There I was. Here I am! What now?

"Always treat others with respect even when you believe they do not deserve it. Not for what it says about their character, but for what it says about yours."  Facebook has a way of providing me with apt musings at timely moments. I have been thinking a lot about the concept of respect over the last 3 days after witnessing a show jumping clinic given by the world's top instructor in Hunt Seat Equitation, 79 year old George Morris. There are so many reasons that one should respect this man: his own competitive track record; his stable of Olympic riders who came up under him; his experience and age; his coaching of the US and Brazilian Olympic Teams. So many reasons, yet I have no respect for him after witnessing him in action. The man disgusts me.  MY friend, Char, had given a me a ticket to audit the clinic for my birthday, so we were looking forward to an interesting, fun horsey weekend. Now to be clear, this was not the first time I had seen George in action.

Over my life I have learned never to allow myself to get ecstatically happy over anything. For me, that puts the kiss of death on whatever it is that has elevated my joy! I am pleased to report that nothing has changed. So, we are selling the house. This is a process that I hate passionately! You see, Darren could care less if we ever get out of here. I, on the other hand, will end up in a straight jacket in a rubber room if I have to retire here. I can not imagine spending the next 25 or so years of my life in the same old same old that I spent the first 21 years  and the last 30 in. First and foremost, from November until April, I suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affected Disorder) which essentially turns me into a Grizzly Bear: hibernation, carbs and depression. Now add a chronic depressive and anxiety disorder on top of that....well..I am sure you can get the picture! Yes, medication helps, but for those months, getting out of bed and functioning is sometimes more than I can handle. One

My mother used to brag about her proudest moment as a teacher. With great relish she used to describe the immense satisfaction and joy she got on the day that she strapped Peter Churchill until he cried. That speaks volumes about her legacy. Today, in my Canadian History class, we were talking about the Holocaust. The students were having a hard time understanding the pervasive antisemitism that filled every corner of the Western World in the 1930s. They could not comprehend that the Jews had no place to turn for help against the Nazi regime, not even here in Canada. I illustrated that point by telling them stories about my mother, that even in my own life I had been exposed to this kind of hatred. They were dumbfounded when I told them how she used to curse out loud at the sight of Jewish kids playing in a lake at Camp Kedimah outside of my hometown of Bridgewater. How she used to, mistakenly,  rail about that "dirty Jew", Barry Rophie (he was actually Lebanese), and h