Maggie West

A New Year

A new year begins.

And like most, I suppose, my plan for 2010 consists of improving upon last year's failings. Whether my weaknesses stem from ingrained behavioral patterns, character flaws, or poor judgment makes no difference. Reading and research usually light the way. Furthermore, I know what's wrong with me. This means that even though I welcome others' opinions, their views are no surprise. My imperfections are as blatantly obvious to me as they are to them. There are enough to build a library on the subject, should I choose to do so.

Shall I mention a few?

Sure, why not?

Gina Marie, my best friend, often says I return phone calls at a snail's pace—if I return them at all. And she's right. But I'd like to add that I've been blessed with a partner who is as bad at this as I am. Therefore, from the person with which I spend most my time, I receive little in the reprimand department for this "teensy-weensy" defect in my makeup. If anything, I get a gold star for the little amount of time I use the phone, and I like it that way. So sue me.

My illustrious other half, though, rants quite a bit about my combative nature. I pick arguments over the smallest things. And I try to win with hardly any data or personal knowledge of the subject at hand. This, above all else, drives him battier than a monkey chasing its tail.

I'm certain that our readers think his hair is naturally untamed and Einsteinish in appearance, eh? Not true. He grabs the hair on both sides of his head frequently; mainly from exasperation with me (chuckle…). It's a good thing I like the "Wildman" look.

All kidding aside, I'm getting a little better at this, though. Living with a man who is a dictionary, a thesaurus, and an encyclopedia, all rolled into one, helps. Naturally, I still pick the typical female fight. But that's a given, right? Truth be told, I chalk quite a few of our little quarrels up to my X chromosome. And I sleep every night, content with the knowledge this will never change.

Next, my daughter has no qualms about informing the entire world (a slight exaggeration, perhaps) of my immaturity and hippie mindset. She often asks, "When are you gonna grow up?" To which I answer, "If it hasn't happened by yet, I'm pretty sure it never will." (I know I wrote this in an earlier post, but bear with me. I hear it a lot.) Add to this her periodic telephone calls, which usually go something like this: "Because you live your life differently than most everybody else (strong emphasis on "your" and "most"), I thought I'd run this idea by you…"

I'm never quite sure if her intent is to mock or a genuine need for a little ingenuity. But, I always presume the latter. I feel better that way.

So to reiterate, there are plenty of people in my life who voice their opinions as to what's wrong with me. But unlike most, I suspect, I don't care. It doesn't bother me in the least. I never take it personally. And I don't get angry (at this, anyway). At times, I laugh and reply, "Tell me something I don't know."

Hence, let me state that even though there are a number of things about myself I'd change, there are many others for which I'm eternally grateful. And this is milestone for me.

In the past, I strolled from one year to the next hoping that one would hold the promise of tomorrow; a serenity that only comes from a sense of security. But it never came. I had bad luck for so long; one would think the "coin toss" to be consistently rigged. Without fail, it landed on the same side year, after year, after year.

I wanted to change everything. I wanted to be someone totally different. Being grateful for anything never entered the equation.

Then, when all hope was lost, when I hit bottom of the barrel, I found my way. It was rather easy to see "up" from rock bottom. It was for me at any rate.

I realize now, that my bad luck was due to erroneous conceptual choices and the misperceptions upon which I acted. These include love interests, friendships, an obsessive self-confidence issue, and a self-destructive and overly trusting nature, just to name a few.

For all that was honest and true about me, there was a dishonest and artificial side that duped many people and me along with them. Looking back, I longed for my better half to surface. But I never hollowed out the hole from which it could do so. I suffocated it with wanting to fit in and wanting to please. I smothered it with good intentions and juvenile behavior.

The battle I fought with myself was greater than any struggle I had with the antagonists in my life. I harmed myself more than anyone else ever could. It seemed as if there was no end in sight to this madness.

Then, enter miracle number one…

By going back to the beginning—my beginning—I saw a clearer present and a better future. My parents laid the groundwork, and, up until recently—the last six years or so—I completely ignored it. The expression "forgive and forget" comes to mind. It's a silly phrase. We should forgive, but we must never forget.

Our pasts hold the keys to so many doors. And yet, we're more willing to forget them, than to remember where we laid these keys. Our rooms grow musty and dark from the years of neglect. And newer rooms are added in hopes that no one will ever enter the abandoned ones. But the imaginary houses we build eventually come crashing down around us. Without proper foundations, nothing lasts—everything rots.

