family

When you’re grieving a loss it is impossible to escape the memories. No place is safe.

Every room, chair, blanket, toy, vomit stain, neighborhood walk, and piece of grass is a minefield of emotions.
That applies to the loss of a dog.

For a human being you can just multiply that by a quadrillion.

Since daylight savings time had the bad taste to pick last weekend, the weekend of her death to bestow upon us its gift of an additional hour of daylight, I had the poor judgement to sit out in the backyard and write.
My bad.

It was one of her favorite places.
It is dog Disneyland, containing all the essentials required for canine happiness.
Grass, toys, balls and frisbees, and the arms with which to throw them (ours), so our OCD dog could wrangle you into a game of catch no matter what other plans you had made for yourself.

Nap? Nope – Catch.

Settle in and read a book? Nope – Catch.

Bar-B-Q, talk with a friend, write a book? Nope, nope and double nope. But good try.

Time for a relentless five-hour game of catch!
You get the picture.

The boxer-shark puppy, Ruby, did not inherit the ball, frisbee, play catch gene.

She inherited a whole myriad of other traits that are even more annoying, like digging up lawns and eating expensive furniture, but that particular “play catch/fetch” gene? It skipped her entirely.

If you throw a ball her way it will hit her in the head and then she’ll watch it as it rolls right past her. Believe me, I just tried to play fetch with her on Sunday.

But that was then –– this was Monday evening.

We were sitting in back, remembering the old girl and crying.
Okay maybe not we, me, I was. My husband I’m sure was thinking: please for the love of God woman, give it a rest.

But grief didn’t care. I was grief’s bitch. Grief was the boss of me.

Anyway…after a half an hour of hearing me carry on, waxing poetic about how Dita would be playing ball right now, Dita would be next to me with the Frisbee,something had to give. With an exasperated sigh the puppy got up off the ottoman, stretched, sauntered over and picked up a tennis ball in her mouth, brought it over to me and dropped it at my feet.

Then she looked up at me with her big soulful eyes, so full of compassion that said: Shut the fuck up already, Here! Throw the God damn ball!

I half-heartedly picked it up and gave it a sideways toss onto the grass, never for one minute expecting what happened next. Instead of watching it whizz by her head like she usually did, the puppy bolted out to the lawn, stopped its momentum, picked it up in her mouth and ran it back to me… Just like Dita.

I jumped to my feet,“Did you see that?” I yelled, wiping the tears from my eyes to clear my vision. Had I imagined it?

My husband straightened in his chair. “Do it again” he said.
And I did; over and over for almost a half an hour. She fetched every ball, just like Dita. As a matter of fact EXACTLY like Dita. Same energy level, same ferocity, she even made the same little growl when she picked it up off the grass.

“If I bounce this ball and she spikes it with her nose, I’m gonna lose my mind” I announced very enthusiastically to my bewildered husband. “Because then I’ll know. That dog isn’t Ruby, that is Dita in that puppy body, playing catch with me so I’ll stop being so sad.”

And on the next bounce she did. She spiked the ball off her nose and caught it in mid-air. Just. Like. Dita.

“If I hadn’t just seen that with my own eyes…” my husband said, shaking his head, eyes welling up with tears.

Here’s the thing:

Our animals, family members, and all the people we hold so dear would never want us to suffer over their loss, that I know for sure, so I think they give us the gift of their presence, even just for a minute, to lessen our grief, and let us know they are near.

I’ve heard and read numerous stories about occurrences that cannot be chalked up to coincidence.

Favorite perfume in the air, music they loved on radio, seeing their name everywhere, even an athletically challenged, previously uninterested puppy playing an all-star game of fetch.

All that just to let us know that they’re fine, they are with us and for God sakes stop crying!

Addendum: That incident helped me to really feel her near me, which then in turn gave me comfort –– she didn’t feel so far away. I feel so much better AND I tossed a ball Ruby’s way this morning…it hit her in the leg and rolled unnoticed into the bushes…just sayin’

Carry on,
Xox

*this is a little trip down memory lane from last July. In honor of Dita, but also reminds me what a handful they were together!

This weekend, in a heroic act of immense bravery we took BOTH dogs, the boxer shark puppy, Ruby and the old girl, Dita, on a road trip up north to the Mountains of Santa Cruz.

Seems we were spurred on by a false sense of confidence, fueled by hope (and the need to get away, eat and drink too much and the lure of a good party) and by the fact that the couple who’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary we were road tripping to see, are dog lovers and had recently lost their old girl, and needed a dog fix.

