Glad to Know Me

I am just wondering if I was introduced to myself, would I like me? How would the conversation begin and under what circumstances would the two of me find ourselves in this awkward predicament?

Well, since this is more than a possibility verging on an eventual probability, I must get prepared.

As with all my “out there” thoughts, this scenario was planted in my brain by way of a series of comments regarding a person who looks like me enough to be my twin brother.  This man works in the hospital where I volunteer.  The physical traits are unmistakably me with a five o’clock shadow.

We’ve met, have not conversed, but just that uncomfortable face to face introduction which supports the theory of evolution.  There must be a missing limb on the family tree because it’s uncanny how much we mirror the outside self.

Not wanting to pry or really care enough to begin a conversation, we occasionally pass ourselves in the hallway and with the exchange of that same familiar grin, go on about our business.

Now, that it is confirmed that I do exist in multiplicity, I need to adjust my inner self to present the best of me to all I meet, or pass by, or gaze at; etc.

The challenge being which side of my multi-faceted me shall I present to John Q. Public?

Having graduated from a six-week summer course on etiquette somewhere in my preteen years, I already practice appropriate posture (especially if descending a staircase), know when to extend my RIGHT hand and can engage in the howdoyoudo’s in several languages.

That’s all well-intentioned if I were to find myself in a formal social setting;

but, what about the casual impromptu occasion? Taking cues from a complete stranger has the potential of a neon danger sign looming overhead.

Say for instance, meeting my son's future girlfriend.  It’s well known that sons generally choose partners with Mom’s endearing qualities.  But which qualities will I recognize in this mini-me?  Will I be equally impressed or quickly dissolve the budding romance and run for the nearest exit?

How to gage which me to face the world, on a daily basis, is my constant challenge.  I can be very well-rehearsed in front of my bathroom mirror (it is full length, as I like to practice my entire body language). Stepping outside and maintaining self- confidence is not for the weak of spirit or stomach, ya da ya da. It’s a skill honed over decades and I admit, that I’m not the least bit shy.  I’ll talk to anyone.  It’s not vanity to do so, it’s generosity of heart.

You know when you “connect” with people. That eleven-second rule (the time it takes to make a first impression) is more than ample when you realize

the existence of commonality. You don’t have to ponder which you to share.  It just happens.  Or does it?

Maybe the other embodiment of you has just met the original. Do you like him or her?  Is there a reason to share a part of yourself?  Do you appreciate the qualities which form a bridge from stranger to a friend?

Is this a human condition, this multiple me syndrome?  Do my dogs or cats or aquarium freshwater fish have the potential to recognize in others that which exists internally? I vote yes.

It’s absolutely irrefutable that the me I give out to the universe will attract and simultaneously repel like energies.  Positive will engage positive, negative will keep trying and opposites will attract and throw the whole equation off-center.

So with this discussion begun, I have choices to make. But first, I need to check my day timer to determine the best me for the job of getting on with my day….the possibilities are endless.

Pick and Choose

If I was a church going person and I was looking for a new congregation of like- minded individuals, I’d be hard pressed into a decision. I’m regrettably homesteading smack in the middle of the bible belt, at present, and have to put my spiritual radar on ignore most of the time.

This revelation has just come upon my fully conscious mind by way of the numerous billboards and marquees which encroach upon my peripheral vision as I drive about town. The latest phrase to catch my attention was something about “The Path to Transformation”.  Transform into what? There are limited possibilities regarding the human species. On a personal level, my ability to change my attitude is generally all the “transformation” I require. The probability of my morphing into other than what I am is slim, given the tools I currently have in my kit.

How does one decide what topic would be relevant? The messages don’t provide any prologue or visual cover jacket to explain contents. Without the benefit of knowing the speaker, it could be risky.  I am not a risk taker; rather conservative and happy with that mindset. That being said I think lectures should come from the classroom, not the pulpit as I see it.  I have given my best efforts in remaining in a pew or a row to learn about spiritualness until the clergy person started to admonish or invite me to declare my faults, ask forgiveness, pay the fine (tithe), and come back for more next week.  That’s not going to happen.  Been there, done that, and regret my former decisions.

I don’t want to live my life based on the what ifs. So, I just don’t go in anymore.

