Whistle While We Work? Nah. Sing and Dance!

This one is in honor of Nebraska Filly and ZooNTexas. Please, let me slip my arm around your shoulder and give you a tight squeeze. Grab a cup of coffee, settle in, and let me tell you a story.

One bereaved or angry person can ruin the spirit in a room or a group. Most often, it has nothing, whatsoever, to do with us. We’re merely in the line of direct fire. Often, we quickly ascertain something is wrong, and we shun that person. We stay away from conflict. No – wrong. Don’t take offense. Run to the conflict. Be the firefighter or LEO to a friend. Figure out what it is. Dig deep. Let them rail at the stars and get it out. Free them.

For example, if you and your spouse are arguing, fiercely, about whether to have chicken or salmon for dinner, I guarantee, you’re not arguing about what to have for dinner. Figure out the source of the problem, and fix it, no matter how long it takes. Eventually, put your baggage into a suitcase and toss it, or give it up to a higher power as a great, unsolved mystery. Life is too short to live in black sludge.

In life, we can hold on to anger, betrayal, resentments, slights, or we can purge it all and live in the sun. No matter how grievous the pain… no matter how long the process to move through the grief, find someone to help you and hold on tight. What we cannot do, is carry the pain, or the grudge, to our death. If we hang onto it, we rot from the inside, and the rest of humanity is cheated out of our natural gifts. It’s a crime against humanity! We poison everything around us. We become the human version of a legit EPA Superfund Sight = Toxic. Our opponent wins. To hell with that idea. Choose to live!

Let’s start with small steps. Little things. Daily chores. We can work up to bigger problems as we gain strength. We all, at times, have to do chores we would rather not. Okay. We can either have fun while we work, or we can gripe and moan. It’s all about attitude and the will to survive. We CAN have fun going to the grocery store, getting gas, mowing the lawn, or even, ironing!

My mother was consumed with demons, bitter and miserable her entire life. I was lucky, however, and had a dad who could make small mundane tasks seem like fun. He was the sun. And like our tree of refuge, I leaned into the sun for those brief happy moments. I chose to follow his path. He passed his spirit to me, and I passed it to my son and stepdaughters. Yet, I had no idea where his spirit came from….. or that it was born from misery, buried deeply.

We moved from Chicago to New Orleans when I was 10, and our house wasn’t quite finished by the contractor. In August, Dad and I laid sod in the yard. Being from the north, we weren’t used to the humidity. To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever again been that hot. Sweat ran down my arms and legs like a river, and a curious thing, collected on my eyelashes. Yet, we drank a gallon of Iced Tea and played in the hose. We had a wonderful day, and we proudly finished the job. We were foul, nasty, smelly, stinky, and could not have been happier.

When I was a little older, I learned my Dad’s great attitude came from his parents,  Grandma Della and Grandpa Earl. If I look back on old photos, my Grandfather is ALWAYS smiling, beaming. His eyes sparkle, as if he was the one who ate the proverbial canary. He was notoriously mischievous. I recall family meals where we laughed so hard, my stomach, rib muscles, would hurt for days afterwards. Grandma Della even made ironing enjoyable…., which is hard to do…, but this story will break your heart and then, make your heart soar.

It’s all about ironing, birds, and the source of great pain, and the purest form of love.

I was 21, finishing college (the first time), and had accepted a job in Manhattan. Thrilled with the opportunity, I was feeling big and bad, full of “femme” power, ready to shake off the dusty little town in Mississippi, and move to the big city. My wardrobe was updated, new luggage purchased, and I was brushing up on my Cosmopolitan Magazine. My attitude needed a gut check, and I got it that day, in the most humbling of ways.

During college, I lived with my grandparents, which was good for them, me, and a lot of fun for us all. One day, midweek, I came home from work for lunch, and Grandma was ironing in the kitchen. I gathered my triscuits. cheese, and leftover grilled chicken, and slid into the deacon’s bench to eat and talk to her. I was staring out the big bay window at the bird feeders when a Chickadee landed. A Chickadee was rare, and I prompted Grandma to look. “Grandma Violet came to visit!”, I said. Chickadees always reminded my grandmother of her mom, but I never knew why…., until that day.

