Motherhood...Messy Miracles.

When I was a very young child I remember following my mother around…clinging to her as though I were an appendage; a shoot from the same tree, happy to be growing up in the shadowy shelter of her nurturing presence. Her unbendable strength seemed iconic to me... a mix of God and Mary Poppins. She could straighten out any crisis life brought to my tiny door with a wave of her dishpan hands.

Ma was a creative cook, talented seamstress, and a persuasive orator. I repeated her home spun wisdom to the world like a self-righteous evangelist; pitying the kids who weren’t lucky enough to have her for a mom. Her words were like seeds quietly taking root in the fertile soil of my heart and bearing the eclectic fruit of my mother’s soul.

It seemed as I grew my mother shrank. I became more observant and self-assured, questioning everything, while she made mistake after mistake. I cringed with embarrassment at her humanity as though I had walked in on God in his underwear. It was at this point that I realized that my mother didn’t have all of the answers, and although she loved me, she wasn’t able to save me…or herself. This made me ferociously protective of her… and extremely frustrated and angry.

When I finally became a mother I realized that I was still just me…Leah. All of my hang-ups and fears where present, causing me to fumble with motherhood like a football player on a buttered field. This instantly disqualified me from ever being a perfect mother. Desperate for guidance, I found myself phoning my imperfect mother for help on a daily basis.

If Ma had done some things differently she could have saved her children a lot of pain. But her life was impossibly complicated which caused her to lose her way. And like unwitting accomplices to a crime her children bore the punishment for her mistakes even though she meant us no harm.

I understand this now, and although she failed as a perfect mother, she was magnificent as an imperfect mother. The love, kindness, and honesty, that she managed to instill in her children in the midst of life’s ravaging storms is her legacy. It’s an amazing legacy and one that is still bearing good fruit today. Thank you Ma.

So, this is to all of you imperfect mothers out there who struggle to raise happy children in the midst of your own unhappiness. I salute you! Motherhood definitely isn’t easy… or for cowards, and it ISN’T about perfection! It’s all about doing your best with what you have and loving yourself, so that in turn, you can love your children. And remember…we are a perfectly imperfect species.

Happy Mother’s Day!

I Could be Persuaded.

The morning nudges me awake like a dutiful parent; tugging softly, yet with purpose. I dress and head outside, squinting into the tropically brilliant morning, and even though I have a long work day ahead of me, I feel lucky to be living in such an alluring place. Watching the palm trees sway like hula girls and the playful Gulf of Mexico swish her foamy skirts at me...drives me to giddiness!

Sometimes, when life turns dark and moody, it’s as though a bucketful of mud has been splattered onto this scenic canvas, and I become blinded to the showy charm of my little town; overlooking the natural blessings which surround me.

It’s easy to get discouraged when troubles stack up like storm clouds, and the future blurs like a windshield in a relentless downpour, and even though my wipers are slapping triple time; it’s still hard to see the road. I guess there are times when I don’t need to see the road per se…I just need to stay on the right side of that skinny yellow line and creep along until I get wherever the road leads me.

I am persuaded that it’s the small joys in life that carry me through these drenching squalls; reading a great book on the beach, visiting a waterfront café with my husband, making a stranger smile, phoning someone that I love. There are limitless small pleasures that make my journey seem lighter and more inspiring, and on days that seem extra dark, or bland, I pursue these simple pleasures like a miner seeks gold. It’s one of the easiest ways to offer myself comfort and balance.

So, even though things may sometimes seem messy and jumbled, with life’s moods changing faster than a chameleon sliding down a rainbow, I want to be thrilled with my journey and gratefully indulge in all of life’s benevolent handouts. Gratitude is the heart’s way of offering something back…extending a “please” and “thank you” to the divine. It’s also a great tour guide for this complex and wondrous journey through life.

Ask The Brit...Anything British!

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Wedding Bells


By Kris English



Friday dawned a beautiful day defying a forecast of rain and for one famous couple it was due to be a special day. Prince William and Kate Middleton got married Friday to a worldwide audience of a few billion people. For British citizens it was a proud moment. The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge emerged onto the balcony in a picture that was hauntingly reminiscent of Dianna’s marriage to Prince Charles.

Kate Middleton looked beautiful in her dress and Prince William looked every bit a prince in his stately uniform. I felt proud to be British; our monarchy has been a symbol of the British people around the world. As a monarchist I am a firm fan of our royalty however their role is little more than a tourist attraction in modern society.

