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Category Archives: memories

Yes, I get emotional and sentimental. But each tear is filled with love and you never outgrow being my child. Your life is filled with the exhaustion of small children, late nights at work, and the journey of self-discovery.

Who you will become, and who you are now, is always changing.

I have never given up on you and we never could.  The words don’t always come out right and love does not always mean agreement.  Loving unconditionally does not mean that everything you do is perfect to me, but knowing that it means everything to you, means I support you.

You began changing a long time ago and my memories are of another time in your life when you needed me.  Today, you need to find out who you are and that means moving away from where we are to create your own home.

But, please know, that wherever you go and wherever you leave your mark, you can always come home. Even if it is just a phone call, a text, or a photo, I appreciate all of them and your home will always be in my heart. Thank you for including me in your life.

Just know, wherever you are, you can always come back home.


Thank you for stopping by! I hope that you enjoy your visit and please feel free to share this with someone you love.

Home isn’t just a place, it is a state of mind.




In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “To Be Resolved.”

The resolution that I continue to seek is how to parent, and build a relationship with my adult children from a distance far away not to block their view, but let them see that I still keep a light on in the window.

When it comes to the relationship with our children, I don’t know that we ever reach “resolution” because we each change every day.  I am trying to respect the distance even if my experience with my parents was different.

Since this is a major goal in my life, and always was, I am reprinting this post from July 16, 2014.



generations by gilad

I love you and you will always be my child. I have been trying to stretch and grow to accommodate your view of life, but I realize that I am uncomfortable at times. Perhaps, it is because I am out of my comfort zone trying to be inside of yours. When I raised you, I had hoped to give you good character and kindness. Given your origins, independence, intelligence, and strong opinions could not help but be part of your nature. Sometimes, those opinions hurt me. You know I am sensitive and I was an easy target. But, still, I love you.

You have chosen to live your life differently than I have chosen to live mine. I try to keep my door open to you whenever you want to walk through it. We have made, and continue to make, different choices. I did not want to choose sides. I…

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quill and ink pot red

Shakespeare, Lord Byron, Elizabeth Browning, Pearl Buck, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Ernest Hemingway, and Maya Angelou are some of our beloved men and women of letters. A “Man of Letters” is primarily concerned with literary and scholarly arts, the beauty of the written word and the value of humanism.

The concept of Humanism relates not just to the study of Humanities, but relates to any system or way in thought or action in which human interests, values and dignity predominate in philosophy or behavior.

Aha! Now you know why an Empathy Queen is interested!

Beyond all the brilliance in hand-written journals and diaries that capture our history and imagination, from Anne Frank to slavery, is the ability to capture great thought in the written word. Beautiful and eloquent thoughts have been shared in one’s own handwriting.

What a loss to realize that our children cannot read these works in their original form!

My heartfelt note and birthday wishes could not be read by my teenage recipient and that is when I realized how we have cheated this generation by giving up on Cursive writing. It is no longer taught in schools or part of educational curriculum. Spelling and grammar are not understood, nor appreciated, as they can be electronically corrected.

How can we transmit all of our history in handwritten love letters and documents of citizenship? Letters home have been a tradition of summer camp and kept as treasures, now relegated to relics of the last century. Papers and letters, censored or delivered in war torn areas by Red Cross delegations, speak of our greatest fears, loves, desires, horrors and history. Elie Wiesel wrote “Night” as his diary to remind us of what should never happen again. Ship manifests and hand-written applications filled Ellis Island to bring our descendants to America and record their personal effects, family members and birthdays. The Declaration of Independence and the signatures of our Founding Fathers cannot be read by our children.

Our humanity is in our hands and the way we brushstroke the letters of our signatures. Graphology provides us with clues to a writer’s character and personality when we can study the actual handwriting of an individual.

The beauty of linguistics and communication, a heartfelt note, a treasured thank you, Grandma’s well-kept recipes are part of our individual and family histories. The lost art of reading and writing cursive limits the notions of beauty and loyalty we can share and appreciate with our children.

Our signatures are bold, notable, remarkable and a lasting imprint; but only if we can read them.
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generations by gilad

My mother passed away a year ago, two weeks before Mother’s Day. This year the Mother’s Day ads started early and I had a whole month to mourn the lack of someone to shop for or search for the perfect card. However, the truth is that it has been an acknowledgement and reminiscence of all that has transpired each day since.

Memories float to the surface among my tears like blurry Monet images of life. There is no “new normal” as people told me because nothing feels normal. Someone was offended because I called 30 year olds “kids.” Regardless of the age, if you have a parent, then you are someone’s child. Even when your mother is 70, she still recalls the memories of pregnancy and birth and those moments that made you one of her kids. She still demands and deserves respect for the status in life and the milestones achieved. Her memories dominate and no day goes by that she is not remembered, good or bad, for who she was as part of my life.

We are forever children trapped in the timelessness of memories, traveling through time to the feeling of adolescent 12 year olds; not yet a teen and not still a child, but not old enough to be on our own. We needed the reassurance of a parent who cared about us and knew where we were and cared that we were fed, cared if we had clean clothes to wear and a clean bed to sleep in. We were expected to do our homework and chores around the house. Big ones help the little ones.

Now, we try to protect each other without our North Star. The guidance and celestial being that connected us all is somewhere out “there” but certainly not here. My siblings and I are more cautious, gentler, and more fragile. Some of us are new grandparents and yet, we have no Mother. Those beautiful babies made us the matriarchs of our individual families, but the Mother of us all cannot see the photos nor answer the phone when one is born to share our news. There is no replacement for the original.

There are piles of emails in my inbox reminding me to think of what Mom really wants and to capture the photos of us together. Reservations have been made to celebrate Mother’s Day and show her how much we care with handmade Belgian waffles. There are no cards for me nor have I achieved that status of special planning. Life has gone on and work continues no matter the day. Hallmark goes on without me and maybe when I am older it will seem that I am a mother worth celebrating. For now, children are still growing and busy with their lives. They have not reached the age where they understand what it means to mother for a lifetime.

Yet, I have reached the stage where I cannot understand why mothers cannot last a lifetime. I knew that there was going to be a passing, there had to be a greeting and a farewell. There would be angels guarding and lighting the way and I am supposed to meet that moment with gratitude that she was not alone. But the only constant is that I miss her and she was my mother and she is no more.

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