RIPPLES…INTERRUPTED.

A few short weeks after singing the praises of the ‘happiness effect’ (see “The Third Question” on this blog) I find myself in a delicate position: I’m sitting in the mud, counting my losses. Some may argue that resting one’s behind in the slush is better than brewing it but from where I stand (or not) –sad and lonely- it makes little difference. Too many loved ones have passed on, my health has been compromised by a freak accident, and my mom’s rapid decline is forcing me to contemplate life as an orphan. My butt’s in the muck and it does not feel good. As my wet hands run over my tear streaked face I have no choice but to ask question number 4: does falling in the quicksand signal the end of the happiness ripple?

“The Frog and Toad Treasury” written and illustrated by Arnold Lobel is one of my children’s all time favorite collection of stories. Frog and Toad are a charming pair of friendly croakers. Toad is predictable and loving; he likes to sleep and worry. Frog is adventurous and caring; he enjoys a good splash in the pond and taking chances. In “A Lost Button”, Toad, while taking a stroll with his friend, notices that his favorite jacket is missing a button. Frog looks high and low for it. He finds many buttons in the woods but none of them are Toad’s. A disappointed and angry Toad shoves them all in his pocket and goes home. There on the floor lies the never wandering object of his upset. Feeling sorry for making his friend search the woods, Toad sews his collection of buttons on his jacket and offers it to Frog the next day. And the story reaches its merry conclusion: “Frog thought it was beautiful. He put it on and jumped for joy. None of the buttons fell off. Toad had sewed them on very well.”

Let’s not jump to conclusions: I haven’t been turned into a sobbing amphibian nor have I been cursed into a raging one. Toad and Frog’s case of the missing button, or rather, their parable of the multi buttoned coat, is leading me to the answer I’m seeking.

When we feel happy the world is an exciting place where walking in the woods is synonymous with fun and adventure. But sooner or later the unthinkable crosses ours minds and we worry. When it crosses our paths, we grieve. Our attention zeroes in on the missing piece: the litany of pain is loud and confusing. We want to reconnect with the joy that’s deserted us. As it keeps slipping through our fingers, the world starts shaking with the force of the quake.  Life becomes a blur of anger, emptiness, and grief.

“There, on the floor, Toad saw his white, four-holed, big round, thick button”: happiness does not wander; like a button, it’s waiting to be picked up again and put to loving use. Joy wants to survive even in sorrow. The buttons of our lives are all different in color and impact and they’re not sorted in neat and convenient piles. They’re a string of unexpected and unchecked emotions asking to be found and acknowledged. When we take ownership of our feelings and allow them unfold as they may we collect the evidence to our resilience: we sew the buttons on our life travelers’ coats – very well. Ripples, interrupted? Yes. Happiness, terminated? No. Because true joy does not reside in the absence of pain or even in crawling out of the quicksand. It stems from our willingness to make use of all our buttons, familiar or new, and from our readiness to wear the beautiful jacket of our experiences with wonder. Whether we’re sitting in the mud or swimming in the pond.

2010 © Maryse G. Copans

Labor of Love

“You sound like an elephant! ”  That’s how I greeted my beloved husband at the end of a stressful workday in the city. I was resting in bed. I was also 8 ½ months pregnant. He hung his jacket in the closet, turned around to face me, and calmly replied: “You look like one.” And I did. After two months of bed rest I was more than ready to deliver. My own body from its burden of joy, and my family from my mood swings and grouchiness. Pregnancy never caught me at my best. My sister had four children and glowed from start to finish. I had two and did not ask for more. The red on my cheeks came from pushing my babies out. My eyes didn’t shine until I finally held them cocooned against my breast; until I allowed myself to relax in the immeasurable comfort of my love for them.

Four years after my father died, my siblings and I made the difficult decision to move our mother into a nursing home. Lifelong memories accompanied her, along with her favorite picture of my dad, a couple of paintings, and the desk where she kept our old childhood storybooks and toys. Looking to ease her transition and anxious to leave a part of me by her side (she’s in Belgium, I’m in New York), I decided to knit her a blanket. Thick and inviting; each stitch linking us across seasons and oceans. The project proved challenging and time consuming. I picked various shades of pink, cream, and gray, and chose a tricky pattern. I swore and grumbled many times as I undid my work to fix my beginner’s mistakes. I returned to Brussels a year later bearing the fruit of my efforts. It’s been sitting on my mom’s bed ever since, warming her feet and her heart.

