This song brings me to tears every time I hear it.  Sometimes, like tonight, I seek it out just to have  good cry.  Weird to some, I'm sure.  But to someone who for so long felt nothing and didn't want to feel anything, crying is to me just another healthy emotion.  I try and never tell my kids, "Don't cry," because I believe we should ALL be able to cry and be able to do it freely if we need to get it out.  

Growing up, the most ridiculous commercials would make me cry.  Woodland Hills Mall commercials at Christmas?  Where the little girl stands at the tip-top of her stairs and looks down at the Christmas tree?  It wasn't the tree I thought was so beautiful.  It was the hope and the joy in her eyes.  And some of those AT&T advertisements?  You know, Reach Out And Touch Someone?  Yes, those also.  I have no idea the mysteries that lie within the physiological functions of the body.  I have no clue as to what triggers such emotional intimacies with ourselves, but I'm sure grateful for them.  The human body is a beautiful thing...and it always seems to know what we need on every level.  Even if that need is to cry and put something outside of ourselves.  Is it a deep-seated entrenchment of the rawest and most vulnerable emotion making its way out?  Is it grief manifested by the ins and the outs and the in-betweens that happen to us all, every day? I don't know.  Actually, I try not to question it too much.  I just get it out and move it along.  

I believe I inherited this from my GrandMaud, my dad's mother.  We might be sitting in the living room watching 'Highway to Heaven', and I would look over at her in her chair and there she would be, tears streaming down her soft and wrinkled face, cigarette drawn up to her mouth.  It was as though she herself genuinely hurt for the characters onscreen.  I lived there from ages 7 until 18, and her empathetic nature both terrified and astounded me.  And then I would look at my dad and think, "How could someone with a soul like hers raise somebody like...my dad?!"

Now that I have babies of my own, I understand.

For me, I have a little dose of heartache mixed with a shot of happy delirium each day I let them walk out the door to wait at the bus stop.  They are going through a lot right now.  It's no secret that they are sad about this inevitable divorce that is getting ready to take place.  My heart breaks for them because I am not sad about it, but I find it difficult to relate to them where this is concerned.  I feel like I am not able to connect with them during the first time in their young lives where I SHOULD!  But still, I put them out the door and turn them over to somebody else for 10 hours out of our day.  It's like somebody walking up to my front door and asking to borrow my car keys.  It's backward, I think.  It's like somebody asking you in the middle of the street if they can help you take off your shoes.  But still, every single day of the working week, Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday, we let them get far, far away from us...physically, mentally, spiritually...and they quickly become like helium balloons on accidental release.  Wild, directionless, and tossed about like they don't matter.

When I consider the futures of my kids, I feel as though my grandmother must have felt as she would watch her special shows.  I am so uncertain, and yet there is nothing that I can do about any of it except teach them what I know is right, and tell them what I have done wrong to learn from my mistakes...all in hopes that they won't make the same ridiculous, stupid, selfish, and careless mistakes to set them back, ever.  As their mother, I KNOW it is my responsibility to grow them up in a way that they will be self-sufficient little humans being.  But what about all the other stuff, the stuff that free will and personal choice affect?  There's not a lot I can do about that, is there?  I mean, they're going to make mistakes...little ones, large ones, ones that they'll never forget, and ones that they'll repeat over and over again just because that's how it goes sometimes.  Goodness knows I have been there.  Maybe that's why it pulls on my chest so hard.  Maybe that's why I feel that catch in my throat sometimes when I know what is about to happen.  I KNOW what a mess it is to try and fix big mistakes. I relate to the embarrassment, the shame, the remorse.  But, I also know that if it weren't for my mistakes, I'd not be able to have the chance to be who I really am.  

