Just wanted you to know I visited Eric's web site today and was in tears the whole time. He reminds me alot of my son when younger with the blond hair and angel smile. I can tell you loved your son very much and I know the pain your going thru without him. Thank you, for your compassion, wisdom, understanding and encouraging words you share with all .
Lots of hugs
Donna Adams
Memory of Jonathan E. Holliday
8/3/1990 10/18/2004
Merry Christmas My Angel / Mom I was struck by this article, and wanted to share a little story about the last Christmas I had with Eric.
It was Christmas eve in Evergreen, and we went to Eric's best friend Ian's house for some food, celebration and gift exchange. Ians family is agnostic, and Eric and I were shocked to discover that Ian and his older sister Rachel had never been to church....ever! Eric and I had plans to go to the Presbyterian church for the candlelight service but my Trooper was having engine problems that day. I couldn't really go there without leaving the car running because once I shut down the engine, I couldn't restart the car, even with jumper cables. I kept the car running over at Eileen's, but was nervous about doing it in a public place, for fear that it would attract police attention and I would get some kind of citation for leaving a car locked and running. But now that Eric had discovered that Ian and Rachel had never been to church before, he was adamant that we should all go to the 11:00 p.m. service. No problem, we'll just leave the car running, lock it up, and hope the running car in the parking lot doesn't cause any problems. It was a lovely service and Ian and Rachel got to learn about the birth of Jesus. The errant car, which had given me lots of anxiety prior to our decision to go to church, and which made us all feel a bit like criminals as we parked as far from other cars in the lot as possible, vanished from my mind as I listened to the age old story of the birth of Jesus. The peace and beauty of the candle lit church seemed to absorb all my worries and the look of astonishment on the faces of Ian and Rachel as they witnessed their first ever church service drove home in a deep way the understanding of what Christmas really means. Eileen did not want to come, nor did she want to drive us there and pick us up in her car, which would have allayed my fears entirely. However, she did not prevent her children from going, since Eric had been so insistent. I haven't been to a Christmas service since, as I get so very emotional remembering these specific memories of time spent with my son. This year, I will remember that Eric's last Christmas was devoted to a little introduction into Christianity, despite a few obstacles along the way.
When Folks Gone are Present Again
~ By Tom Chaney ~
The holidays are upon us again. for many, this time of year - which should be
filled with joy - is depressing.
Strip away the glitzy electronics and the rampant greed, the bad music and
gaudy decorations, and we are left with some important values to celebatre.
Of course, there is the renewal of the ties of family and friendship. The
generosity toward those in need comes into play.
There is more.
We celebrate the passing of time and life, of friends and family lost to that
passing.
In a recent National Public Radio presentation, one commentator quoted former
poet laureate Billy Collins as saying, "All poetry is about death."
The poet helps us tie up death, grief, and sorrow into a bundle and put it
aside so that we continue to live. I think often of a little poem by Emily
Dickenson.
The hardest part of death:
is sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away.
With the help of time and a bit of poetry, we manage to continue with our
petty affairs beyond the deaths of those we lvoe - knowing that life, not
love, has gone.
Yet, one of the poignant beauties of the holiday season is the practice of
unwarapping the bundles of the dead to celebrate their lives, their food,
their things.
William Faulkner, referring here to the South, migh thave been speaking of
the proper savoring of life itself, when he said, "The past has not gone. It's
not even past."
So let our holidays be the time when folks gone are present once again!
Find the axe that father used to cut down the cedar tree on a friend's farm;
bring out the old ornaments connected with past Christmases. Let it be the
time when mother's recipe for boiled custard is served in the old jelly glasses
she used at Christmas.
And most of all, remember the stories that are our past. Tell of the 80 year
old aunt who, one frozen Christmas morning, found her car with all but one
back seat door frozen shut, clambered into the driver's seat only to discover
the car wouldn't start, then crawled out the same way, called a neighbor who was able to coax the engine to turn over, and made it into town in time for
biscuits and ham, gifts and stories.
Let us be sensitive to the holy dead - the cloud of unseen witnesses out of
which we have emerged and whom we will join ..."
