Confessions of a Daughterless Mother

Photo Credit: Pexels I love books.  I love to read them (and re-read my favorites) and hold them in my hands. I have them squirreled away in several corners of my house - piles and stacks of my favorite collection of words.  I re-read passages that made me feel something -- and try and decode the author's magic. If I'm in-between books one of my favorite things to do is to search for books on Goodreads, Kindle or iBooks ... I read the blurbs and reviews. I read books for pleasure, for enjoyment, to escape, for information and knowledge. I read them to learn and to grow, to help me solve problems.  I read them for solace - perhaps most often for solace. I read every acknowledgement. I read the dedications and the author's bio.  I even love to read the book club discussion questions at the end of the book ... I'm not in a book club (weird, right?), but I love to mull around my answers and consider other views. I squeeze every last syllable out of every book I

I've made no secret that the past two years have been difficult for me personally - concerns for my health, my family, my family's health, and major life changes have all been placed in my path.  There were days I couldn't see past the next minute, and some that I could stretch that focus to only an hour.  I looked to yoga, to exercise, to books, to conversations with people who had wisdom far beyond my perspective.  If I hadn't had my husband I would not have made it. He held me up. I also found I was being supported in ways - and from people - that I would have never suspected I needed or that would show up. I was thrown life preservers from people who didn't even know I was drowning.  As the light began to return I began to seek out conversations of a different kind.  Conversations that would continue to help light my return to a more balanced, peaceful place. In January I was lucky enough to have a conversation with a woman whom I admire greatly. Frankly,