Cam Lasley

I would like to take this opportunity to introduce you to an amazing man, Cam Lasley. He's a hip hop artist, who has a difference - not a disability. "Isn't everyone else different too?" he asks.

Aren't we?

You'll want to read the interview with him in TRUE, The Missing Link in Hip Hop and Fashion.

Ghostbelly

I had the privilege of meeting Elizabeth ("Lisa") Heineman the summer of 2010, when we both attended Hope Edelman's memoir writing class at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. Lisa is a professor at the University of Iowa, and an incredible writer as well as a learned scholar in the areas of gender, women's and sexuality studies. She shared her story with our writing group: the devastating loss of her stillborn son, and subsequent healing from the experience.

It is my bias that what makes many memoirs hard to read, is the lack of healing, the lack of transformation, the lack of insight and growth. Lisa's book, Ghostbelly, does not suffer from that, her process is complete and all on the page. Ghostbelly is Lisa's story of her home birth that ends tragically. How Lisa and her partner, Glenn, actively grieve their profound loss, is what made this book gripping. Lisa and Glenn make arrangements with the mortician, to bring their son, Thor, home for overnight stays, before he is buried. This may sound morbid and hard to read. I will admit that this book pushed me out of my comfort zone in many regards, but that is also one of the many things I loved most about it.

Lisa is refreshingly open about her non-traditional, "unorthodox" life. I, having a very traditional life and playing very traditional roles, appreciated being more intimately connected to someone so different from me, yet with all the most important things in common.

There is something going on in my community of friends and fellow parishioners - we're in a dying season. It feels as though not a week goes by that death does not touch someone I know. Lisa's memoir was helpful in that regard - helpful to to be reminded just how personal grief is, how deep, how differently it can be felt and experienced, processed and transformed. I have more compassion having read the book, for the vastness of grief.

To be able to write such a beautiful and personal account of something so horrific, is a trick not many writers can pull off. Lisa Heineman does.





*Ghostbelly is available through the publisher, The Feminist Press, as well as other places. 

Advance Praise for GHOSTBELLY: 

 “Ghostbelly is by far the most beautifully written and intimate account of something a lot of us have 

gone through, which is the death of an unborn child. It's an incredible and moving book, and I'm so 

thankful for it.” 

—Jane Pratt, founding editor of xoJane and Sassy 

“Ghostbelly illuminates the complex emotional landscape of stillbirth—putting into frank and poetic 

words the unspeakable experience of simultaneously grieving and mothering a baby who has died. 

Groundbreaking for its exploration of the unexpected benefits of reclaiming traditional rituals around 

birth and death, Ghostbelly brilliantly demonstrates the value in determining what holds meaning 

for you, and then unapologetically going for it, no matter what others might think.”  

—Deborah L. Davis, author of Empty Cradle, Broken Heart: Surviving the Death of Your 

Baby 

Ghostbelly contains some of the most powerful and heart-wrenching sentences about mourning the loss 

of a baby I have ever read.  —Perry-Lynn Moffitt, author of A Silent Sorrow: Pregnancy Loss 

“This is a book about birth and death seen with a smart, sensitive, well-trained eye.” —Barbara Katz 

Rothman, author of In Labor and Laboring On 

“Lisa Heineman's Ghostbelly is a poignant, haunting work. Lisa does not ask for permission, and in her 

unapologetic honesty—that sometimes becomes audacity—we find courage and freedom.” —Jen 

Silverman, playwright and winner of 2013 Yale Drama Series 

ELIZABETH HEINEMAN is a professor of history and of gender, women’s, and sexuality studies at the 

University of Iowa. Her other books include Before Porn was Legal, Sexual Violence in Conflict Zones, and 

What Difference Does a Husband Make? She lives in Iowa City, Iowa. 

The Dollar Menu

Wil was on a frozen yogurt kick that went on for years. I don't even want to add up all the money we spent on his habit. At one point we were going daily, and nine times out of ten he'd bring along a friend, and I'd pay for the friend, too. And let us not forget, Wil would get two bowls, and I was forced to get one, too. So. A costly, but ultimately "productive" era that put some much needed weight on Wil, and introduced us to many new people and tightened the bonds between the friends we already had.

It should be made known that during this period we got to know the owner of our favorite yogurt spot, and when my book came out, he agreed to sell it at the store, giving me all the proceeds. The employees kept a Carrie Link envelope behind the counter, and they accepted cash and checks, so often I came in to pay for yogurt, and was given a stack of money. Not a bad gig.

