When I Lose My Mind I Like Me Better

Earlier today I had an email from a woman asking if I would be interested in presenting at a women’s retreat this summer. In her note she said that there were other presenters who were doing workshops in grief, suffering, healing, etc, and could I do something a bit light on the mind.

At first I had to reread the email a few times to see exactly what she was asking.

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Looking for Me in All the Wrong Places

I am trying to understand how a bit of land could feel so a part of me. Is it because just through those trees is where my father was born and where he and his three brothers caught frogs and buried treasures and gathered hazel nuts every fall for their mother to lay out on a roof to dry? And just a little further through the trees is the house my mom and dad built.

My roots go deep here on this particular piece of earth.

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Fathers Lost and Found

My dad was a pilot. Actually, he was part pilot and part the airplane itself. When we were little he’d lie flat on his back and heist us up on his feet in the air. It was quite the process. You put your belly against his feet and the plane slowly takes off. Then you spread your arms out wide and fly while balancing on his feet. Sometimes he’d let go of your hands and you’d fly solo while he made airplane sounds and swerved and pitched dangerously until you tumbled to the floor giggling.

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