However, that’s not to say, I’m not amused by the competition between the varied houses of faith concerning my salvation. Some of the better marketing strategies are located on those above mentioned billboards and they constantly evolve through the 52 weeks.  It must be a full time job for someone.. I mean some of those ads are thought provoking.  But I wonder…

What or who determines the schedule of advertised lectures?  Is there a predetermined selection of appropriate topics for say week number 23?  Are the contents set on a course to an eventual climax? Well…duh! The answer would be yes, especially if you have been conscripted by family or community into any number of organized religions.

But doesn’t the message get stale?  Aren’t we intelligent enough to realize that Wiikepedia will eventually run out of popular lingo and there we’ll be waiting with baited breath for the answer to all questions only to discover that we’ve come full circle in the allotted 365 days… and… since we didn’t get it right last year, we get another chance.

I’m not wasting my time. I’m not that curious.  My today is all I can handle.  I have a healthy sense of self-esteem, my ego is fully intact and I don’t need to question the path I am on.  It’s working out just fine.

It’s Monday, so I have a few days in my comings and goings out of the house to entertain myself while gazing at all the signs out there. I am determined to outwit those who are devoted to tampering with perfection. I am, you see.

My journey, will all its twists and unexpected side trips, has no time for even an hour’s reflection to spend with like- minded people. But thanks for the invite anyway.

Perplexed In The Pew

Perplexed In the Pew

By

Laura Duerrwaechter

My stories do not usually require a preface, but we absolutely must provide a back story this time…

I am battling faith and for me, it’s not all black and white.  The palette remains neutral, none the less, for to give color to it would be unethical.

I had a Methodist upbringing, at least until my early teens, when it just wasn’t cool anymore. Mom stopped going to church, and Grandma still attended regular weekly services and there was always an open invitation to join her.  Of course, when I did, it ended up an all-day affair, dotted with second hand treasure hunting and a meal at our favorite cafeteria with Dairy Queen for dessert. 

Methodism may have been an offshoot credited to a Mr. Wesley (but again, that may have been Presbyterian).  It was a mild, user friendly version of basic Christianity.

No chastisements from the pulpit, plenty of community involvement, summer camp, chorus, and bible study, but not too much.  My Grandmother was not happy with this watered down version.  For her, Methodism meant no cards, dancing, or too much over excitement in public places. 

I am now not a Methodist.  I am a spiritualist believing in all things possible with no one at the steering wheel. Perhaps an eventual train wreck in the making, but then again, no one to blame for choices made and eventual consequences.

…end of back story…   

Yesterday I attended the funeral services for a friend of mine.  The call came from President of our hospital auxiliary and all I knew was location and time. 

The last funeral I attended was Wednesday of last week for my former neighbor and I hadn’t quite recovered from that loss.  So I was already in the appropriate mind set to say goodbye.

I had never been to anything remotely Baptist and definitely nothing Southern Baptist. All I remember was that the man called “John the Baptist” lost his head in the story. Arriving with a co-worker, we stood in the parking lot of the church to watch the gathering of the congregation.  The women wore black or solid white dresses, gloves, hats; men in black suits and freshly shined shoes.  Children in uncomfortable church clothes with too many chaperones keeping them from well, being children.

Inside ushers of all ages tasked with this aisle or that aisle, making sure we had bulletins and paper fans to keep us from overheating. The hospital auxilians squeezed into a 7 person pew in the back.  Eventually, we had more members join us and they were welcomed into available spaces directly in front and just in back of us.

Music of a quiet nature filled the awkward minutes as more people arrived. Promptly,

the pastor (for lack of proper nomenclature) stated for us to rise and welcome the family.  I am not overstating that no less than 60 persons filed in and filled the center pews and the extra seating now blocking the two side aisles.  The choir was on chorus number umpteenth by the time all family members had found seating or had been directed to the overflow room in an adjoining building.

The woman directly in back of me tapped me on the shoulder to assure me that this was a very small funeral.  Since when was 300 a small funeral?

Several floral remembrances decorated the sides of the casket. There was one in a shape of a star with each point a different color.  She had been member of the Eastern Stars. I am unclear as to whether her husband had been a Mason.  The same star was embroidered onto the lining of her casket as well.

The chorus swelled in unison parts and swayed.  The choral director continually mopped his brow.  The pastor stopped the music by stating “stop”.  Voices in the congregation continued a Capella.

