Category: Simple Observations and Musings

“If you want to see sunshine, you have to weather the storm,”–Frank Lane

“O sunlight!  The most precious gold to be found on earth.”–Roman Payne

“How do people live in Seattle?” I asked one of my co-workers?

“Or, Portland?” she added.

“No wonder our kids are so sick,” added another co-worker, referring to the large number of students that continue to be absent due to illness.

“We need a good frost, a solid freezing to kill off things, but we just haven’t had it this winter,” the first added in response.

We all made our way down the short school hallway, each exiting into our own classroom before the arrival of our students. 

Walking into mine, I made my way to my desk, and clicked on school email.  There, in my in-box, were numerous emails from sick students or parents of ill students asking for missed assignments, requesting clarification, or submitting make-up work.  I was struggling to keep up with the daily correspondence as well as keep up with all the other behind-the-scenes work and preparation as well as maintain the demands of the daily schedule.  Sighing, I turned to look out my classroom windows that ran almost the entire length of one wall. Light snow was blustering about, but it was expected to return to the rain that we had seen throughout the week.  Another day of gray and gloom. With one more audible sigh, I turned, and began setting up for the day.

Surprisingly, towards the end of the school day, a bit of milky sunlight began to break through the pervasive dullness. In fact, the following day, Saturday, abundant sunshine filled the heavens; and despite strong wind gusts and frosty temperatures, I could feel the positive effects of the sun’s rays.  The metaphorical cloud of despair that seemed to permeate my outlook for the past few weeks, began to–momentarily, at least–thaw.

“Not again,” I bemoaned to my husband, John, later that same day. “Another week with mostly rainy weather!” 

John and I were on our way to dinner to celebrate his birthday.  I had just clicked off the weather app on my phone to check out the forecast for the following week as the day’s dousing of sunshine made me hopeful, and perhaps a bit greedy, for more sunshine in the following week.

“It’s supposed to be heavy at times too.  Another chance of flooding,” he added with a voice full of disappointment.

I let his words sink in feeling the weight of disappointment clutching at my chest.   

Sunshine, sweet cheery friend, why are you so fickle this season?  

Seasonal affective disorder has never felt so real to me as it has this winter.  Is it my age? Is it in my head, and like the pains of childbirth, I have simply forgotten how I felt last winter?  Surely, I cannot not be the only one feeling this way as February winds down? Based on conversations I’ve been sharing with co-workers, I don’t think so, but maybe we’re more sensitive souls as we work with hormonal middle school students.  And yet, I have participated in countless conversations with others outside of the confines of our school building who share similar thoughts. Still . . . 

Where are you sunshine?  You tease me with a day or two of golden joy, only to hide for days, even weeks, at a time.  Please come back to me and stay. Have I been taking you for granted? Have I not admired you enough? Have I not given enough appreciation for your satisfying solar sensations?

Then, it hit me. I have abandoned specific routines that typically nourish my soul.  However, my morning meditation and prayer practice has fallen by the wayside. I have further abandoned  my morning moment of daily devotional reading. Daily yoga practice has likewise been forsaken. These morning rituals have been supplanted by “to do” lists and hitting the snooze button, one too many times, and/or setting a later morning alarm because I am so desperate for more sleep.  While I do need sleep, and I never seem to get enough of it, my overall need for rest is not going to be solved by getting 15-20 more minutes of sleep. Thus, perhaps it is connecting with the Divine through my spiritual practices that I am truly missing–my inner source of sunshine. Insert face into palm!

The day before writing this piece,  I encountered a woman at a local grocery store.  I was departing the store through the designated “exit,” and an unknown woman was attempting to enter through it.  I stepped aside to allow her to come in, and I encouraged her step in out of the sharp wind. She smiled and apologized.  

“I know I shouldn’t come in through the exit.”  

 I smiled at her in reply, confessing that I often do the same thing.  It occurred to me then that the store doesn’t mind how you get inside their premises as long as you keep coming back when you run low or out of their products. Hmm . . .  

How similar is that to our own faith habits?  God doesn’t mind the way in which we enter our faith walk, we just have to keep returning for the love and the lessons that are offered.  Otherwise, we will always run low, or in my case, run on fumes–nearly depleted of all inner joy. In fact, Divine Providence, I continue to observe, has a way of continuously placing the same lessons in my life until I am finally ready to learn.  While I am not by any means stating that the dismal weather was purposely put into our local winter weather system solely for me to learn this lesson, I do realize now that it was/is my perception of this season, created by my depleted tank and lack of faith habits, that was/is the main source for my personal cloud of suffering, rather than the actual weather.  