My son is such a kind little boy.  He makes my heart swell with love, and hope, and joy, and surprise, and wonder.  I feel a short-lived tinge of sadness when he is near me, so I just hug him tight until it goes away.  I happen to be a person who puts a lot into a name, and so the case of naming my children was no different.  I truly believe a name can and should embody everything about the person, place, or thing, and if it's done right, the person, place, or thing will, in good time, grow into that name.  My son's name is Griffin.  While the name itself is primarily of Irish decent, gryphons were legendary mythical creatures with the body, tail, and back legs of a lion; the head and wings of an eagle; and sometimes an eagle's talons at its front feet. Swift.  Fierce.  Aristocratic and regal.  Precise.  Balanced.  A fighter, one who prevails always, and uses his instincts to save lives and take them.  My Griffin happens to display all those personality traits, age-appropriately, of course.  I am SO grateful for his sweet and gentle spirit. I sometimes grow impatient with him and then he looks up at me and there they are, my tears, falling just as my grandmother's once had.  It is really something very special to be a mommy to a little boy.  And, in 20 years when he is 26, I will **still** be the mommy to a little boy.  My tears fall tonight because this world is hard, especially on people who are different.  It breaks my heart just how mean others can be based on abilities or challenges, and then in the very same breath I am amazed and grateful at how much love and patience most people in this world really do have if they are only given the chance and these expectations of them are made well known.  I hope that no matter what, Griffin stays my same big-hearted and loving  boy.  I love him so, so very much!  He is a special and precious individual and I have a fierce urge to protect him always.  I love you, Bubby Man.  I will always believe in you.  May the Lord bless you and keep you, Son.   Mommy loves.  <3  

You know there's a light that glows by the front door
Don't forget the keys under the mat
Childhood stars shine, always stay humble and kind
Go to church 'cause your momma says to
Visit grandpa every chance that you can
It won't be a waste of time
Always stay humble and kind

Hold the door say please say thank you
Don't steal, don't cheat, and don't lie
I know you got mountains to climb but
Always stay humble and kind
When the dreams you're dreamin' come to you
When the work you put in is realized
Let yourself feel the pride but
Always stay humble and kind

Don't expect a free ride from no one
Don't hold a grudge or a chip and here's why
Bitterness keeps you from flying
Always stay humble and kind
Know the difference between sleeping with someone
And sleeping with someone you love
'I love you' ain't no pick up line so
Always stay humble and kind

Hold the door say please say thank you
Don't steal, don't cheat, and don't lie
I know you got mountains to climb but
Always stay humble and kind
When those dreams you're dreamin' come to you
When the work you put in is realized
Let yourself feel the pride but
Always stay humble and kind

When it's hot, eat a root beer popsicle
Shut off the AC and roll the windows down
Let that summer sun shine
Always stay humble and kind
Don't take for granted the love this life gives you
When you get where you're goin'
Don't forget turn back around
Help the next one in line
Always stay humble and kind

​You know, I haven't cried at all since I left Todd's house.  Not once.  I have not been sad for what I have done, leaving him there all alone.  I've had no remorse.  There is no guilt.  There are no pangs of hopeful hurt when my telephone rings.  I do not expect text messages; he was never big on those, anyway.  I don't even expect him to show up at my work only to get down on his knees and with a prepared, grand outlay of all the reasons why he believes that if you would just come back to me, Liz, maybe we could make it work this time.  After all, I'm positive scenes like that only exist in movies.  I'm certain scenes like that are almost always orchestrated after everything crumbles, after everything that once was rock hard and steady disintegrates like the pages of a century-old book of poetry by James Whitcomb Riley himself.  Like a 'Take 2' in 1943's Holy Matrimony.  

I wish I could put my finger right down on the exact season, the exact month, the exact days that Todd and I stopped fighting for our marriage.  I wish I could have been aware enough of everything to have marked it on the calendar if only for the visual satisfaction -- if only for the careful consideration and tending and carved-out time in life any other commitment so fairly requires, deserves.  DONE, boldly written in serious and thick black Sharpie.  No location.  No time.  Not even a list of reasons why it got sick.  Just, simply, DONE.  

Our calendared DONE dates would likely be different.  I mean, no two people ever quit trying on the same day of the world.  No two people put their hands out together in a two-person huddle and do a team "Aaaaah, BREAK!" just prior to leaving the house to divorce each other, as though it is something you find to do after scrambled eggs, even if you eat your breakfast at the dining room table and he eats his on the couch.  It just doesn't happen like that.  

Does it?

I am not one to place blame on others.  Matter of fact, I have willingly and gladly assigned blame unto myself for years as being The One at Fault for the demise of my marriage.  After all, I drank for 3 years straight.  Three YEARS.  I drank to cope because, goodness, I couldn't eat!  Todd had every right to be DONE with me for not shaping up and dropping the bottle.  Sure, I'd promise to stop drinking...but then turn around and pick it right back up again.  Vicious cycle is what it was, much like what became of our marriage...fight, rest, fight, rest, fight, rest, sob.  I wanted SO much to be well.  I wanted nothing more than to enjoy my daughter and to laugh and play without living in fear of my very own horrible, awful secret.  I wanted nothing more than to be desired and wanted by my husband again.  But, no.  The alcohol killed all of that for me, and more.  But to say it was the only thing working to kill my marriage isn't exactly true and it sure isn't accurate.  Also?  It's completely unfair.  But I'm not here to place blame.  I took the blame upon myself for years and even did everything I could possibly think of to try and redeem myself...and when nothing worked, I tried harder to land on something that would finally finally! let him forgive me.  