My children grew out of diapers and got into rap music. My mother became frail and retreated to her secret world of sadness and confusion. Lost in my own bittersweet journey of growth and letting go I started to fear the emptiness that threatened to permeate my spirit. There was a place deep within calling for attention. It longed to be filled again with expectation and excitement, worry and frustration. It refused to send me into an early retirement frozen in old books and photographs. It wanted to vibrate with the many quivers of carrying new life to term. It wanted to be wrapped in the magic of giving the best of myself. It wanted to create.

So I started to write. The first poems trickled out of me on a chilly October morning. Nine months later, overwhelmed by the summer stampede of foreign thoughts and feelings, I panicked and went into hiding. But like the yarn patiently knitted into a throw, words lured me back to the page one short sentence at a time. They led me to distressed corners I did not recognize and to happy places I never visited. There were familiar faces and new voices I would never have chosen to listen to. I was writing. I AM writing. I’ve come to accept that my creative process is like an unplanned pregnancy:  I rebel against it. I welcome it. It annoys me. It frustrates me. It satisfies me. It’s the labor of love; a never-ending cycle of filling and emptying, of receiving and giving.  And when all is said and written, I know that each word has strengthened the ties that bind me to my true self. And I can rest in the heartfelt peace of my gratitude for them.  

 2010 © Maryse G. Copans

CLUE-FULL

Board games come in all shapes and sizes. “The Game of Life” takes you on a make believe life journey: job, family, house, accidents, taxes, and even a mid-life crisis. The ultimate goal is to retire to Countryside Acres with loads of money and a light heart.  ‘Chess’ introduces the contrast between light and dark. The careful advance of pawns –each moving in its own unique way- to secure victory.  ‘Monopoly’ is all about amassing money and acquiring assets so as to ruin your fellow players. ‘Blokus’ tests your strategic skills one colored piece at a time.

 

Then there’s “Clue”. It‘s different. It does not involve money or taking your fellow humans down. It’s about the quiet search for “who did it?” You walk into Tudor Mansion and learn that your host, Mr. John Boddy has been murdered. Your task is to determine who the killer is, where he committed his crime, and with what weapon. And so you move from room to room, collecting clues and making suggestions…

 

Clue as the game of life. Sooner or later we all find ourselves in the big mansion of our unrealized dreams and silent yearnings. We live our lives avoiding the key questions, reading books in the Library, or whipping up plans in the Kitchen, until we come across the dead body. We have to face the fact: The Old Self has been killed. How? We never left the house. Who did it? With what weapon? Was it Ms. Boredom with her languid sighs? Or General Judgment with his violent strikes to the head? Mrs. Betrayal may have lost it and gone straight for the heart. Professor Loss with his quiet way could be the culprit. He’s patient but deadly. Or was it a conspiracy?

 

We start looking for clues; we investigate. We were cruising along nicely, going through the expected motions and following the rules. What happened? Why can’t our retirement be peaceful? Why is our king threatened with capture?  The mansion, once filled with life and laughter, becomes an empty shell where our sobs echo and our questions remain unanswered. We miss the Old Self; we want her back.  We look for her in the Study where she left a blank page on a frozen computer screen. We feel her in the Billiard Room where the game was interrupted, and in the Conservatory where the plants look sad and wilted.

 

That’s when it happens. Whether it’s the luck of the draw or divine intervention is irrelevant. We see it. There’s a door hidden behind the bronze statue of a knight. We get closer and push it open. It’s a secret passage. We walk the long dark corridor, our steps keeping steady with the beating of our hearts. We come out in the Lounge. We know the room well: the green couches haven’t moved and the piano remains silent. But the lights are on and a new piece of music, one we’ve never played before, lies open on the coffee table. We run to the Hall to check the front door locks and notice that the dust on the old photographs is gone. There’s a new frame with a picture of ourselves we do not remember being taken. We hear noise in the Dining Room. We rush inside. A surprising scene welcomes us: new guests have arrived and are enjoying themselves. Mr. Enthusiasm is using the Knife to cut the celebratory cake; Mrs. Acceptance is untying the Rope that held Miss Perseverance captive. And Dr. Patience is moving the Candlestick so as to light Ms. Hope’s beautiful face. We’re shocked. Is this the same house? Where’s the dead body? The murderer? We hear music coming from the Ballroom. There we’re invited to join in a new dance, encouraged to partake in a never ending game in which strategy and chance are replaced by intuition and faith. We walk in and timidly embrace the woman we are becoming. Slowly, we start swaying to the tune of Life, in step with our New Unique Self.

