Writer, producer, and storyteller living in New England among two and four-legged loved ones. I use this space to focus on something I'm grateful for experiencing or remembering, or misremembering.
It’s not that I was opposed to watching the movie at the height of all it’s Disney glory – it’s just that at the time, Briggs was more into Thomas the Tank Engine. And, I was more into work.
But, recently Briggs asked if we could borrow Frozen from the library, and so, we did.
I knew it was a story about sisters. What I didn’t know is that it’s a story about the first true love of sisters.
I have four sisters. And, I love them all equally. But, my first true love is Lindsey.
Lindsey was born 21 months after me.
We shared a bedroom for nearly all of the years that we lived under the same roof(s). We share the same Mom and Dad. We shared the same last name, until we each married. We shared our parents’ divorce, every move (up until college), and an unrequited love for Nerds, all books Judy Blume, and what we called, “yummy cheese.” Port wine cheese food spread. Delicious.
There have been times in our lives when we were inseparable. Times when we’ve barely talked. Times when we have taken care of one another with great sincerity, and times when we’ve caused lasting pain.
When I started this work of Self, I confessed to my Mom that the only thing I was really scared about was losing Lindsey.
What if she doesn’t like whoever I end up becoming?
But, after watching Frozen and undergoing today’s deep and intense therapy session, I finally let that hurtful worry go.
We will not always agree. We will continue to be in different places at different times. But she will always be my first true love – and that, certainly, will be frozen for all time in all ways.
And hell, the cold never bothered us anyway. (Actually, it kind of always has, but I couldn’t resist.)
My husband and I went out with friends and family last night, so our son stayed with my in-laws.
I give them a call, a little after eight-thirty, to see where and when they want to meet for breakfast. But, before my mother in-law and I can even get that far, I hear Briggs begging for the phone.
“Auntie Heid?!”
I laugh. “No, Briggs, it’s Mumma.”
“Mum, guess what!?!”
“What?”
“JACK IS HERE!”
Up until a few days ago, Briggs wasn’t really aware of Elf on the Shelf. Neither his father nor I grew up with one.
But, about a month ago, when I talked to my father, Todd for the first time in a little more than four years, he asked if Briggs had an Elf. When I told him he didn’t, he asked if it would be okay to send one. I said that would be lovely, but that I would tell Briggs it came from Santa. He was okay with that.
Things are still complicated with Todd, and there’s an awful lot of stuff there – but that stuff isn’t what I want to write about. Not now.
What I do want to write about is Todd’s second wife (the one after my mother) – I’ll call her, Leanne.
Leanne and I never really clicked for an array of extremely good reasons. For the most part I found her cold, vacant, and primarily unstable. Though, like anything, there were shimmers of good that would occasionally catch light.
Like the time I was 14, sometime in mid-November, when she watching a Christmas special on my father’s insulated three-season porch, while eating Chef Boyardee beef raviolis straight from the can.
Somehow, she and I got talking about the show and Santa. In all of my early teen wisdom I quickly put her straight:
“Look, if you think I still believe, I don’t. I know he’s not real.”
She put her fork in the can, and the can on a coaster laying on top of the end table to her right.
“Do you think your father and I have a lot of money?” she asked.
“Well, you’re eating Chef Boyardee for lunch…” I snarked.
“Exactly. And your Mom and Bob – are they well off?”
I didn’t like her talking about my Mom. So, instead of giving her an answer, I just kind of opened my eyes wide and shrugged a bit.
“Right,” she went on, “so, nobody’s got any money. We’re eating Chef Boyardee for lunch, and yet somehow, to no fail, every single Christmas that space under BOTH your trees is stuffed to the gills. How do you think that happens?”
I didn’t answer for awhile and she didn’t let me off the hook.
“I don’t know,” I finally mustered, “you guys all work hard?”
“Yeah, but, that’s not it. Look, you want me to tell you that there’s a fat man in a sleigh with flying reindeers, you got me, congratulations, there’s not. But how do we make Christmas happen? I can’t tell you that either. I don’t know how it happens. How we can struggle all year to cover groceries and electric, and then, something always comes through. There are few things I can count on, but making Christmas out of nothing isn’t one of them. You better believe that’s Santa. Believe in that magic. Because it’s real and it’s been happening to you your whole life.”