Winter weather must be endured, or spring would not smell so sweet.  However, by returning to my faith routine, the ones that I know nurture my soul, I can begin to, well, weather the downpours of life’s seasonal and metaphorical changes.  I believe I see a forecast for the return of earlier starts to my day with morning peaks of devotional reading, prayer/meditation, and perhaps even five minutes of yoga.  May they return me to the Ultimate Source of personal sunshine.

“You could cover the whole earth with asphalt, but sooner or later green grass would break through.”–Ilya Ehrenburg

“Every blade of grass has its Angel that bends over it and whispers, ‘Grow, grow.’”–The Talmud

The largest part of my childhood was spent in a tiny cul-de-sac built into the valley of U-shaped hills.  A creek ran down the back of one side of the neighborhood, and behind it were steep, rocky hills. Along the rear of the opposite side of the neighborhood–the side on which my family and I lived–was a low hill with a gravel road running along its flattened top with tall wooded hills soldiering alongside this.

During the summers, my mom ran a fairly tight ship with my three siblings and me, even during the times she wasn’t home.  While we were permitted to sleep-in within reason, we typically had a list of chores to complete, limits on the time we could watch the family TV, and we were, most of all, encouraged–aka ordered–to spend most of our days outside.  Ironically, however, she preferred us to stay in our own yard.

As a parent, I now understand why she enforced this rule, but as a kid, it certainly seemed, “not fair.” Looking back, it seems to me that she wanted to be able to look out one of the windows in our small, ranch-style house and be able to see us. However, there were soft edges to her boundaries that we eventually discovered because–as children do, especially me–we tested those edges for firmness.

Typically, we could climb up the moderate hill in our backyard and play on the portion of the “backroad”–as we called it– that was within view of the kitchen window.  It was, in actuality, an extended driveway to a family farm just beyond our neighborhood; thus, the only traffic on this road, as best as I can remember, were those traveling to and from this home.  

Likewise, we could also play in the street in front of our home.  Again, we needed to be visibly seen from the house–this time from the picture window in the living room–as the only traffic flow was from neighbors traveling to and from the four houses around the top of “the circle,” as we called it, one of which was my own childhood home. 

Our summer play varied from year to year as our ages often determined the type of play in which we participated.  During my youngest years, it seems to me that play centered around the yard–often around the larger of the two trees in the front yard, the area around and on our small front porch, or in the backyard where the shady area would expand in the afternoons. These younger years, it seems to me, were filled with mostly imaginative play as we kids played “house,” “school,” and role-played popular shows and/or concepts on TV, such as “war” and “cowboys and Indians,” and other similar ideas.  Afterall, this was the seventies.

 During my older years,  it seems that our play occurred often in and alongside the top part of “the street” and “the circle,” especially alongside the front of a split rail fence belonging to one of our neighbors, the Allen’s, that lined their front yard.  These were the summers of riding our bikes up and down the road, as well as playing more organized games; such as, wiffle ball, red light green light, dodgeball, monkey in the middle, football, and the ever-popular kickball. Tempers flared, egos grew quickly–and were just as swiftly deflated–swear words were uttered by the most daring, and time seemed endless. 

Depending upon the year, but especially so during the summer months, once grassy areas would be worn down to flat brown earthen patches due to the heavy foot traffic of kids.  Most years, there was a brown, semi-oval shaped edge to our front yard that rarely held any grass. Likewise, in our backyard, there were bare patches alongside of our house as well as in parts of the backyard that recieved the heaviest footfall and/or wear and tear, such as under and around the swings of our swing set.  On the back road, irregular grassy sprouts would grow in the middle of the road and alongside it, but the path for the tire tracks would be worn smooth except for the gravely rocks. Meanwhile, the Allen’s poor fence line would begin missing patches of grass from the “teams” taking turns standing, sitting, or leaning on their fence, waiting for a turn to “at bat” or to kick.  

