The Portland Press Herald is my favorite newspaper.

Growing up in small town New Hampshire my parents only had the local weekly delivered – mostly, because they had kids spread out from preschool to high school.  More weeks than not, one of us was featured doing something.

Though, whenever we ventured to Maine, The Portland Press became as routine as tooth brushing and beach combing.

This venture proved no different.

My family just returned from a grateful week in South Portland visiting with multiple cousins, and one deeply loved aunt.  The Portland Press was a part of every day.

Though while inspiring stories of determined Mainers, and thoughtful editorials from the publishers still dotted the pages, the news was mostly soaked in fear, hate, outrage, and disaster.

Every page, every day, brought more stories of assault against humanity.  More division and devastation.

I found it difficult to read.  To write.  To respond.  And on the ride home, with my own little one peacefully asleep in the back, I cried.

How do we heal?  What’s the Loving Solution?

The word “loving” stayed with me. And for the rest of the ride I heard it as, “love-in.”

I do not have any big answers, so, I try my best to be open to simple starts.

I believe it’s a good principle to do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  But, what happens if you’re not doing very well unto yourself?

When you only hear your faults.  Only see your failures.  When you can’t bear your own touch. When you believe (or worse, believe that you know) that you are less.

Maybe, it’s too much to start out and then work back in.

Maybe, if we all Love-In a bit more, we could hurt each other a lot less.

I’m determined to try.

From here until…who knows…I’ll be mindfully finding a way to Love-In every day.

Today, that meant making my bed as if it were for company.

Freshly laundered sheets, securely fastened and crisply folded.  Pillows in matching cases, positioned to invite sinking and sleeping.  White candle light and a faint, cool summer breeze. The rain even tapped in.

After taking in a few deep, quiet moments of peace, I went for my phone to take a picture.  That’s when my son asked if he could be in it, too.  It felt very right to say, “of course, you can.”

We all can.

Love-In.  Love-Out.

Especially in the beginning, it’s good to keep the F-word handy.

When I’m just starting to get back into a routine.  To connect with the thoughts, decisions, and practices that best serve me…to turn back in, to get (and give) more out…

It’s critical the F-word stay a present and constant mantra.

Remember to have FUN.

Otherwise, it’ll just turn into work.  And there’s no reason to make it hurt.

Before I left for vacation I had a session with my therapist.

“Do you know what I just wrote down?” she asked.

I already knew, so there was no real reason to wait for my reply:

“No self care,” she said.

She was right.  Yoga, writing, clean eating, good sleeping, walking, meditation, reiki – all swiftly gone by the wayside.  A dry cough has even returned, along with some post-nasal drip.

Sometimes, I stop doing the things that are good for me.  I can’t pinpoint exactly why – all I know is that self-care is a process and for me, not a linear one.

Getting on my path is no longer my challenge.  Staying on it, is.

And usually, this is when I begin handing out judgments.  Sentencing myself.  My drive = pitiful.  My passion = laughable.  My talents = non-existent.  My body = ugly.

But here’s a sign of progress:

The sentence is so much lighter.

Truth is, I do not feel my best. Truth is, I have not been taking the best care of me. AND the truth is, I know how to forgive and start again.

And so, I have.

Deep breathes.  Simple words.  One foot in front of the other.

There is joy in letting go of what keeps you dark and down, and living in the truth that you can (over and over, and again and again, and even after long periods of time) light up the sky.

I had a late afternoon meeting just outside of Boston’s North End.

Walking proved the best way to arrive on time, plus it was beautiful out – and I still find it thrilling.

Growing up in rural New Hampshire trips to the North End were an annual treat – filled with actual treats.  Cannoli, cookies, fresh made lemon slush, house cured sausage and still warm bread.

My sister’s stroller would get caught up in the cobblestones, and I’d marvel how my Mom still always seemed to fit in.  Striking up conversations with every shop keeper like she was a regular.  Like she belonged – because, in fact, she did.