But, as with all his phases, they end as suddenly as they begin, and offer no warning or explanation. They are just over. Now, instead of frozen yogurt, and instead of daily, he occasionally wants to go to the dive drive-in, home of the famous Kelly and the "Hope you feel better" milkshake. They have a huge board on the wall offering their flavors of milkshakes, and you can mix-and-match to your heart's content. Rootbeer/creamsicle/Oreo is a favorite. Large. I can now get him to also order a small, plain and dry burger, too, and if we do this anytime after 4:00 PM, it totally counts as dinner.

Like with the yogurt, Wil prefers we take a friend when we go. I guess he's bored to death of me. That, or he just really likes his friends. Let's go with that. Because there is often an inordinate amount of texting on his end, verging on coercion, I always offer to treat the guest. "Get whatever you want - anything at all - it's on me," I say. What I've noticed, is the guests fall into one of two categories: 1) They try to order as inexpensively/little as possible, or 2) They go whole hog.

The "cheap" friends order one little tiny cheeseburger and keep it at that. The whole-hoggers get the "basket" deals, and substitute the drink for a shake, then upgrade the shake from a small to at least a medium. When I say, "Get whatever you want," they actually order what they want.

There is no question I'm from the former group, whenever I'm being taken out by someone, I scan the menu for the cheapest thing on there, and order that. I wouldn't dream of "taking advantage" and getting what I actually want, let alone "upgrading" it in any way. The other morning in meditation I had the dawning realization that I have globalized that mentality. The Universe "says" to me/you/us every moment of every day, "What do you want?" and I, historically, order off the dollar menu.

I have committed to believing and internalizing that the Universe is at the least, as "generous" as I am, and certainly has more in store for me than a burger basket with a shake upgrade.

Strengths

Please join me over at Hopeful Parents. Thanks!

Let's Fight

Just in case you don't "read Wil" fluently, my birthday card says, "I love you so much I cry in the inside of my heart and love talking and fighting with you - you are a rock star - love Wil."

Wil's favorite word is, "No." He answers no before he's finished hearing the question. He loves to "fight" just for the fun of fighting. Often, when he is extra contrary, I say, "Let's fight." To which he laughs.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. I hope you all have someone you love to talk to and fight with in your life.

Love.

Valentines

Wil loves Valentine's Day. He loves love. He loves to tell people he loves them. He even loves to write out valentines, despite his general distaste for writing. This year his list was ambitious: teachers, ALL the kids in his program, and favorite friends from school. Nearly 50 valentines.

We broke the task into bite-sized pieces, deciding he'd do 5 a day for 10 days. That was all well and good but when I'd pull out all the stuff, he'd add more people to his list. He also decided to write a (short) personal message to each person, and put some thought into the matter. To one of his teachers (teaching a group of special ed students for the very first time), "I like your teaching and your abilities."

I've been back to the store for more valentines but I think we'll run out of both cards and time. If you don't make it on The List, don't you worry. He loves you.

And Twice on Sundays

For the last three Sundays in a row, Wil has gone to church not once, but twice. The last two weeks he was able to ride his new bike up there, lock it up all by himself, be amongst the first to arrive, and set about greeting each and every person that walked in the door. He'd sit with a pre-arranged family for the first service (aka his 8:30 family) and then mosey on over to coffee and donuts. About the time that was breaking up, he'd head back over to the church and repeat the whole process. Greet. Sit with his 10:30 family, and back over for more donuts, then ride on home. This killed four hours of an otherwise very long day, and we were all quite happy with the arrangement.

Today Wil had both his 8:30 and 10:30 families all picked out, but a little thing called freezing rain attempted to thwart him.

He could not be thwarted.

We donned our snow boots and tentatively walked through the crunchy layer of ice covering the several inches of snow accumulation. It almost unnerved him, but he trudged ever forward. The usually packed service was quite thin, but the faithful few were there. Unfortunately, his 8:30 family got iced out and he got stuck sitting with us.

Coffee and donuts was cancelled and so we trudged back home, assuring him if he really wanted to go back for the 10:30 service, one of us would get him there. He felt quite certain his 10:30 family would be able to arrive safely, and so back he went. Not only were they there, but several other families of choice were there, making the efforts well worth it indeed.

And aren't any efforts to do what we love, worth it?