It took me years to board up my rooms—my past. Therefore, I knew it would take just as many, if not more, to reopen them and dust them off. Each time I discovered the darkness lurking in these walls, I forgave myself for creating it.

Exposing our true selves may not be easy. But how can we advance or recover until we do? We can't. We must forgive ourselves for the mistakes of the past and move on. But we must never forget what brought us to today.

Anyway, I'm still working at it…

Perhaps, I always will.

But through this process, I found some of my answers. Not all, mind you, but some.

It took a handful of long-time friends to point me in the right direction. And from this experience, I learned never to underestimate the power of healthy friendships. The key word in that sentence is "healthy"—there are many that cause more harm than good.

Without my friends, it was difficult to see north from south, east from west, right from wrong, and good from bad. My skies were full of clouds in those days. And their guidance lit my way.

I thank the Lord every day, every year, for the strength he gave me to recognize the error of my ways; and for those who unselfishly shared their hearts and their wisdom. Through this combined effort, I finally made one good choice after another.

Soon, the better part of me sprouted. And others noticed its growth. My support group of friends grew. But more importantly, to my mind, it/I earned the attentions of a man unlike any other. So different is he than the men of my past that I grew by leaps and bounds as a person by his side.

And this brings me to my original thought.

As I embark upon this New Year, as I pick or choose which things to improve, I know that nothing better exists than where I live and with whom. In this ever-changing Lost and Found of Life, I have been lost and found many times over—but never as significantly or as completely as now. I do not pine for things I do not have. For all else is of little consequence.

What I have is immeasurably central to my well-being and soothing to my soul.

Whatever this New Year has in store for me, I embrace its unknown, as I have for the last two years, with renewed faith. This faith reaches far beyond my earthly home and stems from the partner I chose, the good people around me, and how I live each day.

So, attack my flaws if you must. Though mine may even exceed most, I must have done something right. For I have Jeff, Green Hell, and some damn fine friends to show for my efforts. And they're more than I could ever ask for; more than enough to live on for the rest of my days.

Thank you, everyone and thank you Jeff; Happy New Year.

The Grimmest “Fairy Tale” of Them All

"Dizziness?"

Yep.

"Which worsens when you move?"

Yep.

"Insomnia?"

Yep.

As Bean read the symptoms aloud, I answered one by one.

"Palpitations?"

Nope.

"Are you hot?" (Not as in looking—I wish I were—but as in perspiring or clammy.)

Yep.

Our exchange lasted a few minutes, and then he began reading foods that cured the symptoms, most of which he keeps on hand. Frankly, he keeps an ample supply of exotic ingredients around the house for such occasions.

And so, my treatment commenced.

After an acupressure session with Bean and ingesting a couple of the foods on his list, I slept like a baby. I barely moved for eight hours: No tossing; no turning. It was great. That's the longest night's sleep I've had in weeks.

While I still had a bit of dizziness in the morning (a considerable improvement from the day before), I felt refreshed. For the first time in a long time, I was ready for the hours of sunlight ahead.

Then I remembered the potion Bean prescribed…

Part of my therapy is downing a jigger—twice a day—of this brownish goo my husband prepared around a year ago and set in our bathroom cabinet to age. And age is definitely what it did—it tastes like hundred-year-old Powerade. It's called "Angelica elixir," but in my opinion, there's nothing angelic about it—especially not the flavor.

The first ounce of the alcohol-based fluid took me by surprise this morning.

It hit me within seconds.

Bean was sleeping. And that was a good thing. Otherwise he would've heard my gurgle of distress: "I have those damn palpitations now honey!"

Were I not sure of my beloved husband's affection, I might've thought he was trying to kill me. I imagined his fiendish grin as he dug a hole in the back yard while I lay motionless on the grass. And I cringed as I supposed him chuckling from the sight of death in my eyes and russet streams of saliva oozing from the corners of my mouth.

"Snap out of it, Maggie. Damn! You're overdoing it a tad—aren't ya?" I mumbled to myself.

Of course, I know better. Bean is the kindest, gentlest person I've ever met. But this shit tasted like sewer water (Come to think of it, it looked like it, too) into which an inebriated, cardboard-box-dwelling vagabond spilt a bottle of vodka. If I drink enough of this crap, I thought, I'll be begging on the local street corner and sleeping on park benches as well.