Grandma Della had quite an extraordinary process for ironing. The ironing board was a metal contraption left over from the war (WW2) and weighed almost as much as my grandmother. Grandpa would set it up for her on ironing day. She would wash Grandpa’s white shirts in hot water, Tide and bleach, then, rewash them, with starch added to the mix. She would take the shirts out of the washing machine, straighten them, and roll them up, placing them in a leftover, clean, Wonder Bread wrapper…… and put them in the lowest shelf of the fridge to chill. A “chilled shirt on a hot iron, made the shirt more crisp”, she claimed.

I was watching my grandmother labor in this process and I noticed she closed her eyes when she was almost done with the shirt. She murmured something, spread her hands, eyes still closed, the length of the shirt. Satisfied, she opened her eyes, hung it up, and moved on to the next one. I bit into a triscuit, and watched her. The kitchen was cozy and smelled fresh with the steam from the iron. She did the same thing several times. Breaking the silence but with my mouth full, I asked her what she was doing. Of course, like all 21 year olds who think they know better, I interrupted her before she could speak. I asked, “Why, on earth, don’t you take the shirts to the cleaners?” After all, they could afford it, and it would save her time. She stopped, glared at me, and physically recoiled, as if I had accused her of murdering the neighbor.

She said, “I don’t want to tell you.” What? Huh? Grandma told me everything! I didn’t know she had any secrets. For the first time ever, I looked at my grandmother like she was another woman, not my grandmother. I lowered my voice and sincerely asked her to please, tell me. She sighed deeply, stalling, big breath in and out, and looked at me hard. Whatever was coming, I had the sense it was big.

She told me that she said a small prayer over every shirt she ironed for my grandfather. To her, it was his suit of armor. It was his shield placed BY HER, to keep him safe, throughout his day. She felt that her love, with a little help from God, would protect him…. I could feel the tears sting my eyes. Her love for my grandfather was like a mountain.. like a whole range of mountains.

She pointed at me for emphasis. She reminded me how she always hugged her husband and told him she loved him before he left. She sternly warned me, “You should never (still pointing) take anything for granted, anyone you love can be gone in a flash.” She gestured to the window dismissively, and flatly stated, “Chickadees were not my mother’s favorite, they were my father’s favorite.” She hardly ever spoke of her real father. I knew my great-grandfather died when she was young. My great-grandmother remarried a man named Ross, and they were married for 30+ years. Apparently, my great-grandmother was not feeling well one morning and my great-grandfather let her sleep in when he went to work. He died that day and my great-grandmother never had the chance to say goodbye, to kiss him one more time. It haunted her and Chickadees were a reminder. My grandmother explained, “Chickadees were like a good but bittersweet ghost, who had returned for one final kiss goodbye, just a quick peck on the cheek”. My grandmother, as a young girl, understood, life was precious… and she still missed her father. No wonder she hugged me so hard every time we parted.

The story she told made her tear up. Her grief bubbled to the surface as if it were fresh, although 50 years prior. I comforted her, for the first time, our roles reversed. We embraced and she sobbed on my shoulder. I understood her in a new way never thought possible. She never spoke of her father’s death, and she desperately needed to talk about it. I was astonished at the way she turned her fear of death, into ‘extra’ love for her family and friends. She turned her grief into a positive, without knowing it. It was a ‘thing’ in our family. We always hugged, kissed goodbye, and told each other we loved them when we were separated. As a kid, it sometimes made me impatient. Now, I understood why.

From then on, grandma and I were closer than ever before, not as a familial obligation, but as two people who cared about each other deeply. Gut check to me was received. Priorities reset. I was humbled, a little bit wiser, and grateful.

The years flew by as I whizzed through Manhattan and Miami, finally cashing out to return home. I married and found myself ironing shirts for my first husband. They were work shirts with blue or brown collars, but they were immaculately pressed. No fridge treatment for me, however. My first husband asked me, “Why in the hell don’t you let me take them into the laundry service.” I refused but was reluctant to tell him why. He finally prodded it out of me one day, and he thought I was silly. I still ironed his shirts no matter how gruff he was – and I added a little prayer for patience.

Flash forward a few years.