Our friends usually have a room in their home with our name on it, except this time, since so many family members were coming into town and they had a full house.

No biggie, we’ve stayed at the local dog friendly hotels in the past, easy peasy – with one dog.

Now one mature dog and a seven month old boxer shark puppy isn’t two dogs; the number multiplies exponentially by the misbehaving, excess energy factor and the general havoc wreaked; making it seem in stress and aggravation as if there are nine wild, howling hounds.

I’d like to file a grievance right here and now with the Canine Powers that be.

I was misled to believe that the old dog would co-parent the puppy; giving us a helping paw with the potty training and pass along all the amazing traits that had made her such a well-behaved joy, and our home such a well oiled machine.

What a fucking lie.
The exact opposite has occurred.

The older girl now eyes with intrigue, all the raucous misbehavior that had never even occurred to her, like jumping up to the kitchen island to eat our dinner while our backs are turned.

She hits her forehead with her paw, like “Doh” and feels she has a lot of catching up to do.

Dita had the training of a service dog…..not anymore.

The puppy’s bad behavior has begun to rub off on her.
Ruby has cajoled my sweet old girl into barking (unheard of) ignoring orders to sit and stay, flipping us off and sticking out her tongue at us behind our backs, making long distance phone calls and smoking behind the garage.
They are both behaving like thirteen year old teenage bitches.

If this trip had a title, it would be called the “what’s the worst case scenario dog and pony show?”

“Well, what’s the worst thing that could happen?” was our default expectation.

Those two could assume the roles of furry terrorists. They could trash the room like a couple of drugged out, over sexed eighties rock stars, they could jump on party guests, muddying white pants, overturning lavishly decked out buffet tables and leave two big poops in the middle of the lawn. That was our worst case scenario  speculation. We wanted to steal ourselves for the worst, like soldiers preparing for battle, so we could be prepared.

We have a doggie door at home, which in my opinion is the best invention since sliced bread.
It is better than sliced bread. I will happily slice my own bread, if my dogs can take themselves out to shit in the middle of the night.

When we go away, we are privy to our dog’s bathroom habits, of which we are blissfully otherwise unaware.

In other words, we have to wake up, get dressed, get a leash, walk down a long corridor, traverse stairs, find a patch of grass, and indulge Ruby’s urge to go star-gazing and maybe relieve herself of a thimble full of pee at 3am.

Then, back at the room, the minute you get everyone settled, get undressed and climb back in bed, Dita, who had been feigning coma sleep, yawns loudly, shakes and lets you know in no uncertain terms: now she has to go out.

I know they hatched this plan when we left them alone in the car while we ate lunch on the way up. They are now laughing the uproarious laughter that only the naughtiest of dogs can hear.

I’m certain of it.

I’m telling you, Mean Girls.

The Worst Case Scenario Dog and Pony Show.

I knew I had to stop this madness.
I had to nip this thinking in the bud, or it would become a self-fulfilling prophesy.

As I always say, it’s all in the energy of our expectations.

Why couldn’t we hope for the best instead of expecting the worst?
We had to.

I decided to rename the trip to the BEST Case Scenario Tour, where every thing turns out BETTER than expected, where the girls are well-behaved, everyone sleeps through the night, there’s no crying (Raphael) and everyone has fun.

Once I suggested we change our expectations, the vibe shifted.
Although we were still hyper vigilant at the party, we let them run free without leashes, playing with the kids and even ended up abandoning our plan to put them in the van once the food was served.

Truth be told, they played so hard with all the kids and the other dogs, smiling their big toothy dog smiles, (including a one hundred pound, big lug of a Great Dane puppy) that they were far too exhausted by the time the food was served to cause any trouble.
They fell asleep in the car two seconds after we left to go back to the hotel, slept through the night without a whimper and had sweet dreams of the best dog day EVER.

Did they suddenly become the best behaved dogs in the world? Or did we just chill out and stop expecting mayhem?

Hmmmmmmm, hard to tell.

What was the Best case scenario?
Exactly what happened.

*You can substitute the word dogs with children, co-workers or in-laws, it’s all the same.

Tell me about your dog/kids road trips. I’m sure you’ve got some stories to share.
Remember when you share it helps the tribe!