Somewhere Between December and February

My thanks to Patty at www.whynotstartnow.wordpress.com for providing the first link in my chain of thoughts…

The entrance hall is the first place our guests see when they step into our house. As they remove their jackets, drop them on the bench, and proceed to the living room, I often wonder how much of the space they take in; what impression, if any, our green walls, high ceiling and skylight make on our visitors. When I first saw what is now our family home, the brightness lured me in. The house was talking to me: “These are happy walls. Come and join me. I’ll be yours.” I could have set camp right there and then. It felt warm and secure.

Hallways come in various lengths and degrees of brightness. Old mansions’ foyers, though dark and drafty, are filled with paintings that tell their past and present stories. European monasteries are built around their cloister, a covered walk that lets in the light and fresh air and where nuns or monks could hear God’s wind sing through the open colonnade. Modern schools have long corridors where students are to sit when they get too chatty or distracted to remain in the classroom. But when the bell rings the whole place fills up with chatter and bursts out with activity: papers on the floor and forgotten backpacks. Transition to the next class or packing up and leaving for the day. Hallways are part of life whether tamed or rambunctious. 

January is a month of transition. The door has closed on December with its romantic snow and festive lights and has not quite opened on February with its chilly promise of spring drowning in chocolate hearts and multicolored tulips. Trapped between the joy of Christmas and the prospect of warmer days I’ve been falling into the familiar doldrums of my birthday month. I’ve turned the first weeks of the year into a dark and scary passage instead of converting them into a bright room where I can take off my shoes, look at the pictures on the console, and dream of what is to come. I’ve forgotten that it is a space that vibrates with memories, quiet hopes, and resounding trust.

What we take in from a transition is entirely up to us. We can choose to sit on the floor like scolded students or we can pause and listen to God’s voice floating in the air. We can grab our bags and run for cover or we can laugh our way to milder weather. January is the hallway of the year. Step inside. These are nurturing walls and they’re yours.

Copyright © Maryse G. Copans – January 2010

 

The Way Home

Following the childhood trails (see Bonnie’s and Cathy’s posts at www.windshieldthinking.wordpress.com and www.trufflesandtea.wordpress.com), I’ve been gathering flowers and humming old nursery rhymes…

Five little piggies. The first one went to market and looked at the stalls, smelling cheeses and breads, touching fruit, or buying flowers. The second was in no mood to venture outside and stayed home with a good book and a glass of orange juice. The third piggy loved meat and swallowed a juicy chunk of roast beef while the fourth, a vegetarian, would have none of that: he ate a light salad instead. The last little piggy, tired of gallivanting in the meadow, ran all the way back home yelling “wee, wee, wee”, so happy was he to know that food and warmth awaited inside the familiar walls.

One big bad wolf. He yearned to break the pigs’ front door open and to bring his huge body and appetite into their kitchen. He had good luck with the stack of hay and the pile of sticks. Fond memories. Breaking through bricks proved much harder and landing in a pot of boiling water was not exactly his idea of fun. The tune those darn pigs sang while he ran for safety drove him mad: ‘Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf’? Not the piggies; not anymore. What about us? As we go about our days, between market and home, do we feel secure in our steps or do we fear what’s going to come down the chimney?

A flower. One of my Twitter buddies is a talented photographer whose posts of a gorgeous red amaryllis are respectively titled “Red Riding Hood” and “Red Riding Crown”. The flower graduates from little girl lost in the woods to queen status. How? She blooms. Her bright petals open up to take in the light. She grows taller and declares -through her bold color and delicate shape-what she stands for: dazzling and tender beauty.

One’s journey. I’d rather be compared to a royal flower than to a bunch of pink fleshed mammals, yet I’m willing to delve into the wisdom of those seemingly silly childhood rhymes. We each harbor different desires and follow different paths.  We venture away from home and cross life’s many bridges. As we travel even further from our native pastures, unknown shadows creep up and scare us: we’re afraid of getting hurt; of hurting others; of failure; of success; of loving too much or too little. We’re afraid to die. We stall or push ahead all the while yearning for a safe place to catch our breath and recharge. We want to go home.

