Upon the death of a dear friend, I began thinking about the nature of life and death. Death brings my feet back to earth. My mom has often accused me of having my head in the clouds, and I readily admit it.

But losing my friend brought me crashing back down. I’ll admit that I’ve been a bit morbid over the past few weeks, since her passing, because it has come to my attention that we are all going to die. There is no other way out of here.

During the celebration of life for my friend, several people spoke of her generosity, her love of animals, her quirky nature. Many kind things were spoken then, and I thought what a beautiful tribute.

But wouldn’t it be better if we could share those kind thoughts with our friends before they die? Wouldn’t it be better to tell our loved ones how much we appreciate them, while they are still living?

Kind words are like a soothing balm to the soul. No matter what a person is going through, the kind words of friends and loved ones can calm the fires of rage, anger, or fear.

So why wait? I have said, on numerous occasions, that I plan to live to 111. I realize that by then, many of my friends and family will likely be gone. They will have gone on before me, to whatever awaits our physical death.

By then, I wonder who will eulogize me. I wonder who will be present to remember the remarkable life of an old woman, who outlived those who could speak of her life. So, the way I see it, I have two choices. I can live a remarkable life for the following 64 1/3 years, and make sure to make an impression on everyone I meet, hoping that someone will live long enough to remember me.

That is Plan B. That plan involves a lot of work, a lot of community involvement, and making friends of all ages. While that does seem like a fun way to progress through life, it also seems like a lot of work. Of course, I plan to do it anyway. Far be it from me to shy away from hard work and perseverance.

But, I have a better plan. My go to plan is to throw a big party. I’m not waiting until I’m dead to have a party. I’m going to have a party and invite all of my friends, and we will gather and talk about the beauty of life, the beauty of love and friendship. I plan to have that party when I am 55. I’m going to call it my “halfway there” party.

I plan to invite everyone I have ever known, to celebrate the gift of their presence in my life. I want to celebrate while I am still alive and cognizant. I want to thank people for their kindnesses and love, which have buoyed me through my life.

And my point, in all of this, is lets not wait. Let’s not wait to tell the people in our lives how much they mean, how much they bring, and how much they give us.

Tell them while there is still time. Once your friends are gone, it becomes too late to tell them how much you cherish them.

Of course, once people pass on, we can still speak of their goodness and kindness. It brings us together, it unites us when we face death, and it helps us heal from loss.

But so much better, is the idea of telling people of their impact and influence while it can help them.

It is never too late to tell someone how much they mean to you. If you don’t feel like saying it, then write them a note. You could even send an email. But don’t let the kind words go unspoken. Today is the perfect day to tell someone how much they mean.

Namaste, friends

I learn a lot from my kids, and sometimes if I’m lucky, they even learn a thing or two from me.

Recently, during a discussion with my 16-year-old daughter, I said, “Well, if I had my druthers, I’d rather you not.”

She looked at me skeptically, with the scorn and derision that seems second nature to teenagers.

“What does that even mean? I think you’re just making up words so I can’t do what I want.”

I confess. I do make up words. Sometimes I try to slip them into my columns, but Kae, the stalwart copy editor of the Uinta County Herald, never fails to find and delete them. Sometimes she looks at me as if I’m crazy. And sometimes she smiles sadly, shaking her head, as if talking to a small child.

But I digress. I explained the phrase “If I had my druthers” to my children, who still do not believe it is real. I guess my penchant for using fake words has tainted their view of me.

Technically, to have one’s druthers means to have ones own preference. It is a shortened version of the phrase “I’d rather,” and is not widely used outside of the United States. It’s a colloquialism to our part of the world. When I explained this to my young ‘uns, they all rolled their eyes, and wondered why a person wouldn’t just say, “I would rather,” and save all the confusion.

Upon further study and investigation, I discovered another meaning to druthers: the power or opportunity to choose.