Guests were limited (as stated in the bulletin) to a two minute sharing of their relationship with the deceased.  They were directed to a microphone…two shared.

More singing; the lead soprano made up her own words, but the rest of the choir chimed in with the music as practiced. Again, the Pastor stated “stop” but added “that was lovely”.  The same rebels in the pews continued on.

Next were declarations, but they weren’t called as such, they were formal statements of her services to the church, its sister churches throughout the world and related fraternal organizations all to be documented as history in the annals of each organization.

More singing and audience participation reached a new climax with jumping and hand swaying above heads.  Over the singing were shouts of “praise” and “joy” and well you get the picture.

All of this was just the warm up for now he stood with microphone in hand to deliver the following editorial on God.  That’s correct, not our loved one, but God.

Okay, now I am dazed and confused and slightly deafened by the sheer volume of celebration. “Excuse me, you are stating that this service is a tribute to GOD?”

What happened to my friend?  (I shouldn’t have asked that question in my mind because he revealed to me the error of my thinking).

Man is servant and is duty bound to the GLORY of God.  Sister…has been a devoted servant and was called home last……

His fervent delivery of sermon, tempered with examples from scripture, caused the listener to concentrate on the final consonant of each word he spoke.  “God- duh”, “Man-nuh”, Je-Zussssuh”.  He screamed his message in attempt to bring us to a state of delirium.  I was expecting paramedics to arrive momentarily.  And I fully expected the recently departed to sit right up and join in.

When he had reached the point where he could speak no more because he was absolutely hoarse from vocal abuse, he began to speak in whispered volume which forced the crowd to calm itself.

My pulse was racing and I was uncomfortable and penned in against the wall. I’m sure if there was an expression on my face, it would resemble total disbelief coupled with anger. The anger stemming from the complete disregard as to the reason we had all gathered.

Let me get this straight….she was nothing but a road marker for “glory”?  Her life was measured and defined and constrained by a set of rules written to please an unearthly being?

I still can’t wrap my head around it.  I didn’t misconstrue either.  I know what he said, I understood what he said, I don’t believe what he said and I miss my dear friend.

Yesterday gave validation that my abhorrence of organized religion is rooted deep in my soul. I cannot be contained; my spirit is free and boundless.  I am a good woman;

kind and respectful, generous and loving.  Evidence of my life will remain in your memory for I will not grant permission for anyone to measure my contributions on an ethereal scale and I will not allow MY life’s journey to glorify or give purpose to the unknown.

I will remember my friend, her touch and smile.  We will continue together separately in constant evolution. And…

There’s no funeral in my future.  I won’t be there; you’ll find me high in the Rocky Mountains giving life to the sapling of a splendid Aspen tree.

Unprepared

“This is a test, this is just a test…of your emergency broadcasting system”…I had that warning pop into my head as I resisted returning to my fully conscious mind in bed this morning.

Lately my carefully planned life, with all the promises dreamt as a newlywed, has gone awry. I’m not who I planned on becoming and neither are the people most immediately entangled along-side. The web remains unchanged regardless of the change in weather.  It doesn’t diminish, it doesn’t expand.  I crawl from one corner to another to inspect for damages and finding none, continue to the succeeding corner and so on.  Doomed to repeat…wishing I had wings instead of a spinner.

This not being a possibility, my present self is predominately living inside my mind rather than flourishing in the spaces about me.  Must change. Must progress… for the opposite (regress) is a guarantee of failure.

In that I must progress, the exams which follow the lessons in life, must also progress.  I hate that.

Presently the lesson on the chalkboard of my life is that old is approaching.  Middle age was hard enough, I can’t imagine the coursework looming ahead. Who will teach the lessons?  Is summer school available for remediation if the core lessons are too advanced?

How does one born into the generation of “what’s your sign, baby” continue the irresistible path of pseudo-Zen mindset when the psychedelic  road to nirvana has morphed into cookie cutter houses on the straight and narrow yellow brick road?  My Land of Oz is yet over another hill and Toto has met his destiny in the never-ending poppy fields.

Again, I’m in the wrong place at the right time.  I have to fix that.  First I have to determine if I speak figuratively or not.  The former would be an easy change.  The other option would be an endeavor to be attempted by a younger me…I think.  I don’t think the middle age me is equipped for a “leap of faith”.  And please don’t take that phrase literally.