So who'd blame me for my mental-ward mentality?

And speaking of mental wards, my readers will surely call the white coats to our door when they read the rest of this piece. At the very least, I'll be labeled a crackpot. But since the rest of the world has taken bizarre to new heights, I feel pretty safe.

Nevertheless, here goes…

I put my faith in the healing properties of folk medicine (alternative is the politically correct word I believe) above and beyond that of prescribed medications. So much so, in fact, I've not had a doctor prescribe me anything in years. I think the last time was when my son was born, and that was in 1984. Even over-the-counter drugs scare me. "Why?" one might ask…

Fine, I'll tell you.

These drugs purport the approval of the FDA. The FDA, as far as I'm concerned, is as crooked as Jack the Ripper's hurried incisions. Like "Springheel Jack," the FDA neither concerns itself with our lives, nor the manner in which they end; as long as they get what they're after: wealth. The FDA's stamp of approval costs millions—and this is from firsthand information. As long as they get their money, the pharmaceutical companies get the right to market and sell their "WMDs."

The side effects of all drugs these days are worse than the ailments they allegedly relieve. And over-the-counter drugs are recalled at an alarming rate. Hell, one time is all it would take for me to be wary. Yet, millions, nay billions, of dollars are spent on these "killers" every year. I guess it's an accepted form of government-sanctioned suicide. Stranger things have happened.

But I enjoy living. I'd like to see my grandson grow up; spend my gray-haired years rocking in a chair next to Bean on our porch. For these reasons, I've chosen the medicinal remedies Mother Nature offers.

I am completely convinced that my mother believed this, as well. As children, my siblings and I rarely consumed anything sold at the local pharmacy. Instead, mom gave us home-made tonics. The one I remember most was a mixture of honey, lemon, and whiskey taken for coughs and congestion. And before one considers this ludicrous, let me add that we were the healthiest children in our school and neighborhood.

As an adult I've searched for a man who thought as I do with regard to this anti-drug theory, and never found him. People laughed at me; particularly past boyfriends and lovers.

"What? You don't take aspirin, you freak?!" was written all over their faces.

Yet, as an adult, I'm still the healthiest person I know—including the "twenty-somethings" with whom I socialize. I'm over fifty, but I work in our garden with ease: A garden large enough to feed us for a whole year and then some. Granted, I huff and puff occasionally—but never strongly enough to "blow [our] house down." In addition, Bean and I build most of our necessities rather than take the easy way out at Walmart or the like. This takes a substantial amount of energy. Plus, whenever someone finds out how old I am, his/her eyes pop out and jaw drops.

I guess I'm doing rather well for an old lady.

And, best of all, I found the like-minded "someone" to whom I referred a few paragraphs ago: Bean.

Better still, he comes from a long line of healers. His four-times-great-grandfather wrote a book entitled Wright's Family Medicine. In it are remedies that date back to the nineteenth century, and some derived from Wright's Muskogee/Creek progenitors. And like his great-great-great-great grandfather, Bean's curiosity has sharpened his skills.

If I said I've always believed in his skills, I'd be lying. When Bean and I first met, I was skeptical, to say the least. But it didn't take long for me to realize the extent of his talents. First, Bean gave me the remedy for a headache; next, a backache; and then stomach aches, psoriasis, cramps—the list goes on and on.

To my surprise, it worked—all of it!

At present, whenever I have an ache or a pain, I tell Bean. And in case my readers are wondering about my sanity at this point, let me just say that during my physicals, doctors say: I feel like I'm taking money from you for nothing. You always pass with flying colors. Keep up the good work.

The day will come when I begin to deteriorate: The aging process at work. I know this. But I'm not going to hasten it by filling my bloodstream with neatly packaged toxic chemicals. And I wonder what the general population is thinking when they buy into the latest media/government-induced disease and pop pills like candy. Most assuredly, they believe sugar heals. Another Hansel and Gretel tale if I ever heard one. Once the wicked witch opens the door, they're dead—we're dead—baked to a crisp.

Get it? We've entered the gingerbread house from hell.

