Author: Bev

This column is unusual in that it is not one cohesive thought or concept, but many seeds for thought.  Included in the collection are several column ideas that I just didn’t feel the need to elaborate upon; other snippets are quotes that I felt worthy of recording for future food for thought.  Hopefully you will find something inspiring about this collection of potential.

“The cake is done and that project I’ve been working on is finally finished.”  Back in the day, grammarians used to be sticklers that “food is done, people are finished,” and do not confuse the two.  I am now officially through with this topic.  You may speak about the doneness of cake and the completion of tasks; in any way you see fit.  I’m okay with it either way.

I’ve heard the word “tyranny” used in a couple of rather poignant phrases, describing the oppressive use of power in an unusual way.  The first phrase I recall was highlighted by a television preacher in the 1980s, “tyranny of the urgent.”  Oh, my goodness sake, if anything is any more oppressive, pressing, or stressful than someone else’s urgency, where they’re urging you to do something on their timetable, I don’t know what it is.  Then, lately I’ve heard of an interesting concept labeled, “tyranny of the fringe.”  This is presumably oppression from an outside group, exercising power over the in group.  I don’t know how this works, but it’s real.

How about this idea of “Breaking News?”  It used to be that breaking news was some important new information about a vital issue that may impact your life in some way.  Now, breaking news is an attention seeking bit of fluff.  It’s just a headline used by advertisers or clickbait to grab your attention.

“I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”  This is the oath, sworn by witnesses in a court of law.  But nowadays, your truth, my truth, and THE truth are all different truths.  In fact, it was truthfully said on a Norwegian crime drama that I watched, “The truth with a capital T is dead… public life is now just a form of theater where anything can be true if you say it loud enough.”

Vladimir Lenin, the first head of the Soviet Union (USSR), said, “There are decades where nothing happens, and there are weeks where decades happen.”  Ain’t that the truth?

In The Tempest, William Shakespeare, considered by many to be the greatest writer in the English language, said “What’s past is prologue.”  Our future is in part shaped by the choices we made in the past.  The stage has been set, but what are we going to do with it?

“Discovery isn’t seeking new lands, but seeing with new eyes,” so said French novelist and essayist, Marcel Proust.  It seems that “seeing” isn’t done just with the eyes, but also with the mind.  When you read a book, watch a movie, walk in nature, you can discover worlds you’ve never set foot upon.  “Seeing is believing, but feeling is the truth.”  Seventeenth century English clergyman, Thomas Fuller knew that deep personal experience is more about seeing with the heart than seeing the surface with our eyes.

Oh, my gosh, are we humans ever satisfied?  There’s never enough.  More, more, more, seems to be the battle cry of most people.  In the 19^th century, social philosopher and political economist, Henry George captured it with this quote, “Man is the only animal whose desires increase as they are fed; the only animal that is never satisfied.”

So much of our emotional pain is manufactured by the “what if” of anxiety.  Shakespeare said in Macbeth, “present fears are less than horrible imaginings.”  Imagination, it seems, is both a blessing and a curse.  I guess our continual job which we cannot ever retire from is to choose where we go with our imagination, not to mention our expectations.

Isn’t it funny that after some considerable time, many of the really sticky situations we found ourselves in long ago, become comical stories we tell about ourselves at family gatherings or reunions.  I think Miles Davis, the famous jazz artist said it well, “When you hit a wrong note it’s the next note that makes it good or bad.”

Similar experiences, sitting in the same boat, and sharing those experiences, make for the closest friendships.  Seventeenth century English poet and priest, George Herbert said, “only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches.”  This means that personal experiences are just that, personal to the individual, however, an experience shared becomes more real, more powerful, not to mention purposeful.

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice,” if you wait long enough.  Martin Luther King said this, and he was a man who waited, waited, and waited some more for a smidgen of justice to manifest itself.  Michael J. Fox completes the thought with his truism that “gratitude makes optimism sustainable.”

Some fundamentalist Christian thought has encouraged followers to put our emotions down and act solely on biblical truths without the filter of emotion.  On the other hand, others, from Aristotle to modern thinkers, philosophers, theologians and more, believe that “emotions are at the center of wisdom.”  I think that pairing these two perspectives is the perfect cautionary tale.  “Self-control” is one of the biblical virtues and fruits of the Holy Spirit.  We need to develop awareness as to when our emotions begin to free-fall, and reign them in so that they work for us and not against us.