It occurred to me then, that we can all have our druthers. We all have an opinion about how we would like things to be. Realistically, we can have our own preference, if we are willing to make the sacrifices necessary to achieve those things.

You can have your druthers, if you really want to.

Each one of us has the power and the opportunity to choose exactly how we want our life. Many of us, however, relinquish this power in order to embrace the victim mentality so prevalent in our culture. Rather than making our own choices and taking responsibility, we sit idly by, hating our lives and blaming someone else.

Oftentimes, blaming seems easier than responsibility. Victimhood feels more comfortable than choice. It’s easier to complain about things we don’t like, than to step up and make changes.

The good news is you do have the power and opportunity to choose. You can choose where to work, who to hang out with, where and what to eat, whether to exercise, where to live. The list goes on and on, but the truth is, you have complete choice over every aspect of your life.

I can hear some of you now saying, “That’s not true. I don’t have any choices. I don’t get to choose….” Well, unless you are a minor child, the truth is that you do have a choice.

You might not like the work or the responsibility involved in making a different choice, but you do have a choice. We are not victims of our life. We are authors of our destiny.

Today, you can choose to live exactly as you choose. You can choose freedom over bondage, peace over anger, and happiness over sorrow. You have the power and the opportunity to choose, in each moment, exactly what your life looks like.

If you don’t like the outcome, you are free to choose again. Remember, the effects of a decision stay in place until the decision is changed. If something doesn’t work for you, then you can change it.

Whatever you face today, remember that you can choose again. You are not a victim of your life. You are the creator of your life.

Namaste, friends

In the aftermath of chaos and holiday madness, I lost my phone. It wasn’t such a bad thing, really. I spent all of Christmas Day enjoying peace and quiet, unable to text and call. I even found time to take a nap.

As we began to filter through empty stockings, piles of paper and the remnants of Christmas, I discovered my forgotten phone, buried under the cheery rubble.

It was so nice not having it, I decided on the following day to just put the phone away.

Most of us are attached to our stuff. Our phones are always nearby. Our computers are nearby, ready to answer emails, check Facebook, and immerse us in online escapism.

Besides the electronic madness that controls our daily lives, we are surrounded by stuff. We are buried by more stuff than we can ever use in our lifetime, and our children will suffer after our passing, as they sort through all the stuff, wondering why we kept so much.

I was caring recently for a dear friend who has become quite ill. While sitting by her side, holding her hand, massaging her feet and reassuring her, I noticed that she was surrounded by stuff. Piles and piles of clothes, papers, knick-knacks and tchotchke. It was overwhelming, to think about her imminent passing and the responsibility of wading through all of that stuff.

When I got home after one particularly stressful day, I began sorting through my file drawers. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but I decided to look through every single piece of paper, and honestly assess the value and necessity of each.

Although I’m not a hoarder, I tend to hold on to special notes from people I love, as well as clippings and pictures from magazines. After a couple of hours, I was astonished at the pile of papers headed to the recycle bin. When I honestly looked at all those papers, it turned out that most of them were not essential to my daily life. Most of them had no real purpose, other than to keep my file cabinets brimming with paper.

With a proud sense of accomplishment, I closed the mostly empty file drawers and wondered for a moment why I need such a large file cabinet anyway. Now that it’s empty, it seems redundant. However, it does make a good television stand.

Although it was getting late, I was energized by all that purging and I began cleaning out my drawers.

It is amazing, how attached we can become to things like clothes. I had a closet full of clothes of a variety of different sizes. Some are too small, waiting in vain for me to lose just enough weight. Some are way too big, just in case I get fat. Some are from long ago, with emotional baggage attached. I began yanking clothes out of drawers, off of hangers and throwing them into a bag with reckless abandon.

It was freeing, to release so much stuff. Now, when I walk through the house, one eye is on what I can get rid of next.

I don’t want to die at 111, surrounded by junk. I want to be surrounded by people who love me. Most of the stuff we accumulate and refuse to part with has some emotional significance to us, but to no one else.