Eventful

So, I finally have something to tell you of interest, actually, several. Let's start with the fact that I was blessed by the weather gods and avoided storms on both ends, and had a glorious vacation in Philly with my friend, Terry. We did nothing, nothing and more nothing. Woke up the next day and repeated it. After sitting in our jammies and robes until noon, walking, coming back and having lunch, showering about 2:00, it was nearly time for Beer O'Clock. "You don't really need to mountain bike or ski, or something like that to have fun, do you?" STM asked. I marvel that after 28 years of being together, he still marvels at that essential fact about me.

Terry, aka The Truth Teller, helped me uncover a few things that are irksome to me. She didn't help me uncover the fact that they were irksome - I was well aware of that -  she helped me uncover why, and what I could do to make them less so. Likewise, she helped me see the role my choices played in the irksome-ness. In the end, it all comes down to choices and attitude, doesn't it? Why is that so hard to "get?"

When I got home I got to pick up my NEW CAR! I think that one should get a new/different car every 17 years, whether they need to or not. I had grown very attached to my car, Virginia. She took Woohoo to preschool and she took Woohoo to college. Now Woohoo is buying her from me. I had that feeling you get when you're pregnant with your second child, and you wonder how in the world you'll ever love another child as much as you do your first, but then two seconds after the baby is born you figure it out: Love expands. You grow a new heart. There is no scarcity to your capacity to love.

Silly to compare a car to a child, but Virginia had come to feel like an important member of the family. She was a constant through years of change and uncertainty. She is an outward expression of everything I hold dear: efficient, faithful, dependable, reliable, low-maintenance, modest, steady as a rock.

Let me just say this about my not-yet-named new card - cars have come a long way in 17 years! I don't quite know what to do with all the bells and whistles! Having Pandora in the car feels like I've died and gone to heaven! Seat warmers? Ahhhhh... Dual-controlled heating/cooling? Brilliant!

So, yes, I walked out with my same car, only newer, and told the gal, "I'll see you in 17 years!" Why mess with success?

Finally, Wil is doing the Polar Plunge on Saturday - a Special Olympics event. If you feel so inclined, any donation would be greatly appreciated. Thank you to all of you that have already generously supported Wil!   Wil's Polar Plunge Webpage.

Taking a little "blogcation" until such a time as I:

1) Have something interesting to tell you
2) Return from Philly, where I already am in mind and spirit

Don't get me wrong, in fact, get this right, I am dancing with joy that my life is "boring" and lacking in "material" at the time. That has always been the goal.

Check, check.

Feel Better

Wil has been sick, but true to form, he has not missed a minute of school. It is his MO to come down with a bug on a Friday afternoon, and be rarin' to go by Monday morning. This past weekend he was extra puny, but of course, Monday was a holiday, so his record remained in tact: perfect attendance. On Saturday he napped most the day, so I knew he was super sick. By Sunday he perked up enough to take a shower and put on clean pajamas before going back to bed. By Monday his appetite was back and he had me running to his favorite hamburger and milkshake dive, and getting him food to go.

"Where's Wil?" asked Kelly, our favorite gal there.

"He's sick," I said, "so I'm getting it to go."

"Oh, that's too bad," she said, "tell him I hope he feels better!"

"I will," I promised.

I then ordered from a guy at the cash register, that we have only seen a time or two. "Two plain and dry hamburgers, and a large shake with rootbeer and orange creamsicle, please," I said.

"I know who this is for," he said.

"At least this time he's not also adding the Reese's peanut butter cups to the mix!" I commented.

No wonder Wil is well-known there, not only is he engaging and friendly to all that work there, his orders are unique.

I then took my seat on the bench reserved for those waiting for their to go orders, and watched the mad flurry behind the counter that I've never seen before, as we always eat there. It was a choreographed dance, the likes of which I've never seen before.

I saw Kelly making the shake, then put it in the fridge to wait while the burgers were made to order. When they were done several minutes later, she reached back in the fridge, handed me the shake and the bag with the burgers. Again she repeated, "Tell Wil I hope he feels better."

I grabbed the stuff, said goodbye, but didn't take a good look until I got in the car and was looking for a cup holder for the shake. That's when I saw it, "Hope you feel better." Just four little words, but repeated three times by a virtual stranger. That's just the thing, "strangers" are just friends Wil hasn't met yet. I honestly can't take him anywhere where he isn't recognized and known, if he's been there at least once before.

And you know what? Right after that shake made with love and good will? He felt a lot better.