So Much Fun!!! / Mom Remember our days of swimming. Our underwater tea parties and dolphin flips? How 'bout all those Friday afternoons when I would pick you up from school and we'd go directly to 7-11 for a Slurpee and Skittles? Pajama and movie night on Fridays, complete with loads of junk food? Seeing who could lugie the farthest from the balcony (you could, no contest). Farting under the covers and the massive upheaval of blanket shaking that would follow? Jokes you told. Jokes I told. Laughing so hard pop comes out of your nose? Building our make-shift tee pee, and then decorating it? Not being able to sleep in it because we kept hearing the nighly scream of the mountain lion? The night the bear came to the garage? The little mouse that inhabited the kitchen but we didn't want to kill so we got the "cruelty free" mouse trap---so scary when he was alive but caught on the sticky tape, and of course, you saved him, and saved the day! Remember when the vacuum "accidentally" stopped working 'cause it wasn't a man's job to vacuum? All the light bulbs you changed 'cause you had no fear climbing to very high places. Your really amazing George of the Jungle swinging from the high ropes among the trees? These are all the things I miss, Eric. Singing in harmony (badly); eating sour patch kids; making the perfect raspberry muffins (so professional, yours were); watching Everybody Loves Raymond and making fun of the grandpa; funny movies with Adam Sandler or Jim Carry; scary movies, always holding my hand; lazy Saturday mornings with chocolate milk and cartoons; making friends with our hummingbirds; dancing to records (a i hip, hop, a hippty hopping ya don't stop rocking); These are all the things I miss, Eric. Sledding down the bumps with Lucy right on our butts; ice skating in circles until I dropped; catching snowflakes on our tongues; making fun of me loving the sunset, but getting me to make sure I saw a bright orange or purple one. Loving me. Saying I love you, Mom. Saying You're so funny, Mom. Saying You look good Mom. Saying I'm Looking good, mom. These are the things I miss Eric. These are the things I miss today, Eric. Just today, these are the things I miss.
Remembering You / Mom Eric, I have been remembering so many lovely conversations we shared that made me so proud of you; and that now make me so sad that such a beautiful soul has blown away....when so much ugliness remains.
You were such a good friend to the kids who were struggling with their parents' divorces. That's why you thought you would be a good therapist, and I agreed. It really is such a gift to be able to console someone who is lost, confused, sad and lonely. Not many kids really have the gift of understanding. (Actually, my dear boy, not many adults do.) As much as you kept inside yourself about your own feelings, you were so open and willing to help others process theirs. I admire that. I guess we were kind of both ambassadors for divorce recovery. And now you help me every day with this new giant struggle called grief.
I think this Oscar Wilde quote befits us both:
"If a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not invite me to it, I should not mind a bit. But, if a friend of mine had a sorrow and refused to allow me to share it, I should feel it most bitterly. If he shut the doors of his house of mourning against me, I would move back again and again and beg to be admitted, so that I might share in what I was entitled to share. If he thought me unworthy, unfit to weep with him, I should feel it as the most poignant humiliation, as the most terrible mode by which disgrace could be inflicted upon me, he who can look on the loveliness of the world and share its sorrow, and realize something of the wonder of both, is in immediate contact with divine things, and has got as near to God's secret as anyone can get." -- Oscar Wilde
I love you and miss you so very much. Every day, I work a little harder to remember that my life is a memorial to yours.
Thankful for Eric / Mom Eric Donald Grove:
T--talked a lot, a chatterbox
H-heart of gold
A-angry at bullies
N-Never on time, always running late
K-kind to strangers
S-sassy and funny
G-Groft and Grove, his families
I-inventive, he could make anything from scraps or trash
V-victorious in overcoming lots of odds, great skateboarder, snowboarder
I-intuitive, he knew what was going on inside people
N-naughty and nice. Liked to push the envelope.
G--great, great gap-toothed smile. No braces necessary now.....
Coming Back to Life / Mom My therapist, my beautiful Sibel, sent me this poem today. I loved it so much I thought I
would share.
This is from a chapter in Joyce Rupp's book, "Praying Our Goodbyes"
The following was written in celebration of the resurrection of a
good friend, one who had tasted such deep depression that the thought
of suicide was one of the sweetest comforts to her mind for many
months. Then one grey winter day, life paid a visit and the dank
darkness of her despair turned over like fresh black earth under a
spring plow.
it is the story
of how fresh, fine fruit grew on a barren tree,
of how moonlight stalked the darkness and devoured it,
of how winter snows were snatched by strong southern winds,
of how an empty, hollow heart grew rich with the fullness of an
unseen presence.
