we were little -- probably because each of our relationships with her was unlike the others.  She's 92 now, and while her body remains mostly fit,  her mind fails consistently.  Instead of wondering when the time will come that she'll forget who I am, I try to remember when she looked forward to seeing me come home from college, often enticing me to make the 4-hour drive with a shopping trip and lunch at our favorite restaurant followed by ice cream.  Now she doesn't remember that she just saw me, often asks me what happened to Jeff, and doesn't remember how many kids I have, their names, or how old they are.  It's as frustrating to her as it is sad to us.

I'm grateful to my mom for showing me the right and wrong, the good and not-so-good parts of mothering, and to my sisters, especially the older ones who felt like a mom to me.  As crazy as it was growing up in our house, it has helped me become the mom that I am.  I definitely acknowledge my "failures," but I hope my kids learn from me what being a mom is all about. And I hope they realize they are the best part of my life.

Fear of the blog

For a while now I've been thinking about starting a blog, and actually set this up a year ago without writing a word in it! I wondered if anyone would give a rat's patooty about what I would write.   I do have a lot to say -- maybe that comes from always wanting to be heard as the youngest of 12 kids growing up in a not-so-quiet house not intended for that many kids!  Maybe it comes from being a journalist -- a career I chose at the impressionable age of 11 after winning a writing contest on Ecology in my 6th grade class.  But the real question I struggled with was does anyone care to read my thoughts and opinions?  I guess I'll find out!  There are so many blogs out there -- blogs about this, that, something, and nothing!  Mine is Seinfeld-ish -- a blog about the nothingness and the little somethings in life.

In 2001 life took an odd and tragic turn for me, and since then, nothing has been the "normal" I expected it to be.  I've had some unique opportunities and have met some amazing and interesting people.  I've experienced love and heartache, and I've seen friends come and go.   The constant in my life has been my kids, and extended family.  Thank God for them, and the friends who were part of my life then and still are, and the ones who I've latched onto along the way.  I've used writing as a way to remain sane and attempt to heal as much as one can; as a way to release stress; and as a way to document my ever-so-sureal journey.  Much of it I've kept to myself, and some of it I've shared.  Maybe more of it will come out as we go.

I've learned that humor can help you deal with the most morose things in life, and I've learned someone else always has a story more difficult than your own.  I also discovered that helping others can go a long way in finding happiness myself.

So life's twists and turns, heartache, tragedy, transitions (both horrific and comical) and misfortune have contributed to whom I became and who I am.  Those obstacles have altered my way of thinking; prioritized what's important; and made me a better person.  Welcome to my journey.  I hope you'll be entertained, informed, and inspired, and I hope you're intrigued enough to share and come back for more!