The Rosie Project

If you want to read a book for the sheer JOY of reading, look no further than The Rosie Project. Two friends told me about it, and I'll admit, I was hesitant. "It's about a guy with Asperger's that wants to find a wife," they said, "and it's funny." Not sure I was going to find that subject matter "funny," but they assured me, I'd LOVE, LOVE, LOVE the book, and they were right on the money.

Wil, unfortunately for him, was sick as a dog on Saturday. Fortunately for me, and thus, fortunately for you, that freed me up to do nothing but read, read, read. I started it Saturday afternoon and had read 3/4 of it by the time I went to bed (early). And I am a slow reader. I simply got my nose in it and couldn't/wouldn't/didn't get it out, so delighted I was by everything about it.

I don't want to tell you too much about it, I  don't want to spoil your own joy in discovering it. The author, Australian writer Graeme Simsion, originally wrote it as a screenplay, and it's been optioned by Sony to become a movie. It would make a wonderful movie, but don't wait for that, hop over to your nearest independent bookstore, and buy a copy. I promise you'll want to own it so you can pass it all around and then have it returned lovingly to your bookshelf where you keep all your favorite books!

Join me over at Hopeful Parents today. Thank you!

More Helpful Hints from Care

Apparently, my pumice stone tip was a big hit, lots of happy people out there with pristine, white toilet bowls. So glad I could be of help. I've got two more you're going to eat with a spoon, and they are as follows:

1) To get that filmy, stainy, not-clean look to go away from your flower vases? Drop a denture cleaner tablet in some warm water and let them soak, run them through the dishwasher, and, voila!

2) This one is for all you poor sleepers, I learned it from my BFF, Theresa Caputo, aka The Long Island Medium (more on her later). Do you have a bunch of crap under your bed? Are you like me? Do you have a compulsive child that cannot STAND anything being on his parents' night stands, and hence, there is everything but the kitchen sink under there? What I pulled out from under our bed includes, but is not limited to:

1 small saw
1 large hammer
1 roll of electrical tape
1 electric tester thingy
1 cardboard box
1 fluorescent light bulb
6 water bottles, each partially "used"
1 set of hand weights
innumerable dust bunnies

I'm sure you're wondering why on earth there ever was a SAW on the bedside table, but I can assure you, it was all on the up and up.

So. I pulled all that junk out of there, vacuumed the living daylights out of the carpet below, washed the dust ruffle (once a year, whether it needs it or not, despite the fact that Flicka Link (x3) lies up against it and it is NASTY), then smudged under the bed. And I did not put any of the afore mentioned crap back under there, not even the saw!

And guess what, for the first time in years, STM says he slept through the night!

So, get yourself over to Target for some denture cleaner (the Target brand works great, no need to splurge for name brands), and then hop over to the nearest New Age bookstore and get yourself some sage, and whatever else your guides nudge you towards.

As for Theresa Caputo, say what you want about her, but I love her and everything about her, including her hair, nails, and crystal-studded stilettos. If you want to read an EXCELLENT, and I'm not exaggerating, a completely wonderful book that spells out Spirit A-Z, I highly recommend her new book, There's More to Life Than This.

If, however, your name is also Theresa, and I am coming to visit you in 14 days, do not buy this book. That's all I'm saying.

Happy cleaning, everyone!

Radiant

I got to have coffee this morning with someone I haven't seen in years and years. The last time we met she was visiting Portland, and now she's moved here. We aren't close friends really, and on the surface, have next to nothing in common, yet when we talk we never run out of things to say, and have a shared love of books, writing, and several friends.

"You're radiant," she said, almost right off the bat. "What do you attribute that to?" she asked.

"I'm happy," I said. "2013 was a good year for us."

And it was.

But it's more than that. I was thinking how many things had changed in my life since the last time we shared time with each other. They say you replace most of your cells every seven years. You regenerate.  It's been my experience that it takes about the same amount of time to regenerate as a person emotionally, spiritually, behaviorally, psychologically.

To regenerate means to grow new or replace that which is damaged. That's what the last seven years of my life have been about, both in a very concerted effort way, and simply by the grace that comes from the passage of time.

Driving home after coffee I thought of her choice of the word, "radiant." I immediately thought of Charlotte's Web, and how Charlotte spun the word into her web to help save Wilbur's life. Wilbur got all the credit for being radiant, but Charlotte did all the work. Nobody comes through a dark period on their own, we all need a Charlotte or two (or in my case, many more than that), ones that help us spin our story in a different direction from the one its going in. We all need someone to champion us, to believe in us, to sacrifice for us, to endure us when we're at our most unbearable.