It is the story of one
who learned the penetrating power of silence,
whose heart listened more deeply than the ears of flesh,
who savored the faithfulness of friends who stood by,
who fled down the dark alleyways of depression and walked into the
ripe rims of Easter lilies.
The seed in black earth
is no mere comfort slogan to the bereaved.
It is fully the groan and agony of one falling into the hell of
nothingness.
It is wholly the pain of one crawling out of the pit, hands and knees
on sharp rocks, spewing the blood of an angry search amid the stench
of memories.
Many see only what is before them, some see not even that.
But the one who has been in the harbor of despair ponders and savors
the delicate, first curl of the greening leaf in a grateful way that
no one else ever can.
The one who has howled in the far countries of darkness lingers long
with the faint traces of light in the dawn.
The one who has torn into her past, with the rage of the wild
snatches the first jagged pieces of her life's puzzle
and she shouts out like one in a field full of treasures:
"I have found my Self! I, who have died, have come back to life!"
Eric, You March to Your Own Drummer / Momma If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps
it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to
the music which he hears, however measured or far away.
By Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862
I guess I want to talk to you Eric about your health. I guess others want to also. You were not like the other children, that's for sure. I have a lot of guilt about going along with those regular drummers, the professionals who said that you, at the age of six, needed to be given stimulant drugs that are the equivalent to speed. Yes, honey, I was very leary then. I did lots of research into "natural" methods of taming your wild spirit so that you could march along in line to the beat of the other children's drums. What I admire is that no matter how hard we tried to make you conform, you did not!
You know I just believe you were in the wrong place. I think you would have been much happier in a very small school with other kids like you. I think I could have been a whopper of a home schooler to you. I fought the battle, but lost.
I think your wild spirit was comprised by lies told to you as truths. You couldn't suffer liars, never could, and you were surrounded by them: medical professionals who you could never talk to; a parent who wouldn't just tell you the truth, even though you needed it, so desperately; a school system that tried to tell you you were broken; friends who couldn't see your logic, which was always so much more brilliant than "conventional wisdom."
I'm mad, Eric, at people who tell lies about me too. I'm guilty for allowing people who never knew you the way I knew you to convince me that they knew better. That's what I'm guilty of. Allowing them to fill you with drugs, (Zypreka, Depakote and Adderall, too, too many, too much, it's a terrible shame) all the while knowing, obviously, that nine year old children should not be given psychotropic drugs, all the while knowing that a boy in puberty should not be given powerful brain-altering chemicals, not while your brain is still developing. It simply defies common sense. But it is the new conventional wisdom. Drug the unruly ones. I am sorry that I threw you to the wolves, and I was very, very responsible in following the rules of the wolf pack.
So, now the liars accuse me of not giving you your meds. I did always give you the meds. They are totally missing the point. It was most probably the meds that took your young and oh so brilliant future from you.
They call me a liar. That's the least of what I am. The least of what they are. We are and were co-conspirators in your death. Try that on for size and see how it fits? Not too comfortable is it? Guess you haven't paused to ponder many of these questions. I have done it for us all, again and again, non-stop, since December 7, 2004.
Eric, you felt for all of us. You were the feeler of the family. Now I am. I know how hard, how impossibly hard it is to feel when important people won't help you shoulder that load.
In the end, you are still the same amazing soul you always were; will always be. Because you forgive all us fools.
I wish I could be like you. I am very, very close. Keep training your poor 'ole mom, will ya? Mucho love to you, my sweet.
P.S. And Eric, let's hope I get a video tape, 'cause we don't want to have a lengthy discussion about home made video tapes on this on your memorial site, do we? Maybe we do, little rebel man.