I feel like I am a character in a Dr. Seuss story.  Maybe the one with “Green Eggs and Ham” for I know what I do not like, but can’t figure out what I do.

Here’s the shortlist:  I don’t like:

·        The inevitability that my rut will define me

·        The eventuality that options for enlightenment will diminish

·        The complacency which rules today may become my reality

Ooh, that’s TRULY scary.

I started to break out and snap out of it recently.  Took a class for seniors; liked it, aced it and were it not for a personality challenge with the current professor would have stayed with it. 

Trying to reenter the "have a job and get paid for it" group, but my sixty years skill set is out of date.  Forget the draw of age-appropriate social circles…just confirmation of my eventual demise.

Yes, it’s time for a change and more schooling and more tests. More studies and thankfully I have the time for unending all-nighters.

I am totally unprepared, not the stomach ulcer, nail biting days of my youth but unprepared just the same.

So go ahead and delegate the next sequence of exams; make sure they include an essay and short answer section.  Don’t grade on a curve and no do-overs.

I am becoming who I am; fate has intervened….and if it weren’t for extra credit (of which I have gleaned an extraordinary amount), I’d be nervous.

My Time to Bloom

Today, is the first day in August, in the fifty-something year of my life, and I am admiring the few remaining perennials in my front yard. I am amazed at this seeming simple display and readily admit that I admire Mother Nature’s evolutionary processes.

For some returning blooms, the flower heads must lay fallow in the surrounding soil and the resulting seeds will be absorbed as the soil moistens…or the seed may end up a quick snack for a vigilant feathered friend. So, what determines the outcome?  Chance?  Fate?

It is reassuring to me that my lack of horticultural endeavors is rewarded each year…the seasonal colors which dot my garden, change and I let them.

Why interfere?  Nature is not symmetrical.  Just give a close look in your own reflecting glass.

Kinda wonder, though, which variety in nature’s garden shall I be?  Annual or perennial?  Maybe, neither…maybe my cultivation requires crop rotation; where the soils must lay fallow so as to not limit my full potential.

Interesting comparison; let’s explore further.

Existentialism was a topic introduced by my learned father somewhere in my tender, inquisitive, rebellious teenage years.  I guess it might have been even earlier at a time when church confirmation was on the mind of my mother; perhaps last year elementary school, which would have been my 6^th grade. 

I barely recall the details of the classroom aspect of that life-altering period of six weeks probably because I had a crush on the associate minister and I spent most of the lecture time improving the handwriting of the pages of notes I had taken the week before.  As a result or in spite of my regular attendance, theology was thrust upon me. 

That direct insult to my perception of the universe left me thirsting for other possibilities.  Didn’t necessarily believe the good book.  How could I, there was no one living with any tangible evidence and the physical remains of those depicted in such riveting detail upon the pages could not be unearthed.

In my present day, I read of creatures being discovered beneath extreme depths of ice and scads of previously unidentified sea creatures are being studied by those curious minds who must share their existence to study them. These discoveries excite me. My senses are alive with wonder and appreciation.

I am still waiting for religion to catch up with science. I am satisfied that it never will.

So, call me skeptical.  The brilliant man who was my father connected with the universe and became part of something much larger leaving the learned scholars and writers of stories to duke it out.  He believed in just being. His ideology was simple and just: Man was equal to every other living body, whether gifted of breath or dust particle.

Existentialism, a relatively new addition to the English language is defined as:

:  a chiefly 20th-century philosophical movement embracing diverse doctrines but centering on analysis of individual existence in an unfathomable universe and the plight of the individual who must assume ultimate responsibility for acts of free will without any certain knowledge of what is right or wrong or good or bad

And…that’s the way my father would have explained it more or less.  Man (woman) must assume, must control and must weigh the pros and cons for every decision. That both increases and limits the burdens which remain self- imposed.

So, now in the garden of life where I am in bloom, is my existence tantamount upon learned survival on an evolutionary scale?  Have those who bloomed and germinated seeds planned on my participation?  And why am I still to discover

how rooted I am to the continuum of life?

As the petals begin to fade in the graying of hair and lessening of vitality, I am all a wonder about possibilities.  Probabilities notwithstanding that I will be unrecognizable and become part of the greatness still to be defined.

