Lessons can be so insidious and life-changing. So can ducks.

Five years ago, while our daughter Jennifer was dining with college friends, the topic of Mother's Day came up. Immediately realizing she had forgotten about a gift, she did what most college kids would NEVER do: order TEN FERTILIZED DUCK EGGS. 

Today is a stunning new day. The sun plays peekaboo through the clouds, the birds are harmonizing, and I embrace yet another chance to touch hearts and make a difference. Since you are reading this post, you're alive too. Your chance to also make a difference is now.

As I poured my morning coffee and watched the cream rise to the top of my mug, I thought of how my heart is so full of the amazing people who frame my life. Like my coffee, these sweet souls keep me strong, awaken me to the possibilities inherent in the glory of a fresh new start, and an opportunity to redirect our path from the daily grind. My gratitude, like the aroma, emanates and overwhelms me; the difference between ordinary and extraordinary is mine to choose. I sip and savor each and every single day, and when my cup is empty, I refresh it with the hope I've found from healing.

Train rides are so magical to me. I sit and watch the world go by, even though I'm the one who is moving. Sunrise and sunset kaleidoscopes of blazing colors hold me captive. I'm afraid if I look away, I might miss their momentary magnificence. 

Mesmerized by this ever-evolving watercolor landscape, the artist in me is fascinated. There's no right or wrong brush stroke on this honest canvas. The skylines, telephone lines, and clotheslines are the unknowing subjects that provide depth and meaning to this moving story.

As survivors, burdens we've borne become lessons we carry and share with others. In 1989 we moved to an apartment in Washington for Will's medical training. Six months pregnant with our third child, I had our two and four-year-old boys in tow. Will was hardly home; he was on call from the hospital every other night. It was such a sweet and adventurous time for our boys who awaited the blessing of their new sibling. I smiled, adept at belying my burden. My secret knew to remain within my fissured heart by day; come nightfall, once our boys were asleep, came my time to softly weep.

How could I learn to love my children when my own mother never loved me? 

Beautiful old trees line this street, where I sit at a coffee shop and write this blog. Since the late 1800s, many have called this town home. My family is among this place’s biggest fans. We've lived in many locales over the years, but to us, this is the only place we could ever call "home."

The streets boast centuries-old houses that once saw horse-and-buggy transportation. The original wrought-iron fences are well-preserved, and the rocking chairs on the quaint porches look so inviting. While the facades of many of the homes boast re-mortared bricks and freshly painted clapboard, they evoke that "olden days” feeling.