Just Give Me Back the Video Tape / Teri (POS Mom) Dear Doug: I know, KNOW, you visit this site. I know you have a conscience. I need only one thing from you: the video tape of Eric skateboarding. It is such a little thing to ask. It is such a huge thing to give, apparently. I want to hear his voice. I want to see him doing his best, at the thing in which he excelled. How can this possibly be withheld? When I have withheld killing you. Yes, I have NOT acted on that. I have turned to God to prevent me from hurting you. Perhaps this web site has hurt you. Well, these words would not be necessary if you would only just talk to me. Just talk to me. Just talk to me. I cannot talk to you. It is as if you died, along with my son. That is very hard for me. Because you are not dead, you are alive. You get the supreme privilege of parenting Eric's most beloved brother. I only get to parent a dog and a ferret. Please try to understand how empty that parenting experience is for me. Please dig deep in your heart and find the humanity that is inside. And then go to wherever that video tape is: you said it was in storage. You said you would send it to me. I need to see my boy again. Not as a tiny child. As a man-boy, a skater dude, an athlete who had a dream of being a professional skater. That is why I made the video; so that we could use it to shop for a sponsor. So that I could chase this dream with him of taking his amateur skills to the next level. All those crazy names for each trick. I cannot remember those crazy names. I need to. Please do this one little thing for me, dad of Eric. Eric wants you to do it. He pleads with me to plead with you, yet one more time, to get the one thing in life I still have a desire to possess. I beg of you, please send me the video tape. Now you can either jack me up with tricks, come and kill me yourself, or send me the video tape of Eric skateboarding. I am not afraid. I am brave. I am courageous. It is not brave if you are not scared. Love, Your former wife, the mother of your child, Eric The person who stood beside you, faithfully, for 17 years of marriage Teri Ann Groft Grove
A New Day / Mom July 3, 2008
Hello My Beautiful Eric.
Today, I feel something different, something new. That’s why I’m writing to you; because I haven’t felt up to it for so long. Today, right now, I’m touched with the truth: I am a wonderful person who has experienced terrible events: I can overcome them with strength, dignity and wisdom.
Depression is a horrible disease. It has overtaken my mind, my heart, to the extent that I cannot see anything good about myself at all. I carry all the guilt and the shame of the world on my shoulders; even though when I go through my life’s decisions and my words and my actions, I know I am a good and decent and kind person. Did I make mistakes? Of course, but never, never did I do anything that wasn’t based in good intentions (and yes, I’m very aware of the expression “the road to Hell is paved with good intentions…..)
Depression wipes out anything that’s true and replaces it with lies and chaos and cynicism and self hatred. Of course, I’m preaching to the choir because I remember many conversations where I was “cheerleading” to you about what a terrific person you are---funny, charming, smart, talented---blessed with so much more raw inner beauty than I. I haven’t been able to be that kind of a cheerleader parent to myself. (And many times, I have wondered if my “attitude of gratitude” and cheerleader posture didn’t just make you want to puke….as it has made me when I’m despondent and the self-help books say “change your attitude”----like telling a person without legs to get up and walk across the room; it’s annoying when people don’t understand how debilitating it is to NOT have the ability to change your mind, or even to control your thoughts.)
I did keep praying. Secretly, I wondered who the heck I’m praying to. I prayed so much for the restoration of your health, and look where that got me? I’ve been praying intently for some relief, but it hasn’t come. The book of Job seems ludicrous to me (me, a former Job’s Daughter); no “family” or “riches” could ever replace you, nothing I could imagine for myself would make me happy. Only you. But I keep praying, often praying for faith that is real, not feigned.
Maybe I’ve finally forgiven myself. I remember going to church in 2005, every week, enduring the “mass service” so that I could meet privately with a practitioner to seek some comfort. My story--which I had learned to encapsulate within a 2-minute sound bite through tears--often solicited looks of absolute horror. Depending on the eyes of that Sunday’s particular church counselor, my day would either be spent rolled in a ball bawling, or feeling a little better, perhaps picking up some fast food for myself, the only treat I really could muster for myself. I remember one day, the practitioner’s eyes were particularly registered with horror, but his response to my/our story was: You need to forgive yourself. I bawled that day. Obviously, that was what I needed to do. But how?
For me, self-forgiveness has meant an exhaustive review of my entire life: the good, the bad and the ugly. Memories have been so clear, all the way back to childhood, that this examination wasn’t so much intentional than it was thrust upon me. Forgiveness has meant accepting my own human inadequacies and those of everyone else as well. We human beings are wired to make mistakes. Especially when we’ve been hurt, or victimized….each time a wound is inflicted, we make more mistakes. It’s OK. That’s what life is for. To learn from our mistakes. To become better, more compassionate people in the wake of our own painful life choices and when others’ choices have damaged us. Many people, and oh, how I envy them, can get to this place of self-acceptance so quickly. I honestly don’t know if they are more or less “enlightened” human beings. If that acceptance is based upon denial of their own missteps and the affect they had on everyone else, then I don’t think it’s true wisdom, just rationalization. Others, like me, don’t get to self-acceptance quickly enough because we are intent on taking personal responsibility for everything---control freaks who take credit when things run smoothly, and blame for when they don’t. Opposite ends of the spectrum in self examination and healing. I think I’ve examined my life enough. I get it now. I’m human and I don’t control anything except my own perception of me, and boy, I haven’t been doing such a good job with that. My human frailty. My cross to bear.