We bought the big house and turned it into a B&B. I did about 80 loads of laundry every week, and always ironed the pillow cases and top sheets – light starch. We turned one of the bedrooms into a larger laundry room because I spent so much time on laundry. I moved in a television so I could watch stock reports (old habit from the brokerage days), and a couple of comfy chairs. We also bought an old ironing MANGLE, with foot pedals, so I could do linen and sheets in one pass. Blue jeans came out beautifully when run through the MANGLE. I had the system of “laundry” just about perfected…. but I needed music to soothe my soul.

A few months later, my first husband rewired sets of speakers with a big switcher. We could broadcast music to different places, central hall, upstairs hall, kitchen, laundry, side porch, and powerful waterproof Bose speakers for the backyard. The switcher was rather complicated and I didn’t really pay attention. I put in Tina Turner or AC/DC when I ironed. Unknown to me, the outside speakers were on the whole time. Teachers at the school got to the point where they knew I was ironing….. because Tina was blaring. Embarrassing, but I made friends.

We live next to the school and my girlfriends would stop into my kitchen after dropping off their kids for leftover coffee and to chat. After about an hour, one girlfriend mentioned she had to go home and iron…. she was whining about it, too. Another girlfriend joked, her husband’s “iron pile” has been in the same position for 3 months. She ignored the iron pile. Another girlfriend piped up about the drudgery of ironing. They were all downtrodden, accumulating their purses, keys, and putting empty coffee cups in the sink… leaving……. when I had an idea.

“Wait a minute”, I said, “How about you all go home and get your ironing and we’ll do it together!” They stopped and looked at me like I lost my mind. I continued, “Because of the B&B, I have irons and ironing boards in every room, plus mine downstairs. That’s five irons, ironing boards, plus the Mangle.” I said, “It makes sense. Instead of you being alone and miserable, we can get our ironing done together and be happy.” They were looking at each other, waiting for a signal…..,  few moments of silence…….., when one girlfriend said, “I’ll make Bloody Mary’s – we can iron and drink!” The idea was sold.

We laughed and cackled all day – ironing. We laughed until our sides split. We got ‘tickled’ and slapped at each other. Belly laughs. Laughing to the point where you beg to stop and stomp your feet. Laughing until you have to pee. Laughing so hard you have to leave the room to catch a breath. It was great. Someone made sandwiches and while we were eating, I told the story of Della, my grandmother, ironing for my grandfather, creating a suit of armor for him, and a love so deep, so big, like mountains. We cried like babies. I told them about the Chickadees, and the ghost returning for one more kiss goodbye, and we cried more. All my girlfriends knew her. Della was a community grandma.

For years, about once a month while the kids were in school, we got together to iron. We always made a “special” drink and sometimes a “casserole event” for lunch. The husbands knew, eye-rolled, “It was ironing day”. The kids became jealous and wondered what we did on those days. Finally, we decided all the kids would just gather at our house, snacks for all, until we were finished. In that way, the kids felt like they were part of our secret club – The Ironing Club.

I was at a wedding when a pregnant young woman approached me who was new to town. She asked me if she could come and iron with us. She had “heard stories”. “No kidding…”, I said. I threw my arms around her and hugged her big, “Of course, you can come and iron!”. She needed a little bit of Grandma Della love. She was accepted immediately and her baby was born into a clan of cave bear moms. It made her better and it made us better.

We burned a few shirts over the years, sure, but we mended things and saved them as well. We taught each other countless tips and worked together to get a job done, just like dad and I laid the sod. We didn’t just whistle while we worked, we sang loudly. We danced with a zeal, enough to make Tina Turner proud. Above all, we laughed. More than anything else, we laughed.

Over the years, all of us suffered hardships, some suffered intolerable pain and loss. There were deaths, divorces, the death of one child, and coincidentally, we were all together, in the laundry room, watching television, when the planes struck the World Trade Center. Somehow, being together, made it less painful. We knew, whatever happened, we would face it together. We would survive, and eventually, we would laugh and dance, once more.

So, the next time you iron, think about the person who will wear the item, and say a little prayer, or wish them well. It won’t hurt you. I promise. If you see a Chickadee this spring, smile, and remember Grandma Della. Do we ever have enough kisses for those we love? Wouldn’t we all want just one more kiss before we said goodbye?

And here’s a hint. You might not have to look so hard for a deep and profound love, like a mountain range…… it might be right under your nose.





