Why Don’t We Ask for Help? (Intro)

So this is a big topic for me.  I’m probably going to write five posts on it…that’s how many different reasons I’ve come up with so far for why in God’s name we don’t ask for help when we need it. To ask for help is to make yourself vulnerable in a moment. To admit a lack of something, a chink in the armor of your otherwise amazing-ness, is like, well, it can be embarrassing. And scary. In this first post, I need to set this all up. Let’s talk a bit  about predictive science, the brain, generalization and melting butter.

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The Perfect Mother’s Day Gift for New Mothers: A Crystal Ball

(First posted on May 6, 2016 on the Huffington Post)

I’m Skyping with my friend Marie the other day, and as we’re solving the world’s problems, the subject turns to the upcoming May 8 holiday celebrating moms. We’re both moms of now-adult children, so it makes us a bit reflective on the subject. She says, “I always said the perfect Mother’s Day gift would be a crystal ball…The perfect gift you could never have.”

“Hah! No kidding,” I reply.

But what if there was? What if we could make an imaginary crystal ball, a shining orb of mom-wisdom? Stuff we wished we’d known when we were newbies. So we talk, and compare notes, like we do.

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When is Returning a Gift its Own Gift? (Part IV: A New Story)

(Continued from Part III)

We clambered down in the dark, and I ripped the dress off (as carefully as one could in a super-hurry). We now had maybe 10 minutes. I’d instructed the guys to start the second set with an instrumental if I wasn’t back by the start time; that would give us an additional four minutes if needed. The swing dancer crowd had arrived, so they’d be super-cool with that.
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David Seymour

When Returning a Gift is its own Gift (Part III: The Last Dance)

(Continued from Part II)

I didn’t know it at the time, but today would be the last time I wore the dress. It had been pouring rain all day, but miraculously it stopped and the sun came out just before our Jazz Festival show. Puddles were everywhere, but the sun sparkled in them all, casting flirty jewels of light all around the outdoor venue. Held in an outdoor garden center with statuary, fountains and trees full of fairy lights, the scene was set for a magical early evening performance.
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When is Returning a Gift its Own Gift? (Part II: The Spirit Dress)

(Continued from Part I)

About a year ago Marsha and I went together to a friend’s house concert. We were sitting cross-legged on floor pillows and drinking wine. “How’s the dress?” she asked at one of the set breaks. “It’s good,” I said. “I wore it a lot. It must be awfully tired by now.” We laughed. “Yah, it’s even older than we are,” she said. We agreed the poor dress might want to retire one of these days.

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Answering Questions with Questions: A Walk in the Snow

It was Fall, 2015. I’d been making a real effort to more clearly identify my list of “needs and wants.” I finally had figured out why I needed to make this list. It wasn’t easy.  My first attempt got an F from my counselor: Apparently “wanting my loved ones to be healthy and happy” didn’t quality as a need or a want for ME. (Who knew?!)

At the end of the calendar year I had finally assembled my starter list.  Still, I wasn’t sure I actually had done it right. [bctt tweet=”It takes a lot of work, I’ve discovered, to dispel the notion of having wants and needs as being selfish.”] Instilled at a young age by well-meaning parents from a very different generation, it took a very persistent counsellor and a strong support network of friends and family to encourage me past the front gate of self-worthiness. It was new for me to see a difference between self care and selfishness.

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The Pink Notebook Project is Born


I was standing in the bookstore looking at the three words embossed on the pale pink notebook cover: Dwell in possibility.

I loved everything about this notebook, from its ballerina-pink cover (which reminded me of my daughter Lucy’s tights as a little girl-dancer many years ago); to its embossed gold message from one of my favorite poets, Emily Dickinson, to its subtly lined pages.

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