I’m pretty sure that this was the only heartfelt conversation I ever had with Leanne. Obviously it stuck. Because I’m recalling it more than fifteen years after her marriage to my father came unglued.
Regardless of anything (and everything) else that transpired between Leanne and my family, that moment of front porch wisdom was a gift, and I’m thankful for it.
It was the first thing I thought of when Todd asked me about Briggs and Elf on the Shelf. Regardless of anything (and everything) that’s transpired between us, this was a simple gift that I would kindly accept on behalf of my child.
And, when I hear the pure joy in Briggs’s voice, relaying the story of discovering Jack high up on the shelf – at Nana and Pup’s even – right next to the picture of him on the train at Canobie Lake Park, I am grateful…
I grew up in a small, rural New Hampshire town. A town I desperately wanted to escape by sophomore year of high school.
Everyone knew everyone. Or at least, at school we did. Or, thought we did. What’s likely more accurate is that, in town everyone knew everyone, and at school everyone made assumptions about everyone.
That’s not to say that it’s not a lovely town and we weren’t ALL good kids. It is and we were. It’s just to point out that even in an area where kindness and connection can be abundant – exposure, authenticity, and acceptance can still run scarce.
Growing up I had (and still have) wonderful parents. Who gifted me incredible family and an entourage of their balanced, loving, and wise friends. So, I did (thankfully) have safe places to go when I started picking at childhood wounds that bled through adolescence – but, I didn’t yet have the tools to confide in any of my peers in the same way.
That’s why I spent the majority of middle school and high school desperately pushing and punishing myself with a packed schedule of advanced classes, an insane number of after-school activities, and a never-ending review of my mental scorecard where I would never earn, do, and be enough to be taken seriously…let alone get ahead, or win.
At that time, my “I am” thoughts and statements were mean and hurtful. On repeat everyday I would tell myself:
I’m ugly. I’m fat. I’m stupid. I’m tired. I’m annoying. I’m fat. I’m ugly. I’m stupid. No one really likes me. I’m annoying. I’m tired. I’m trying too hard. I’m not trying hard enough. I’m lazy. I’m fat. I’m stupid. I’m…I’m…I’m…I’m lost. No, no, no. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m not hungry. I’m not thirsty. I’m up. I’m going. I’m going. I’m going.
I think back and it’s no wonder that I felt like no one really liked me – I didn’t really like me. And with my General Anxiety Disorder (masking as super-human levels of energy), having me take on nearly every sport, group, and/or activity, was probably pretty aggravating to watch. It’s not that I didn’t want to give someone else a chance, I just didn’t know how to stop.
I didn’t have the tools…and it’s taken a long time to gain even a few of them.
So, when I see this morning that a member of the Class of ’99 suddenly passed away, I want to do something to honor his path, on behalf of all of us.
Because, while we all may not have been in touch with our higher-selves in our small, rural New Hampshire schools- we were all still there, together.
And while I couldn’t see the divine in others or myself during those years, I can now.
I’m grateful to have been in that town, in those schools, and with every single one of those divine kids.
We are all deserving. All beautiful. All perfect. All love and all loved.
Doing this work of Self – focussing on becoming aware, trying to train the mind to be here now, redirecting energy to manifest what is good and healthy – it’s primarily about shedding the ego.
Getting over those barriers created by judgement and competition, and giving in to the power of possibility and infinite abundance.
And that’s ultimately what I want to do – because the belief that there is more than enough (love, hope, success, gratitude, comfort, compassion, and connection) for everyone is now my guiding principle.
But, even so, I have to admit, on this Friday night, when the very kind woman helping Ken and me purchase our raffle tickets for the Annual Billerica Festival of Trees, stops everything she’s doing and says:
“I hope you won’t think me too forward, but, it has to be said. You are strikingly beautiful. A very, very pretty woman.”
I light up. Especially when Ken puts his hand on my back, smiles, and adds:
“Yes she is. A real keeper.”
“You’re a very lucky man,” the woman goes on.
“You are correct,” he looks at her, then me, “a very lucky man.”
We finish getting our raffle tickets and I thank the woman dearly and let her know that she’s made my day.
A lot happened this first week back at work, and I can’t think of a lovelier gift to receive than this completely unexpected compliment. Even if it did appeal to my ego.
I have a wonderful employer and incredibly compassionate colleagues.