Once school resumed, fall became winter, and less foot traffic stressed yards. Come spring, the grass–albeit sometimes crabgrass–would begin to threaten to fill in those brown patches.  Then, our feet would trod down those areas once more. Eventually, as kids grew, leaving for other locations, I can imagine, as if viewing a time lapse video, the grass triumphed again and again–even with a new generation of kids.  Some areas may have required a bit more TLC, save for back road–assuming it is still used– but nature’s green carpet was sure to have returned; and so will you, Dear Reader. 

Eventually, nature’s green carpet would soon return, and so will you, Dear Reader!

Throughout one’s life seasons, wear and tear occurs.  There are times in which life can absolutely wear a person down. This can be manifested physically, mentally, and even spiritually.  Moreover, these wearing-down time periods often affect more than one aspect of a person’s being. Fatigue sets in, weariness abounds, and the proverbial grass from the past, in the future, or even the proverbial yards of others’ lives, seem greener and more lush–leaving us clasping and wishing for better, less downtrodden, times.  However, like those brown patches of earth from my childhood, eventually, with time, growth will occur–and that is the fact upon which to focus.

According to an old adage, it takes a fire to grow grass around a hydrant.  Likewise, it takes time to bounce back after an abrasive and inflamed time period in life.  Afterwards, you are often not the same person you once were, as you are more informed about life and your own inner strength/resolve. 

Furthermore, it’s worth remembering that there are angels in your life, encouraging you to grow–even at your most worn-down time.  Sometimes these so-called angels can been seen, known, and identified as friends, family, coworkers, neighbors, and sometimes, even strangers..  However, there may be other times when you may not realize that so-called angels are guiding, prompting, praying, and nudging you towards regrowth.  

You, like each blade of grass, were planted on Earth by The Divine Creator, to grow, change, and bloom into a unique creation.  Like each blade of grass, you are continually transformed by life’s seasonal modifications; but you can, and will, rise–face shining in the sun again.  As a matter of fact, in life’s ultimate conclusion, you will also rise, and angels will still surround you.

Don’t give up, Dear Friend, don’t give up.  Angels are everywhere, and new grasses are already sprouting their roots within you. 

“Feelings come and go like clouds in a windy sky.  Conscious breath is my anchor.”–Thich Nhat Hanh 

“Yeah I’m a lucky man/ To count on both hands/ The ones I love . . . Stay with me/ Let’s just breathe . . .” as performed by Pearl Jam, lyrics by Eddie Veder

“Now, what was I going to do?” 

I was talking to myself, but loud enough for one of my EW! (Elevate Writing) Club members to overhear me.

“Mrs. Hill, just do what I do when I can’t remember what I wanted to do.  Sit down and say, ‘I am breathing. I am living. I am me.’”

“Hmm, Amanda, I am impressed,” I replied.  “Does it work for you?”

“Aw, I just made it up here on the spot.  But, it sounded good, huh?”

She turned back to her writing as I froze at the profound wisdom this 13 year old had just so casually tossed my way.

“I am breathing. I am living. I am me.”

I hastily jotted down the words before I forgot them, and then rolled them forward in my mind as a kid rolls a kickball toward a kicker in a game. Unfortunately, it was Friday afternoon, my EW! students were good-heartedly, but loudly, teasing one another as they wrote, and so it was a strike–at least for the moment–as my tired and distracted brain could not connect with the words.  Still, I tucked the yellow sticky- note in my school bag for later retrieval once home. 

In fact, as soon as I was home, I placed that sticky-note on my kitchen table, so that I would be reminded of those words for the next few days.  Throughout the weekend, though, my mind, along with my body, was rushing about. Laundry seemed to be overflowing. Errands needed to be ran. There were meetings to attend, groceries to get, and a nearly forgotten, nearly overflowing cat litter box that pretty much summed up my mindset when I finally got around to cleaning it.  That, of all places, was when it hit me.

“I am breathing. I am living. I am me.”

I reflected over the discussions I often lead at the start of the yoga classes I teach.  How frequently have I stated the importance of the breath as a reminder of the presence of God in our life. Our breath, like our heart beat, is automatic.  Both the breath and the heartbeat occur without us ever thinking about them–pulsating and filling our life with living energy. What a marvelous miracle that is in and of itself! 