I began this entry of my journal the 1^st day of August and it’s now almost Labor Day.  I’ve had time to reflect.  In that same garden which I view from my private studio, the very last of the blooms struggle to kiss the dusk and I’m not sure I’ll see the few remaining in tomorrow’s soft pink dawn.  I’ll just exist and learn my purpose for tomorrow, tomorrow.

"Afterthought"

One of the many reasons I like to drive with myself is because I can be assured that my time behind the wheel will be virtually uninterrupted by another’s invasion of my bubble…

You can admit to me, that occasionally, you live in your bubble too.  We all do although “bubble” might not be a good fit for you.  How about “space” or “frame of mind” or “in my grill”?  It’s the immeasurable area you conduct your life within.  Different for everyone.  Introverts would have cavernous secluded spaces, extroverts…not so much.

My bubble extends to your border (or if I am driving) to the inside of the passenger door of the car and all the way to the rear window.  It was in this very private space that I had a moment’s glimpse of a peacock, accompanied by three peahens.  Not unusual at all, if I had been passing a zoo or in a middle-class neighborhood in Thailand (where they are kept as security because of their very vocal alerts).  This grouping was in parade behind a large Episcopalian church on The Gulf of Mexico which provides the southern coastline of this city.

The church, resplendent in its own right, neighbors a small boatyard and shanty.

The occupant of this shanty was enjoying their company and from what I could view, was providing them a late afternoon’s meal.

Hens scattered ahead while the male followed behind. I don’t know the dynamics of such a grouping of exotic fowl, I have rarely seen both hen and cock together.  Assuming that these birds were meant to be there, kept by someone, or rescued by someone, I was curious…why THERE? No trees, but plenty of sea oats and freshwater, fountains and tiered balconies and bell tower for them to roost.

I enjoyed the unexpected parade.  I was happy to have had a moment to appreciate them. But I wondered…

Does the peacock ever see his reflection?  Does he gaze at his own magnificence? Is he jealous of other peacocks, not realizing that his uniqueness and splendor is unmatched by another?

And then I thought…”ah-ha this is another message…a not so subtle one”.

At a time when my people my age (the post-baby boom, generation “x”) are experiencing myriad midlife crisis’, a renewed lack of self-esteem is encroaching on our collective been there, done that crowd.

My collection of been there done that, have the tee-shirt drawer cannot close with- out encouragement.  And yet, why am I still unfulfilled?  What’s missing? Am I not a bird of a different feather?

I am self-sufficient, educated, well-traveled, open-minded and clueless as to what comes next.  My external self is constantly under renovation, not for your approval, but for mine.  My internal self is on a quest, a journey.  The kind of journey which does not call for a multilingual guide, with pennant in hand, stating that the next exhibit is just around the corner.

What do I have to compare with the unequaled beauty of a peacock’s feather?

I have burgeoning creativity to share.  I have thought-provoking solutions to global problems that are birthed by nothing more than common sense.  My brain never shuts off or closes to possibilities.  It does, however, deflect the negative energies which are seemingly predominant in the news today.

The racing of my pulse is the impetus that signals approaching opportunities.

Maybe here, maybe not here but somewhere new or the places of my youth revisited because unfinished business waits for my return.

There is a reason why the peacock’s tail feathers were bestowed upon him as the focal point of his existence.  When engaged in the dance of life, his survival depends on them.  There was a reason, an evolutionary reason, that his plumage was not an afterthought.

He reminded me that my gifts are for sharing.  He reminded me that life is a parade and the attraction of the casual observer should be welcomed.  My journey is solitary, but should not be exclusive; for completeness is not achieved in solitude but rather when joined by another….

And destiny is the joining of one unexpected moment to another.

Blue bird

Mom succumbed to cancer in 1988 and passed January of that year.  She wasn't able to attend my wedding, but had the pleasure of planning the details in the few months prior.  I had a whirlwind romance and had hoped to marry before she left, but was not meant to be.

During her last weeks of hospice care in the family home, she would recover from her semi- comatose state long enough to be in the present moment and we would just carry on conversation as if time were not urgent.  I had always belonged to the nickname "Tootie".  Many stories about how that came about, but my favorite was the one where the adoption had been finalized and our first meeting (me at 6 days old) had me filling my diapers..."Tootie" just seemed appropriate.

Bringing you forward, 32 years...She decided in one of our last bed side conversations to call me "Blue bird".  That came out of nowhere.  She had collected elephants, loved the color blue, but "Blue bird?"