When I decided I needed to take a medical leave to begin really healing from my Depression and General Anxiety Disorder, I was open with my direct team regarding my reasons for stepping away, but they respected my privacy and were vigilant about not sharing any of my personal information with anyone else in the company.
Their actions conveyed complete respect and sincere hope for my full return and (more importantly, for my) lasting recovery.
In these first few days I am met only with acceptance and authentic happiness. It feels truly good (and even more than that, safe) to be at work again.
Though, there is confusion. While I am met with many hugs, smiles, and honest, It’s so good to see yous…there are of course questions, though nearly all of them go unasked.
No one wants to invade. Everyone knows that something happened, and it’s clear that no one wants to cause (however unintentional) anymore pain.
But, the truth is, I want to tell them. Not out of obligation, but understanding. I want them to know (really know) that I am well. That I am here. And, above all, that I am grateful.
But, how do you start this kind of conversation at work? How do you make this potentially heavy message easy to receive – an actual gift, and not a burden of too much information.
And then I remember the cards.
While writing my first gratitude blog for the 29 Gifts Giving Challenge (after reading the book, 29 Gifts), I received a gift package that included a small stack of beautiful cards with the simple but beautiful inscription:
You are a gift.
I bring the cards to work and when I see someone who is clearly thrilled to see me, and sincerely wants to know how I am, I take out a card & say:
“Right before I left, I was diagnosed with Depression and General Anxiety Disorder. It got pretty bad, to where I wasn’t eating or sleeping and had a lot of fear over basic things – like even being here. I took the time to get the help I needed, and during my treatment I came across this book called, 29 Gifts. It’s all about the philosophy of gratitude. The cycle of giving and receiving. It made a lot of sense to me, so, I started putting it’s philosophy into action and started a gratitude blog. While I was writing the blog they sent me these cards, and I want to give one to you. The intention is to hang it somewhere where you’ll see it often and be reminded that you are more than enough, that you are, in fact, a gift. Your concern certainly has given so much to me – like the strength to get better, and I want you to know that I’m really grateful for that – and for you.”
The conversations that have manifested out of this action are simultaneously grounding and uplifting. They are powerful, and yet gentle reminders that we are all only truly seeking understanding and connection. And once you have that, everything seems to fall so perfectly into place.
Weeks before my return, when I would catch myself beginning to wander into worry about what I would say when people would ask where I’d been, what had happened, and if everything was okay, I reminded myself to stop. Breath. To have faith that when the time came, I would know then what to do, and wasting any time stressing about it before that time would offer no answers.
So, I just let that worry go, and then without any pain or punishment, when the time for a solution arrived, it simply and lovingly revealed itself.
While yesterday was my first day back at work, today would be my first day commuting into the office.
I’ve made the commute from Billerica to Boston nearly every workday since 2008, but this commute is different.
The commute is something I’ve always hated. That’s harsh, but accurate.
I hated and resented every minute spent going back and forth. Whether stop and go, easy breezy, or damn-well parked, I always felt those miles from door-to-door were mocking me.
You’re an idiot for buying outside the city.
Stupid, you missed your window to avoid the unavoidable traffic jams.
You’re wasting time. You’re so behind and all you’re doing is wasting time getting where you’re going.
That last one nearly killed me.
Right before I gave in to taking a leave and opening myself up to receiving real help, I took a 90-minute conference call through out my entire morning commute. By the time I pulled into the parking lot, I was off the phone, but still completely distracted.
How are you going to make this work?
You’ll never be able to figure this out!
You’re worthless. Completely, worthless. And worthless people lose…everything.
Then, BAM!
The sound itself hurt.
I didn’t really know what had happened until I pressed the button for my ticket, waited for the barrier to rise, entered the lot, and hastily pulled in to the first spot I could find.
I got out of my car, walked around the the passenger’s side (the side I hit) and saw that my sideview mirror was missing. I walked up to the front of the lot where the accident had occurred, to find the missing mirror and make the parking attendant aware of any broken glass, but there was nothing there.
No glass. No dented cars. No mirror.
I went up to the attendant sitting in the small booth just a few yards away from where this, thing, had happened.
“I hit something, I don’t think it was a another car. But my side mirror fell off and there might be glass, but I don’t see anything.”
“Yes, okay,” he said. “You’re fine. No problem. Okay?”