So that our actions are purposeful and not reactive, we all would be wise to “practice the pause.”  This concept is widely associated with mindfulness or thinking before doing it.  I was tickled with my two-year-old grandson when he mimicked me and began saying, “pause it,” when it’s become time to pause all video learning to begin applying what we’ve learned, through play.  In this writing, I deem it is time to “Selah” or pause and think about it.

 

 

 

 

 

Talk, talk, communicate, confess.  It’s therapy I’m talking about.

In her twenties, actress Diane Keaton recently deceased, suffered from bulimia, an eating disorder of binging and purging.  She said that she recovered from the disorder after having sought therapy.

Woody Allen, her partner at one time, encouraged Keaton to seek therapy.  So, she did and, in her 2011 memoir, Then Again, Keaton claimed that she slowly replaced the purging of food with purging her anxieties by talking.

Like Woody Allen, I think everyone needs talk therapy.  We’ve all got issues that get purged one way or another.  Therapy seems ideal when compared to the alternative destructive outlets for the bad stuff we accumulate over time and bury deep within.  We take it out on someone or something in some way.

I confess I’ve never been in therapy officially, but I have engaged in an excellent and similar alternative.  One might call it “talk vomit.”  I talk, talk, confess and communicate daily with my husband, who listens – the hallmark of a good therapist.

Having been trained in psychology, sociology and anthropology, I know some things about the mental and emotional health of all kinds of people.  That doesn’t make me mentally healthier than you, it just makes me more aware of my issues, and maybe yours as well.

I can say, now that my father-in-law is long deceased, that he was involved in some covert military goings-on way back when.  And one of his primary skills developed for that purpose, was observation.  “Be aware of your surroundings,” he used to say.

Since both of us trained in observation, we connected with a secret mental handshake, if you will.  It’s a communication of sorts, observation.

This is what therapy does, it trains our minds to observe, thereby gaining extraordinary insights about people, places, things, and our own life’s modus operandi.  Why do we do, say, and behave the way we do?

You can also gain considerable insight from the stories of others.  For this reason, my favorite genre of literature is memoir or biography.

You may do well by accumulating some examples of what some folks have learned, who have already walked the path you seem to be headed down.  Once you know why you are the way you are, then you can proceed to “how do I live my best life with what I’ve got?”

In addition to certified therapists, there are a variety of confessors out there, from professional to amateur.  Notwithstanding family and friends, we can confess and talk things out with priests and pastors, bartenders and barbers, doctors and hairdressers.

You are never too old, too young, too poor, too smart, too dense, or too far gone to start talk therapy.  Even if it’s just between you and God, in the woods or in a chapel, talk it out.  It’s the better alternative.

A saying went around Facebook, encouraging people to “stop blaming your past for how you turned out, it’s time to grow up and take responsibility for how you live as an adult.”  Yes, our past has significantly contributed to who we have become.  But part of “adulting” is to move on and become the best that you can be and stop blaming everybody and his brother for your current lifestyle.

Accept that these are YOUR choices now.  If you want a different outcome in the future, change your choices.  Only you have the power to change your life, unless you want to give God some credit.  Taken out of context, but nonetheless, Jesus said, “heal thyself.”

The saying, “you can’t pour from an empty cup,” refers to the simple fact that we can’t help others, support others, even dwell with others while living in a wounded soul.  First, we have to get whole, then we can share our wholeness with others.

It seems to me that if some talk, talk, and more talk will help one to clear out some of the clutter, don’t wait for Spring for a good clean-out.  Do it now.

 

 

 

After twenty-two years, the most famous dictionary publisher, Merriam-Webster, is updating their print version of the “Collegiate Dictionary.”  This is exciting news for most writers; some yummy new words for us to devour.

I admit that I have succumbed to the modern age where most of my dictionary work is conducted online or on the dictionary app on my phone.  But I miss the days of sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by reference books, dictionaries, and notebooks.  In fact, I miss sitting on the floor like that, in general since I’m coming upon my seventieth birthday, if you know what I mean.

Are you aware that every state in the U.S., Washington D.C., and our territories, have a State Library and archive?   I used to thrive spending time in the Kentucky State Library researching and combing through documents, all spread out on a big conference table in the middle of the “stacks.”  I was preparing preliminary documents for my master’s thesis.

A lexophile in the making, I think I’ve always loved words, especially their origins.  Lexophile, for example, where in the world did that word come from?  Meaning, lover of words, lexophile comes somewhat obviously from two Greek roots: lexis meaning words or speech, and philos meaning loving.