48 thoughts on “Whistle While We Work? Nah. Sing and Dance!

  1. I think I am in love with you, daughnworks! :). Another great piece of writing. Lovely story.

    Not sure that I will be able to convince my wife to start ironing my shirts, though…

    Liked by 15 people

  2. Oh, my! What a wonderful story! Thank you so very much – that definitely lifted my spirits! BTW, my adopted Grandma used to own a Travel Court in Norfolk – she had 8 little cabins she rented out that I used to help her clean and guess what? Iron the sheets with the mangle! Is that a coincidence or what???? I LOVED helping her at the cabins and felt so very grown up when she let me iron the sheets with the mangle.

    Sadly, she also blamed me when the abuse happened and I am convinced she talked my Mom out of leaving him – God forbid there should be a divorce in the family!!!! They were one of the founding families of Norfolk – appearances MUST be kept up, dontcha know…..in any case, it is what it is and I survived. Now I, and ONLY I, control my life!

    Again, my thanks to all of you for the loving support and obvious caring – I cannot say how very much it is appreciated. And I am so happy I was able to help ZooNTexas in even this small way.

    Liked by 13 people

      1. Daugh what an uplifting post.

        Many yeas ago a teacher mystic wise and man told this story.

        Two monks were standing at the river bank just ready to walk through it when they saw a woman who was afraid of the water.
        One Monk took her upon his shoulder and carried her over to the other site. When he looked at his travel friend the other monk he saw displeasure in his face. He let the woman off his shoulder and the monks went on their way without saying a word.

        After about 20 minutes walking the monk spoke angrily up and said “why did you carry that woman on your shoulder you a monk?”
        The other monk answered “I let the woman off my shoulder 20 minutes ago and I see you are still carrying her.”

        The same wise man who told the monk story said, “we all build a prison in our chest and every now and then we take our prisoners out and bead them up.”
        Then he said “it is hard to be a prison warden why not love yourself and let them go and give yourself freedom.”

        From time to time when I am about to take a prisoner into my heart I say “I love you (and name it) but my spiritual destiny is different from yours and I breath out.”

        Only in love can we let go. We never let go in anger or hate it will keep us prison wardens for the rest of our lives. .
        Love is the key and it is very hard to embrace love fully and let go of pain and hurt but it works.
        Love is the balm that heals.

        Liked by 2 people

    1. The challenge is to look at something in a different way. See something we’ve never seen before. Find joy, where there was only a mundane chore. AND grow roots, with friends or family, to get us through the hard times.

      Liked by 6 people

        1. daughnworks247
          “Besides the double toilet paper holder for the master bathroom, the Mangle was the best piece of household equip I’ve ever had.”
          I had two Mangles one with a stand a Hungarian women gave me and one potable. I still have the portable one and occasionally Mangle my pillowcases.
          My kids used to iron hankerchifs and pillowcases while I did sheets and table clothe and what ever could be ironed.
          I am no longer that loony but pillowcases for guest rooms is still a must.

          Liked by 1 person

          1. I had one on the back porch when we moved it. It must have weighed 500lb. It was rusted and a pile of junk. No one lived here for 23yrs when we bought the house.
            My MIL was miserable because the mangle did not work – of course, I had no idea what a mangle was.
            Flash forward a few years.
            My family’s last big Illinois farmhouse went up for auction and we went (distant relative but where I spent a lot of summers). Among the items was a brand new mangle and matching chair – mint condition. I bought it for $1.00. My first husband had “trucks” to transport anything I ever bought.
            About 5yrs ago, the porcelain plate finally broke. Sad day.
            I wish I had another one.
            Made mincemeat out of tablecloths, napkins, pillow cases, sheets, and curtains.

            Liked by 1 person

  3. Daughn, thank you, and also to Grandma Dela and the chickadees. Just love this story and you for these gifts. I think my grandmas had that secret of doing those mundane chores with love, and your ironing group was wonderful.

    Liked by 10 people

    1. The news is 24/7 “sky is falling”, except for the good news we have to search for and cull from media about our President. Not everything is horrible. Goodness abounds, we just can’t get the media to talk about it.