I knew he didn’t understand what I’d said, but I was desperate for a, “no, problem,” and for anyone to consider me in any way, “okay.”
“Okay,” I said, relieved and bewildered.
When I got back to my car I decided that I would just drive home, even though I had a meeting to get to. And, when I pulled out of the spot, that’s when I heard it.
Clank.
Not as loud or painful as the BAM! But enough to still get my shaky attention. I put the car back in park, jumped out, and raced to the other side (afraid, I think, of missing something, again).
And there it was, my sideview mirror, dangling by the ends of two wires. As my eyes followed it down almost to the bottom of the passenger’s side door, I noticed bold streaks of yellow…all the way from the hanging busted mirror to the back tire.
Yellow?
I turned again to get a clear view of the lot entrance, and there I find my yellow. Two big parking posts, cemented into the ground, designed to protect the beautiful automobiles peacefully in place on the other side.
I’m thankful for the damage to my car – that it’s not so bad that I can’t drive it back up 93. But I’m more devastated than anything else. It’s the first time it occurs to me that I’ve been mindlessly operating heavy machinery, for…for God only knows how long.
I’ve somehow worked myself up into such a state that I totally believed that it was okay to transform my car, my commute, my full attention into a mobile office.
It was a clear sign that someone was going to get hurt. Hell, someone already had.
Before today, that was my last trip down these roads and into this lot, and at various times over the last eight weeks, even thinking about attempting this ride again sent me racing for the Xanax.
But today, no such drug is required.
Thanks to the glorious audiobooks section at my local library, my commute is spent with Dr. Wayne Dyer, followed by a little Simon and Garfunkel, and last (but certainly not least) a comforting live jam session courtesy of the Dave Mathews Band, who reminds me that I actually dowant to, stay, stay, stay, stay, stay for awhile.
I make it in on time. I feel good walking in. Spending the day. Contributing to a meaningful organization that is committed to helping kids overcome early childhood trauma.
And when I leave (on time and in tact), I am struck by a piece public art revealed to me for the very first time. A huge and gorgeous mural. The entire side of a stories high building painted the same exact hue of turquoise that I often see at the end of my Reiki sessions…with beautiful bold, orange (my favorite color of all time) letters that spell out:
A TRANSLATION FROM ONE LANGUAGE TO ANOTHER.
I breathe deeply and make a humble offering of gratitude.
That sign may not have been intended for me…but it was.
It’s my first day back at work (Tuesdays I work from home), and it’s a big deal (and it goes well), but it’s not more important than World Prematurity Day.
Not for me, anyway.
I’ve shared a few times, that my son, Briggs was a preemie. He was born two months too soon and weighed only two pounds. We spent the first 61 days of his life in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit (NICU), the following five at Boston’s Children’s Hospital following a surgery, and the next fourteen months working with physical therapists and early interventionists to help him get caught up to his peers.
Thankfully, he did catch up, and it will be the thing that I am forever most grateful for.
I’m quick to share the story of the miracle of our son.
What I don’t often talk about is me during that time.
Four years and a heap of intensive therapy later, I still can’t tell you how painful it was to leave my baby in the hospital after my discharge. The hospital (and the insurance companies) will only cover a five day stay for mothers of NICU babies.
Five out of the first 61 days of my son’s life I was granted the unbelievable gift of constantly being (and even sleeping!) in the same building as him. After that, certain truths settled in:
I, in fact, could not live with my child.
I could not hold him whenever I wanted.
I could not nurse. At least not in the beginning.
So, what I did do, were all the things I saw as, “the next best”:
I spent between 12 and 20 hours everyday in the NICU with Briggs.
I pumped from 12 hours after his birth (once I was aware enough to get the pump on) until he was six months old.
And even though, at first I really did not want to, I enrolled him in the NICU Cuddles Program. This program brings in vetted volunteers to cuddle NICU babies when their parents can’t.
I knew the importance of touch. Of gentle, loving, warmth. But, I was stuck in a place of deep self-loathing.
I couldn’t escape the thought that I had somehow (and worse, somehow purposely) caused the preeclampsia (hypertension in pregnant mothers) that forced my son out so early. I was scared – deeply terrified – that this energy would be rooted in my son and that it would result in him always feeling (but never understanding why he felt) unwanted, or neglected, or worst of all, abandoned.