Circa 1993 or so and given the opportunity to critique my teaching at the end of the semester, one college student said, “she uses too many big words.”  Since I love words, what do you think I thought about that criticism?  If I recall accurately after these many years, my thought was, “this is college, get a dictionary.”

Where is the curiosity?  Where is the desire to know more?  Where is the work ethic?

You know, there are people who read the dictionary?  Kostas, the title character in a television show I watched, written in Italian about a Greek detective, with English subtitles, reads the dictionary when he comes home to decompress after work.  Malcolm X, while in prison, was said to have copied entries from the dictionary to teach himself to read and write.

I beg to differ with the nineteenth century children’s rhyme, “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”   As it turns out, the relevance of some age-old sayings expires.  This may have been the wisdom in 1862, but in 2025 our wisdom has evolved to stipulate that emotional wounds can last longer than physical ones.

Twentieth century American author, Jessamyn West expressed the contemporary wisdom in her twist of the old rhyme.  “A broken bone can heal, but the wound a word opens can fester forever.”  I’d say “Amen” to that, but that word means “so be it.”

It’s my opinion that we have far too many walking emotional wounds in our midst because of words and their associative actions.  Bullies have inflicted their best on too many people.

Some of the words that we use around children are despicable.  Doesn’t everybody know that children are sponges?  They absorb every word that is uttered in their vicinity.  Do some people really intend to damage a person for life by calling a child disparaging names or using an overabundance of four-letter gutter words?  That’s bullying, pure and simple.

In teaching young children to communicate, a hallmark of civilization and functional mental health, we ask them to “use your words.”   I’m using license to quote Mark Twain in this context, by pointing out that there is a “difference between the almost right word and the right word… ‘tis the difference between the lightning-bug and the lightning.”

Choose the right words!  Every time we open our mouths around children, we’re giving them a gift.  Is your gift a gag gift?  Is it a gift of a lifetime?  Is it a gift they must reach for?  Or are you handing them an empty box decorated like a gift?

Do you know that print dictionaries are now considered gift books, in part?  What a gift it would be.  Maybe we could create a new generation of meditative dictionary readers.

People have been known to “finger drop” onto a dictionary page, or Bible page, to see what pops up.  They let their minds wander a bit and ponder something of the unknown.

William King, trumpet player for the 1968 American funk and soul group, the Commodores, named the band with a dictionary finger drop.  He said in 1978, “We lucked out, we almost became The Commodes.”

Want to have some fun with words?  Try a finger drop on a random dictionary page and let your mind wander.

 

 

September 22, 2025, was the autumnal equinox, or the beginning of fall in the Northern Hemisphere.  The equinox is said to demonstrate balance between day and night, each lasting about an equal portion of our twenty-four-hour clock on that date.

I wonder if most of us Libra’s, born between September 23^rd and October 22^nd, lovers of balance and harmony, also have an affinity with the fall season.  On balance, I think so.

The usual complaint those of us who treasure Autumn, otherwise and affectionately known as “sweater weather,” “jacket weather,” or fall, is that it’s too fleeting.  We would of course prefer that fall took up half the year and spring, the other half.  “Temperate,” is what they call it, I think.  Balanced.

Winter and summer are big seasons.  These seasons are unmistakably in your face.  Winter is harsh and summer is intense.

Autumn and spring are gentler, easier.  Unencumbered comes to mind when I think of autumn and spring.

That winter coat, gloves, scarf and such make me feel a bit like a turtle walking around having to carry my shell, always carrying something.  And in the summer the ever-present blanket of claustrophobic humidity sitting heavily on my skin, comes close to suffocating.

Thanks to American poet and naturalist, Henry David Thoreau, we have been coached to perceive autumn as evening, sunset, and the close of fruitfulness.  It reminds me of what some have referred to as “Sunday night melancholy.”  Fun and games have ceased, and seriousness, responsibility and stress commence on Monday morning, oh my.

But Thoreau saw the “painted leaves” of autumn as one of the most beautiful happenings of the calendar.  Paradoxically, he thought Autumn light signals the culmination of life, fulfillment, satisfaction, even leaving what has been behind.

As to leaving, my two-year-old grandson would just rather not.  He doesn’t like leaving anywhere he has been.  And since he is, well, two, and he doesn’t yet know how to regulate his emotions, he gets distressed when leaving anywhere every time.

