.

I woke early this morning eager to start the day.  I usually do.  I padded into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of tea, and stared out the window.  A downy blanket of snow covered the world outside my window, illuminated by waning silver moonlight.  I thought how perfect the forest appeared after a snowstorm - pristine and glistening - like a glitter-dusted fairy world. I felt at peace.  I anticipated the day stretching before me with poetic happiness.  I would take a brisk walk in the snow.  I would have another cup of tea.  I would settle down at my computer and create worlds with my words.  Fate had other designs, apparently.  A few ill-spoken words by thoughtless family members and I felt my happiness slip away.  I looked at world beyond my window through altered eyes.  The icy forest seemed somehow transformed - forbidding and bleak. It's amazing what a few harsh words can do to a tender heart, isn't it?  Lacerating a soul. Ensconced in a blue mood, I did wh

An encouraging message was posted in a university restroom (Imgur) Each morning, I pour myself a cup of tea, settle myself at my desk in my Cloffice (a closet converted to an office), and sign in to Yahoo. I usually try to avoid reading their news pieces because, well, frankly, reading about school shootings, corrupt politicians, and economic woes really bums me out. This morning, however, I found myself zoning out, staring at the news scroll on my computer screen (I guess my super-caffeinated tea hadn't kicked in yet).  I noticed the following title Inspiring Note Found in Stall .  I confess, the teaser aroused my curiosity.  I mean, who would leave a note taped to a bathroom stall?  And what would they even say?   "Sure, you are sitting in the bathroom at the Starbuck's in Omaha, but that doesn't mean you can't create great things!  After all, Van Gogh created masterpieces from an insane asylum." And so, I clicked on the link  to the article. It

I spent my morning in bed with a lusty man’s man.   Hemingway again.   No, I did not read  For Whom The Bell Tolls again;  I watched  Hemingway and Gellhorn , a film about the love affair between writers Ernest Hemingway and Martha Gellhorn .   He was a tortured artist, she an ambitious world-weary journalist. It was not a match made in Heaven.   Their love affair began as so many passionate, disastrous unions of the minds (and/or bodies) begin: in a bar. Hemingway was married but in possession of a wandering eye – an eye that focused on a young wandering journalist.  They meet in a seedy moonshine shanty called Sloppy Joe's.  She saunters over to the bar, where Hem is celebrating.  The two exchange sharply pointed banter. One gets the sense that Martha, played by Nicole Kidman, was a sincere person, earnest about her career, her ambitions, her passions.  Hemingway, portrayed by Clive Owen, comes off like a showman, a charmer, more dedicated to his own pleasures and ego

On a recent afternoon, I gazed out the window at the woods beyond my home, transformed by the technicolor filter of autumn.  Brilliant late-day sunshine punctured the canopy of red, green, and yellow leaves while birds perched on low-lying branches chirped incessantly upbeat tunes.  I wrapped my hands around a mug of over-priced tea, felt the contentment that comes from knowing all of your basic needs are being met, and suddenly realized  that, despite my many blessings, I was not happy.   With crystalline clarity, I realized I had been zealously pursuing external happiness, hedonistic delights, for years, but was still lacking internal happiness.  The sort of happiness that brings peace, balance, self-acceptance, and contentment. I decided to embark on a Happiness Project , one year of intensive self-analyzing, goal setting, and stretching to achieve a greater sense of self and a deeper level of inner-bliss.  I came up with 12 areas of concentration - twelve concepts I belie

A few years ago, I had a mid-life crisis.  I liken it to surviving a horrific car crash.  I was going about the business of my life, hands on the wheel, cruising along at a moderate speed.  I was so fixated on the road ahead, I missed vital signs alerting me I was headed in the wrong direction.  On auto-pilot, I sped along, oblivious to the imminent crash. On auto-pilot.  That's how I would describe the way I was functioning.  Mindlessly moving forward, propelled more by inertia than a desire to follow a thoughtfully charted course. I shoveled the snow from our driveway, went to my early morning Spin class, got the kids to school, cleaned the house, did the marketing, paid the bills, picked the kids up from school, made dinner, listened to my husband's musings about his work, and fell into bed too exhausted to process my thoughts or feelings about the day.  Some days, I added volunteering or writing to my schedule.  This itinerary repeated itself five day per week without m