You were a miracle. Being your mother was the greatest and hardest thing I’ve ever experienced. Your exit made me feel like an utter failure, unworthy of anything positive in life. I felt the need to punish myself, to pay penance, for your death. And oh, you know how good I am with guilt. It is my specialty. But it is so, so damaging, and it is not at all what you want for me. It is not what you want for any of your family.
Today, I believe that. It’s actually quite a turnaround, and I’m not even sure it will stick. But I thank you, and I thank God that for now, for this moment, I believe I am loved and protected. It took me so long to believe that you were safe. I feared that you were in a place where I needed to be also….to save you, or at least to be with you. That is how strong my love is for you. Wherever you are is where I believed I had to be. Because I am your mother and a mother’s first job is to protect her child.
Now I know, KNOW, that you are not suffering, you are safe and protected and immensely loved. Perhaps now I can do for myself what I attempted to do for you----believe in me. The way that I believed in you. Maybe I was totally naïve, but I never, never thought you would be anything but a wonderful, well adjusted, happy and responsible man. I sincerely believed that you were facing your emotional demons as a child, getting balanced early, so that you would never experience a “mid life crisis”---because your emotions would have already been healed. I felt that you were way ahead of the game for a male in today’s world. And I battled for you with the intensity of a mother lion, no one was going to judge my son for responses that he could not control, couldn’t properly articulate. Oh how I wish that everyone who knew you could have known the saint inside the rebel. Many did.
We did not fail, Eric, not me and not you. We lived our lives to completion together. And now I must live my life for myself. How weird that freedom has felt like prison for me (like Janis Joplin says “freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose). Such torment losing you, along with our future, your future. No more.
Whatever lies ahead of me, and I know that this path I am on is very narrow and steep; I know that I am intended to climb it, that continuing the climb is the very purpose of my life---to have borne you, raised you discovered you dead, and then to learn how to live with that. This is my purpose. Not money, or romantic love, or career success, or an abundance of friends, or anything that society says is the correct way to live. My purpose is to heal. To be healed. To believe, to know without a shadow of a doubt, that all this pain and suffering does have a divine purpose that I’m not completely aware of, despite my attempts to really understand why.
I miss you so very much. You brought out the best in me. You made me so much more than I ever imagined possible. She’s still in there somewhere, your mom. Let’s unearth her and let her breath a little, OK?
Faith. I’ve had it, I’ve lost it, I’m committed to regain it. Your life and what it brought to me is why I am determined to live, really live, not just exist in pain and suffering. All my love, Momma
Two Wrongs Don't Make a Right, But Three Lefts Do / Mom April 5, 2008
Thinking about you, as always…..the child who knew more, saw more, felt more, cared more.
I haven’t cared one iota about politics since you’ve gone, Eric. Of course, I’m still a war-hating pacifist, but I’ve learned (the hard way) that it’s best just to keep my mouth shut. But I cry, Eric, for the soldiers who won’t return. I cry for their mothers, because I know how they feel. No one should ever, ever have to bury a child. It is an abomination. It goes against nature.
You went against nature, too. I could never get you do things the “right” way. Why turn right when you could instead turn left three times? Funny, now the way I can so clearly see the genius in your methods. Left-handed. Oppositional. Eric.
I am reminded of a quote from a source I cannot remember. It was given by a widow about her husband, whom she adored. She said the reason she loved her husband so much was that he always got to the right conclusion and the journey to it was never dull.
That’s precisely how I feel about you. And believe me, life is not the same without you in it. I miss all your left-ness. Never right, but always correct.
All my hate (on opposite day!) Mom
What Now? / Mom March, 2008
Hi Eric. For someone who has spent her life stringing words together to make a living, I'm having some trouble. What words are there? That I miss you; that I love you; that I feel you near; that I know you're near others too? Seems like these words are a little lame compared to the feelings that fuel them. It's almost Easter, and that holiday always had a lot of meaning for me. From my earliest memories of Grandma Clark and our dresses and bonnets and mom's (whoops, I mean the Easter Bunny's) candy trees; the Easter Egg hunts with the coveted golden egg. Right up to that Easter where I was so sad because you were at Dad's; and I was without you, and the separation just stunk. Stunk.
