When I was six years old, my older sister, locked me in our woodshed, where I cried myself to sleep, until my mother found me there at dinner time.
At nine she pushed me down the hardwood stairs of our two story farmhouse. And everyone knows what happened when I was eleven.
I know, I hurt her too. With my independent spirit, I wouldn’t play in the house with her all day, and I would get in the canoe at my Auntie Pat’s cottage outside of Toronto, Canada, and paddle myself to the neighboring lake house to play checkers with the other kids.
As I spend time alone, and try to heal my heart from this most recent heartbreak, I think back to the many days of my life, and the lessons I’ve learn, and the experiences I’ve had. And I do so with only forgiveness, and my own desire to whenever possible be kind, and do no harm, knowing as with everyone, I too have my own blindspots, and human failings.
Writing my story, both the darkness and the light, illuminates my path forward, with a wisdom that lights the way.
Love and blessings to all.