Looking back one will see that our Royals, much like our people, come from all over the world. This is very similar to the American people; though much of our migration took place many years ago. The original people to occupy the British Isles were the Celts and then the Romans, and the Vikings, clearing the way for other European people to occupy our small island nation. Rapidly Great Britain became one of the greatest Empires in the world and one of the largest of its time.




Now I hope you’ve enjoyed a little history lesson and found time to watch the Royal Wedding.

Thanks for reading, if you want to ask me a question simply post it below or you can email me at KJ_Kris84@hotmail.com Just add “Ask the Brit” in the subject line.Our True Brit


Visit Kris’s blog: viewingthroughalens.blogspot.com

What Are You Wearing?!

I have a confident friend with perceptive eyes and a welcoming smile. A woman who is lovely in both heart and flesh. She dresses in exotic fabrics perfumed with romantic scents that smell so delicious they may have been imported from heaven. Her movements are naturally rhythmic like window sheers dancing on a summer’s breeze. Whimsical, she loves wearing tinkling bangles, and luminous moonstone, always adding enchantment to the ordinary. She is a palpable palate of color captivating eyes long bored with beige skirts and sensible shoes. Her artful ways inspire creativity…and jealousy.

This unique friend works in a respectable office with a group of careful women; women with tight lips, and cutting eyes, whose ambiguous smiles express cryptic thoughts. My friend thought that she could win this group over by being herself…sharing her mirthful ways with them. In chilled silence they resisted her offerings, lending my friend warmth only when she conformed to their sterile traditions. Little by little my friend abandoned herself; shedding her bangles, bunning her long hair, and dressing in itchy, wrinkle resistant polyesters, while her friendly silks hung forgotten in the darkness of her closet.

One day, as my friend was getting ready to leave for work, her husband gently questioned her. “Honey,” he said, in a hesitant voice, “what are you wearing?” You see her husband loved her whimsical ways and missed the charm of her expressiveness and the seductive poise which carried her, like a magic carpet, throughout her day. She looked down at her drab wardrobe, as if seeing it for the very first time, and simply answered, “I don’t know.”


I am happy to report that my friend has resumed her relationship with herself and is still working at the same office. She has made some friends…the right ones, and learned a very valuable lesson from her experience.

We were created to be different. The only true gift that we have to offer the world is our authentic selves. Once compromised, we become impotent clones numbered among the lost, living a life without purpose, and dying alone with our regrets. Being yourself often requires great bravery, but it is better to be alone, and content with yourself, than to be in a crowded room where nobody recognizes you…including yourself.

May I Have a Moment?

Sometimes, when something wonderful is happening, I become intensely aware of the moment—and that as it unfolds it’s also slipping away, becoming a faded snapshot destined to spend eternity filed away in my unreliable memory …neglected, and eventually forgotten. Time really is an illusion. There is only now. Yet, now is ever changing like the clouds and the shoreline, seemingly moving forward like a man in a blinding snowstorm whose footprints are erased by the driving winds, leaving him unable to see where he came from or where he is going.

Holding on to a moment is impossible. It’s like trying to capture the twinkling of a star. I remember holding my infant son and feeling the synchronal love flowing like milky waves between us, and then becoming startled with the smothering epiphany that this precious infant of mine was going to some day disappear… and I would no longer have a baby. I cried into his feathery hair with this suffocating awareness, trying to remember everything about him as he cooed and snuggled into me, oblivious of the moments that lay before him; resolutely waiting to escort him into manhood.

My son is nearly thirty now, and although we share an unbreakable bond, and I wouldn’t trade him in for that baby that I once held, I sometimes tear up when I stumble upon his three legged teddy bear, or his favorite childhood blanket; caught off guard by the intensity of the moment…and the memories.

There is a charged expectancy hidden within the folds of each moment as we reach for something more…and also a tender desperation as we let go…eventually leaving behind everything. The exchange is bittersweet…yet, with optimism, we bravely do it every day. This is life and how it’s done. We were made for this, wired just the right way so it makes sense to us, and doesn’t scare us into our shells like terrified turtles.

Our hearts are a great depository holding the sundry moments of our lives like the yellowed pages of an old book. These sanguine moments have changed our paths, our thinking, and even chosen who we will love. They are our heart's alibi proving that we have lived, in this moment, and this moment alone.

Ask the Brit!

I’ve always been fascinated with Britain. I believe it’s because so many of our roots and traditions stem from there. America was birthed from British expatriates which sort of makes us Britain’s prodigal daughter. We’re so alike yet so different.