And this afternoon, as I treated myself to the most delicious ice coffee for the walk back to the office,  I caught a glimpse of myself at the counter – looking wonderfully like my Mom.

I woke up this morning with a bug.

My throat hurt.  My body was sore.  I felt nauseous, and both of my ears were blocked.

I asked Ken to get Briggs to daycare.  I cancelled therapy.  Worked from the front porch in pajamas.

You’re run down.  Take an hour for yoga.  Try writing a few pages.  Go for a walk.  Make a juice.  Send some reiki.

I could hear my good intentions – just couldn’t listen to them.  So, I sank deeper into work and worry, until a tiny red spider caught my attention.

It’s eight little legs crept up my forearm.  I swatted on impulse.  A mindless reaction to the slightest, innocent startle.

Not so long ago, I stomped and squished and swatted anything that made me the slightest bit uncomfortable.  Always reacting out of fear.  If I didn’t get to it first, it would surely wreak havoc on me.

I’ve spent nearly a year dedicated to improving my personal practice of gratitude, optimism, and awareness…and a lapse in just a few weeks, and I can already see the holes in this beautiful, invisible safety net I’ve been working on weaving.

Doesn’t mean you have to fall all the way through.

A few hours later, another spider, on the other arm.  This time, I didn’t move so fast.  Felt her speedily crawl down, as I slowly made my way up and out to gently shoo her into the the potted garden on our front steps.

An hour later, as I went to secure the back of the house (finally finding the strength to venture out), I noticed a fly trapped between the screen door and the exterior door – and so I took an extra step to let it free before switching the locks.

As I got into the car an ant found it’s way to my flip flop – and my big toe found a way to help it get back to the colony, before we headed out for a night as a family.

I woke up this morning with a bug, any maybe that’s precisely what I needed to get back to the practice of getting better.

I ended up helping a lot today, but I can’t think of ANYTHING that could possibly be more helpful than adding my voice to those on the side of love and common sense.

I remember actually feeling pretty comforted by the doctor who told me:

“We’re not too overly concerned about your son’s survival.”

She then went on to explain how I would be kept pregnant for the next 24 hours, in order to give a boost to my son’s lung development.  He would be delivered two months early.

“Your incubator isn’t working anymore for him, or for you,” the doctor explained.

My blood pressure was skyrocketing, my urine packed with proteins, and my medical team predicted that staying pregnant any longer would likely result in a stroke for me, and a stillborn birth for Briggs.

The good news was that a plan was in place and no one was, “too overly concerned,” about his survival, or mine.  They were confident that this would be a relatively uneventful stay at the Newborn Intensive Care Unit.

And, they were right.

While the stay was long (61 days), and was followed by an emergency surgery just four days after his release, all in all, Briggs progressed the way his loving, caring, and massively intelligent team predicted.  Nearly five years later he is a smart, compassionate, and active kid.

He keeps pace with his peers just fine.

The thing about trauma though – even when you work through it, or god-willing, get passed it – it leaves a mark.  Mind you it’s a mark I’m okay with baring and sharing – but it’s still a mark.

Briggs’s tough start left a lot of marks.  One of the more physical ones is my cesarian scar.  The surgery went according to plan.  I recovered and healed just fine, but still, all these years later, when I feel deeply sad or afraid, it pulses.

I don’t know how else to explain it.  It’s this uncomfortable beat – an aching throb.  An emotional response to physical loss.

I could not carry my son to term.  And I couldn’t carry the baby that came before him for more than a couple of months.

Accepting that these things happened, and that they do not say anything about my worth, or my devotion as a mother has been monumental.

For the past few days, since learning about the tragedy in Orlando, my scar has been pulsing.

One of the many things the NICU taught me is that every baby is a miracle baby – and that every family has mountains to scale, climb, and move.

We must be able to do better. For our babies (aren’t they forever our babies?) and for each other.