Jumping forward...

Was married in April of 1988.  .. into the military...moved from my girlhood home of Colorado to Texas.  Had a rough time of it., Husband and I had business/pleasure trip to San Diego, California.  The day spent at the zoo was awesome. just what I needed to lift my spirits. Walking through the vast parking lot, chatting away as newlyweds do, I was "buzzed" by a blue bird.  Just once and then it disappeared.

Navy moved us to Japan where we welcomed our daughter in February of 1991.  Talk about depressed...post- partum blues hit hard.  Husband always on a mission and hardly ever home.  Lived among the Japanese in a very traditional neighborhood and nothing “Americanized” except for what was in the house.  By this time, my dad had remarried and I tried to connect over the long distance phone line with my step mother, but she didn't quite get it.  She was very pragmatic and had raised her children as independent thinking persons at a very early age, probably around the age of 4.

Well, another episode of depression...brought my husband's CO and wife to my aide and several visits to the base psychiatrist and happy pills and the whole 9 yards.

Sitting in my very Americanized Japanese house, in a fit of tears, with a new babe in arms, and wanting Wonder Bread, I heard a song bird.  No big deal, I thought, Japan has birds...duh!

But THIS bird kept singing.  She sat in a branch in MY yard.  She interrupted my state of being long enough for me to FIND her...a Blue bird.  At the exact moment I saw her, the singing stopped and she flew.  I was so excited, that I ran across the street to explain to my neighbor that I had seen a blue bird.  She stated emphatically that no such species lived on the island of Japan or in the Nation of Japan.  What?

Pregnant again and moving to Washington state, my life seemed more complicated than ever. Our son was born in 1992 and at the age of 1 plus, was rushed by ambulance to Seattle (a 2 hour drive) with a life threatening head injury.  He fell from my shoulders onto a concrete floor at a local McDonald's restaurant.  I was trying to hold onto him, and my daughter and balance a tray full of favorite happy meal items to a table....

By the time I got to the hospital after making frantic phone calls to my husband's squadron (he was clear across the nation, in Florida on some damn exercise), and placing my daughter in the arms of a neighbor, our baby was in surgery and the surgeon came out long enough to say he didn't think our child would survive.

You wouldn't know my pain, I can't explain my pain.  I ran from the surgery waiting room still in the clothes where my child had vomited all over them.  I ended up on the steps at the front of Children's hospital in an inconsolable state.  People passed wide eyed and some tried to help.  I wanted to die.

The Blue bird came and landed along the walkway in a barren tree, as it was just beginning to bud.  She sang for me and then flew.  My husband appeared from a taxi cab. We embraced and ran back inside where our boy had just entered the recovery room.  The next 48 hours he was baptized and moved to ICU where his continued recovery allowed for us to bring him home after two weeks. Our "zipper head" (his new nickname because the incision began at the base of his left ear and proceeded to the midpoint of the crown), was seemingly healthy.  His hematoma had blown to the size of an orange.  He was in surgery for 3 hours. We celebrated by going to the zoo.  

My dad died several years ago and I had to leave him in a hospital bed in Colorado and fly back here. I gave him a last birthday card (86th year), kissed him and walked out of his room. Hospice and an ambulance were coming...he passed 4 days later. Anyway, as I walked from the hospital and listened to the chimes of the bell tower in the chapel, I saw her. She did not sing, I was expecting to see her. She was waiting for him

I expect to see my Blue bird, but she doesn't come. It's been a very long time.  I see other species of blue birds...jays, finches, humming birds, etc., buy SHE hasn't come.

Two years ago, I sought out an intuitive (psychic) upon recommendation of a close friend.  Must truthfully tell you that I was skeptical.  I have 3 recordings of sessions and I'll share that messages have come and that I have changed from a close minded, non-religious woman into a spiritual being.  Call it whatever you wish.  I have asked my intuitive about animal spirits.  She said "Do you mean the Blue bird? She comes to bring messages that you have reached a fork in the road and your path is joyful and purposeful and that you are not alone."

The last session, this past January, the message came "You can find me in Heaven".  Funny, because I don't understand the concept of Heaven...but if it is where Blue birds fly, then my heart will join her there.

Do I believe my mother is guiding me? Absolutely.

I wish you the same : ) - Laura