Nothing I did worked.  Nothing I tried, it seemed, showed him that I was sorry enough for him to take a step back and look at my progress, how far I had come, and that I had not drank in 2, 3, then 4, 5, or 6 years, and try and even view me in a different light.  While I was trying to let go of my hurt and shame for the havoc I had, through my drinking, wrecked on my home, I felt him to be getting angrier.  More restless.  More hateful.  He had anger toward me for ruining his life, and would tell me every few weeks in one of our emotionally exhausting, tail-chasing arguments that left both of us looking and feeling like death warmed over.  

When we were DONE with fighting for the night, we'd go our separate ways in the house and I would stew about getting out of there once and for all.  I didn't know how, and I didn't know when, but I knew I had to.  For the sake of my kids and for the sake of myself and for the sake of every woman out there before me who never left because of what people would think, or because it wasn't that bad, or because there were never any bruises, or because she did not have enough love or respect for herself to know she would be okay without a man, without the notion of all that 'having a man' carries with it, because she didn't think anyone would ever love her again or that they would instead find out about and care too hard about old mistakes. 

I don't know what thoughts he ever gave any of this, but he always managed to unearth old stuff that had happened and bring it into whatever argument or heated discussion we were in the midst of, even if it did not even pertain to what he supposedly came in from work mad about that night.  I honestly hated to see him drive up in the evenings after he clocked out.  He'd clock out from his job and make the 45-minute transitional drive home, but it never really felt like walking into our home was an indication that he'd clocked in or tuned in to what we were doing or what we needed or even just that the kids were glad to see him.  It didn't feel like he was glad to see me or the kids, and eventually I think my children stopped running into the kitchen to greet him because they knew they would always be met with the same response:  The exaggerated eye roll complete with an immediate slumping of shoulders that fell just like a geyser calving; the hesitation at all the loud chatter that 4-, then 5-, and then 6-year-old twins vying for their daddy's attention would cause.  I would usually be standing at the kitchen sink in my apron, hair up and looking like the Wrath of the Gods all over again, looking out the window and tending to dishes or dinner, mad because I just knew (!!!) he was gonna be mad, so right away, walking in the door, he'd see my ugly mug first thing.  I'm sure he could see both 'trying' and 'you disgust me' twisted up and thrown onto my face like acid I'm sure he imagined instead; he couldn't even bear to look at without wincing...And I could see the chip just perched up there on his shoulder.  In fact, an observant onlooker would not have thought it ridiculous had I pointed to it and asked where he'd picked THAT hitchhiker up, because it was a monster.  The kids even noticed it gradually gaining weight, and of course, that chip seemed eventually to turn into a boulder.  Okay, so maybe not Gibraltar, but certainly something noticeable and heavy and hard to roll away.  Unfortunately, he said to me, it just isn't that easy to forgive what I had done to him.  And?  Just my uneducated opinion, but sometimes, especially when you haven't forgiven yourself or the very person who planted seeds of mistrust, anger, and self-loathing in a young son's mind, it's probably hard to forgive them first so that a person can indeed get on with the rest of his life. 

Alas, it is what it is and I can honestly say I am not angry about it.  I cannot control any body or any mind or any being other than Elizabeth Ann Hancock Watts.  I am not sad, either, at least not yet, and I am even, dare I say it? ...a little proud to admit that I am happy for myself for leaving.  I cannot remember the exact date I was DONE, and I sure don't know the month or day or year of Todd's DONE, but I am okay with that.  We are both just DONE and we are both okay with the direction things have taken.  It's odd in a way, and certainly (thankfully!) not riddled with the abusive and drawn-out drama and anger that was the divorce of my parents, but I definitely could not ask for it to be any more mutual or respectful or more chock-full of healthy boundaries than it is right now.  And while there is alwaysalwaysalways room for improvement anywhere, I am pleased to say that neither of us have ever seemed happier, and I haven't felt this good in years.  

