I was six when we moved into this house. Mom was thirty-two and movie-star gorgeous back then, with full lips and long brown hair and feisty green eyes. I remember her standing at the kitchen sink, belting jazz standards in her lusty alto. She was vivacious, strong-willed, and a bit wild, and her quiet, conservative, gentle-spirited husband — my father — adored her.
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To love is to open our hearts to suffering. But what else can we do? Love is the only way to own the music.
Today at All the Church Ladies I posted some thoughts about birth and life and the way home. I hope you’ll join me there.