In yoga, the breath is often referred to as prana, a Sanskrit word that means “vital life force.” It allows us to bring in vital energy and expel out that which does not sustain life.  In yoga practice, the breath is often considered, “the anchor,” the “thing” to come back to–to refocus upon–when the mind begins to wander into thoughts rather than clearing. Stooped as I was, looking down at the waste that needed to be removed from the litter box, it occured to me that perhaps my own mind needed to return to its anchor.

“I am breathing. I am living. I am me.”

As I went through the motions of scooping and cleaning, I began to slow down my breath and simultaneously attempted to clear my own racing thoughts. I began to reflect on a story for which I had asked my mom earlier in the day.

“Tell me about Papaw Musick,” I had asked her.

He was my paternal grandfather who passed away not long after I was born.  Asking my mom’s impressions about her former father-in-law may have seemed odd, but we were talking about the closing of a local facility, Bellefonte Hospital, which had been the sight of care for many of my loved ones who have now passed on to their heavenly home.  For whatever reason, our conversation made me think of Papaw Musick, and before I had time to think, I had blurted out those words. 

My mom smiled immediately. 

“Oh, he was a good man, Steph. He was just crazy about you,” and she proceeded to share a few sweet anecdotes.

Reflecting on mom’s stories of the small, but stout man who I never really knew, but who once held and cradled me in his arms, tears momentarily filled my eyes.  In fact, I was reminded of one of my favorite photos of him in which he is doing that very thing with my tiny newborn body while holding my a bottle. 

I am fairly certain that I have Papaw Musick’s large rib cage, as does my Dad, and I further suspect that I have his shoulders and arms–again, like my Dad. I also have the Musick eyes, like my Dad and siblings; and yet, like my mother, I have my Grandmother’s face and lower body shape.  I talk with my hand like the Slaters, my maternal family; but I have the Musick volume; and, both sides of my family gave me the love of Appalachian food and the power of a good story. In fact, without both the Slater and Musick clans coming together, I may not have ever met my husband and shared my life with the Hill/Moore family and . . .

I was overcome with emotion at all of these thoughts, so I stood up and walked through our home thinking of what a miracle my life, and all lives for that matter, truly are.  As a child, I blamed myself for my parents’ ultimate difficulties. I used to think that if I had never been born, then they would not have been brought together. However, in that moment, it occurred to me that if there had not been a me, then there may not have been my brother and two sisters–for which I am continually grateful.  Which also means, there would not have been such a rich tapestry of relatives with all of their wonderful experiences and stories that now connect me to distant states such as California, Texas, Louisiana, Virginia, Florida, and others, in spite of all of us being rooted, at one time, in Kentucky.

“I am breathing. I am living. I am me.”

Thank you Mom and Dad for the gift of my life.  I hate that your married life, while I was growing up (and I suspect, you too, were likewise growing), was so challenging and difficult.  However, there is not a doubt in my mind that you loved us. Despite those trying times, you still provided me with many rich memories, stories, recipes, and the love of extended family for which I am thankful.  

I hope that one day, I will meet Pappaw Musick, and all those who have gone before me, and perhaps hold them all in some form of an eternal embrace.

I am not sure Amanda knew the inspirational power of the words she shared with me, but I certainly do appreciate that I was there to hear to them. *****

  Sigh, just breathe.

“One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets oneself be tamed…” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

          “If you love a flower which happens to be on a star, it is sweet at night to gaze at the sky. All the stars are a riot of flowers.” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

My love for children’s and young-adult literature is no secret. As a veteran educator with nearly 35 years of classroom experience, books have centered at the heart of what I do.  In fact, books are quite typically the unifying thread that binds, and has bound, the vast majority of lessons I teach. Good literature has the power to inspire lessons in geography, math, biology, physics, history, politics, psychology, sociology, and so much more. Additionally, a great story can even offer a life lesson, or two, that pulls at the readers’ hearts and challenges the reader to reflect, contemplate, and evaluate both their internal world as well as their external actions.

Many years ago, I was once asked, during an interview, to name my favorite book.  To this date, though I do not recall for what I was being interviewed, I vividly remember my response, Charlotte’s Web, by E.B. White, and the stinging silence that followed.  Afterwards, I remember inwardly cringing because I am certain, given the context of whatever adult-situation in which I found myself, the interviewer made certain assumptions about me–namely, I must not be very bright and/or well-read. 