Am I dreaming?  No.  I imagined it this way, after all, and I had decided a few years back that if it was going to happen, at least let it be peaceful in its passing, peaceful in its transition.  After all, our kids will repeat whatever examples we are setting for them.  We are the people they look to as guides, as curators, as teachers.  It is up to us to model love so that our children will live love and give love out again.  As parents, if Todd and I couldn't get on the same page and come together without killing each other or compromising our own values for the sake of bending over backwards for a person who would never accept your sacrifices, then we at least owe it to our kids to be DONE with each other and call it a day or call it 15 years.  After all, when you disengage and check out of something mentally, heartfully, spiritually looooonnnng before you physically leave, then how is that ever any kind of progress?  How is that healthy?  Sometimes just acknowledging there is nothing else that can be done, especially when all the fighting has you both so worn out and used up that you're no good to anybody, not even your kids, and surely not even yourself or the one with whom you are supposed to be equally yoked, what then?  Isn't it okay at that point to walk away and just be thankful your legs can still hold you up until you reach your destination?  Isn't it okay to admit defeat in a game you know you lost a long time ago?  Isn't it okay to stop chasing your tail, especially if you're ready to stop in your tracks, hold your head up tall, and go find something else to do that you know will make more sense, anyway?  

Yes.  I think yes. 

I wish Todd luck.  He IS a good person, after all.  He's smart in some of the ways I am not, like putting stuff together, like math, like knowing how to work stuff and being patient enough to read the manual if he doesn't just automatically know when he takes it out of the box or the package, like someone else I know and how THEY handle it.  (Ahem...that someone else is me, and I am HORRIBLE at all those things!)  He's funny when he can remember not to be hurtful about it, and in my opinion he wasn't always hurtful, like ever since the day I met him -- I'm convinced it's actually just a nasty side effect of that anger he's bottled up for so long, that's all. 

My wish for Todd is for him to work on himself and try to forgive the people in his life that he hasn't been able to really forgive quite yet, including himself.  He has a lot of guilt about a lot of different things, and things that he had no control over, such as the family dynamic he was born into.  My hope for him is that he, too, continues to grow and learn about himself and the world, if that is what he chooses.  And, finally, I hope he finds someone to be with when he feels he is ready...but I hope he doesn't do like WE blindly and so naively did 15 years ago and invest our all into the false assumption that it's up to everyone else to make us happy. 

I'm not always playing with a full deck, but this is something I DO know to be true, because I am right now living it:  When first we choose to be happy, happiness has no choice but to follow suit.  It's wise to remember, too, that no other person can make it happen.  No one can bestow happiness upon us.  It cannot be left to us in a will or an estate.  I honestly believe it is a pliable and moving thing, a conscious choice, and an intentional habit we develop, happiness.  It doesn't just fall into our laps, and nobody serves it up to us on silver platters and then watches adoringly as we lick it clean.

Happiness is out there, but you have to make up your mind that it begins with YOU.  Happiness is never guaranteed, and it's certainly nothing written into the Declaration of Independence to deem it an instant entitlement.  We are not guaranteed happiness, but we ARE guaranteed the right to pursue it.  

Jefferson's "original Rough draught" is on exhibit in the Library of Congress.[4] This version was used by Julian Boyd to create a transcript of Jefferson's draft,[5] which reads:
We hold these truths to be sacred & undeniable; that all men are created equal & independent, that from that equal creation they derive rights inherent & inalienable, among which are the preservation of life, & liberty, & the pursuit of happiness; ...

"My mother told me to be a lady. And for her, that meant be your own person, be independent." --Ruth Bader Ginsburg

New Year’s Eve…and a cuppa noodles.​

To say that 2018 has been a year to remember is an understatement.  Losses, changes, and transitions occurred on all fronts, personal and public, and for so very many people.  In spades!  It is amazing to me how over the course of just one single, solitary year, lives have been altered every day as one devastating loss or change drifts like soft, stark snow into the next. 
 
In the milky way of music alone, the world lost postwar crooner Vic Damone.  Old romantics everywhere still feel as though they’ve lost a friend since his death.  They recount amorous tales of meeting the loves of their lives as Damone poured his heart out into the hearts of others, a demitasse of hot love tea.  For that generation, Vic Damone’s music set the tone for beginnings of relationships that sprouted into romantic interludes often customary for the day.  For some, Vic Damone’s voice brings back a flood of both memories and tears alike.  And for that same lot of some, his voice leaves people with the open-ended question of their very own mortality.  RIP, Vic Damone.
 
