Love – Page 24 – One Woman's Quest

Distinguishing Past from Present

My father had a habit of tilting his glass in such a way as to indicate that it needed refilling. He would perform this ritual without saying a word, but the accompanying look would speak volumes: I am the Master here, and you are to do my bidding.

I hated it, and I fought against him, but the reality was that he did hold all the power.

When my husband was laid up, I took on the role of caregiver. One morning, he tipped his coffee cup and gave me a look of appeal. I felt myself cringe. He is just like my father! my mind screamed. I felt the weight of years of oppression and depression hovering over me. Have I married my father? Is there no hope for me? Is my joy always to be squashed?

th-1 My therapist recommended Perfect Daughters, by Robert Ackerman. It reveals the struggles, characteristics, and patterns associated with adult daughters of alcoholics. I learned that women of alcoholic fathers will often enter into relationships where they see an opportunity to heal the original father/daughter rift, and that this attempt is seldom successful.

What I have gleaned from experience is that I often tolerate behaviours for a long time, and that instead of seeing fault in the other, I will be quick to blame myself. I know that I do not like confrontation, and that I feel like my complaints are trivial in the light of the bigger picture. I have also learned that I often project unresolved feelings about my father into my current relationships, and I recognized immediately that the gush of emotion over Ric’s innocent gesture was just that.

Many feelings related to childhood have bubbled up as a result of the stress of the past years. I have been feeling the despair of never seeing an end to the hurt. Ric, tired of his predicament became more defiant, pushing his limits, and striving to regain control over his life. My response was accelerated anxiety and as much as I understand that he is an adult and makes his own choices, I find it hard not to react, spiraling into a dysfunctional dance of feeling like a child again, caught in a cycle of chaotic impossibilities, destined to be crushed.

Then I had a dream. I don’t remember what it was, but I awoke with sudden understanding. The panic I had been feeling is a product of my child’s need to finally feel in control. Somehow, she believes that if she could just control my father /Ric’s behavior, then everything will be okay. Her desire to control stems from a need to know that there is consistency in life, and that the process can be trusted. She needs to feel secure and know that she is loved no matter what, not only if she behaves herself, or manages not to upset anyone.

The adult me knows that none of this is possible. People will always behave and make choices outside of our control. It is not a reflection of their love for us, but a product of their own inner workings. Ric’s struggles and his attempts to resolve them are not about me, in reaction to me, or more importantly, because of me. If his actions have consequences that affect me, then it is up to me to look after myself and make sure I have taken appropriate protective measures.

I am reminded of something one of my university profs once said. It went something like this: Where there is power over, love cannot exist. Where there is power for all, love exists. My father behaved as if he was the only one with power in the family. I did not feel loved. My marriage to Ric is a partnership and a sharing of power. I feel his love for me.

Best Laid Plans

The man seated across the table pried me with questions.

“Who played Wendy?” he asked. “Was it you?”

I nodded.

“And who played the Hooker?”

“Also me.”

“Really,” he drew the word out as if chewing on it. “Both you?”

We were celebrating closing night at a local eatery. My questioner was not a familiar face amongst our usual theatre crowd, but I could tell by the way others were addressing him that he held some position of esteem.

“Have you done a lot of acting?” he persisted.

“High school, mostly.” I loved acting, and had contemplated pursuing it at University. Just recently, I had purchased a ticket to travel to Great Britain. It was my plan to investigate theatre school there, hopefully Shakespearean.

“I am currently writing a play that you would be perfect for, if you are interested. You have heard of me?”

I recognized him now – playwright and critic. He was well-known in our area, although this was my first meeting.

“I’m flattered,” and I was. “I am leaving for England shortly.”

“Of course you are. It would be a shame to waste that talent locally. If you have a change of mind, look me up, will you?”

The play had gone well. Even though I had bit parts, apparently I had made an impression. Maybe there was hope for me. I looked forward to the future.

The date of my departure was fast approaching. Disillusioned with life in my hometown, I was anxious to explore the world and embrace adventure. To celebrate my move, my sisters threw a party.

Seven years older than me, Mae is a classic beauty with dark eyes, and a perfectly sculpted face draped with beautiful flowing brunette hair. She stands 5′ 8″ and has curves in all the right places. I was used to being eclipsed by Mae’s presence, but she made up for it in sweetness.