Sending big, wet, dog kisses,
Xox

“Grief, covers you with the weight of a wet blanket, smothers all other emotions, most especially joy”

~J. Bertolus

Here I sit, internally pummeled by the ebb and flow of grief.

It was just a dog, I tell myself, as the terribly underutilized rational part of my brain gets its chance to craft a reason and attempt to soothe me.

Doesn’t matter, moans my heart.

I loved her with all I had. I loved her without boundaries, deeper and wider and bigger than I could have ever thought possible.
She was my baby –– That thought just makes me cry longer and louder.

The rational brain, not used to seeing me like this, ups it’s game, taking a different tack:
You knew how this story would end, it reasons. Everybody dies, that’s the exit strategy we all agreed upon.

You’re right, I answer begrudgingly.

She was old and sick and you could sense the end was near… That’s funny, my rational brain doesn’t usually acknowledge intuition. It was clearly pulling out all the stops.

So why the sadness and the tears? It continued. The question actually had an air of sincerity –– my brain searching, seeking a viable answer.

Love…its about love. When you love someone or something with ALL your heart and soul…well, the pain of  its loss is equal in measure.

I could feel it contemplating, reasoning –– love sounded dangerous.

Then why love at all? When you know it will end this way, with so much pain –– why risk it?

How do I explain?  Deep breath.

Because without that love, without opening your heart that much, each time more, then more, then more again –– life is colorless, black and white, and in my opinion not worth living. The reward is worth the risk.

So…I’ll cry and I’ll feel bad for a while and time will carry me through this; and when I’m on the other side of grief I won’t forget her, I could never do that. It will just start to hurt a little less each day until her memory makes me…smile.

Then I will have forgotten the pain enough to love without borders, ignoring all reason.

All the while knowing how this ends…

xox

* dearest loves, I want to extend my heartfelt thanks for all the outpouring of love and condolences, the emails, notes and flowers. It just affirms how extraordinary she was (is).

What can I say about losing a pet?

They are arguably a member of the family, an integral cog in the wheel that is our day-to-day life. They accept our moods, dysfunction and questionable decisions with a complete lack of judgement and a wash of unconditional love. Who else can do that for us?

We lost Querida (Dita) our precious 9+ year old boxer girl last night.
It was sudden, in her sleep, in the back of my husband’s van that doubles as her pimp ride everyday. The back seat of this vehicle looks like the inside of Jeannie’s bottle, lush and cushy, ridiculously cozy with balls and blankets and toys, befitting such a queen.
She exited this life HER way. No fuss, no muss and no drama.
It was the way I would have chosen for her to go, and truth be told, the way I had been begging her to choose –– the way we all want to go –– instantly, painlessly and peacefully. Right?

Then why do I feel so bad?

Ugh. I write this with such a heavy heart, and I know better….I really do. I know in my heart of hearts that she has merged with pure positive energy and is playing a wicked game of frisbee in dog park heaven…yet, I can’t stop the tears.

I’ve grieved cats before. I lost two of them to coyotes ten years ago. But losing a dog feels different to me in this way: Cats are affectionate, and mine loved me something awful, don’t get me wrong, but I never got a sense from them that they needed me. Not for their happiness anyway. Maybe to feed them and an occasional cuddle and pet, but I was quite aware that the human in their life wasn’t Janet specific – it was…interchangeable.

But my dog? SHE loved her mommy (me) and she let me know it every day.
She’d follow me around, especially this last year or so as her health declined, with her big soulful eyes, finding solace in watching me go through my daily routine. She’d peek around the corner if I wasn’t in the kitchen for coffee fast enough, Pssst, you comin’?
And accompany me to the bathroom to drink out of the bidet. She also stood beside the shower every morning waiting for the hot washcloth to rid her of the smeared make-up. As you can see from the photos, she was a bit heavy handed with the eyeliner.
They love routine. SHE loved routine.

Every morning I play the Gayatri Mantra chant by Dev Premal. It wafts through the house for a couple of hours while we go about our morning rituals. It soothes and calms and helps us start the day without killing each other.
Yesterday was no exception, but I noticed as I raced around, that Dita was standing in front of the computer with the most blissed out look on her face. I mean BLISSED.
I even made several comments to Raphael, chuckling, “Dita is REALLY enjoying the chant this morning!”

That’s what I want to remember.
My Yogi girl, with her snaggle toothed face, looking up at me, blissed out on the smell of incense and the sound of ancient Hindu chants.
As a side note, I play meditations at night to fall asleep. They last maybe fifteen minutes and none of us ever hear the end because –– out -we-go. All I had to do was start the intro and she’d hop down into her own bed, and proceeded to follow the breathing. I’m serious.