All the way there. Home can be a house or a bench in the park; the embrace of a dear friend or a lover’s kiss. It comforts and soothes for a while but does not fill the secret places inside that dream of lasting quiet and joy. That inner home is shaped in our hearts as we tend to the soft voice that murmurs of what we truly love, of what we truly want. It is built one spiritual brick at a time as we dare have faith and move forward.  When the whispers grow into a song that will not be silenced, we are called to turn to the light and, like the proud amaryllis, we find the strength to become all that we were born to be. We blossom and bare our unique and vibrant colors. We’re not afraid to live anymore. We’ve found our way home.

For a picture of Queen Amaryllis, go to www.capturethesoul.wordpress.com and scroll down.

Copyright © Maryse G. Copans – January 2010

 

The Third Question

The first question took me to the kitchen where I made sticky buns and bathed in the aroma of cinnamon (see “Cinnamon Rolls” on this blog); the second led me to cupcake pops and the art of having fun (“To Lick or not to Lick?”). I’m ready to take my chances with the third:  “Do you always feel inclined to write uplifting?” asks my friend Bonnie (windshieldthinking.wordpress.com). “Sometimes I enjoy the mire”, she adds, “getting dirty and then coming clean.” It’s tempting: I’ve written about the frightful nights of my childhood when my dad spanked me for waking the family up; about my mother’s fall into depression and dementia after his death; about the head injury that’s left me with balancing issues and PTSD; about my niece’s untimely passing. Why not publish and show the world how resentment, anger, and pain muster forgiveness, acceptance, and joy? Why not join the band of voices that comfort the world with their tales of trials and struggles?

Author Gretchen Rubin’s new book “The Happiness Project” was released a week ago. She decided while riding a bus that she could be a happier person and she set out to research how it could be done. She then did what is done these days: she blogged about it (happiness-project.com) and got published in print. As she practiced what she learned, she uncovered “Four Splendid Truths”. The second is my personal favorite: “One of the best ways to make yourself happy is to make other people happy; one of the best ways to make other people happy is to be happy yourself.” Her fans enthusiastically agree: the book is currently number 6 on Amazon bestsellers’ list. Happiness projects are the hip New Year’s resolution.

As a wife and mother I know all there is to know about making others happy. Making myself happy is a work in progress but the one thing I know for sure is that revisiting the rainy days of my life only serves to keep me stranded in the darkness and is no recipe for happiness. Choosing to focus on what makes me come alive, on the other hand, fills me with warmth and excitement. When I breathe from that place –balmy and bright, like a day at the beach- my friends and family take notice and feel happier too. I call it “The Happiness Effect”.

The word ‘effect’ is defined as ‘the power to produce results’. (dictionary.com).This power comes from within and is activated by steeping goodness not by brewing mud. The much anticipated result is this: instead of simply enduring life’s many upheavals we slowly get the hang of dancing through the storm. Clouds are the signal to grab our shoes –equipped with non-slip ‘in-soul’. Rising winds tell us to start swinging to the rhythm of our happy memories. Lightning lights our path and thunder keeps the beat. When the hail comes, even though we’re drenched and cold, we manage to skip to the exciting part: we’re not alone. The maelstrom is attracting attention. As we take onlookers by the hand and spin in unison, they join the party and bring their friends. Once the storm passes we sit and bathe in the sun. We savor. We dream. We celebrate.

Yes, I always feel inclined to write uplifting. Because I believe in the mighty strength of optimism and hope. Because dancing through life is a lot more fun than drowning in quicksand. Because being happy makes me happy, which makes others happy, which keeps me happy!

Copyright – January 5, 2010

 

Cinnamon Rolls

What’s the difference between yeast dough and a question? The first one rises; the second, arises. What do they have in common? They both yield surprising results.

I love making my own bread; in the bread machine. It’s easy, I do not get my hands dirty, and it’s almost foolproof. When my son came back from spending 10 days at his grandmother’s house with raved reviews on her cinnamon rolls, the first question arose in my mind: how hard can it be? I mixed the ingredients, determined to make the sticky delights from scratch and show them off at breakfast. Isn’t simple happiness sharing the first meal of the day with someone you love eating something he loves that was made for him with love?