Hate.  Fear.  Disaster.  This is too much for any baby, any family, any village to bear.

Our arms are made for opening up and holding on to what is truly dear…each other.

The best way for me to describe how I felt when the Depression and Anxiety took over, is extinguished.

Crippled by exhaustion and weighted with fear, I strained to accomplish the simplest of tasks.

Eating.  Showering.  A load of laundry.  A five-minute commute to my son’s daycare.

Everything seemed to physically hurt, emotionally drain, and psychologically just be, too much.  This was especially painful, because for the majority of my existence I had associated what I could do with how much I deserved to be loved.  Therefore, if I couldn’t do much, I predicted that those who I loved the most, would inevitably – justifiably, stop loving me.

Once deep into treatment I started to chip away at those lies, until that big ole barrier came crashing down and the truth of my worth started to shine through.

One of the exercises I did at this time was go out into our backyard and get a fire going.  I’ve loved campfires for as long as I can remember, and for me there’s this real primal satisfaction in being able to actually breathe life into the flames.

I named the exercise “Fire Starter,” and it’s only point was to remind me that I am one.

We all are.

This morning I woke up with the smell of campfire in my hair after a long, fun, happy night with dear friends.

And I realized what a miracle it is, to have so many Fire Starters in my life, who happily rekindle each others’ flames without ever even really needing to be asked.

Earlier this week, I got to spend some time with Mr. Rogers.

My local public television station asked me to volunteer some time for their live June fundraiser, and I was more than happy to oblige.  Especially considering the program they wanted me to help with was a documentary called, Mister Rogers and Me.

I’m a big supporter of public broadcasting.  We all deserve easy (and free) access to smart, fun, thoughtful, and inspiring content – and, in my opinion, public television and public radio are the best at offering this to everyone, everywhere, all of the time.

Also, Fred Rogers spoke some serious, ever-lasting, soul-nourishing truth.

He told generations of kids (of all ages) that:

I like you just the way you are.

Talk about acceptance.

No need for improvements, or judgments, or even aspirations.  Just the way you are.  To be seen, to be welcome, and even to be liked, required only to be.

That deep and simple message alluded me for awhile, but I’m so grateful to be connected to it again…because liking you just the way you are, helps me to like me, just the way I am.

And that is such a good feeling, a very good feeling.

On the ride home after a fun-filled day of family, birthdays, and tee ball, I nearly conned myself into fast food.

I was tired.  My son was hungry.  And, I hadn’t yet done grocery shopping.

There’s nothing at home.

Standing in line at a so-so barbecue place the woman behind the counter told me they were out of brisket, out of pork, and out of chicken.

There’s nothing here.

Briggs and I settled on a lemonade for him, and an unsweetened tea for me.  Apparently, that’s all it took.

I came home refreshed.

Suddenly dreaming of the black beans, chiles, and jasmine rice in the pantry.  Then I remembered the vegetable drawer.  From the fringe I grabbed the cilantro, scallions, the week’s remaining fresh pineapple, and two jalapeños.  Back to the pantry for a can of diced tomatoes.

“Briggs, do you want boiled eggs with your rice?”

“YES, PLEASE!”

The eggs my mother had brought from the farm next to her house.  Hard-boiled with the yolks scooped out for him.  Soft-boiled with nature’s best sauce running down the beans and rice for me.

Pulled together with salt and pepper, and traces of curry, paprika, and oregano, along with drizzles of rich extra virgin olive oil and splashes of apple cider vinegar – the humble dish cobbled together with whatever I had on hand – transported me.

To a hole-in-the-wall cafe in Barcelona where I once shared a similar dish with a table full of twenty-somethings from around the world.

To a brunch in Denver with my cousin, where I admitted for the first time that while I was good at my job, it was no longer good for me.

Back to Billerica, with my son – where we were sun-kissed, and exhausted, and together.

And I gratefully soaked up every bit of goodness from my very full plate.