Since the British Invasion back in the 1960’s America has been flirting with the English… and poking fun at them. They’ve given us amazing writers, musicians, actors, princesses; not to mention arrogant talent show judges….the list is endless. So I’ve decided to invite, Kris English, a friend, and fellow blogger, who just happens to be thoroughly British, to do a weekly post answering questions on everything British.

Most of us remember the Royal Wedding between Charles and Diana…and its tragic ending. This Friday much of the world will watch as Will and Kate tie the knot, which may stir up some interesting questions about the Monarchy. No matter what your questions this should be fun. Remember…no holds barred! Ask the Brit...I'm sure he has some clever answers.



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Ask the Brit By Kris English.

The United Kingdom has a long history and a great Alliance with the United States; however there are many differences between the two countries, especially lingual differences, so in this weekly guest blog I'll answer your questions or give you some news or a story from this side of the pond, giving you a little education on us Brits.

Lingual differences are major thing. I’ve often heard people speak of American-English and Americanism’s which are interesting. There are some things lost in translation, which make for some interesting comments. Living close to an American Base here in the UK we get a lot of Americans living in my town. Many visit the Take Away (fast food) place where I work. I had four Air Force men in a few days ago and it took them ages to find the right money because they weren’t certain if 20p was a 20p. So, for all of you Americans who have never seen British coins, this is what our money looks like:




From the left: 1p, 2p, 5p, 10p, 20p, 50p, £1 and £2.

I happen to work with a young American in the restaurant/take away and I had just swept when our boss said to him, with the mop in his hand,
“Are you going to do a clean sweep through the restaurant?”
“But Kris has just swept it,” he returned with a puzzled look.
“I meant are you going to mop through the whole restaurant?” she replied, and enlightenment finally came to my American co-worker. It’s these and other comments that make me like the American visitors even more.

Question time:

If you have a question you’d like to ask, maybe some differences between the British and American peoples then I will try and do my best to answer. No question is too silly or off limits. We’ll start with Leah’s question.

Question: What are Crumpets?
Answer: Crumpets are like bread; we toast them and have them at breakfast on occasion with Jam, marmite or Nutella (chocolate spread). Yes we also have Tea with them because a lot of people have a cup of tea for breakfast.

Thanks for reading, if you want to ask me a question simply post it below or you can email me at KJ_Kris84@hotmail.com Just add “Ask the Brit” in the subject line.

Visit Kris’s blog: viewingthroughalens.blogspot.com

Eastah in Wistah

When I was a kid, Easter marked the beginning of spring and the end of another long cold New England winter; ushering in the return of kick ball, long bike rides, and eventually summer vacation. Although most of the trees still stood naked and desperate looking, spring was officially in the air. It was as though the April sun had become a patient crock pot…slowly thawing out the neighborhood, and producing a fresh batch of happy smells that had been frozen away for months.

Ma began planning our Easter outfits right after New Year; cutting and sewing until three frilly pastel dresses, with layer upon layer of tulle puffiness, appeared on hangers in our closets. These dresses were made to open up like Gerber Daisies when you twirled around in them. I can still remember my sisters and I twirling until we were sick with dizziness and then falling down in fits of wet-your-pants laughter.

On Easter Eve, Ma would set our hair in rags and then make us wear our underpants on our heads to keep them in place (okay, we were poor). The desired result was three little heads draped in long dark bologna curls. The next morning we’d ransack our apartment searching for our Easter baskets; snarling and clawing at each other like feral cats, until our hunt was rewarded and we were gorging ourselves on marshmallow chicks, jelly beans, and speckled malt eggs. The coveted hollow chocolate bunny, which never made it through the hunt in one piece, was set aside for later. As we munched on our candy, Ma would remove our rags; transforming us into three gluttonous Shirley Temple look-a-likes.

We were poor and scrappy, but once we donned our fancy dresses we became demure and polite. Even our Worcester accents took on a hoity-toity quality, sounding more like, Oliver Twist, meets Tony, The-Ice-Pick, Garbino.

Easter service always seemed too long. What with that banged up chocolate bunny waiting at home and a big meal to look forward to. The crowded church became a sea of pastels and stank of morning after booze breath and cheap perfume. Punctually, the high mass would begin and the church would come alive with the ceremonial thurible swinging (incense bong), genuflecting, and our cantata singing priest. The best thing about Easter service was hearing that Jesus was finally off of that awful cross and alive again. The worst part was leaving, and having to walk under the life-sized wooden carving of Jesus still hanging on the cross, complete with realistic blood stains and glistening tears. Staring soulfully down at me, I always felt that Jesus somehow needed my help getting down from there.