      Liked by 5 people

      1. Nahhh,we are the goodness, we don’t need media to fill our cup.
        Have to say… Stephen Miller sure made the media look stupid today : )
        He is “goodness abound”! Thanks for your beautiful “filling” stories. Feel
        like you’re a sister of sorts : )

        Liked by 1 person

        1. Thanks Charlie. I always wanted a big family. Overly big. I admired the way they fought with each other, but when it came down to the nut-cutting, they were loyal.
          THAT’s family.
          Stephen Miller needs to be cloned!!


  4. Woman to woman through the ages – GOD, His Joy, Peace, Truth, Love, Freedom, Thanksgiving….He enters our hearts, redeems, rebuilds, uplifts us in our pain, labors, sorrows.

    Liked by 5 people

    1. Mary was responding to the affirmation of her cousin Elizabeth – that indeed – Mary was to be the bearer of our Savior and Redeemer – Luke 1:46-55 KJV

      And Mary said, My soul doth magnify the Lord,
      And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.
      For he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden: for, behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.
      For he that is mighty hath done to me great things; and holy is his name.
      And his mercy is on them that fear him from generation to generation.
      He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
      He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree.
      He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away.
      He hath holpen his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy;
      As he spake to our fathers, to Abraham, and to his seed for ever.

      Liked by 6 people

  5. Daughn, now I know why God gave you your beautiful long arms you told us about. They had to be “longer than most women’s,” because you wrap them around everyone that enters your life.

    I’m so glad you’re here, and that Wolf knew you needed to post here regularly.


    Liked by 5 people

    1. Oh Jan, that’s about the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you. I sure wish we all lived closer, but in a way, it’s like you’re right next door.
      Thanks to Wolfie!

      Liked by 4 people

  6. Daughn, thank you for that beautiful story! What an amazing thing to be in your circle of friends and be such blessings to each other. I will never look at ironing as a chore again.

    Liked by 5 people

    1. Yeah, but if I was alone, I would have been singing and dancing with no one there. I would still have been alone. Gotta have friends. Much more fun.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. daughnworks247
        “Yeah, but if I was alone, I would have been singing and dancing with no one there. I would still have been alone. Gotta have friends. Much more fun.”
        It is not easy to make friends when one moves at 50 and has not gone to school here or has worked outside the home.
        When I moved here to OH I made friends in Church and also neighbors. The neighbors moved or died. The Church friends died.
        One make superficial friendships. People are set in their friend circle.

        I do not feel lonely because I am busy and also busy reading on the Internet.
        I always was an outsider beginning when I was born and then when I became a refugee at 4. One never really belongs or gets attached to place or things.

        Coming as immigrant to Queens NY I made many friends most were my husbands and his parents. He was an only child and his parents were immigrants so there’re no relatives.
        Then moving to a small town in OH one is an outsider always and the older wiser people are gone.

        People are not as welcoming to outsiders as we like to make believe. I get well along with Jewish people and Black people and some older other people. Gosh I am 74 and do not think of myself as old..:)

        I see the world different then most people .
        Of course it might be totally me who is the problem. I do not understand many people and values and they do not understand mine . I do not even understand Germans..:)
        My husband spoils me and put me on a pedestal and I tell him I am best thing that ever happened to him…. He agrees…:):)
        Daugh you are the only one I know who had a Mangle and knows how to use it. To funny..:):)

        This is a nice group of people and you all attracted me to the OT.

        Liked by 2 people

        1. “I do not feel lonely because I am busy and also busy reading on the Internet.
          I always was an outsider beginning when I was born…”

          I relate to what you shared here. Thank you for revealing your precious heart! God Bless YOU!

          hopefully you’ll see a Biblical encouragement above…


  7. Daugn….. you are a captivating Author (You really need to write “us” a book) 🙂
    Your writing style is…. well… captivating.
    Your internet {Hugs} mean so much more after reading this.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Back at ya’ Rayzor. We’ll get you talking, yet. I can smell a doozy of a story in your past. We’ll pry it out of you one way or another. Wink!

      Liked by 1 person

  8. Speaking of books…..I have often been told I should write a book about my life. I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to go about that. Any of you great writers interested in a collaboration of sorts? The book would certainly have to be under a pseudonym, with fake names and x-rated – LOL.