It’s possible that with all the “leaving” involved in Autumn, and the darkening of our days, some folks don’t like the fall.  Like my grandson, they get distressed, maybe even grieve the passing of time, in the Autumn.

A prevalent part of the cycle of life and death, exemplified in leaves, is growth, development, peak, maturity, becoming a colorful spectacle, leaving, falling, blanketing the earth, crunchiness, the smelliness of decay, turning brown, and death.  The whole tree, on the other hand, its roots, trunks, and branches rest, regenerate and then it starts all over again; the cycle of life, that is.

Trees are apostles of sorts.  They dispatch their leaves so that the tree can live.  The biological term for falling leaves, is apoptosis, a close relative of another Greek word, apostle.

In the west, schools start in the fall, and kids leave the nest.  Leaving is part of the cycle of life.  Why does it make us sort of sad?

Life goes on.  It is what it is.  Or, as Michael J. Fox said, “acceptance is not resignation but a form of understanding.”  I’m thinking that there is no beginning without first a leaving.

What do you think?  Fox continued to say, “happiness grows in proportion to one’s acceptance and inversely to one’s expectations.”  That’s kind of poignant.

There is a natural turnover to life and death.  Ten percent of our bone mass is renewed every year, every year.

Our cells are continually dying and new ones taking their place, in a delicate balancing act.  It’s no joke how wondrously we are made; each of us a gymnast traversing a shockingly narrow balance beam between life and death.

According to Thoreau, Autumn is the year’s “last, loveliest smile,” with notable changes in the atmosphere reflecting the year’s events. The falling leaves symbolize life’s harmonious journey from life to dust and tutor us in the art of letting go and renewal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Is old an age?  Is old an attitude?  Is old just the opposite of young, nothing more?

I’m wondering if old is when anything amiss in your body is attributed to having lived to old age.  The only answers for your physical malady, is you’ve “aged out.”  It’s because you’re old, dude.

If old means that you have literally been “in use” since a distant past, some aspects of you have deteriorated and no longer remain in top form.  However, being advanced in years suggests that you may perhaps know some stuff that those less advanced have not yet learned.

Is old determined by how you walk, smell, or look?  Does your doctor tell you when you’re old?

Are you old when you “turn” a certain age?  Hopefully you haven’t “turned” like fruit that has gotten too ripe.  Are you as old as you think?

One used to be old when we qualified for AARP discounts.  So, fifty is old?

Is old relative to the age of the observer?  Twenty is old to a five-year-old.  Ninety is old to a seventy-year-old.  Thirty is old to a teenager.

Do aches and pains tell you you’re old?  Is old all in your head?  Must cranky be synonymous with old?

Is there an objective indicator of old?  Just like the BMI Index is skewed as to whether you’re too fat or too skinny, please tell me the insurance industry isn’t in charge of coming up with the objective definition of old.

Is it old when you can’t do this, that, or the other thing anymore?  The implication here is that you “used to” do it but in recent history you suddenly can no longer do it.  Are you old now?

Are you old when you can no longer eat anything you want anytime you want?  Are you old when you have a personal relationship with “your” doctor?

Are you old if you’re wondering if you’re old?  Does shopping specifically on Tuesdays mean you’re old?

Is everybody old also wise, experienced and mature?  Do you have to be old to be wise?  I’m pretty sure that I’ve encountered some immature old people.

The Old Norse origin of the word old means “to nourish.”  Do you find your primary role in life is nourishing others?

Are you old if you dress for comfort?  Are comfortable shoes a telltale indicator of age, like your turkey neck or gnarly hands?

Is “I’m not getting older, I’m getting better,” a stupid slogan?  Is “eighty years young,” equally sort of silly?

These phrases just seem like we’re trying too hard when we’re supposed to not care so much about what everybody thinks when we’re old.  Or is that just in geriatric movies, self-help programs and books?

If you’re young and you trip over a rug or a crack on the sidewalk, it’s attributed to being in a rush or too much on your mind.  If you’re old and do the same thing it’s because of instability: mental, arterial, joint, muscular – you’re on shaky ground if you’re old.

Just watch the rug being pulled out from under you when you’re old.  You can pull off that magic trick of jerking the tablecloth out from under the full bone-china and crystal service when you’re young.  When you’re old, you’d better try the trick with plastic, paper, or maybe melamine.

