A Roll in the Universe

A miracle is an authentic switch from fear to love. When we speak from the ego, we will call up the ego in others. When we speak from Holy Spirit, we will call up their love. In 1967, my whole family fell apart. Mommy, Daddy, baby sister and I all ended up at separate addresses. I spent the next eight years living with my maternal grandparents—seven of those years in Norway. I saw my mother every two years during this, and my father and sister not at all. No wonder my parents’ divorce left me in such turmoil. It wasn't the end of just a marriage; it was the end of an entire family. The harm done was lessened with the love from my maternal grandparents. The problem with not growing up under the same roof as your parent(s) is that you end up not knowing them. Nor they you. For over 40 years, my mother and I struggled with having the label mother and daughter, but not the relationship. In metaphysical circles, we are told we get the parents we deserve because we planned it th...

Wordless Wednesday *)

Go here to see me casually spreading my unique name around the internet. Actually, I wasn't expecting to see my name in full. Don't know what I was expecting. At least I won't mind if and when Google coughs this up when someone searches for "Keera Ann Fox". And, if you want to see more of that coyote (without squinting), go here . PS: "Mighty Optical Illusions" and "The Daily Coyote" are two of my daily reads.

A good laugh. That's what. Spurred by the Webmiztris' comment on naming your kid Imola or Werdna (do read that one), I went looking for Imola. It's a town in Northern Italy. But that lead me to this blogger's category of bad baby names , and from that I laughed myself silly at this: Qwuincey - Representing the finest in grammatical errors, Qwuincey’s parents decided to flaut hundreds of years of linguistical tradition and break up the Q-U marriage. But that’s not the worst of it: in the comments some imbecile named Quinsey managed to figure out how to use a keyboard and leave not one but three comments saying that “this is a stuiped webkite”. My own fairly rare first name has its story. My mother saw it in an obituary years before I came along, and liked it. She and my father agreed she'd name the girls and he'd name the sons. So instead of John Henry, I got Keera Ann. My mother missed having a middle name, so she made sure to give me one. The convention was...