Breathe in… the tape would say, and as I inhaled a deep breath, I could hear Dita do the same. And…exhale… Which we’d both do, Dita and I, in tandem. It was so endearing that I would even elbow my husband, are you hearing this?

I’m gonna miss that.

Indulge me for a second while I remember her.

I raised her from an eight week old puppy the size of my foot.
I carried her outside to pee in the middle of the night as a puppy, inside my T-shirt, rain or shine, until she got the hang of the doggie door. It was me she came to when she didn’t feel good, right up until last week.
If I would have had a zipper, she would have crawled inside my Mommy suit.

We were a team, the two of us. Not like her dad and she, different –– in an almost metaphysical way.
We got each other. She understood my moods. She understood English for that matter, always freaking me out when I’d ask her to fetch her blue ball out of a box of tens of toys. She would disappear for a couple of minutes and there she’d be, blue ball in her mouth.
I know every mother says it – but she was gifted.

She held my hand at night, slept with me when Raphael went on his far away motorcycle excursions, and was our alarm clock, waking us all at 6 a.m. every morning. I expect I’ll be late for a while.

She was a wiz at balancing a banana on her nose, and then, on command, flipping it into her mouth, with great pride I must add. She also loved to eat ice cubes.

She hiked the canyons with me from the time she was twelve weeks until her legs gave out, loved to bite the sprinklers, was obsessed with balls, frisbee and playing catch, rode in the motorcycle sidecar like a biker bitch, wore a security vest at my husband’s job sites (with full attitude I might add) was impeccably trained, well-mannered and polite.

She was my “shop dog” at Atik, the greeter, the mascot and the resident rascal. She’d wear any hat, glasses, and reindeer antlers that came her way, she even rocked an orange polar-fleece vest that made my husband cringe with embarrassment.
She was game for anything. I loved that about her.

She knew funny. She had the comedic timing of Lucille Ball.
Dita knew how to make us laugh and loved to do it. But she never overdid it – she was a pro.

She hasn’t been too keen on the addition of the boxer-shark puppy this past year. I think our little plan backfired, calling attention to her advancing age, rather than prolonging her youth. I’m sorry baby.

I look forward to the sadness lifting so I can be more receptive to feeling her around me, because I know that’s how these thing work., and I’m looking forward to her visit.

Thanks guys, I needed to write just a small tribute to her – she deserved it.

A class act till the end, she touched a lot of hearts and will be sorely missed by so many.
Fuck…losing a pet…

xox

So I’ve been thinking…
Have I ever been brave enough to sidestep​ an emotional tsunami filled with mean-spirited accusations and diminishing love that was headed straight for my marriage?

The answer, after searching the archives of my menopausal mind, turning over every rock and remembering the times when the shit hit the fan was …once.

It was one night, inside one fight, but sometimes that’s all it takes to turn a situation on its head and start over. 

I remember it clear as day because my husband and I don’t really argue that much. We bicker and disagree, but rarely does it escalate into a full-blown fight.

This day was different, and the reason behind it was palpable – FEAR.

My store, the business that held all of our proverbial eggs in its basket, had flooded and closed. Insurance was in full jackassery mode, and the situation appeared bleak. Bleak is an understatement; it was a clusterfuck on steroids.

He had been letting me handle most of the fallout while keeping a watchful distance. I was grateful and full of resentment all at the same time.
This was th hardest time of my life. Weren’t we a team?

Our we project in good times had become a me situation now that it was damaged beyond repair.

But to be fair, I hadn’t included him in much of the business set-up. He didn’t know the in’s and out’s of my insurance​ policy, and besides, I had managed to establish an uneasy alliance with all the players so they only wanted to deal with ME. He felt it best to keep his distance and watch it play out.

One evening, after peppering me with questions, those inquiries quickly turned to accusations. I, of course, became defensive. “Oh nice of you to finally join the circus, welcome to MY world!”  I sneered sarcastically. As he realized the gravity of the situation, things escalated. Name-calling ensued; lots of fuck you’s were thrown around — it turned ugly.

“How could you let this happen?” he yelled at me ​as if I could have somehow prevented an act of God. “You said you could make this business work, you sold me a bill of goods, what the fuck happens now?”