Later, I thought of all of the phenomenal and influential novels I have read for which I could have responded, making me sound, at the very least, more mature–and certainly more well-read–than the beloved children’s classic.  Still, E.B. White penned a story in 1952 with two strong female characters who saved a life, motivated by their passionate desire to rid the world of a wrongful death. More importantly, White’s characters illustrate to readers what it means to live a compassionate and loving life, how to develop and foster lasting relationships, and, in the end, how to sacrifice one’s self to the greater good of another–even if that means letting go and saying goodbye.

I was reminded of this interviewer’s question from the 1990s when I overheard a piece on public radio regarding inspiring spiritual books that aren’t, per se, considered “religious,” but still offer readers lessons for the soul.  While I was not able to listen to the entire piece, it was of interest to me that of the six or so titles that were recommended, at least three of those titles were considered children or young-adult literature. Huh, maybe I was on to something years ago and only now is the rest of the world catching up to me!

Two of the juvenile titles, I had read within recent years, but one title, The Little Prince, by Antoine De Saint-Exupéry, I was not sure if I had read or not.  I felt as if I had, but memory, like the morning fog rising above the Ohio River, fades as time passes. The person being interviewed on the radio stated that it was this particular book that continues to help him in times of grief.  That was all it took, and I decided in that moment to read–or perhaps, reread–this classic.   

“Stars

They make me wonder where you are

Stars

Up on heaven’s boulevard . . .”–Grace Potter

There is a song, written by Grace Potter, and performed by Potter and the Nocturnals, for which I have found great comfort when missing a relative who has slipped their Earthbound chains.  While I suspect the song is actually about lost love, since the writer states she cannot look at the star without wondering where her former love is, her lyrics, instead, remind me of how I prefer to think the opposite.  Whenever I look at the night sky and see my friends, Orion, Libra, the Little Dipper, and even Mars and Venus–though they’re not stars–I am reminded of those I have lost. It often seems to me as if the twinkling of the stars is God’s way of allowing the heavenly souls to wink at those of us still bound to Earth’s gravity as if to say, “We are okay, and you are okay.  You’re welcome to join us, but there is no rush. Time is endless in the heavens.” 

Ah, but I am a silly, ingenuous adult at my heart, I suppose.  Perhaps that is why from the very first chapter of The Little Prince I was transfixed.  The author’s opening scene describes, in great child-like detail, why the main character, an adult pilot, abandoned his budding career as an artist as a child due to grown-ups who could not understand his art; and therefore, the character was encouraged to pursue more serious matters such as, “geography, history, arithmetic, and grammar. “Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is exhausting for children to have to provide explanations over and over again.”  Thus, at the ripe old age of six, the main character begins to lose sight of matters of the heart and soul–which cannot be seen by the eye–until his plane crashes in the desert where upon he meets a Little Prince from another planet.

I can recall the nagging feeling, after that unknown interview, that has always nagged at me, if I am to be honest.  That feeling is called, “You, Stephanie, are not smart.” And while I do not want to create some glorified fictional version of my childhood–and adulthood, for that matter–I certainly can look back throughout the years and recognize my dreamy nature.  My desire, which is perhaps equal parts strength and Achilles heel, to go into my head, to dream, create, and think–really, heartfully, soulfully think–has always been my comfort, ally; and at times, has given me the ability to withstand certain difficult situations.  It is probably that very quality that makes me immensely sensitive, and perhaps ultimately, it is what called me to education. Then, again, perhaps this is my over-active imagination wanting to believe this. . .

What I do know is that I will no longer apologize for adoring children’s literature.  I have cried more real tears, felt more deeply, and have often been more motivated–upon reflection of a work–to evaluate and rethink my actions or motives due to well-written books geared for younger audiences.  My interviewer was merely, in the words of The Little Prince, a serious adult who could not see, or find value, in the matters of the heart and soul.  He could not look up at the stars and see what I see; he could not feel the depths of real love; the joy of true friendship; what it means to really sacrifice for another; and I am quite certain, he could not pick up a children’s book and allow himself to imagine, dream and grow.  And that, Dear Reader, is a sad story, for he is missing out on the joy of seeing heaven’s boulevard and other inner-worldly experiences.

May we all celebrate great books, even those written for the unfledged mind.