Instead of filling our lives with more and more stuff, perhaps we should acquire experiences. We don’t need more stuff. What we need is more love, more passion and more fun. When we fill our lives with experience, our need to be surrounded by belongings will diminish.

Namaste, friends

I often wonder if my kids ever listen to what I say. My lengthy lectures are usually met with rolled eyes. My angry outbursts bring glares of disapproval. When I try to share life lessons, I find my kids dozing in the back seat, lolled to a peaceful nap by the droning of my voice.

Occasionally, however, I am surprised by the wisdom of my children. In a fit of sorrow, as I cried inconsolably, my daughter patted my back and said, “Don’t worry mom, everything always works out.”

Although I continued crying, I was touched to hear my own words coming back to haunt me. Funny, they seem so much more conciliatory when I’m saying them, rather than receiving them.

My son recently began moving his Lego’s to our garage attic. He had previously used a small empty room in our basement for his Lego City, but found the confines of the room to be too containing. Often I would find myself tripping in the dark over helicopters, fire trucks and villains forgotten in the hallway.

During a momentary epiphany, I realized that we have an entire attic over our garage, mostly unused. There are a few boxes of Christmas decorations and some camping gear, but the bulk of space sits unused.

The older girls decided to make a craft room out of part of the attic, and hauled up tables, stickers, and craft supplies of all sorts. I think they finally realized that I am no help when it comes to things of a crafty nature, so they decided to find a place where I wouldn’t constantly hover over them, asking irrelevant “mom” questions.

Gunnar decided to recreate his Lego City in the attic, and to help him out, I swept all the Lego’s into a box. Much to Gunnar’s dismay, not all of his creations survived the sweeping.

I admit to being a little overly zealous in my endeavor. I am thrilled to get the Lego’s out of the hallway. I may have swept them just a little more vigorously than necessary. Some of the Lego creations may have come apart as I tossed them carelessly into the box. I’m not sure that had anything to do with it, but I am admitting to my part in the destruction of Lego City.

When Gunnar discovered his millions of Lego’s thrown haplessly into a plastic storage bin, he was less than enthusiastic about my help. He stormed out to the garage, insisting that he could get the work done himself.

About an hour later, he came into the kitchen, looking somewhat abashed.

He told me he was pretty mad when he found all his stuff broken. And he tried to devise a pulley system to pull the enormous box of toys up the attic stairs. As he hoisted the box overhead, he watched in alarm as it began to slant. Then, the box crashed to the ground, thousands of Lego’s covering the garage floor.

Gunnar said, “I was so mad when all my stuff broke. Then I thought that everything happens for a reason. So I figured I could make a bigger and better Lego City in the garage.”

With that, he happily bounded back out to the garage to begin the daunting task of sweeping up thousands of Lego’s.

I stood in wonder at the brief conversation. My eleven-year old son just repeated and applied something I preach to my kids every day. And he applied it much more quickly and cheerfully than I ever have.

Everything does happen for a reason. Whether it’s Lego’s crashing to the ground, a car breaking down, or your sweetheart breaking your heart. It is a waste of time to ask ‘why’ something happens. Instead, like Gunnar, ask yourself what you are going to create out of the situation.

You can’t control everything that happens in life. What you can control is your own response to situations. Your response is your responsibility. What can you make of the things that life throws your way?

Try looking for opportunity in the situations facing you. You might just find yourself with the biggest and best Lego City ever created.

Namaste, friends.

I used to love Bugs Bunny. One of my favorites was Marvin the Martian. He had an Acme Ray Gun, with which he would vaporize Daffy Duck. A classic line from Marvin the Martian, “Resistance is futile, earthling.”

During Tuesday’s snowstorm, I thought of those words often. I dressed for spring on Tuesday, in sandals and a skirt. Wrong outfit, wrong day.

Of course, I was too busy to run home and change as the day grew colder and the drizzle turned to snow. I decided to accept the weather and be thankful for the moisture. Resistance to the weather, or to just about anything else, is futile.