As the dough rose I pondered that the baking process was very much like my quest for inner peace: you go in with a recipe, usually someone else’s, full of hope and expectations. When everything goes according to plan, you feel confident and in control; you show off your skills. You even think it’s fun. You forget that you’re a party to a show much bigger than yourself. After all, the dough knows what to do. It is not through my personal magic that the gluten reacted to the warm motion of my hands. It’s happened many times before and will happen again and again with fingers much more or less gifted than mine. It is all part of a miracle called life. That’s when my next question arose: if I’m not in control of the process, if there are no guarantees that inner peace will ever be mine, what is the point in even trying?

Time to turn my attention back to the rolls. I pressed my finger in the dough and it deflated in a flash. I grabbed the rolling pin and produced a smooth rectangle that I sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. I rolled, cut, sighed with pleasure, and put the whole thing in a warm place to rise again. The hidden bonus –or downside- of baking is that you get some time to rest alongside the dough. Time to get lost in your thoughts or distracted by the goings of life in general.

What is the point in even trying? Finding joy and a sense of freedom in a life that you cannot control is a daunting task. There are no infallible recipes; there are no shortcuts. It takes time, faith in the process, and the willingness to get one’s hands dirty. So why even bother? Because, like baking cinnamon rolls, it’s the labor of love. Love for oneself, love for others, love for life. Because turning one’s back on the questions that arise is like puncturing that ball of dough and forgetting it on the counter to dry. It is forgetting that life is a gift and that, like yeast and water whisked together become terrain for growth, an inquisitive mind combined with an open heart lead the way to unimaginable discoveries. Questions yield amazing results when one accepts that they may not lie in the answers.

I hummed with satisfaction when I poured the yummy icing on my beautiful cinnamon rolls but it was my whole being that sang with joy as my son started eating the food he loved made with love by someone who loves him.

 

The Gift of Christmas Present

“Mary wrapped the first Christmas present”: that’s the catchy phrase strategically positioned in front of our local church on the village busiest road. Most of us –trapped in the frenzy of shopping, cooking, clearing snow, and more shopping, need to be reminded of that simple fact: Mary lovingly enveloped her baby in plain cloth and offered Him to the world. Quietly.

Two thousand years later gift wrapping is my favorite activity of the season. Selecting the right paper and matching bow, writing a fun message on the label, seeing the piles of Amazon.com boxes get smaller as the colorful display under the tree gets bigger: it all makes me feel very ‘FulfilledandHappy’ (FaHm). When my children were small I would sneak downstairs during nap time and quickly hide dinosaurs and Barbie dolls under layers of green or red paper. I remember the Star Wars Lego and ‘Charmed’ DVD phase. Today my two teens prefer hi-tech gadgets and clothing items. Every year is different: new wishes, new looks. But giving is still ‘in’.

Last weekend, with friends visiting from Belgium, my sister, my husband and I went on a candlelight tour of Christmas past at Washington Irving’s cottage in the Hudson valley. Each room was decorated in the 1840s fashion, understated and charming. We were read Irving’s words: “Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality.” (Bracebridge Hall) As I admired the unadorned greenery on the mantels I could see servants rushing up and down the stairs and hear children cry out with delight as they reached for the prized orange in their stocking. Christmas was about family and happiness. It still is.

No matter how tangled  -or lost- you get in the pre-holiday rush there will be a sign on your hurried path looking to bring you back to the true meaning of the season. Whether it is a nativity scene in a church front yard or strings of glittery ribbon, I urge you to pay attention. The universe conspires to awaken in all of us feelings of joy and well-being. When we allow ourselves to slow down enough to experience and savor them we recapture the essence of Christmas forever: fellowship and mirth. We sprinkle it on cookies, play with it in the snow, or set it atop the tree. On Christmas morning we offer it to those around us as, together, we merrily unwrap the most precious present of all: the gift of infinite love. Bestowed upon us long ago. Lavishly.

 

To lick or not to lick, that is NOT the question

A fellow writer’s friendly comment on this blog triggered a peculiar sequence of events: “How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie pop?” I’m familiar with the well known lollipop but the question is new to me. I grew up in Brussels eating Chocotoff, the Belgian take on chocolate candy. All gooey and soft: biting is a messy business best avoided. I’m tickled to find out what it’s all about. According to Wikipedia the quest started with a TV commercial in the 1970s and always ended the same way: anxious to get to the yummy chocolate Tootsie roll in the middle, people would rush, lick it three times, and bite it.  A few years later, the next generation tackled the challenge and discovered that it could take anywhere between 150 and 800 licks depending on the size of your tongue, the amount of saliva, and the color of the wrapping.