I wanted him so badly – with every messed-up fiber that made me – to KNOW how much he was wanted. I wanted him to know (really KNOW) that his mother would do anything-everything – pump, nurse, bottle-feed, read to him in the incubator, do skin-to-skin, learn infant massage, take the NICU CPR class, switch the black and white picture of the owl to the opposite side of his hospital issued bassinet every 12, then every 6, then every 4 hours, every day, to help strengthen his eyes-I wanted him to know that I would be happy to spend the rest of my life proving to him how completely he is (was, and always would be) wanted.
That’s why, when the NICU team nestled him up against my cheek for a precious moment before rushing him (and his Dad) away, I whispered:
I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.
I think of those words today and it makes me ache for all different reasons. I know why I said sorry then. It was how I authentically felt.
I was sorry because I believed that I had DONE this to him. That I had caused it and that I would spend the rest of my days trying to impossibly rewrite this horribly tragic beginning.
It’s why – even though I knew it was good for him – I resisted signing the paper to enroll him in the Cuddle Program…because I was so scared that if he got what he needed from someone else, it would mean that I had somehow been deficient in giving him what he needed in the first place.
A dear, trusted friend, who also happened to be one of Briggs’s amazing NICU nurses, gently convinced me otherwise.
And today, on World Prematurity Day, I am filled with gratitude for that nurse, and for all the men and women who so loving serve the families that need them the most.
And, while I may not be able to go back in time and make my first words what they were intended to be (I love you) – I can honor my son’s miraculous start by sharing my story and his unbelievable progress.
Tomorrow I begin easing back into the working world. It’s a strange thing to recognize that you’re addicted to something that’s good for you. But it’s not entirely uncommon.
You can drink too much water. You can over-exercise, over-moisturize, and over diet-tize.
Work is more than necessary. It’s good. Provides a sense of accomplishment. Nurtures the ones you love, and offers the chance to be of service to something greater than yourself at least (and hopefully only) five-days a week.
But abuse that adrenaline rush that comes with surpassing your goal, earning another raise, or being known as the one who always says, “yes,” and you’re likely (eventually) only to cause more damage.
At least, that’s what I did.
But now, by learning how to stop to start, I’ve gained some tools:
I no longer devour 4-6 cups of coffee a day – and so, I sleep when I’m tired.
I’ve discovered yoga and for more than a month now haven’t missed a morning class (in my sacred living room).
I write. Not for work. Not even for you (dear, beloved, cherished reader). But for me. For my Creativity. My Connection. My Sanity.
I write, I do yoga, I sleep…and now…I ask for help.
It’s an entirely new approach and I feel much more secure preparing for work now, than I ever have before – but that doesn’t mean I’m not nervous. A bit anxious. A little scared.
Of course, this could all still not work out. But, the difference is now I believe however it goes is exactly how it’s supposed to go, and regardless of how that goes, goes, I’ll be okay.
So, maybe it’s this new approach that’s got me crying as I listen to Eminem on the way to therapy this morning.
I’ve heard Eminem’s “Loose Yourself,” countless times before, but when he spits out:
Success is my only mother fucking option; failure’s not.
I hear it for the first time.
Of course success is my only option – because failure doesn’t exist.
All we have are results. The ones we love, the ones we regret, and the ones we don’t even bother to notice. But, what they all have in common (what each of my lovely and pathetic results have in common), is that they can all (always) be changed.
Without question, today is my favorite day of the year.
For over a month I’ve been planning a surprise 40th Birthday Party for my husband, Ken. And today I don’t have to keep it a secret anymore.
It’s a small gathering (for us) – just immediate family. Brunch for 17 at Concord’s historical Colonial Inn.
Ken (and Briggs, you can’t let the four year-old in on the plan) are genuinely surprised when we walk into a private room filled with our nearest and dearest.
And of course while it was a gift to treat my husband and our family to the most delicious brunch buffet this side of Boston, my real gift was the toast – that of course, I couldn’t get through without crying:
First – here’s to Karen and Tim’s son.
Yours was the first relationship in Kenny’s life – and the most meaningful. It would set the tone for all others, and teach him how (almost instinctually) to be kind, open, and unconditionally protective of his entire family.
Next, here’s to your little brother.