And then we need those that bear witness to our progress and affirm it in us, so that we can go out and be a Charlotte for someone else.

Everything Matters

I watched a fascinating interview with Starbucks' CEO, Howard Schultz about a month ago, and have been thinking about it ever since. Among other things, he said that one of his business philosophies is Everything Matters. The details count. How we do anything, is how we do everything.

At first I explored the opposite way of thinking, that nothing matters, and quickly became depressed. While not sweating the small stuff is wise, that doesn't necessarily mean that the small stuff doesn't matter. There is a paradox in that, and therein lies the lesson, I think.

We know for a fact that energy cannot be created or destroyed, and we're all just carrying it, moving it, spreading it and re-arranging it all the time, so it stands to reason that how we do anything, has far-reaching ripples. The energy that we put into the things we do, matters. Everything matters.

So, while we are busy not being busy sweating the small stuff, that's more of an energetic release of the anxiety around the "small," not an abandonment of our intentions around things that are "small." At least that's where I've landed on the issue for the time being.

I'd love to hear your thoughts. What matters?

A New Year

I don't get too excited about the "new" year, don't make a lot of resolutions, don't stay up until midnight to ring it in. For me, it's better to one-day-at-a-time it, waking up each morning with a sense of newness and promise, hopes and objectives. I think it's dangerous to lump 365 days together, call them a year, and deem the whole sum as either "good" or "bad." Things come in waves, cycles, and it usually takes more than the turning of a page on the calendar, to abruptly interrupt that.

There is something to be said, however, for resolving, for taking inventory, for starting over, for having hope, faith, optimism and a can-do attitude. January 1st can be a good time to do that, because there is strength in numbers, there is a swelling and momentum, that can take hold and help move you "out" of wherever you are, and that is the first step.

Our dear friend, Claire Rose, Wil's guardian angel of 11 years, lost her mother on Christmas Eve. Her death was sudden and tragic, and the community is shaken, her family reeling, the sadness reverberates in every direction. I can't wish Claire a happy new year, I can't tell her everything will get easier and better and back to "normal." Her life has been altered forever. What I can tell her is she's not alone. She has a community ready and willing to step up, to not replace, but to substitute for her mother's role in her life. I can tell her that there are any number of people she can grab onto and hold on, until the wave of I-can't-do-this passes. I can tell her that although the year ahead may not be happy, it is not resigned to being terrible, either. It will be hard. It will be different. It will be sad. It will also have moments of piercing grace, love that shines through and sustains her. I can tell her that each morning of this new year, she will have to resolve to make the day anew, lean into the changes, make open her heart to receive all the love we have to give, so that one day she wakes up and the resolve to have resolve doesn't have to be so strong.

For Claire, the "page turned" on the day her mother left her in the physical world, and became a guide from the other side, one that will shepherd her through these dark and difficult days, with a little help from her friends.

A "Ruined" Christmas

This is, apparently, the first year Wil has heard of anyone getting a lump of coal in their stocking, because they've been bad. The minute he heard, he flew into action. "I am going to ask Santa for a lump of coal in STM's stocking, he's been naughty, and he's getting a lump of coal. I am going to ruin his Christmas!" he said with joy.

I assumed Santa had it all under control, but let's just say there was a little last-minute drama when said coal did not arrive with a moment to spare.

Traditionally, we go over to my mother-in-law's and open gifts on Christmas Eve. As we were walking out the door he announced that Santa would be putting coal in STM's stocking over there, too, even though we'd explained on numerous occasions that those stockings were filled by Grandma, and Santa didn't start his world-wide trek until Christmas Eve night. He accepted the answer, but was disappointed that STM's Christmas Eve would not also be "ruined."

As you may recall, Santa was also asked for an elephant for his friends, Barky and Elmo. There was much anticipation as to what this elephant would look like, and whether or not Elmo and Barky would be excited.

Because this is not our first rodeo, we also told Wil he would be getting a bike for Christmas. We have learned the hard way that he does not like surprises. A bright shiny, red bike showed up one Christmas morning, and he was underwhelmed, to say the least. He liked the (teeny tiny) bike he had just fine, and was not having any of it when it came to moving up to a bigger bike. Even if it came in his favorite color.