The strung-together mess of the past 365 days also brought about the death of ‘Hee Haw’ host and highly-regarded and renowned guitarist, banjo player, and fiddler Roy Clark.  It has been written that he was skilled in the traditions of many genres, including classical guitar, country music, Latin music, bluegrass, and pop.  Me?  I remember watching him on television every Saturday night with my GrandMaud as she told me the lineup on the ‘Hee Haw’ show for that week.  Together, we witnessed the evident joy his music-making brought him.  It radiated in his smile and in his eyes.  His round cheeks puffed when he smiled…and he was usually smiling.  Roy’s pickin’ and grinnin’ linked him to millions of viewers who mirrored his smile when he played.  Us common folk felt not-so-common when we would stop to consider his roots.  We recognized, too, that our roots were nothing to be ashamed of and, instead, meant to be celebrated and hung on the wall for everyone to see.  RIP, Roy Clark.
 
Finally, we also saw one of the greatest losses of a legendary recording artist, Aretha Franklin.  The daughter of a Detroit minister, Franklin was a singer, songwriter, civil rights activist, and pianist.  Appropriately dubbed the Queen of Soul, her voice was strong, a definite voice to be reckoned with.  No shrinking flower, Ms. Franklin naturally demanded R-E-S-P-E-C-T, and so the red carpet was deservingly rolled out for her.  She further made history in 1987 when she was honored by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as the first female performer to ever be inducted.  She made her own history and undoubtedly influenced up-and-coming performers.  To say Aretha Franklin was a “just a performer” is a drastic miss of the mark…To say Aretha Franklin was born to sing is on target...But to say that Aretha Franklin was made of song and had the passion and the courage and the ability to change lives through her song and emotion is bullseye.  RIP, Aretha Franklin.
 
On a more personal note, almost nothing in my life is the same as it was on New Year’s Eve of last year.  Lots of changes have taken place, and for those changes I truly am grateful.  I had worked from home for 10 years while being able to stay home with my kids and bring in an income, but early on in 2018 my work began to taper off.  It felt I was scraping the bottom of the barrel and working at any and all hours of the day and night to be available when the jobs were available, and I had always worked on holidays and weekends, too.  It was a given.  No vacation pay, no sick time, and no health insurance. 
I was hanging on by the one long and lonely pre-menopausal hair of my chinny-chin-chin, and I could certainly feel the pressure of bills mounting, kids demanding, and of a husband rejecting.  I decided to begin envisioning a different life for myself.  A happier life.  It was a vision that did not include expensive things or more things, but it was a vision that included myself finally being happy and content with myself and my relationship with my children.  I tried with Todd a little more, but I had been “trying” with him for a few years.  Nothing, it seemed, was good enough or right enough or strong enough.  After he told me early in the spring of 2018 that he held no more love for me, I decided to let it go.  It felt monumental, that letting go, like a death of something you can never hold or touch or even get close to.  It felt like the kind of death where you step back, assess what has happened, and say with relief and love and all the kindness you can collect within yourself:  “At least there’s no longer any suffering.” 
 
I had been feeling called to get back to my writing.  I am a writer, after all, and that is what writers do when we have been numb and hollow for so long that our love for it dries out.  Sometimes just that one little something has to happen, and boom, we are again beckoned to get back to our art.  For me, this is exactly what I did.  While it was intimidating for someone like myself who has a keen love/hate relationship with all things technology, I knew I wanted to catapult the story of my not-so-boring life from a blog platform.  I knew the way you know about a good melon.  I knew the way you know about love.  In March 2018, I launched my blog, and I have never looked back.  It has been the impetus for processing so many emotions, so many confessions, so many thoughts, and coupled with my change of mindset and outlook, my blog entries have truly been my catalyst for change.  A grown-up diary, of sorts, situated at an address on the worldwide web for the entire world to read, if I am ever so fortunate.  I fully intend to turn it into a bestseller, too.  We watch. 
 