While Tracy and Kenny never met, he would (and does) believe that she watches over him – especially during his wild years (thank, God). And Timmy and Heidi, your collective bond would be the most important in providing Kenny a sense of eternal acceptance and connection. You’d give him thick skin and a soft heart. You’d teach him how to golf, be a friend, and use his “baby,” status to get away with…well…everything.
By 19, Kenny would become Billy’s brother, too. And like any good married big brother, Billy would live vicariously through the life of single Kenny – and (much) later go on to offer strong Dad advice on everything from NICU stays to the necessary acceptance of kitchen sets.
Not too long after becoming Billy’s brother, and Marty’s adoptive son in-law, he would get the next great honor of his life:
Becoming TJ’s, and then Justin’s uncle.
You boys would be his first entree into fatherhood. You would help him rediscover the joys of wrestling, Christmas, and dressing up in costume. Watching you grow into fine young men continues to be one of the great privileges of his life.
And then came me.
Here’s to my husband.
Somehow we’ve always been okay going our own way – be it mortgage before marriage, serving breakfast at our wedding, or throwing a house party with no floors. Somehow growing closer has provided us more space to become the people we strive to be.
I can’t say “thank you” or “I love you,” enough – but I can give this really long toast.
With me, came even more:
Finally, my parents get a boy! The first married-in grandson for Grammy & Papa. The first brother for Lindsey, Maria, and Teresa.
And of course, all of this leads to his most defining role:
Here’s to Briggs’s Dad.
Kenny, you are an exceptional father – devoted and committed to our son the way your Dad is to you – the way Billy and his Dad are to each other and to TJ & Justin – Briggs may have grown inside of me, but ever since the doctors said, “Baby Goodwin coming out,” you and Briggs have been soundly connected by something forever indestructible.
Which brings me to today – when approaching 40, Kenny now has found another brother in Lukasz (and finally completed the brothers foursome!) – and again is blessed with the pure fun and joy of being Roman’s uncle, and happily awaiting the arrival of the next nephew (or maybe even a niece!) to fall in love with him all over again.
So, Kenny, here’s to you:
The son. The brother. The uncle. The husband. The father…the man we are all so honored and happy to have in our lives.
Kenny held my hand through the entire speech. He laughed at the parts that I hoped would make him smile, and cried with me at the parts I knew would resonate the most.
This is what I think those “honor” vows are actually about. Taking the time – providing the space – to truly honor the one you feel most deeply connected to, and acknowledging all of the ways in which he brings so much light and love to…well…everything.
(PS – Group photos are tough – but still wonderful)
Over the past eight weeks the Billerica Public Library has become my church.
It’s where I first rediscovered my joy – watching Briggs shake it out to the Beanbag Rock one Tuesday night at pajama story time.
“Here, Mom,” he ran over in between verses, “I got these beanbags for you to shake, too.”
I tried really hard to cry quietly. I didn’t want anyone to mistake these tears of deep and profound release to be mistaken for sadness.
After that moment of divine grace, Briggs and I were regulars. Story times, drop-in crafts, Discovery series, movies, magic shows – we signed up and showed up, for all of it.
When I finally built up enough strength to venture out of the children’s section, I remembered that I love to read. I gave myself over to the novels I’d been meaning to check-out, the self-help I’d never been brave enough to open, the new biography of the Wright Brothers, an amazing memoir from a journalist who befriended Harper Lee and her big sister Alice near the end of the their lives, and another titled Born with Teeth written and read by actress, Kate Mulgrew.
It’s where I discovered Showtime’s Homeland and Tim Burton’s Big Eyes. Both, highly recommended. And the Rainbeau MarsYoga for Beauty DVDs – which I loved so much I had to purchase a copy, so that I could practice with Rainbeau everyday without depriving the rest of the town of her disciplines, as she calls them.
And of course, perhaps most importantly, my invitation to begin my own practice of Thanksgiving – which came in the form of a recording of Cami Walker’s Best Seller, 29 Gifts.
In short, the Billerica Public Library was (and remains to be) the most critical resource in my on-going recovery.
It gave me the chance to be present with my son. To rediscover my own curiosity. To laugh and cry. Move and think. To be quiet and still, in order to move forward with grace and confidence.
See, it’s in the library that I learned how to pray.
And so, on this day, as I scoot around my end of town to pick up the gifts for the tree my family will donate to the annual Billerica Festival of Trees hosted each year at the library, I am truly filled with cheer.
amandathanks 