How did I know? I was just as overwhelmed as he was except this had been my dream, a dream that was now covered with a stench I couldn’t escape — failure.

Here was my partner, my best friend; how had he become so insensitive? Couldn’t he see I was suffering, treading water just to keep from drowning in despair?

“I won’t cry, I won’t let myself cry” was my mantra, knowing that when I get that angry I can’t contain the tears.

I reverted back to a default setting from my childhood; Stoic Sadness – I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking down. I would not let him know how much this hurt.

The fight was gaining momentum, words were on the tips of our tongues that could never be taken back, hurts leveled that would cut too deep to heal — it needed to be stopped.

I took a good look at him with eyes so clouded with rage it made me nauseous. And that’s when it hit me – I was hit by a thunderbolt of…Compassion.
It forced me to look again, and this time I could really see him. He was scared, just as scared as I was, maybe even more so. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were lost, lawsuits were pending, and his wife was a hot mess.

Something made me get up and walk over to him sitting in his chair. I had no idea what the next moment would bring. I didn’t have a plan. I was “winging it”.

My posture was such that it made him recoil. I remember thinking: that’s funny, he thinks I’m gonna punch him in the face, and let me tell you, his fears were not unfounded. There was a fist and a knock-out punch with his name on it—if I were the face punching type.

Instead, I put out my hand. It was a gesture that only confused matters.

He looked down at it and then up into my eyes.
Did I see…contempt?
I stood fast, my hand extended—this was a matter of life and death — our marriage was on the ropes.

“What?” he looked at my hand and shrugged like a punk.

“Come on, let’s go”, I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
I probably stood there for a good two and a half minutes, hand extended, while he considered the offer.

“What are you doing? Where are we going?” he asked.

“Just come with me.” I exhaled impatiently. Maybe this had been a mistake.

Slowly he rose out of his chair, shoulders sagging, eyes to the floor. His six-foot-three​ frame folded in on itself.

I took his hand, guiding him through the living room and down the hall. “What are you doing?” he sounded like a confused little boy. He wasn’t mad anymore, just worn down, vulnerable.

We kept moving forward.

I didn’t say anything, I wasn’t even sure what I was doing. All I knew is that I was headed for our bed.

I laid down crossways on top of the bedspread, never letting go of his hand. His face read: If you think I’m going to have sex with you, you’re nuts, but that wasn’t my intention, we needed something more than sex could provide.

The bed became a life raft on which to ride out the tsunami.

Begrudgingly, he lay down beside me as I positioned our bodies face to face. When I moved in closer, he moved away. So much for being best friends, we had turned into adversaries​, total strangers whose faces were now inches apart.

Looking at him in that moment, he was not the grown man who had been raging at me just minutes before – I saw a very scared nine-year-old​ boy – and that started to soften my heart.

“We need to remember what we love about each other”, I whispered softly, as I stared into his eyes, digging deep to think of something to say.

I feared he would get up at any moment and bolt for the door, but he just lay there, emotionally exhausted.

Tentatively, haltingly, I began.

“I love your eyes.” he closed them briefly, a long blink.
“I love the way you smell.” I started with the easy stuff.
“I love what a good doggie daddy you are.”

Did he crack a smile? If he had it was gone in a flash.

He wasn’t making it easy, but I continued undaunted for another few minutes until momentum began to build.

“I love your funny French accent.” I was on a roll. “I love how you mix your metaphors ​and invent names for things…like Ricky Ricardo does…”

He interrupted, “I love how that makes you laugh — every time.”

Now we were both laughing. Then he pulled me close, burying my face in his chest — and our laughter turned to sobs.

“I love what a big crybaby you are”, I mumbled into my best friend’s chest after a couple of minutes.

That made us both giggle uncontrollably, like teenagers, and suddenly I felt safe again. I exhaled a huge sigh of relief knowing that in that moment, we were a team again, we had found our momentarily misplaced love, and by the Grace of God – compassion had saved my marriage.

Carry On,
xox

*Holy Crap you guys,
This was a hard one to write and re-live. SUCH a painful time for us. My hope is that maybe you’ll think of this during the next big fight, and take a second look at the person and the situation. Compassion is an equal-opportunity-saver of anything for those who are willing to be happy—instead of right.

I know you guys have turned some horrible situations around by the Grace of God –– Care to share?

Great thought to start the week.

Carry on,
xox

My Peeps,
That was a doozy of a Mercury Retrograde. But it’s OVER!
It’s safe. You can come out now!