Are you old when you start to have trouble operating someone else’s clicker, automobile, microwave, or faucet?  If it’s not easy anymore to turn on a dime, are you old?

Are you old if you have a pair of reading glasses in every room in your house, your car, and your pocket?  If you have more than a passing concern if it’s indigestion or a heart attack, are you old?

When you stretch hard and get a cramp in your leg, are you old?  Do you ever think, “I’m being dismissed because they think I’m old?”

Years ago, when I’m pretty sure I wasn’t old, years ago, mind you, I was with my adult daughter in a big box store.  At check-out my card wouldn’t work and I knew it was okay but the attendant on hand said to my daughter, ignoring me entirely, “sometimes THEY don’t remember that they didn’t pay THEIR card!”

I gently went off on her.  I explained that of course I sometimes make mistakes, but I co-own a business, and I know what I’m doing with my bank cards and conduct many other technical processes, without incident.

Do you think it’s fair to think, “because I’m a certain age, I deserve…”?  Am I old if I don’t want to do “this” anymore.

One dictionary definition of old is, “belonging to the past.”  In our house, we like to say, “the past is fulfilled.”  We don’t want to belong to the past.  It was what it was, and it served its purpose.  What’s next?

Old or young, let’s belong to the present and look to the future.

As Labor Day approaches, I find myself reflecting on the summer that has been.  “Same difference” seems an apropos way to describe it.

Last summer was filled with care for my elderly mother-in-law and her estate.  And I had to deal with one physical malady after another, which was unusual to say the least.

Mother-in-law passed this February, and this summer has been different.  For several years, we had developed a “routine of care” for her and her belongings, which quite frankly was consuming in many ways.

This summer we have gradually been playing “catch-up” with housework and yard-work, which had been set aside as of secondary importance, relative to various care-giving duties.  Coping with the ninety-degree weather is a perfect example of “same difference.”  The differences from years past are negligible, but we think they are significant.

The early twentieth century use of the phrase, “same difference” originated as a witty way of combining the concepts “same thing” and “no difference.”  So, there is little difference in how we feel ninety-degree weather.

There were some ninety-degree days when we just had to sit in the air conditioning and stew, literally.  There is a reason for naming heavy humidity, oppressive.  Humidity just sits on you like an elephant sitting on a mouse.

But was this summer any different than last, as to heat and humidity?  Same difference, I’d say.

The yard-work part of this summer has changed.  We’ve been able to “keep up” more than in the past several years of preoccupation with my husband’s mom who was afflicted with increasingly debilitating dementia.

For me, it started with the erection of a “corn tent” for our grandson.  It was placed near the firewood piles.

I use the word “piles” loosely as I have created Jenga-like puzzle stacks in our woodlot.  I did this exercise for many years but just couldn’t manage it for the last couple of years, what with other areas of life taking precedence.

My husband is quite proud of my wood stacking skills.  He even sends pictures to his friends.  It’s my penchant for order and love of puzzle-solving, that fuels this “natural” skill.

At any rate, as one chore completed, seems to lead to the next chore, it was Charlie’s corn tent that led to my need to clean up the woodlot.  I wanted a safe space for him to play.

The corn tent seemed like a clever idea and Charlie loves it.  However, so do the squirrels.  They conveniently chewed holes in each corner and side of the tent to gain entrance to a treasure trove of free corn.  Since most animals don’t defecate where they eat, I just threw up my hands and said, “oh well.”  The tent wasn’t expensive, and Charlie has had a fun summer with Grammy’s creation.

As the summer wanes, I have become a pruning machine.  The growth from early and prolific rain has been phenomenal.

Many of our trees, shrubs, and plants have become overgrown in the last couple of years.  I made it my mission that before Labor Day I would have this growth under control.

I have become quite intimate with the ground, as I sit on it.  I’m all about the “grounding” movement and my bottom has become one with it.

While pruning the underside of many shrubs and trees in our vast Arboretum-like yard, I began by scooching around the perimeter of the plant on my backside rather than bending over in a semi-permanent U-shape.  Then I remembered we came into a little garden trolley which I then toted with me to every tree and shrub.   Some tools make our jobs easier.

I will say that the bugs have given me a slight reprieve this summer, notwithstanding the little green repellent patches which my son-in-law gifted me with.  I’ve only had a few mosquito and spider bites, which thank God have not been of the toxic variety of last summer.

