Posted on

I must be the “Rock Lady”



I’ve placed the rocks out on the make-shift table outside of the RV. I’m the “picker-upper” on the hikes we take. You’ve heard of cat ladies? I think I must be “the rock lady”. My backpack becomes heavier and heavier as we go along. I see the light and color and uniqueness of a rock and it seems to call out “pick me, pick me”. And I do. And then I scramble to catch up to my husband who knows by now a rock must’ve caught my eye. ūüėČ I pick it up and hold it for a while as I walk. There seems to be an energy exchange. I think of the rock’s journey and imagine it’s tumble-down to where I found it. Sometimes I found it enjoying the coolness of the river or basking in the shadow of an aspen. It causes me to ponder life in it’s¬†simplicity and complexity, both uniquely present in this imagery.

I notice in the contrast to other rocks, the smoothness or jaggedness is pronounced. Color is vibrant and more noticeable. They each seem to compliment¬†perfectly because of their differences, not in spite of them. Most relationships mirror this truth, don’t you think?

It’s part of the reason we are drawn.

We need the perspective of dark to notice light.

We need the gentle curves of mercy to appreciate the power and piercing of jagged truth. What a beautiful world when both are present and appreciated.



Posted on

I Promise, Both Stories are True!



There are many ways to tell the stories of our life. We are more than facts and circumstances. Our story also contains our perspective and this gives all the color.  We get to decide that crucial element.


I’m going to tell a little piece of my story-twice.

My story- take 1:

I am a twin, born premature, weighing 2 lbs and 14 oz. I have always been “sick”. Allergies, asthma, bronchitis, medications, steroids, allergy shots were all part of the routine of my childhood. At one time I couldn’t eat chocolate. I know, so awful huh? The dr thought I was allergic, so I watched from a distance as everyone ate my Momma’s fudge. Oh, that was as difficult as you can imagine.

I grew up in Georgia where it didn’t snow, but one winter it did, just a little bit. I was sick and couldn’t go out to play. I pressed my face against the cold glass, watching my sister play in the unfamiliar white stuff. I felt sad, left out, disappointed. I started to wonder why this body couldn’t be strong. I decided¬†life wasn’t fair and that I guess¬†everyone had to learn that at some point. Life can be very tough. We have to persevere.

My story- take 2:

By being born a twin, and being born too early meant I was gifted with some unique and extravagant gifts.¬†I was born with a sister who gave me the gift of “belonging”. One time it snowed in Georgia; a very rare treat. I was watching my sister from the window. She did all sorts of funny things in the snow to make me laugh. I think of her in her childishness doing her best to include me from a distance and I wonder if she knows how mature she was at such a young age? She’s always looked out for me.

Being born too early meant from the beginning, before I had conscious thought, I knew the face of tenacity, strength, pain and resilience. It meant that as a child I had the gifts/strength to confront the demons of self-pity. I found creativity was my friend and life was not completely bound in the body. From the mind and heart I could pursue, create, draw, imagine.

I was able to see my¬†parents and family in the beautiful light of selflessness over and over again. You cannot forget that glow. It’s too angelic to dismiss. And maybe from a place of need you get to see character traits more clearly. Like the season of life when I couldn’t eat chocolate, my momma made sure I had a strawberry treat all to myself. She’s such a nurturing soul. I have memories waking¬†up in the dark to find her at the edge of my bed, staying with me while I cough and wheeze. I wonder if she realizes how beautiful she was in that light? Wow, I’ve been given so many gifts in my life…

Maybe the WAY we tell our story reveals most about us.


Both stories above are true. I get to choose how I remember it, and… how I tell it.

Now tell me yours.


Posted on

Faded Photographs


Grandmother Dorothy









In the bland of black and white, two beautiful women speak volumes, their smiles silently give encouragement to the granddaughter they never met. How could they have known that a simple photograph would mean so much to me, so many years later? I’m sure they didn’t.

It’s true…I admit I’m a photograph fanatic. ¬†I don’t need an excuse but I can’t get away from the message and memory that pictures carry long after voices are silent. Sometimes I gaze inadvertently at an old photo, and it’s the sobering reminder that I need; the proverbial “chill pill”. Strange how a picture in the past can suddenly anchor me to the reality of the present. Who doesn’t need that kind of anchor?

My  grandmothers both died so young;  words left unsaid, dreams unfulfilled, children small and needy.  But  somehow I see  strength through their smiles.   In these faded photographs, they have left me much-needed perspective.

Grandmother Nadi edit