Biter or licker? I picture my grandmother (she immigrated to the US in 1923; I never met her) as a pioneer and a biter.  My mother, who’s eaten her fair share of hard candy, has never revealed whether she took the slow or fast lane to her sugar fix. Her sweet tooth is famous in our family but is it one that cracks through the nonsense or one that holds back? No one knows. My daughter ‘sips’ her ice cream carefully so I have no doubt she would choose the slow route. I contact my niece who replies that it all depends: on her mood, on the weather, on the flavor of the lollipop (I’m not so sure she’s kidding anymore).

Further surfing the Internet I stumble upon a deliciously pink site: www.bakerella.com. Its creator, a complete non cook who signed up for a cake decorating class and blogs about her baking attempts, has invented the cake and cupcake pops, fun mini versions of their classic parents. Her darling delicacies have appeared on the Martha Stewart show and are featured in national magazines. The www.blog.evite.com link on Bakerella’s press page takes me back where I started: “how many licks does it take to get to the center of a cake pop?”

Do people actually care?! I don’t have to be Einstein to figure out that licking a lollipop takes longer than biting into it. The same goes for ice cream and Lifesavers. So what’s the fuss all about?  If the color of a Tootsie pop wrapping can influence its life expectancy, I can safely assume that I’m not dealing with hard science. I’m in for a treat: I’m stepping on new grounds. This is art territory; the art of having fun; the mastery of enjoying life as it is whether I choose to take my time or rush. The speed itself is irrelevant; what matters is that I’m being silly enough to play along. The fun factor is not related to the time component, it relies on my readiness to grasp the moment and run with it. Licker or biter? I do not give a bonbon! Today I’ll happily crack to the center of the first lollipop I can find. Tomorrow I’ll choose to relish the sweetness 758 times over, or not. Lick or bite? That is NOT the question. The real question is this: are you having fun yet?

Love, Imperfectly

I’m coming out of the coffin: I’m a Twilight mom. I haven’t joined the popular website (twilightmoms.com) yet but I’ve read the books twice and seen the first movie several times (I will not admit to how many). The story speaks to me. It cheers me up. It moves me. It reconciles me with the world. Edward’s love for Bella is magical and pure; her love for him is compelling and unconditional.

I’ve always been a sucker (pun intended) for a great love story. I devoured “The Notebook” and “The Thorn Birds”.  I am a fan of Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, and Alexandre Dumas.  I even read “Gone with the Wind” when I was 14. The Civil War drama was rich and layered but the romance did not satisfy: Scarlett’s naïve adoration of Ashley did not touch me and the ending drove me crazy with frustration. Hundreds of pages to come full circle: one character loves, the other one doesn’t. May Margaret Mitchell –rest her soul- forgive me this sacrilege: my teen heart beats with Stephanie Meyer’s saga. Team Edward, team Jacob, or even team Bella, the characters hit a home run the second my reading glasses are settled on the tip of my nose.

I saw “New Moon” this weekend with my daughter, my nieces- and sister-in-law. We grieved with Bella when Edward left and we hurt with Jacob when Edward returned. The author has admitted to begging Edward not to go when he first revealed his plans. We’re grateful that she let him have his way. It brings the story home: Edward’s perfect love is imperfect after all. It rings of absence, longing, and wrong decisions. It’s real. It bleeds.  Bella is mortal and flawed yet it is the power of her love that ultimately saves Edward’s life. Her scarred human heart brings him back to safety. No wonder he’s so reluctant to halt its soul saving rhythm.

The epic of love and suffering started long ago when man first discovered the depth of his own heart. ‘New Moon’ talks to each one of us lost in the labyrinth of our pain and desires and offers a way out: it encourages us to travel the many paths of love’s shortcomings while embracing the redeeming power held in the mystery of our immortal soul. The ‘Twilight’ saga is smash hit because, like all timeless stories, it reminds us of what love truly is: hesitant, insecure; glorious, exhilarating; raw, excruciating; true, forgiving. Eternal. Victorious.  It is a source of unparallel joy and bitter disappointment. It makes us feel; it gives us life. Bella’s and Edward’s love conquers all, not because it is young and untried but because it’s imperfect and enduring. They travel the bumpy road so familiar to all human beings and they do not let us down; they come full circle, hand in hand, heart to heart.

This mother’s a Twilight mom forever.