This time we got smart. We told him at his birthday time (and prime bike-riding weather), that he'd be getting a new bike for Christmas. His bike was too small for him, and he needed a new one. STM and I made multiple trips to STM's favorite bike shop, and consulted extensively about which bike would best meet Wil's needs. We got it down to two. We took Wil at a specified time to the bike store, explaining it would only take 10 minutes, but he had to ride both bikes and tell us which one he liked best. He chose in his customary "random" way (I think he liked the color, even though we could have ordered the other one in other colors). So, although he did know about the bike, he was excited for the bike, and told everyone, "I'm getting a new bike for Christmas!"

Be that as it may, the three big hits of Christmas were the lumps of coal that "ruined" STM's Christmas, Ellie the elephant for Barky and Elmo, and the true huge hit of the year, the $2.00 bottle of foaming hand soap with Santa on it.

May we all delight in the little things.

And So Forth

"Sin is not the adult bookstore on the corner. It is the 

hard heart, the lack of generosity, and all the isms: 

racism and sexism and so forth." 

- Anne Lamott Help, Thanks, Wow

You're either going to think me a genius, or a nut job, but I had another reading with a spiritual intuitive. It was an entirely an intuitive "decision," that is to say, no "decision" was made. I heard of this woman through a "weird" turn of events (say it with me...) and "knew" I had to schedule a reading. She is, of course, located in my stomping grounds, and was, of course, readily available when I called. That is not to say she is easy to get into, not at all, but everything lined up in a meant-to-be way, and within a few days of calling, I was seated across from her in a folding chair, in a make-shift room, having my chakras cleared.

Turns out my chakras were in pretty good shape. She did ask if I was having troubles with my right side, and I mentioned the hip issue from the dog pulling me on the leash, my cumulative injury. "More than that, though, is the issue of your yin and yang not being in balance, the feminine and masculine sides. Your left side, the feminine, is strong. Your masculine side, the right, is weak. That's the side that speaks out, that stands up for itself, that is willing to confront. If you ask your guides and angels to strengthen that side, I guarantee you'll be given plenty of opportunities to practice!" she said with a giggle.

I have decided that I will live with the occasional twinge. At least until after the holidays. There isn't enough eggnog in the world to entice me to take that on right now.

But the bigger question remains: Do I go out on a limb, and make a point of making a point? Both the astrologer and spiritual intuitive said my message is to awaken people that are asleep to their beliefs that those with lower "intelligence" have nothing to "offer." They are to be dismissed. We are to put up with them. To be "nice." To endure and possibly support, but not to elevate, learn from, watch, pattern after, and hold in high esteem.

Intellectualism is the final frontier. Martin Luther King, Jr. had his dream, and I have mine - to one day live in a world when we are as (appropriately) appalled to hear an intellectualist remark, as we are to hear a racist, or sexist remark.

And so forth.

Mindfulness

Please join me over at Hopeful Parents, for a short but sweet post on mindfulness!

Love.

Stitches

I just finished Anne Lamott's newest work-of-art, STITCHES. No accident that I finished it on the anniversary of Sandy Hook, as it was that horrible tragedy that spurred her to write it. So at a loss of what to do, how to move on, much less restore hope, she did what she does best, she wrote.

I can't think of a single person I know that isn't struggling to find meaning, hope, and/or in need of repair. The one-of-a-kind Anne Lamott did much to help me heal from the Newtown event that I've yet been able to really write about it, it's been sitting on a shelf in my brain for a year, not to be touched. It is too much to take in, too much to grieve, too much to be horrified and saddened by. It's all just too much.

I've seen a few interviews over the last year with parents of children that were killed that day. The stories of how one mom almost didn't send her son to school because he had been up late the night before, and had the sniffles, and how she's had to live with that choice to go ahead and send him.

When I met with the past-life reader, she said she was told by Spirit that the children of Sandy Hook were volunteers, sent with a very special purpose to wake us up from our sleep and change the way we do things. My only issue with that theory is that it implies the shooter was fated to shoot, and I just can't believe anyone makes a soul agreement before coming here, that they will become mass murderers. Maybe they volunteered to come here to change the world, and had it not happened the way it did, they would have each gone on to change it in other ways.

I don't know.

A tragedy does that to us, it shakes what we believe and what we thought to be true, and knocks us so far off kilter we are never the same again.

If you need help being put back together, I would highly recommend both of Anne Lamott's latest books, HELP, THANKS, WOW, and STITCHES.