My other sister, Lily, was eleven years my senior. Also a brunette, she was a fireball, who commanded attention and rivaled Mae for attention.

I shrank into a corner and disappeared into my dreams. This was not my crowd. Apart from a fellow I had been casually dating and a mutual friend of my sisters, I really didn’t know these people. Just when I thought the night was a total loss, I heard a knock at the door.

I opened it to find Stewart at the door. Stewart was one of Mae’s many suitors, and I knew he’d be disappointed. Mae’s current boyfriend was also here. I offered him a drink and some friendly conversation. I felt bad for him.

“I’m headed to England,” I offered. Stewart had a very distinct British accent.

“When?”

“In three weeks.”

“Really? I’m headed to England in three weeks. Where are you flying into?”

“Heathrow.”

“Me too!”

“What date?”

“What date are you going?”

“The 19th.”

“Me too!”

“No way! You are flying to England on the 19th!”

“Yes, I am. We might be on the same flight.”

I have to admit, he had me going. Turned out he was just playing with me. Always fun to tease the little sister.

I busied myself in the kitchen, playing hostess. Stewart made his move on Mae.

Last to arrive was the last to leave. Mae had already left with her beau, and Lily was nowhere in sight. I escorted Stewart to the door, where he paused before stepping out and turning around to face me, leaning in for a kiss.

“Good night,” he whispered leaving me alone and slightly stunned.

What had just happened?

“Don’t pay it any mind,” Mae told me the next day. “He has a crush on me.”

I knew she was right, but it was me that Stewart invited out later that day.

Our courtship was a whirlwind race against the ticking of the clock and my imminent departure. Stewart made me laugh, and caused my heart to flutter. I couldn’t sleep, didn’t care to eat, and was certain that this was love.

He was all I could think of while in England, and I wrote to him everyday – long, lengthy letters oozing with mush. When I’d received no reply, I finally called him. He hadn’t received one letter. I had sent them care of Mae, and she had forgotten to check the mail. I couldn’t stand the emotional turmoil.

I came home.

Stewart and I would later marry and have three children, ending a seventeen year relationship in a bitter divorce.

I always wonder what might have happened, had I stayed in Britain, but I have never regretted the gift of my three children.

Isn’t it miraculous that life turns out the way it does, despite our plans to the contrary?

(Image: afadedromantic.wordpress.com)

Birthday Weeds

“Can I have a bike for my birthday this year?” A typical, impatient eight-year-old, I must have asked my parents this question a million times. I was excited for my upcoming birthday, and really wanted a bike with a big banana seat, and raised handle-bars.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” was the constant reply, but my birthday falls in the middle of the summer, and so many perfect bike-riding days were passing me by.

As my big day approached, my father teased me that I was getting bubblegum for my birthday. I was confident he was kidding and that I would soon be soaring through the streets on my new, longed for wheels.

Birthday morning came, and no present. “You have to wait till your party,” Mom informed me. The hours just didn’t pass fast enough. My friends arrived in the afternoon, and we swam for awhile before my father barbequed burgers and hot dogs, and then it was time for gifts. After opening all the gifts from my friends, the moment I had anticipated finally arrived.

“There is one more gift,” my father announced, disappearing into the garage.

And there it was! A shiny, new, all-mine, bicycle. “Here’s your bubblegum,” Dad beamed. I beamed back. It was exactly what I wanted.

“Thanks so much!” I gushed, and was about to say more when I noticed my mother following with something else. Another new bike……for my little sister.

What? It wasn’t her birthday until November. “Me too, me too,” she started to squeal.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. I got what I wanted, so why was this bothering me so?

It was a question that would fester inside me for a long time. That year would mark the end of birthday excitement for me. It was the start of a legacy of disappointment that I never addressed, and therefore; allowed to grow out of control.

For my ninth birthday, I got a new bike, but I also gained the realization that life is not always fair. I knew without asking why my sister got a present on my birthday – it was so she wouldn’t throw a temper tantrum – but I also knew with certainty that I wouldn’t get a present on her birthday, and somehow that didn’t seem right. I wasn’t given to temper tantrums, but did that mean that I also had to forgo being special for one day?

In the years that followed, my birthdays were celebrated on family vacations, usually in public places with just a cake to mark the occasion. I told myself it didn’t matter.

I lied.