It never ceases to amaze me, how people will complain about things that cannot be changed, such as the weather.

Complaining never changed anything for the better. In fact, it never changed anything at all. It is futile to resist those things we can’t change. I would include the weather in that category, as well as the past, other people, and dogs.

You can’t change anything by complaining, and resisting what you can’t change is a waste of time and energy.

I had a friend who used to say, “You can’t teach a pig to sing. You only waste your time and upset the pig.” Complaining about the weather, fretting over the past, or trying to change someone else’s behavior is a lot like trying to teach a pig to sing. You don’t achieve your goal, and you usually irritate somebody.

Why resist things? Life is too short to be frustrated and angry over things that can’t be changed. When I hear people griping about the weather, I wonder what they think it could possibly accomplish. Yes, it is snowing. Yes, it is cold. Yes, we all wish summer would hurry up and get here. Will complaining about the cold make the weather any warmer? Will Mother Nature suddenly say, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize all of you Evanston residents were expecting sunshine and blue skies. Let me fix that.”

No. She will not bend to our will.

Rather than resist what is, I have found it is much easier to accept circumstances and make the best of them. Surrender to what is, rather than resist with futility.

Surrendering has such a negative connotation. It brings to mind weakness, giving up and giving in. In fact, I would argue that the opposite is true. It takes determination and strength to accept the things we cannot change. It takes character to submit our will to something greater. It takes humility and grace to be thankful for the snow, when you really wish to see the sun.

Most of our suffering has its roots in resistance. We suffer as we agonize over mistakes, misspoken words, and things we have done wrong. You can’t change the past. It has already happened. You can accept the past and move on, working to correct the mistakes of yesterday.

We suffer as we worry about what will happen tomorrow. We have no control over tomorrow. Of course, you can make plans, but as the good book says, we are not guaranteed tomorrow. It is foolish to say, “Tomorrow I will do this, and tomorrow I will do that.” We don’t know what will happen tomorrow. Worrying about it, resisting internally, will not change a moment. 

Imagine my surprise when I woke up, only to discover that life is not a bed of roses. Life is more like a messy teenager who spends the night, steals all the covers and throws them on the floor when she gets too hot.

At least, that is what my life is like. Just when I think I’ve got everything figured out and think it’s smooth sailing ahead, suddenly a tempest breaks, the sails collapse and I am dead in the water, overcome by the enormity of the waves.

Okay. I realize in retrospect that the description seems a little overdone. It’s not all doom and gloom from where I sit, but sometimes life is hard.

We all have those moments when we feel like we are down and getting kicked in the teeth. Who among us has not felt overcome by the enormity of life?

And for me the question is, how do we pick ourselves up and carry on? Where does the patience to persevere through life’s trials come from, and how do we tap into that when we have reached our last nerve?

I remember standing in line at a “fast” food restaurant back when my children were small. I was very pregnant. And by that, I mean I was as large as a house. Holding a crying toddler on one hip, taking orders from my teen-aged kids on either side, and balancing as another crying child tugged on my leg, I prayed for patience. Impatient people glared all around me, not only because of the swirl of noise encompassing me, but also because of the delay, as grim-faced cashiers seemed to take extra long to prepare food, and the orders seemed extra complicated.

It was in that instant of chaos, that I had an epiphany.

We do not magically receive patience. It is in those moments of utter pandemonium, deep depression, or sheer desperation that we have a choice. We can choose to respond to our circumstances with criticism, anger and outrage, or we can choose patience.

This applies to myriad life circumstances, not just standing in line, surrounded by screaming children. Frustration happens every day. Coworkers can be annoying (except, of course, my own coworkers, who exhibit unusual patience with my idiosyncrasies). Traffic lights, bad drivers, and icy roads can irritate. In any given day, most of us are faced with a litany of challenges to our peace of mind.