    Interesting experience I had a few years ago: I was looking for some work I could do at home after our local American Legion closed (I was the manager of the Club) and read an ad for someone to help edit some personal journals for a book. I met with the woman and was so impressed with her. She used to be a Nun, had MS, as well as a host of other health issues, and was wheel-chair bound. She was also an artist and painted some gorgeous water-colors. Terrible family situation, with a brother who she thought had murdered another member of their family. They had a family farm and she was excited about the possibility of me taking her out to see the farm, and we talked about the possibility of building a ramp of sorts to get her into my F-150. I signed up for a Cloud account so she could share her journals on-line. Sad to say, I never heard back from her and I wonder now what happened to her.

    When you meet someone like that, you come to the realization that your own problems are not so bad after all.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. You should write a book.
      We have a member name Kea.
      Don’t mean to put you on the spot, Kea, but I was trying to figure out how to ‘follow’ her on WordPress and went to her blog.
      She reviews books.
      And she does it, well!

      Kea would be a good sounding board, for what makes an interesting book.

      Liked by 1 person

  9. Daughn! I have NEVER wanted to be part of a club as bad as I want to be in that Secret Ironing Club of yours!!!!–And I don’t Iron–at least much…Beautiful Story! Beautiful Words!! Thank you ! Sitting at a boring Open House today and your story kept me company…Hugs!

    Liked by 3 people

  10. Daugn…….. What a day to “publish” your FANTASTIC story…….
    Sorry that you were TRAMPLED by Q Drops……
    I know that these Drops diminished your comment section.
    Awesome story though!!!!!
    But Knowing you….. You are Glad to take one for the team 🙂


  11. Daughn is a wonderful writer and I envy that ability.
    this shows we all have life stories that made us who we are today. Not everyone can write their story down that is why Daughn stories are so refreshing .
    Some other have nice stores to share and they are also beautiful .


    1. You know, Curry, I never thought about it before but you guys are making me think about it a little.
      I have a real problem taking a compliment. Usually brush it off and get embarrassed.
      Husband is a pro-writer, but legal. Fastest writer I’ve ever seen. Kind of intimidating, if you know what I mean.
      I write the way I think. Like I’m “writing out loud”, or explaining to you, as if you were sitting in the same room with me.
      Not fishing for a compliment here (please know that) but wondering what it is that makes it good, or even, pray tell, “great” — or maybe more precisely, “Why is it ‘different?”.
      I asked husband this afternoon and his reply made me laugh. He said, “Quit overthinking it and write.” and “I’ll tell you when it’s bad”
      Well, okay then…..

      One sidenote:
      Same thing happens here.
      Can’t tell you the number of people who come in and are ‘tense’, uptight, on a schedule, distant, cold.
      I can’t tell you how many of them sit down for breakfast, begin to talk, and they linger for hours, talking, sometimes blubbering their deepest secrets.
      Do they feel safe here?
      Is it that they know they will never see me again and need to unburden themselves?
      Has it been that long since they had an actual conversation?
      Are they so busy in their lives, they don’t have time to create friendships?
      Combination of all of the above?
      Who knows…
      But the transformation is 100%. It happens to everyone…. save one person.
      It’s like magic.
      I’ve stopped trying to explain it and just accept it, happy to be blessed.

      Liked by 2 people

      1. Quit overthinking it and write.
        Let’s just call it magic – this gift to “write out loud.’
        You apparently have an ability to reach into people’s souls – whether in person or through the written word.
        I’ve read each of these recent stories out loud to my wife and I always have little trouble with a part of it. (Dust, you know.)
        It sure helps that you have such great experiences to work with. But that’s another story…

        Liked by 1 person

  12. Loved this! Some of the best times of my childhood were spent helping my grandmother iron. We sang and talked while we worked. I was thrilled when I “graduated” from handkerchiefs and napkins to pillowcases and tablecloths, then curtains and dresses with pleats.

    Fresh from the clothesline, ironed to perfection with nice crisp lines, they looked beautiful and smelled so good.

    Thank you for this awesome reminder! I think I will start ironing my pillowcases again 😉🛏

    Liked by 2 people

  13. Reblogged this on Special Connections and commented:
    This is a beautiful post revealing some deep truths through the art of storytelling. I will be revisiting it to do some grief work of my own on my personal journey toward some degree of healing & lessening of burdens too long weighing me down.

    Please check out the original post & be blessed!

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s