Truth is, I allowed that initial seed of disappointment to ferment inside me. I didn’t confront the issue because I thought I was being oversensitive. I didn’t want to hurt my parents feelings, and I certainly didn’t want them to think I was ungrateful. But the more I pushed the hurt down, the bigger it grew. In my own mind, I compounded the issue. My parents didn’t love me as much as they did the other children; there was something wrong with me. Every time I felt left out or overlooked, my feelings were just confirmed. I came to dread my birthday month. By the time I reached adulthood, this dread was accompanied by depression.

The issue exploded on my 40th birthday. My mother, in her usual way, had been calling me leading up to my birthday, making comments such as: “You have everything you need, I don’t suppose there is anything I could get you anyway,” or “Don’t know if I’ll get you anything for your birthday this year,” and so on. When she showed up with a frozen turkey, I lost it.

“Mom! Why do you have such a problem with my birthday! If you don’t want to celebrate it, then don’t, but don’t taunt me with it!”

“Of course, I want to celebrate your birthday.” She was taken aback.

“You never have! You always make it sound like it’s such a hardship. I’d rather you didn’t acknowledge it at all!”

“What do you mean? I’m here with a gift aren’t I?”

“Yes, Mom, but all week longed you’d hinted that there might not be a gift, as if you really don’t want to give me anything.”

“Well, it’s just that you have everything.”

“It’s not about the gift, Mom. It’s about the acknowledgment.”

The conversation didn’t go well. My mother left feeling hurt, and I felt I had made a worse mess of things. I would like to say that things have improved, but they haven’t. For the second year in a row, my mother has completely forgotten my birthday. I asked for it, I guess.

When you allow things to fester, they grow roots, and like untended weeds, can get out of control.

I am fifty-four years old, and I still don’t know how to uproot the weed associated with my mother and my birthday.

Growing Wings

“Thank you for being here, Mom.” The exhaustion in my daughter’s voice was echoed in her face. The epidural had finally kicked in, and we were all feeling a sense of relief. It was 5 a.m. Her first contraction had hit at 1:20 the day before, as we were walking home from a lunch out.

I didn’t know what to say.

So many feelings were flooding me. It didn’t seem like that long ago that I had laboured with her, pacing the hospital hallways, seeking relief in any way that I could. Now my baby was having a baby. It was a miracle to behold.

So I was feeling sentimental, and at the same time, wishing I could do it for her – taking her pain away.

I was in awe of the strength and courage she was showing, this young woman who as a child feared everything. She cursed a few times, and moaned as the pain wrapped around her and squeezed relentlessly, but not once did she complain, or wish it away. From somewhere inside her she had harnessed a determination to see this trial through, and her focus was admirable. I could not be more proud.

I knew what awaited her at the end of this journey. I knew all about the indescribable bliss and wonder that fills you the moment that baby emerges and is placed in your arms. I understood how in that moment there is an instantaneous shift of realization that this new little being is totally dependent on you. I couldn’t tell her, but she would experience it soon enough.

And I couldn’t tell her that my presence on this sacred occasion was no burden to me, but an incredible gift. She could never know how grateful I was to her, and especially the baby’s father, that they had invited me here to witness this sacred event.

So, I smiled and squeezed her hand, and stroked her face, and reassured her that it would all be over soon, and bit the inside of my cheek to stop my own flood of emotion from pouring forth.

Somewhere along the way, my baby had become a woman, and as I bore witness, she grew wings and took on her mission with grace and dignity: ascending to motherhood without looking back.

Three Sides To A Story

My first impression of Sherry was “Stepford Wife”. A tall, thin, blonde, Sherry appeared to be the perfect wife and mother. The stones in her garden coordinated with the ruffled awning above her front door, and accented her meticulously manicured lawn and flower bed. Inside was no different: her floors shone spotlessly, despite the presence of three children; and a smell of fresh baking wafted through the air. Even though my visit was impromptu, Sherry was dressed stylishly in a crisp white blouse, and form-fitting skirt, complete with heels, and suitable accessories. I was immediately intimidated.

My next visit to her home, this time invited, revealed much the same.

Sherry’s husband, Rob, was equally as impressive. Also tall and thin, Rob was a quiet intellectual, who stayed fit by running marathons, and coaching his boys’ soccer teams. He seemed to take his wife’s efficiencies into stride, and like her, was unruffled by his rambunctious young family.