As an example, let us take a look at fibromyalgia. Its cause is currently unknown. Therefore, there's no cure. But there are numerous prescriptions available for the symptoms. These symptoms stem mostly from emotional stress: A neurosis. Most sufferers of this fictitious disease, however, take these medications to relieve their physical pain. Perhaps these drugs dull the senses; numb the mind—I don't know; nor will I ever take them. Simply due to the fact that as I stood in a room full of doctors and surgeons, I heard them laugh at our idleness, our obesity, and our need to label every ache and pain; which in turn led to FMS. Since it was invented, our government and pharmaceutical companies made/make a fortune on these medications, and our doctors no longer shrug their shoulders and say, "I don't know" or "get up off your dead ass."

Basically put, fibromyalgia means muscle pain—nothing more.

Go ahead, call me crazy.

Another case in point to my mind is cancer. It is a twentieth century epidemic. It was an oddity before then. Could it be that the foods we eat, the liquids we drink, the medicines we consume contribute to these deadly tumors?

They do in my book.

And one of the chapters should be entitled: "The Planned Population Control Method."

The mid-twentieth century is when the baby boomers were born—a huge portion of today's population. Thirty years later, right around the seventies, cancer reached high fatality percentages. Today, it is a household word for Christ's sake. And we accept it.

Doesn't one ever think that as our government and their subsidized buddies make billions—trillions—of dollars from the sick and healthy alike that they're also wiping out the surplus population? I do.

As a matter of fact, when I watched the movie "V"—an entertaining gem; though filled with historical inaccuracies—the one thing that stood out for me was the St. Mary's Virus. In my eyes, the writer emulated Operation Northwoods from the mid-sixties: Our government's plan to execute unsuspecting Americans and blame it on Cuba. And adding insult to injury, they incessantly pled their innocence publicly; then confessed decades later.

Perchance, we tell ourselves "It's an isolated incident" or "Nothing happened" to excuse it away. How do we know that innocent civilians weren't slaughtered? Oh yeah, they report otherwise? And we believe them.

Give me a break.

Then what of the Reichstag Fire or the Gulf of Tonkin Incident; are they not similar in their design? Mark my words: If something is conceived; it can be done. If something has been done; it can be done again, and again, and again. The question is not "will they do it?" The question is "where and when?"

I have always thought that real life is stranger than fiction; our world today proves it to me.

So, one may think I'm eccentric—an oddball—I don't care. I'll ingest nature's wonders and leave the skull and crossbones "miracles" for the general population. For no matter how harmful man-made medicines are, they'll sell like hotcakes.

I'll never understand it.

Oops, it's time for my jigger of goo.

Gone With The Wind

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America…"

I recall these words as I stand watching a flag wave overhead while duly promoting our (Jeff's and my) writing this past weekend. (Among them, oddly enough, is a novel depicting the end of the world as we know it.)

Allegiance…loyalty…commitment…

How many of us know the true meaning of these words anymore?

I grew up placing my right hand over my heart, facing the flag, and loudly repeating the well-known (at the time) verses of this piece every morning in home-room. From kindergarten to eighth grade, I said these words with conviction, dignity, and respect. I was born in this grand (again, at one time) country of ours: I'm a first generation American. Perhaps, the reason these few words left my lips in this fashion is my lack of an ancestral "who's who" list that stretches back hundreds of years. I have lived in the States a mere fraction of the time to which others can attest. I remember the pains my father went through to get us (my family) here as if they happened only yesterday. Could these plain truths be why I have never taken these words or this country of ours for granted?

"And to the republic for which it stands…"

The American Heritage Dictionary printed in the late sixties that I possess gives us the definition of "republic": Any political order that is not a monarchy; A constitutional form of government, especially a democratic one; (and my favorite) any group of people working freely and equally for the same cause.

As far as I can tell, this definition can be found in dictionaries through the 1980's. Unfortunately for us, however, it has been redefined in current editions. In the online Encarta Dictionary that my word processor uses for "lookup," the definition is as follows: A political system or form of government in which people elect representatives to exercise power for them.

Yep! That's right! Even the definition of words can be altered to omit the words "freely" and "equally" without the masses' awareness.

How quickly we forget.

I can only surmise that since our freedoms are being taken away at an alarming rate in name of security, these words – the medium of expression notwithstanding – must be stomped out, eradicated, destroyed – under our very noses, of course – without drawing too much attention, and slowly but surely.