It felt to me like everything old and unwanted circled around, bitch-slapped me and then left. But not without giving me the finger first!

Whew!

Let’s all shake it off and get back to the business of being Happy.

Carry On,
xox

I’m not one to quote the bible, but HELLO? The truth is the truth. Isn’t this where all the confusion in life stems from?

We, myself included, meditate, take walks, listen to music, do yoga, chant, and kiss our dogs, in order to line up with that Essence, that Being, that voice inside of us that is wise and kind and has our back. Our true Master.

The Captain O Captain of our ships.

Then we, and I’m definitely included here, get knocked out into left field by attempting to serve another.
Our demanding boss, our overreaching mother, our unreasonable, dissatisfied spouse, our spoiled, over indulged, checked-out children, even the guy at Target who wants us to move to another line.

The entire world is loud and full of jackassery, and I must admit it gets my attention MOST of the time.

All the petty, insignificant things have a way of making it to the top of my list and hey, listen, I’d be happy at times to ONLY SERVE TWO masters.

So, I call Bullshit!
I just have to say BACK OFF!…ENOUGH!…PEOPLE!
Get in line.
Take a number.
Single file.
I’ll listen to you one at a time, and I reserve the right to send you back to the end, until you learn to behave yourselves.

I can no longer serve two (hundred) masters. I now realize my limitations and I’m no longer ashamed. I’m actually relieved.

You see, in trying to make everyone around me happy, I wasn’t living my best life, which turned me into one crazy ass bitch, and then I was no good to anyone. Least of all myself. I began to lose my ZaZaZu which makes life no fun at all, and Janet a very, very dull girl.

Wanna hear a truth? YOU are NONE OF MY BUSINESS.

So I’m gonna disappoint a few of you. I’m takin’ to YOU Target guy.

I will NO LONGER toe the line.

I will NO LONGER sacrifice feeling good to make you happy.

I will NO LONGER take you to the park twice a day and throw the ball incessantly like one of those pitching machines, so you can just stop your whining. Once is enough. It’s not ALL about you! My existence is not about being your beck and call girl, you little bitches.
(Sorry, a little dog rage.)

But…
I WILL laugh more,
Sleep longer,
Wear comfortable shoes,
Write sassier,
Live louder,
Wear impossibly cruel, high heels,
Be a walking contradiction,
Stop apologizing,
Be mystical and believe in magic,
Drink carbonated, sugary beverages occasionally,
Be bolder,
Take chances,
Watch silly singing shows,
Say fuck whenever it strikes me,
Eat after ten,
And walk BY MYSELF once a day, without the dogs, for my own sanity and peace of mind.

I’m committed to only one Master now, and she knows what’s best for me.

How about you? You in?

Carry on,
Xox

Hello my Peeps!
Just wanted to share a quick message. Yep. I got a message from the Universe yesterday.
But I’m getting ahead of myself, because I love this stuff, and I’m excited.

This shit NEVER gets old! I’m telling’ ya!

So as you’ve read, I’ve been a bit blue lately, and I’ve just kinda been following it.
Yesterday, at the car wash I had an Ah Ha moment. You know, just like you do at a car wash.
Complete clarity (and a clean windshield).
It hit me like a bolt of lightning!
I knew what it was! Some old, childhood, feelings had been triggered. I could even identify them.

Security and stability, or lack thereof, and feeling dis-empowered as an eleven year old girl.

Then I had the realization that those feeling were like a program running in the background of my life, and just like what happens with your computer, it was slowing things (energy) down.

Eureka!

Now I’m going to be uncharacteristically non-specific with the rest of the details – for now.
But I know I’m on the right track. You wanna know how I know?

Later in the day I spotted an unopened 2014 calendar of inspirational sayings that was laying on my office desk. It had been hiding its inspiration under a stack of papers and old files. I grabbed the now useless box to throw it away, and then decided to have one last crack at it before it became garbage.

I opened it up, asked it what I needed to know, running my thumb rapidly through the entire year.
When it randomly stopped, I pulled out the page to take a look. What wisdom did 2014 have for me?

“Are you kidding me?!”

Well, that’s a picture of the page above. I’m covered with goosebumps again, just like I was at that moment.

As many times as this has happened to me – it NEVER gets old!

There are signs EVERYWHERE, letting you know if you’re on the right track.
Sometimes all ya gotta do is ask.

Love you guys, Have a great weekend!
Carry on,
xox