Sherry and Rob soon became part of a social circle: a group of ten couples that met once a month for dinners, cards, and sometimes, social outings. They fit right in. Once a year, we would all gather with our children for a large barbeque and fireworks. Life was good.

Then, one day, I got a phone call from a mutual friend. “Sherry is in a bad way,” she said. “Can you help?”

I knew something was wrong the minute I stepped in the door by the state of disarray in the house. Sherry’s six-year-old daughter let me in. She appeared frightened and withdrawn.

“Where’s your Mom, Sweetheart?”

She led me through the house to the kitchen, where Sherry sat crumpled in a chair, head down on the table, hair matted, and smudges of makeup streaking her face.

“Sherry?”

“He left me.” She didn’t even look up. Her voice, flat and lifeless, spoke volumes.

I spotted her two boys in the adjacent room, watching television. I could see them glancing our way anxiously. Please help! their eyes pleaded.

I reached for the kettle. “Have you eaten yet today?” Telltale signs of kids preparing their own food and abandoning the dishes suggested she hadn’t.

Sherry was slow to respond. “What?……um….I’m not hungry.”

I made her tea and toast and put it before her, and encouraged the children to go out and play. Relieved, they complied. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“He left me for another woman.”

I was stunned. “Honey, try to eat something, and let me help you.”

She sat up, staring at the offering before her with complete disinterest. She pushed the plate away, and cradling the cup, took one tiny sip, then pushed that away too. Her normally thin frame appeared gaunt.

“Back up,” I suggested. “Tell me what happened.”

Rob had had an affair three years earlier with a woman from work. When Sherry found out about it, Rob ended the affair and he and Sherry entered marriage counselling. She had tried really hard to be the perfect wife and mother, so that he would love her again, and thought everything was going well, but out of the blue, he left. He was now living with his mistress.

Sherry’s heartbreak was so intense, it threatened her life. Within weeks she was hospitalized because of severe malnutrition.

It was hard not to sympathize with her situation and write Rob off as a total jerk, but as always, there is another side to every story.

“I reached the end of my rope,” Rob explained. I love my wife, and I adore my children, but living in a constant state of perfection is exhausting. Sherry has to be the best at everything, have the best house, wear the best clothes, everything is about impressing others. There is nothing genuine about her, about us. She is incapable of authenticity. I tried to stay for the children’s sake, but I just couldn’t do it anymore. I am dying inside.”

“So you left for another woman.” I couldn’t keep the edge out of my voice. I am, after all, a woman.

“If you met her, you would understand. She’s so real! “

I wanted to understand. I wanted to know what would drive one person to put his/ her family through so much pain.

“When two people divorce,” a colleague told me, “there are always three truths: his, hers, and a truth that lies beyond their stories.”

I tried to stay impartial, but supportive, and as I did, I began to realize the wisdom in my colleague’s words. Once released from the hospital, Sherry became a woman obsessed. She stalked her husband and his new lover, both at their home, and their places of work. She was determined to get Rob back, and refused to see the folly of her actions.

On his part, Rob became more and more enraged, and retaliated with acts of violence against Sherry.

The scene was escalating out of control, until Rob’s therapist broke the pledge of confidentiality and advised Sherry her life was in danger if she didn’t back off.

Sherry did eventually let go of Rob, but only to rush head long into a tempestuous affair, with no regard for her children. Rob withdrew from his former life, avoiding his friends, and maintaining minimal contact with his children.

Who was right, and who was wrong in this tale? Like many conflicts, there are too many grey areas to tell for certain. Both his and her story made compelling arguments, but the real truth laid somewhere beyond all our comprehension.

One thing was certain, though: the real victims here were the children.

How Tables Turn

“All I want is to have my family around me.”

I was giving my father a therapeutic touch treatment to help ease his pain. His suffering was relentless in his last years.

“I guess they’re all too busy for their old Dad.”

“You didn’t exactly teach us how to be around you, Dad.” I didn’t want to be unkind, but he needed to hear the truth. When I was too young to understand about his ‘needs’, I thought we were an inconvenience to him. Mom would whisk us off to bed before he got home from work, so we’d be out of the way. Later, when his secret was out, we would have to call ahead to make sure it was okay to come home. When I moved out and became a parent, Dad would visit for ten or fifteen minutes before he had to leave.