At least in Fahrenheit 451 the government blatantly destroys books; makes them an illegal substance. Oh, not our government, though. They'll creep up behind us, like a thief in the night, and take in the name defense, goodwill, and safety. The phrase "stranger than fiction" comes to mind.

"…One nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

Ah, my favorite part. We'll start with the very first word, shall we?

In my prehistoric dictionary the word "one" means "characterized by unity; of a single kind or nature; undivided." I believe this definition is the writer's intended usage. Anyone can play "What's My Line" with words: A game that our elected officials practice frequently. But given a piece's context – any piece – one can also make fairly accurate assumptions as to a word's meaning as well. The aforementioned is mine for the word "one."

"Under God" has been the thorn in many people's sides since its addition to this noted composition. Our Christian beliefs are as hazardous for us as freedom and equality to our government's mind.

Is it any wonder, for Exodus 20:2-3 states: I am the Lord thy God, which has brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Thou shalt have no other gods before me. And our politicians and high officials seem to exercise their "God" complexes quite frequently.

In Thailand, Buddhism – along with the monarchy – is a symbolic cornerstone of the nation. Though other religions exist as a minority, one should never foolishly attempt to wipe out their beliefs without the knowledge that one risks life and limb in so doing. It is their way of life.

The Middle East's views on religion are similar. They are willing to die and kill in the name of their God, to protect their way of life, their religion. For this reason alone, as the United States attempts to develop a course of action, from time to time, against our so-called enemies without taking their beliefs, culture, and way life into account; most plans go to hell in a hand basket rather quickly. As we mistakenly believe others will react as we do, our battlefields turn into blood baths. A collective "oops" rings out through Washington and it's back to the proverbial blackboard with more lives at stake and more lies devised for our, the people's, benefit.

Our forefathers had faith: Faith in God, the Creator cited in the Declaration of Independence as the endower of man's unalienable rights. It was with this spirit that they fought for freedom: For our way of life. It is how they found the strength to risk everything – all their personal possessions and stations – to achieve justice, liberty, and independence. Yet, through the years, we have allowed this, too, to be torn out of our children's education, wiped from our memories with words like "unconstitutional," "for the betterment of society," and "change."

So, as we mindlessly "dance" to our government's tune, a tune that would have our ancestors rolling in their graves, the Pledge of Allegiance tolls the loudest in my mind. Its words touch me deeper, today, than ever before. The flag overhead violently thrashing in the wind strums a different melody: One of the men and women who have given their lives for the red, white, and blue; for an ideal that was born many years ago, in a time that has all but "gone with the wind." And it is my humble opinion that the caliber of men, who fought for her colors, all those years ago, is an endangered species. Without them our end is close at hand: An end to free-thinking, freewill, and emancipation.

Allegiance, loyalty, commitment, and honor are more than words: They are a way of life.

Our Legacy?

In researching historical figures – for a forthcoming book, to be co-authored with Dawn Scovill – I begin to appreciate the legacy bestowed upon us by the great men of the past. They walked this land long before us, leaving footprints that shaped our future and served as the molds in which our notions of liberty, justice, integrity, and truth were cast.

Such a person was one Andrew Jackson.

As I read the particulars of his life, I cannot help but wonder where have we gone wrong. In this day and age, one would be hard pressed to find such a man. The values, the morals, even the ideals of the populace from these days long since past are but ghosts: They no longer exist.

At least, not to me.

As a mother, the section of Andrew Jackson, His Life and Times written by H.W. Brand that tore at my very heart was the description of Andrew’s mother’s plight in rescuing her sons from a British prison camp. Brand writes:

Elizabeth’s determination had kept her fatherless brood together till the war split them up, and now it kept her from resting till she reclaimed her surviving sons from their disease-ravaged prison. After she learned of the capture of Robert and Andrew, she traced their path the forty miles to Camden, refusing to allow Tories, Indians, or outlaws to stand between a mother and her children.

Ultimately, Elizabeth was successful in exchanging Andrew and Robert for some British prisoners that were being held by the Americans. It did not end here, however. Robert succumbed to a grave illness and passed away two days after returning home.

Elizabeth had lost her husband and two sons. Andrew was all she had now but he was safe.