It is in these moments, when we are tempted to be least patient, that our request for patience is actually answered. We are patient because we choose to be. We endure because we choose to continue putting one foot ahead of the other. We persevere through trials because that is what we choose to do.

It is not easy to choose patience, but it is still a decision you can make consciously. When faced with those things that cause you to grind your teeth, try taking a deep breath. You don’t have to get all ‘Zen’, as I do, but you can breathe deeply. And just for a moment, try to see things differently.

Those kids aren’t screaming just to annoy you. Unless they are, in which case, they are still screaming and you can still practice patience. Your coworker isn’t chewing ice just to be irritating, maybe she feels tense and chewing ice helps her feel less stressed. The traffic didn’t change deliberately to make you late.

None of what’s happening around you has anything to do with you. And when you accept that things happen regardless of your peace of mind, you can choose to be patient.

We can all be patient. We can all persevere. We can all endure. What it takes is a decision, followed by one step.

One step at a time, we will all get through to the end.

Namaste, friends

Busy as a Bee

Just a Thought

By Deborah Demander

Everyone I meet has a busy life. It seems like everyone is bustling around working, volunteering, and running non-stop.

Most days, I’m up by 5 a.m. and I don’t stop running until after 10 p.m. I’m not complaining, just noticing that everyone around me is as busy as I am.

At an early morning breakfast meeting, I asked a friend how he was doing.

“I’m really busy,” he replied. “Sometimes I wonder if every day is going to be a grind for the rest of my life.”

I agreed with him, but as I thought about it later, I realized that life doesn’t have to be a grind. We all have choices. We choose where to work, where to live, who to marry, what church to attend, what activities to be involved in.

Everything in your life is there as a result of choices you have made. If you don’t like where you are or what you’re doing, make a different decision. The effects of a decision stay in place until you make a different decision.

If you have made a decision and find that you don’t like where its taking you, perhaps it’s time to reevaluate.

I like having a busy life. I enjoy volunteering my time to make the community a better place, and I like my work, which generally casts me far and wide throughout the region. Last Wednesday found me driving to Kemmerer for an early morning meeting with the Governor,  attending the Kemmerer Rotary Club meeting, then driving like a crazy woman down the interstate in my Subaru (yes, the same pig-mobile) to attend another meeting with the Governor and Uinta County officials. Once that was finished, I took pictures of an event in town, then attended a parking meeting.

But I didn’t complain, because I like to be busy. Well. I may have complained a little the next morning when my alarm went off, but overall it was a fun day. If I didn’t like to be busy, I would do something else.

Many people, when I ask how they are doing, reply with a heavy sigh and a roll of the eyes, “I’m sooo busy.”

We are all busy. If you don’t like being busy, do something different. It is okay to say no to things you don’t want to do, or things that don’t match your priorities. We often loose sight of what is important in our lives, and fill our days with things we hate doing.

Stop. Don’t fill your life with things you don’t like. Life is too short to be dismal. Your day ought to be an outward expression of who you really are. If your activities don’t accurately reflect who you are, then do something different. Life is a series of choices. Choose who you will be and how you will represent yourself by the activities you participate in and the people you surround yourself with.

If those things aren’t an accurate representation, then change them.

I know. Change is hard. We all have decisions to make about the kind of life we want to have. You can decide today who you want to be, what you want to do, and what you want to have.

If you don’t want to be busy, then do something else. Say no. Stay home. Relax. There are lots of people out there willing to step in and fill the void. Although change is difficult, it’s not as hard as living a disingenuous life.

Any decision you made can be changed. You don’t have to do something drastic, such as quit your job, but you can look first for smaller changes that feel better, and more in line with your priorities. Sometimes a small shift is all it takes to feel better about life.

Deborah, in Hebrew, means bee. I like to stay busy, like the bees in the garden working. But bees still take time to smell the flowers.

When you are inundated with work and activity, don’t get frustrated. Enjoy. And if you don’t enjoy, then stop and do something else. And whatever you are doing, wherever you are, take a hint from the bees, and pause in your busyness to smell the flowers.