“I suppose that’s true.” Were those tears in his eyes? “I lived a very selfish existence.”

“Yes, you did. You just have to be patient with us, and give us time to see that you have changed.”

He caught my hand in mid-motion and gave it a squeeze. “I always loved you, though.”

“I know that now, Dad. But there were many times when I didn’t. I could never compete with sports.” Sports were Dad’s excuse for everything: I can’t come see your play, because the game’s on; or: I’d love to spend time with my grandchildren, but this is the deciding match. Trouble is, there was always some sporting event on.

“Silly, isn’t it?”

“You missed out on a lot.”

“I know. I know.”

My father had changed. We never could have had this conversation years ago. He was too intimidating, and never open to criticism. Something in him had softened. Mom said he cried regularly over all the things he had done to us throughout the years. Still, I wasn’t totally convinced.

“It’s ironic how the tables have turned. It was always Mom who suffered with so much pain, and now it’s you.”

Isn’t that the truth, Dad’s face said. “I wasn’t very sympathetic either,” he confessed. “Serves me right, I guess.”

I didn’t say anything. Dad had never understood Mom’s suffering; he couldn’t tolerate weakness. Now he depended on oxygen to breathe, and didn’t go out much because his immune system was so compromised. His life was reduced to pain medication and ointments. Mom seldom left his side.

“I messed up, didn’t I Squeegie?” It was his nickname for me when I was little.

“You certainly had your trials, Dad. No one can imagine what it was like to be you. I guess you did the best you knew how.”

He squeezed my hand again. “You’re a good kid.”

“I wish I could take your pain away, Dad,” I responded.

In the back of my mind, I was remembering something my father had always preached:

You get out of life what you put into it.

Soul’s Guardian

“Mom, I don’t know how to say this, but…” I was tucking my ten-year-old son into bed.

“Go ahead.”

“Well, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you know how if there is a sale on at Eaton’s, you want to get there early.”

“Yes?” I wasn’t sure where this conversation was going.

“You want to get there early because the best stuff gets picked over first, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, no offense, but you’re not getting any younger.”

“What are you on about?”

“Maybe you need to get out there before all the good ones are picked over.”

“Are you saying I should start dating?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Well, I’ll give it some thought.” It had been over six months since his father and I had separated, and dating was the furthest thing from my mind, but there was wisdom in those words. Still shattered from the unexpected end of a seventeen year relationship, I coped by going to bed early every night, and staying away from people. My son was probably right – avoiding life was not the answer – life was passing me by.

‘Obi-Wan Kenobe’, one of my friends called my son. From an early age, he has had an uncanny wisdom, well beyond his years. He’s my soul’s guardian.

(Image from: www.kidscreativechaos.com)

Lifelines

The forest is thick with the smell of new leaves, tinged with the lingering winter musk. The trees here stretch endlessly upwards, their trunks a testimony to the timelessness of the place. Rays of warm sunlight reach downwards, creating pockets of warm glow. The soft moss and dry earth beneath my feet cushion my steps. Birdsong fills the air, adding to the aura of enchantment. I come here to meditate. This is my oasis: a calm, nurturing retreat where I can find renewal. I breathe deeply and allow all my senses to revel in the beauty. A crackling of twigs alerts me to the presence of another. A horse and rider come into my line of vision and stop. The young man’s eyes meet mine, and there is a rush of recognition. He is young, maybe mid twenties, with thick dark hair, and dark eyes. I feel that I have known him many lifetimes, and that ours has been a relationship of deep and abiding love. “I am coming back to you,” is all he says, and I feel my heart leap with joy.

The unexpected vision and accompanying emotional surge forces me back to consciousness. The meditation had been so deep and relaxing that it find it hard to shake off the drowsiness. It was so real. I open my eyes to find my friend, Sam looking at me. “It’s a boy!” I blurt out. “You’re going to have a boy!”

I was right about the boy, but the message was not for my friend who was so desperately hoping for a child. It was for me, who although I thought I was finished my childbearing, was about to discover myself pregnant again. My dark haired, brown-eyed boy was born the next fall.

Mothers know that there is an unseen cord of consciousness that runs between them and their children. It is first experienced when they wake up seconds before their sleeping baby. Or maybe earlier, in the dream time.

Children As Mirrors

When I think of my grandchildren – one now six months, and one on the way – my heart swells and tears fill my eyes; I love them so much. I hope that I have extolled upon my daughters that children are a blessing to be cherished.