Brand’s story continues:

But there was no rest for Elizabeth. With Andrew safe – and Hugh and Robert dead – her thoughts turned to her nephews, whom she had raised almost as sons. William and James Crawford were prisoners at Charleston, where conditions were said to be bad as those at Camden. She made the difficult journey there – 160 miles, over country ravaged by the war – in hopes of bringing William and James home. But though her courage and determination remained as great as ever, her body now failed her. The months of flight, deprivation, and worry had reduced her resistance, and she contracted cholera. Within days she was dead.

Andrew got the sad news in the form of a bundle of her clothes. He had lost his father to overwork, and now his two brothers and his mother to war. At fourteen he faced the world alone.

These events, though extremely saddening, were not the primary cause of the sentiments I expressed earlier. In later years, Andrew Jackson would frequently speak of his mother’s parting words as she left for Charleston:

Andrew, if I should not see you again I wish you to remember and treasure up some things I have already said to you: In this world you will have to make your own way. To do that you must have friends. You can make friends by being honest, and you can keep them by being steadfast. You must keep in mind that friends worth having will in the long run expect as much from you as they give to you. To forget an obligation or be ungrateful for a kindness is a base crime – not merely a fault or a sin, but an actual crime. Men guilty of it sooner or later must suffer the penalty. In personal conduct be polite, but never obsequious. No one will respect you more than you esteem yourself. Avoid quarrels as long as you can without yielding to imposition. But sustain your manhood always. Never bring a suit at law for assault and battery or for defamation. The law affords no remedy for such outrages that can satisfy the feelings of a true man. Never wound the feelings of others. Never brook wanton outrage upon your own feelings. If you ever have to vindicate your feelings or defend your honor, do it calmly. If angry at first, wait till your wrath cools before you proceed.

Jackson would explain, when recalling and quoting her admonition, that “her [his mother’s] last words have been the law of my life.”

One should read the aforementioned over and over again until it is committed to memory.

To all this, I say, our children are our future. It has been this way since the beginning of time. Generation after generation, we attempt to erase the failings of our fathers. Yet, in this day and age, I see us aping our predecessor’s blunders and digging ourselves an even deeper hole. Our children are our greatest resource and yet we squander it (them) away foolishly. Stunted educations, “dumbing down” through so-called “social promotion” and the acceptance of lowest-common-denominator intellectual performance, and fewer and fewer role models are only parts of the social-climate-as-culprit.

We have all but rid ourselves of future genius, extraordinary and wondrous discoveries of nature and science, and real heroes. Do they still exist? Yes, but for how long? Already we can see the lack of substance in human beings – it’s an epidemic.

Where’s the cure? What will it take for us to become a generation able to bestow a legacy of our own? There is no capital more worth possessing than morals, values, ethics, and the proper knowledge of their making and their practice.

Your Coffee

It's rather difficult for me to ignore anything that is written with life's obvious "I could of [have] had a V8" implication in the message.

In keeping with the "giving thanks" topic for this week, I have chosen this "little" insight to post. As an ardent fan of coffee, I savor each and every drop as often as I can.

I am thankful for being able to enjoy "the coffee," regardless of its presentation -- no matter what day it is.

Hopefully, all who read the following blurb will apply some of its wisdom into their daily routines as well.

A group of alumni, highly established in their careers, were talking at a reunion and decided to go visit their old university professor, now retired. During their visit the conversation soon turned into complaints about stress in their work and lives.

Offering his guests coffee, the professor went to the kitchen and returned with a large pot of coffee and an assortment of cups - porcelain, plastic, glass, crystal, some plain looking, some expensive, some exquisite - telling them to help themselves to the coffee.

When all the alumni had a cup of coffee in hand, the professor said:

"Notice that all the nice-looking, expensive cups were taken up, leaving behind the plain and cheap ones. While it is normal for you to want only the best for yourselves, that is the source of your problems and stress. Be assured that the cup itself adds no quality to the coffee. In most cases it is just more expensive and in some cases even hides what we drink. What all of you really wanted was coffee, not the cup; but you consciously went for the best cups.... and then you began eyeing each other's cups.

Now consider this: Life is the coffee; your job, money and position in society are the cups. They are just tools to hold and contain Life. The type of cup one has does not define, nor change the quality of life a person lives. Sometimes, by concentrating only on the cup, we fail to enjoy the coffee.

The happiest people don't have the best of everything. They just make the best of everything. Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. And enjoy your coffee.

~ Presented by Toma [The Old One]