Celebrate the People who Matter Most

My friend Julie and I celebrated our 40th birthdays at the Red Mountain Spa in picturesque St. George, Utah.  We’re four years late, but who’s counting?

Julie and I were fresh-women roommates at Northwestern University (sorry, fresh-men just doesn’t sound right) and in large part, she beckoned me to Denver in 2006.

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10 Ways to Make Friends

“You kids need to go to bed NOW,” I hollered from the bottom of the stairs.

It was shortly after 9 p.m., past my eight-year-old twins’ bedtime, and fast approaching mine.

“But Mom, I REALLY need you,” Casey pleaded, his voice earnest and tender in just the piercing way that wears me down (which he knows).

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Next?

A few weeks ago while visiting relatives in California a friend having a zero birthday and a midlife crisis called.  In reality — by which I mean the “big picture snapshot — everything in her world was alright; it’s just that she couldn’t see, well, er…the  “big picture.”

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Marry Your Life Part 2 – Dream!

My last post generated some bold e-mails, enough to warrant a second glance at the concept of marrying your life.

It occurs to me that too often we squash our dreams.  The dreams that keep us up at night, gnawing at our subconscious because they are so revealing.   I’ve had a recurring dream of writing a book under a cherry blossom tree in Italy.   In the dream, I was

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Marry Your Life

I recently finished Elizabeth Gilbert’s new memoir, Committed.  As you probably know, she authored Eat, Pray, Love.

In Committed, I particularly like how Gilbert wrestles with the idea of love:  What if love never finds you?  What if you never find love?  Can you marry your own life?

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On Courage

Sunday’s Denver Post ran a cover story about female genital mutilation. The article featured a 43-year-old woman from the Ivory Coast who was cut at 11 and a 26-year-old from Guinea duped and then defiled at eight. I’m very culturally tolerant, yet this type of depravity leaves me, a writer, beyond words. What struck me most about the piece was the survivors’ courage to escape their past and renew themselves through a radical reconstructive surgery performed by one very extraordinary doctor.

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Time Travel and Landing Where You Are

Last weekend I traveled back in time.  I went roller discoing with my daughter’s Girl Scout troop.

The last time I did this was 1980 when Donna Summer belted out Last Dance. I was an athletic, 14-year-old freshman who used too much pink blush to disguise her adolescent insecurities. A group of friends had gone to an indoor rink in Orange, CT and

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