Namaste friends

Some life lessons linger like a foul odor in the air, a constant reminder of one wrong decision. On Saturday, my kids and I had the pleasure of selecting pigs for their 4-H program.

I am a city girl. Not really a city girl, so much as a town girl, but suffice it to say that the closest I have ever come to an actual, live pig is the cartoon version of Charlotte’s Web. I read that book as a youngster, and when I had young kids, I read it to them and we watched the movie. Pigs are cute, pink and cuddly. At least that was my impression until last Saturday.

I have heard that pigs are smarter than dogs. I don’t want to debate the relative intelligence of my dogs, but I don’t think they are the smartest pets I’ve ever owned. So I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the pigs turn out to be smarter than the dogs. But I digress.

Saturday morning, the kids and I arrived early, along with nearly 90 other eager 4-H participants. Some of the pigs lay in a heap, trying to keep warm after their long journey from Texas. Others rooted around in the hay, and some played. I thought they were playing, until someone pointed out that one little piggy was an aggressive jerk who was attacking the others.

My good friend told me to dress “appropriately”. Whatever that is supposed to mean. I had on cute Capri pants, sandals and a Uinta County sweatshirt. It was my pig-picking outfit. She looked at me with a snicker. “That’s what you wore?” She had on boots, long pants and several thick shirts. When the pig picking began, I understood that I was not dressed appropriately.

First, the kids climbed into the pen when their name was selected. Yuck. Muddy. If I climbed in there, my sandals would definitely get ruined. Then, once the child picked out his project pig, a parent would scoop the pig up and haul it away. I nearly jumped out of my skin, when the first pig was selected. The dad strode to the animal and lifted it from behind, carrying it firmly in front of him.

The pig did not let out a gentle oink, as I was expecting. It screamed. I am not exaggerating. The pig was screaming all the way to the trailer. I stood astonished, wondering if he had accidentally pinched it or something. Nope. The next pig, and the next one, and every one after that screamed. It was actually bloodcurdling. I have never heard a bloodcurdling scream until Saturday. And then I got to hear it 90 times.

One of my kids selected a pig that turned out not to be properly castrated.

“That boar will be mounting those other pigs soon,” a wise friend informed me (we were buying nine pigs as a group). “If it were younger, I could castrate it now, but you can’t show a boar at fair, so you’ll either need to call a vet or put the pig back and pick another one.”

Of course, my child had picked out the one pig that had escaped castration. Unfortunately, she had to wait until the very end, to select from the remaining pigs. The other eight in our group decided to take the trailer and head to the farm, while Lexi and I waited for the end of the sale. My friend offered to head back with the trailer, once the other pigs had been unloaded.

I told her I’d call if we needed her to come back. We waited around as every pig was selected except “Mr. Boar” and two other pigs. One was the largest pig in the arena. The other was a tiny pig with a sway back. Lexi hemmed and hawed, and finally decided on the larger one. My son hefted it up, and it let out the customary scream. My son stood holding the pig, looking at me quizzically.

“What am I supposed to do with this thing?” Oh. Right. I had forgotten to call my friend back.

Sudden inspiration struck. “Put it in the back of the Subaru,” I suggested. After all, it’s only a short drive from the fairgrounds to the farm. Less than five minutes. How much trouble can a pig be in five minutes?

I was about to find out. The pig did not like the car ride. One hundred and fifteen pounds of pig snorted in the back of the car. Fortunately, once my son released him, Spidey (as we affectionately named him) stopped squealing. He started grunting and rooting. And peeing and pooing. The kids in the back seat were screaming. “The pig is peeing. Oh gross. Now he’s pooping. Oh gross. Now he’s eating my braid.”

Chaos ensued as Spider Pig tried to climb over the seat, his hooves now covered in fresh pig poo. He nosed the girls on the back of the neck, trying to eat their hair. The kids screamed. The pig squealed. I drove like a maniac to minimize the damage.