One thing I can tell them is that children will be their greatest teachers. Honest, straightforward, and ever curious, children will tell it like it is, question inequities, and challenge everything. Like little parrots, children repeat what they hear, and mimic gestures and behaviours. They will also reflect the good, the bad, and the ugly.

My moment of revelation about how intrinsically linked mothers and children are came when performing therapeutic touch on the mother of a boy with severe autism. His constant spinning and screaming was a source of anxiety for the young mother seeking my help. She had hoped I could calm him, however; he was not receptive to staying still, so I offered her a treatment instead. Amazingly, as soon as the mother began to relax, so too did her son.

All the way home, I thought of my own children, and questioned how many times their anxiety or distress was merely a reflection of my own emotional imbalance. Over time, I had to admit there was a definite link. If I would return home tired and distraught, that would be the time my children were acting up. If I was feeling happy and positive, the children would reflect that back.

In therapeutic touch we have an analogy that the therapist is like a tuning fork: when s/he is centered and grounded then the client can follow suit. The same goes for children.

Another way of looking at this, is that children are mirrors for their parents. When my oldest, Marie, is being impulsive, she is reflecting my own tendencies. When Ester is feeling anxious, or John is burdened by being overly introspective, they are exhibiting the very traits I myself struggle with. The challenge for me, as parent, is to a) take ownership of my shortcomings, and b) work to heal them so that my children can do the same.

Children are teachers because they offer us the opportunity and the incentive to become better people.

Grandchildren teach us how to fall in love all over again.

I’m so glad I enrolled in the school of parenting!

Conned

The man across from me was weathered and tanned, with a dark mop of curls, and shocking blue eyes. “What bothers me most,” he was saying, “is spouses that cheat. It’s the worst thing you can do to another person.” I was warming up to him rapidly.

“What happened to you?” I asked. No ring. New to town.

“Girlfriend decided it wasn’t working for her. Threw me out. We had a business together too. I lost everything.”

“I can relate to that.”

We began to see each other. It was a bit unnerving for me, this dating thing. I felt like an adolescent all over again, swept up in an emotional whirlwind.

“I feel so vulnerable,” I told him.

“Give it time,” he responded. “Don’t rush anything.”

Good answer, I thought. He seemed so much more self-assured than me.

I noticed that I was becoming distracted, and forgetful. I forgot to return phone calls, and missed appointments. My bank book showed me making more withdrawals then I remembered. I misplaced a paycheck. I started to feel out of control. When I told him, he suggested we slow down, take some time. I trusted his judgment.

One lazy afternoon, he fell asleep on the sofa while I was doing my laundry. His gym bag was in the hall, and I thought I would offer to wash his things with mine. Not wanting to wake him, I opened his bag to remove the dirty clothes. On top was his wallet. I don’t know what possessed me, but I opened it. His driver’s license checked out…his health card…..debit…..credit….the same as mine…..they were mine! My cards were in his wallet!

Removing the cards, I put the wallet back. A friend of mine was RCMP. I called him from an upstairs phone and gave him the name and birth date. He called back and said there was nothing in the files. I was afraid. I didn’t want to confront him alone. I decided to wait until he was gone.

Checking with the bank, the credit card company, and my employer, I found out that he had been using my cards all along, and cashed my paycheck using my identification. I called the police.

While he may not have had a record with the feds, he was wanted on dozens of charges with the police. Once I reported, former girlfriends called with similar stories. I felt so foolish. The officer assured me that this happens to nice people all the time. Con men count on good people like me to be unsuspecting. I was an easy target.

I don’t know who I felt more victimized by, him or me. I chastised myself for being so stupid. What was I thinking? I felt sickened, and full of shame. But, more than all that I needed to take stock of my history with relationships. My track record was poor. By all accounts life had taught me not to trust in love. Giving up seemed the only sensible option.

Yet, closing my heart seemed so cold and final. Surely, this was not God’s intent. I needed to look at this from a different perspective.

“Your picker is broken,” a friend told me. “Until you fix it, it’s not safe for you to love.”

She was right. I had no discernment. Loving in nature, I always look for the best in others. I forget to watch out for red flags.

Closing my heart was not the solution, but guarding it responsibly was.

(Image: acountryroseflorist.blogspot.com)