I have a lot of fun doing what I do.

I love doing what I do.

But it comes with a price. I work really hard. I mean 24/7. Emails, booking, contracts, contacts, networking, creating, creating, creating, practice, travel, tell, tell, tell.

Sometimes at 3am my husband will walk into my office and ask when I am coming to bed...but the mojo is flowing and I cannot stop.

My daughter told me that it is like having divorced parents, she only sees me 2 days a week. (Don't feel to bad about this, she is 20 for goodness sakes.)

My friend told me she might be moving. I said that it would be sad if she moved. She said that it shouldnt matter...we never see each other anymore.

My dogs are shifting their loyalty to my husband. Now this smarts.

My gardens are not what they used to be.

But I wouldn't change a thing.

I had a woman come up to me with tears in her eyes and tell me that she was so touched by my story that she is going to start visiting her mother more. Her mom is in a nursing home.

A little girl named Jeannie kept her head down and shuffled her feet as she told me that she was a tomboy too. And I told her that was okay. And she smiled up at me.

A roomful of people laughed and then cried as I told them how I danced with my mother.

These three things happened in one day. One day of many.

So, sleep can wait. My daughter will build her own life. My friend will always be my friend. And the dogs, well...they keep my husband company.

I cannot stop. I love what I do.
Actually, it is not about what I is more about who I am.
I am a storyteller.

Dwelling On the Past

Be forward focused, keep your eye on the prize, reach for the goal, move forward, look to the future. All wonderful little zips of encouragement that help us build momentum so we can jump the hurdles that are to come.

Face forward, don't look back, do not dwell on the past!

Can't. I make my living by dwelling on the past. Dwelling on the past normally has a negative connontation to it, but in my world dwelling on the past is a delight. It is where I pull most of my material from. Memories dangle like ripe fruit in the recesses of my mind waiting to be plucked and squeezed.

The coming times are covered in a thick-mantled mist overcast with doubts and uncertainty. But the green paths of the past, the cool meadows of memory is all my own. Nothing is uncertain. On quiet hills the past has bloomed and I can choose to stop and smell the good and tread over the bad.

I think I will keep dwelling in the past. I have found many treasures there.