Five minutes can seem like a very long time when you are hauling a leaking pig. It leaked everywhere.

Pigs can’t jump. Once we reached the farm, I backed up through the gate, into the pig pen and lifted the hatch. “Okay, Spider Pig, jump out.”

The pig just stood there. He did not jump out. I waited. Spider Pig waited. We had a stare down, while I tried to coax him out of the car. He stood there and relieved himself one more time, before I finally got my son to lift him out.

As I pulled out of the pigpen and into the driveway, I wondered if the smell would follow me home.

Driving a pig around in my car was not the best idea I ever had. What I now have is a giant pig named Spider Pig and a peculiar odor whenever I get in the car. When asked why I would drive a pig in my car, I can only tell you that it seemed like a good idea at the time. But I can assure you, I have learned my lesson: I will never drive another pig home.

Namaste, friends

Have you ever gotten a rude email from a coworker, a snotty text from a teenager, or read an aggravating post on Facebook? Welcome to the information superhighway. We are bombarded daily with messages from so many different directions, it’s hard to know which way is up.

I have learned the hard way, that the way to deal with messages that make me mad, whether they are from my children, coworkers, friends or acquaintances, is to not hit send.

When I receive a message that rubs me the wrong way, my initial response is usually disbelief. “What?” I think. “How could they say such a thing to me, or about me? I’ve never done anything wrong! I am an innocent bystander.”

My disbelief usually gives way quickly to righteous indignation. “I’m going to set them straight. They obviously don’t know what they are talking about,” I think as my fingers quickly type out a biting response.

Those responses, fired off in the heat of passion, rarely produce the desired result. What I want is a broken and contrite teenager. What I get is a back and forth of nasty that leaves me feeling drained, defeated and dirty.

Fortunately, with eight kids, I get lots of practice. And I have learned that, while a witty and hard-hitting retort may satisfy my need to be right, it is usually not in my best interest. Wait. I exaggerate. It is never in my best interest to cut people to the quick.

I work with words. I love words. I pride myself on being able to eviscerate a person with just a few quick key-strokes. The written word is a powerful tool. Much like our spoken words, what we say has the power to lift someone up, or tear them down. When attacked, I often choose to come back with greater force, to teach them a much-needed lesson.

There is a better way. When you see something that hurts you, or is untrue about you, or just makes you mad, you can write the meanest response you like. The secret is to not hit send.

Once you have written your rebuttal, don’t hit send. Wait a while. Reread it. Consider if this is truly how you want to present yourself.

Who we are is a result of what we think, say and do. The things we do and say are evident to everyone around us. As a mom, as a friend, and as a person, I want to be kind, gentle and loving to those around me. Even when I get mad, or feel unjustly attacked, my response should reflect who I want to be. Each moment is an opportunity to decide again, who you want to be.

Go ahead and write that scathing response. Even better than typing it, write it by hand on a piece of paper. You can really let them have it on paper. Once you have written your meanest, self-justifying letter, read it again. Consider for a moment that what the other person said or wrote really had nothing to do with you. Although they sent that text or email, or made that comment, it is really a reflection of who they are, and where they were at that moment. It has nothing to do with you. Really.

Now that you’ve reread your response, consider if this is really who you are. Is this how you want that person to perceive you? If you are on social media, is this how you want everyone else to perceive you? Do you really want your kids, your coworkers and your friends to feel the full brunt of your ire?

Now is the time to hit delete. You’ve written your response, vented your anger, and had your say. Now, don’t hit send. Let it sit awhile. Chances are, when you come back around to your response in a few minutes, or an hour, or a day, you will feel differently.

I rarely regret holding my tongue. I always regret the unkind words I have spoken. The sharp sword of my words brings regret and sadness and the satisfaction I long for is elusive.

A kind word is never wasted or regretted. If you are ever in doubt, don’t hit send.

Namaste friends