Speaking of the same, but different, it was a few years ago that when tidying up an underbrush beneath a grove of pine trees at my mother-in-law’s house, unbeknownst to me, I triggered a severe allergy to urushiol, the oil in the poison ivy plant.  Those of you who have followed my columns will remember my anguish with the aftermath.

This year when tidying up our old apple orchard, I noticed a familiar woody vine with big browning leaves, literally attached and seemingly growing into a Braeburn apple tree.  Yellow caution lights went off in my head before I dug in and ripped that thing off the tree.

Thank you, Google, for clarifying that that vine is none other than an old poison ivy vine.  What to do?  Touching it is out of the question.  I learned my lesson from that one.  But phantom itching has taken hold of my mind.

What about tidying up plants that gets me into trouble?  Sometimes I think that maybe nature just wants to be left alone.

Then there was the snake, a garter snake, but a snake nonetheless, that jumped out of the leaf debris in our cluster of white birch trees in the front yard?  I was glad that hubby was involved in that endeavor, he took the fear away and made it a giggle.

What’s that iffy definition of insanity – “doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome?”  While a popular idiom, I don’t know if it’s insanity, but it does seem to be a universal mental health oxymoron, “same difference,” that is.

My mother-in-law may be gone, and this summer is nearly gone, but everything has a way of sticking around in memory or in symbols or the cycles of life.  Same difference seems to be one of the few permanent facts of life, which seems to be going nowhere.  I think maybe that’s a good thing.

 

 

 

 

 

On the week of my birthday in the year that I graduated from high school, a new movie was released.  It was The Way We Were with Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford, two of the hottest hotties of the time.

I guess I remembered this movie title because I too was reminiscing about the distant past and how the me of today relates to that person from so long ago.  Some things are recognizable as the same as today’s me, and others are so very different I don’t recognize her.

Does it make you chuckle when you think sometimes about the way you were back in the day?  I think it’s funny that my first-grade report cards, each marking period had a note in red ink under the social skills category, “talks too much.”

Apart from having grown up, filled out, and gone through many, changing life circumstances, have you changed much? I still talk too much.

I can talk to just about anybody about nearly any topic, given my interest in the subject.  And, as you know, I write about everything under the sun.  You get my drift then, some personality traits do not change, they evolve, encompassing all the matter that has accumulated in our DNA, since.

One can be quiet but not shy.  We can be introverts who are the life of the party.  Extroverts can be tortured by social anxiety in certain situations.  Some people can be orators but avoid small talk.  Have you met someone verbose for whom social gatherings are an endurance test?

In high school I was in a lot of clubs and extracurricular activities.  I dabbled, as to my interests.  Today I guess I still dabble.

I will write a lot about a little of everything.  My husband and I don’t always leave the tree where we first planted it.  Our property has within its bounds, one of these, two of that, totaling a whole lot of various plants.  That’s the way we like it.

I went to college, not at the traditional time.  I dabbled in business and travel first.  Have you ever noticed that some people knew what they wanted to do as their life work, way back in their past?  Others have had fits and starts where they tested their fit.  They moved their trees, so to speak.

Today, I’m not yet retired, but probably should be.  But the takeaway is, variety is still the spice of my life.

Having a home-based business is not for everybody.  There is a strange discipline, yet scheduling freedom built into such a business.  Some stuff has got to be done, like it or not.  This reminds me of an internet saying I recall, which fits the self-employed to a tee: “Do it tired.  Do it sad.  Do it unmotivated.  Do it scared.  Do it alone.”

I can in one day, prepare an extravagant home-cooked marvel, oversee the shipment of multiple packages to one part of the world or another, schedule the payment of this or that invoice, play with my grandson utilizing his on-site corn tent and multiple diggers, shovels, rakes and so on; I can stack firewood, at which my husband claims I am a master, do the laundry, organize the database to accommodate a new computer system, jog for at least twenty minutes, mow part of the lawn; oh, and write a blog post.

This is not a litany of complaint.  Instead, it is an example of the variety of activities in which I thrive as a fully grown adult.  However, this list of potential daily activities is not uncharacteristic of the teenager who stayed active in a whole bunch of clubs, in and out of school.

My lifestyle is neither here nor there but to show you an example of how a personality evolves but doesn’t necessarily change.  I challenge you to look for the thread or tapestry that has run through your life.

You and I are likely not the way we were.  The way we are now, like it or not, has a glimmer of that self from a while ago, but with a twist.  That’s called evolution.

 

 

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