And now the separation is permanent. But not. That's a little weird, and most people just don't understand it Most people haven't lost their child. Their world. Their son, their sun.
If you are in what we call Heaven, then I hope you'll use your power (which was always so much more powerful than mere words) to engage your colleagues in a little peace here on Earth. More tolerance of people's differences. More patience with people's suffering; more kindness to strangers; less fear in general.
As you said when you were a wee but wise little guy, "All God wants us to do is love each other and have fun."
You were so right, Eric. Where do we humans find the most trouble; in the loving or in the fun? ha. I love you and each tear I've shed for that love has filled an ocean, purified the water supply and grown crops all over the world. I'm convinced my tears are good for the environment. (Or maybe it was you who convinced me not to hide them; or squelch them, but to let them flow.)
Happy Easter My Darling Little Boy. Love, Mom
You are the strongest women in the world!your son was a wonderful person.Even though i only met your son two times.He was so full of adventure.I rember it was the rodeo paraid a few years ago.Eric and i went to evergreen lake with one of my girlfriends to just have fun!!An oh man was it fun!!Eric jumped in the water with all of his cloths on and everything in his pocets.But eric did not care at all he said "It will dry"He was so cool, so bright!!An the other time i hung out with eric we were jumping on a trampoline and eric fell on his butt some how there was a bee under his butt and it stung him.It wasnt funny to me but eric was laughing.When i herd about erics death i was so shocked. I dident believe it at first.now many years have passed.an we still miss you eric!!But just know that we all think of you everyday!keep giving your mom strength!An fly free little angel.xoxox
jessika
A Rant / Teri (Eric's Mom) Everything Happens for a Reason
A Rant
By Sarah Luczaj
“Everything happens for a reason”, they say, and “their” opinion has become pretty mainstream. This supposedly positive thinking is an undeniable part of how we human beings are; we’ve been making myths and stories and religions out of reality for as long as we have been human.
I nonetheless want to scream “oh no it doesn’t!” Of course, we are free to attach whatever meanings we like to our experiences, and changing the storyline can be enormously helpful. We are free to be present and aware in our lives in order to create the best outcomes that we possibly can. But most of the “everything happens for a reason” stories I have read are about people dropping out of college, or having accidents from which they recovered, or losing all their money, and how they changed direction in their lives for something more meaningful to them.
All well and good, but these stories speak to a small proportion of people on the planet at this moment. What about the child whose entire family are slaughtered in front of her by soldiers for no apparent reason? The child soldiers themselves high on drugs and told to kill? The sex slaves being raped and abused in Britain today who came here to be waitresses? Is all this violence inflicted on so many really necessary for their personal growth?
That’s my rant over. There may well be a reason from some very large perspective, there may well be a God out there for whom it all makes perfect sense. I doubt it, but it’s possible. It’s great when people make use of bad times to make themselves stronger and more aware, and we can undoubtedly influence our lives crucially by our attitude. But let’s not pretend that we are all God.
My thoughts on Sarah’s Rant:
Well said. Us Americans are spoiled by riches and circumstance and lack of trauma and tragedy in our lives. Those of us who are recovering from tragedy know that we don’t know why we’ve become victims of what our own eyes have seen; of what our hearts must now feel; of what our shattered identities must now reintegrate; and most importantly of why this happened to us. It is most often NOT HELPFUL when well intentioned people, who are clueless about trauma, offer up that particular nugget “everything happens for a reason.” I also loathe “death is a natural part of life…..yeah, well not the death I re-live every day!
Selfishness Versus Fear / Teri (Eric's Mom) “The secret of success is to realize that the crisis on our planet is much larger than just deciding what to do with your own life, and if the system under which we live the structure of western civilization begins to collapse because of our selfishness and greed, then it will make no difference whether you have $1 million dollars when the crash comes or just $1.00. The only work that will ultimately bring any good to any of us is the work of contributing to the healing of the world.”
Marianne Williamson (author of Return to Love, based upon a Course in Miracles)>>>>>
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others”
~Marianne Williamson
Tributes and Condolences
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