“Hope is an adventure, a going forward, a confident search for a rewarding life.”–Dr. Karl Menninger

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul–and sings the tunes without words–and never stops at all.”–Emily Dickinson

It was her pink fuzzy socks with the swath of white encircling the top of her long ankle that kept drawing my attention–well, the socks and her face–imploring, seeking, and open. Those socks spoke of youth, vibrancy, and a healthy need for warmth–except that the weather was quirky for winter and, on this particular day, the temperature was exceptionally warm.  Plus, this was a warm yoga class with the temperature set at 85 degrees. Still, it wasn’t unusual for people to prefer to practice yoga in socks rather than bare feet.

In direct contrast with the cute socks and her youthful visage framed by long locks, the shade of flax intermingled with goldenrod, were her eyes, that darted, jumped, and searched.  Her energy was frenetic and animated. It appeared that she spoke with the entirety of her body. In fact, she needed little invitation to talk as one small question seemed to release the valve to the unseen dam within her soul.

My level of empathy and compassion are part blessing and curse. When someone is truly suffering, I can feel it emanating off them as steam rises from the soup pot when the lid is removed.  With age, I have tried to learn to develop emotional bubble wrap, especially when faced with angry, negative, or heartbroken energy. Try as I might to seal myself insides off, like the scent of garbage drippings that cling to blacktop in the summer, long after the truck has collected the refuse, so often do other’s emotional dross sink into me leaving me affected for hours and even days.

Thus, when the girl with the pink socks, that I shall name Sarah for the sake of this story, began talking, it was as if offshoots of her pain gradually began to stretch and grow within me.  Her story came out as quickly as an overturned cup of wine; and, just as swiftly as that proverbial glass of wine, it had rapidly and permanently stained her life. Without revealing too much, her husband had been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer for which he had undergone one radical and brutal treatment after another. It had been exactly a year since his initial diagnosis, and now, she explained, hospice had been called in.  The couple wasn’t yet in their third decade of life, and they had two young children! 

As I write Sarah’s story, I can still feel her sadness and anxiety deeply within my gut. Sarah was taking a yoga class that I was teaching. It was a recent visit to her doctor that had prompted Sarah to yoga.  The doctor, she reported, wanted to prescribe numerous medications to help reduce her anxiety. Sarah had refused, and instead, decided to give yoga a try.

“My mind is never still.  It won’t settle; it is so restless. I can’t pray anymore.”

She went on to explain that she was hoping that yoga would help her quiet her mind, so that she could, once more, meditate and pray.  Ironically, the theme of my class on that particular day was focused on the fact that health encompasses more than just the physical body, but it also includes the well-being of the mind and spirit. Additionally, I had planned to read a short passage explaining that one of the traditional purposes of yoga was not only to strengthen the body and make it more supple; but ultimately, to quiet the mind, so that afterwards, one could sit and meditate and/or pray for extended periods. After hearing her story, I just wasn’t sure if this was the appropriate way to proceed, but I decided to give a try anyway.

And while this is an imperfect story, just as life is also rarely defect-free, Sarah did sit still, if only for a few moments, at the end of class.  The other exercisers and I gathered around her afterwards. Sarah talked more, and we listened more. We looked at the pictures of her beautiful, and oh-so-young family.  One person typed the correct spelling of her husband’s name into her phone, so his name could be added to the prayer-list at her church.  

Meanwhile, I still keep thinking of those fuzzy pink socks, and I am reminded of my own daughter who loves to wear those types of socks in the winter.  Like my own child, this young couple were once children of parents who loved and cared for them. How those parents must have envisioned their children’s future with such hope and promise.  Most likely, those same parents must have felt that same hope rising when the young couple were married, and even more so with the birth of each child–their precious grandchildren.

I can’t understand this story; I only feel the pain, the hidden hurt of this child with her pink fuzzy socks; the beautiful strands of  her wavy, tousled hair; her darting eyes; and all of her words–pouring out of her soul in search of the path of least resistance like excessive rain water travels down hill.  However, for this child–there is no path of least resistance–she traverses a path few would want to trudge.  

As I write her story, I think of all the events in my life for which I could complain, I could whine, and snivel.  In fact, I could write a tale or two of woeful, personal tragedy, but those stories would be nothing, nothing compared to Sarah with the pink socks.  Wherever she is, may she somehow be comforted, her pain lessened, and I further pray that her mind will find peace, so that she can focus on being a mom who is full of hopes and dreams for her own two children as well as herself.