Think about it this way: We all carry an invisible backpack filled with trauma. The size of our backpacks differs from person to person. When trauma is retriggered, our backpack grows heavier and arouses the preexisting trauma. However, by recognizing the existence of these invisible backpacks, we will better manage the symptomology.
If we’re going to resolve these issues in America, we’ve got to come together to resolve all of these conflicts and crises in America, we got to find the way to do it in love. – Martin Luther King III
Positively Purging-I welcome your feedbacks in the comments and your likes and passing the real life wisdom on to others as I embark on this new venture of “positively purging“, as I know each of these pieces represents something…
We met on a train from Paris to Barcelona. Sitting next to one another, we argued over who could use the power outlet. “Désolé, je crois que c’est a moi.” (“Sorry, I think it’s mine.”) Instant crush. A perfect, flirtatious, six hours. The beginning of our love story? We agreed to meet back in Paris: On March 19, I’d wait for his train at the Gare de Lyon railway station. We didn’t know that coronavirus would confine us in different countries. Trusting in the power of the universe, we hadn’t exchanged mobile numbers. Sometimes, a romantic plan isn’t enough. — Cecilia Pesao
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I often see furniture that’s made with eco-friendly materials labeled to indicate that. But I don’t see these labels on smaller home furnishings, such as pillows or decorative accessories. Where can I find eco-friendly, smaller decor?
A: There are few labels on decorative items. One online resource is the Sustainable Furnishings Council (sustainablefurnishings.org). The SFC is the leading nonprofit that guides consumers to the best companies that have eco-friendly practices and products. All the information there is free, and it provides a scorecard for furniture and furnishings.
At first, she was the little face I saw in pictures when her mother and I began dating. When the time was right, she was the tiny body standing cautiously in the corner of the living room — wondering, waiting. Before long, she was the small hand in mine as we crossed the street, the smile to prove she had brushed her teeth and the curious voice whispering until we fell asleep. It began to feel as if she were mine. Now, six months after the split with her mother, I realize she was not mine. But I loved her. — Nicole DeMouth
