Symbols can be powerful—evoking strong emotions to rise to the surface from some deep, out of view space. I have been subjected to three Confederate flags this last week—all were flying from long wood poles alongside the US flag—both attached to the beds of four wheel drive trucks, validating at least one stereotype perfectly. OK. This is Arizona. I am not in the South. The West should not feel any affiliation or loyalty to the Confederacy. What exactly are these fools embracing and expressing by
I am not superstitious and I certainly think Karma is bunk. But something makes me hesitate shouting at the top of my lungs, "life is good," out of fear that I will jinx myself—that the hubris police will come cracking down and put me back in my miserable place. Maybe I am simply not used to success. It feels different. I feel vulnerable. Could I lose it all in a moment's notice?
I should feel I deserve this chance at greatness. Haven't I suffered enough? I don't want
I need a break. Wow, has it been a taxing and intense last six weeks. My training ended last Friday. I have been set free to sink or swim. Yesterday was Crazy with a capital C. Five appointments! Fortunately all were pleasant and patient—while I got my footing. Everyone has been telling me it takes years to learn this job and they still don't know everything. I think that is reassuring. I still haven't decided.
I will still be traveling to Flagstaff on Thursdays to meet with clients
I'm a survivor. I have survived two major medical illnesses. Why have I arrived on the other side whereas others with similar illnesses have lost the battle or are continuing to fight for their lives—daily, hourly? Why me? Why not me?
When I got spinal cancer at age 16, I could have felt pity for myself. Instead I decided not to be a victim but rather a warrior. I was going to live, dammit. Thirty years later, I remain cancer free. I have a few scars—battle wounds—but I am walking