In early summer, I was laid off from my work-at-home gig.  I was devastated.  Losing my only source of income meant I would be unable to move my kids and I out of the turbulent atmosphere that my unhealthy marriage had created.  Losing my job meant unemployment income, though, so I decided to trust God and know that there just had to be something better right around the corner.  I maintained my thankful heart.  I maintained my positive outlook, my hopes, my vision of getting out from under the shroud (the cloud!) that hung over me in the house I had shared with the same man for almost 14 years.  The house where we lived when the kids were born.  The house where we lived throughout the early years of marriage that eventually drifted into years of resentment and unforgivable words and wounds.  The house we almost lost, but somehow managed to save.  The house where it all grew up and out until it finally spiritually and emotionally caved in.  Emotional implosion, indeed.  I clung fast to my vision of just getting out.  Getting out of the house for work, getting out of the house for lunch with various friends who loved and cared about me.  Getting out of my stifling and hate-filled marriage.  I began to apply for work to different places.  I began to nurture my connections to the people in my life who were positive and healthy and who wanted to be with me, right back.  All the while, I could feel myself transforming, and at that point in the summer of 2018, I felt very much like a juggernaut just careening through space and time, picking up the pace with every day.  I smiled more.  The frequency I felt myself emitting seemed to draw others to me, and in turn, I  was drawn into the loving circles of others.  For the first time in years, I had begun to get a taste of the person I felt had gotten lost in the details of the day-to-day, in my 3-year struggle with alcoholism, in caring for everyone around me and letting myself go straight to the birds that seemed to have pecked out my soulful eyes.  I caught glimpses of that person in the mirror.  I caught the familiar sparkle in her eye.  I caught the touch of her old and dry humor not a lot of people appreciated or knew how to receive.  I caught my old interests and hobbies (Writing! Traveling! Reading! Skating! Music!) peeking in at the door of my heart.  I felt the best I had felt in more than 15 years!
 
August 2018, my dad had his third heart attack.  It scared me, and made me reconsider a lot about my own life and the life of my children as to what I would and would not put us through or tolerate for the sake of someone else, someone else who did not seem to want us there.  When my husband declared in anger one day that he wished my father would just die, I knew right then what I had to do and that I could no longer be a willing participant in a half-assed marriage with someone who did not value one of the very few people who had ever helped him (my dad).  It cut me to the core when Todd said what he did.  It hurt me so that he had said it in the presence of my children.  After all, isn’t hate a learned behavior?  I knew I could not in good conscience raise my children in this dynamic.  Whatever we witness, hear, and see growing up all too often becomes accepted and welcomed patterns as adults, to the tune of dysfunctional sameness; to the song of disjointed familiarity.  Still, I held onto my vision.  Didn’t know how it was going to happen, but I continued to believe and be thankful that it was in the process of happening.  A better way was in constant, invisible motion around me, and call me crazy, but I could feel it happening.  I felt my old, dull self and my old life molting.  I began to give thanks even more for the new growth that was taking place…physically, spiritually, emotionally, mentally.    
 
The very next month, September, I was hired on with a nonprofit where I’d worked for 8 years prior to coming home to have Molly and the twins.  During this time in my life, I had a very special older friend who prayed for me and helped me with various scriptures and understanding my role in all of this.  While she never really told me what to do, she did direct me to my Bible on several occasions when she knew I was hurting and needed it.  In many ways, it was like my mother had returned to me, disguised as someone else.   Linda and I had a lot of laughs and fun and she gave me some of the best and realest advice I have ever been given.  I remain thankful for her to this day.  I marvel at the outpouring of her love for people and her desire to teach them about the Lord.  At that point this past summer and fall, she was definitely one of my greatest cheerleaders, and I fully believe that we are sent people in different seasons of our lives who are really angels.  It’s like God is up above, casting characters and directing this big play called Life, and I don’t believe in accidents.  He knows what He is doing.  He knows the story before we ever, ever do.  He wrote the book, after all. 
 
Now.  Fast forward to December 31, 2018.  I have moved out of Todd’s house.  My kids and I have our own place, and it is lovely.  Just so happens, it’s right next door to my childhood home.  My dad continues to live there, too.  In so many ways, I have come full circle.  I am no longer the youngest in a neighborhood full of retirees.  These days, I’m in my early 40s living right next door to the very home where I grew up, and my kids are among the youngest on the street now.  These days, there are other young children, and I guess that is how it goes.  I will be divorcing my husband soon, and the wild thing is that we both seem to be a lot happier.  It’s almost as though we should have done this a few years ago.  Alas, it was neither the time or the season then.  But, by being still and focusing on the good and the possible, things have changed.  Situations have evolved.  Lives have grown and flourished.  We have all bloomed.  We are continuing to thrive.  
​
The World Laughs in Flowers.  -Ralph Waldo Emerson