I am trying to keep my blog stuff my personal essays. That being said, there are a few essays that have had a significant impact on me. The following short essay from Ann Wells, then a writer for the LA Times is one of those important essays. I sometimes forget to follow her insightful advice, but then I read it again (or present it to a group), and I am re-invigorated.

Cherish Each Day
My brother-in-law opened the bottom drawer of my sister's bureau and lifted out a tissue-wrapped package. "This," he said, "is not a slip. This is lingerie." He discarded the tissue and handed me the slip. It  was exquisite; silk, handmade and trimmed with a cobweb of lace. The price tag with an astronomical figure on it was still attached. "Jan bought this the first time we went to New York, at least 8 or 9 years ago. She never wore it. She was saving it for a special occasion.  Well, I guess this is the occasion."  He took the slip from me and put it on the bed with the other clothes we were taking to the mortician. His hands lingered on the soft material for a moment, then he slammed the drawer shut and turned to me.  "Don't ever save anything for a special occasion. Every day you're alive is a special occasion."
 
I remembered those words through the funeral and the days that followed when I helped him and my niece attend to all the sad chores that follow an unexpected death. I thought about them on the plane returning to California from the Midwestern town where my sister's family lives. I thought about all the things that she hadn't seen or heard or done. I thought about the things that she had done without realizing that they were special.
 
I'm still thinking about his words, and they've changed my life.
 
I'm reading more and dusting less. I'm sitting on the deck and admiring the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden. I'm spending more time with my family and friends and less time in committee meetings. Whenever possible, life should be a pattern of experience to savor, not endure.  I'm trying to recognize these moments now and cherish them.
 
I'm not "saving" anything; we use our good china and crystal for every special event-such as losing a pound, getting the sink unstopped, the first camellia blossom. I wear my good blazer to the market if I feel like it. My theory is if I look prosperous, I can shell out $28.49 for one small bag of groceries without wincing. I'm not saving my good perfume for special parties; clerks in hardware stores and tellers in banks have noses that function as well as my party-going friends'.
 
"Someday" and "one of these days" are losing their grip on my vocabulary. If it's worth seeing or hearing or doing, I want to see and hear and do it now.
 
I'm not sure what my sister would have done had she known that she wouldn't be here for the tomorrow we all take for granted. I think she would have called family members and a few close friends. She might have called a few former friends to apologize and mend fences for past squabbles. I like to think she would have gone out for a Chinese dinner, her favorite food. I'm guessing-I'll never know. It's those little things left undone that would make me angry if I knew that my hours were limited. Angry because I put off seeing good friends whom I was going to get in touch with--someday. Angry because I hadn't written certain letters that I intended to write--one of these days. Angry and sorry that I didn't tell my husband and daughter often enough how much I truly love them.
 
I'm trying very hard not to put off, hold back, or save anything that would add laughter and luster to our lives. And every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special. Every day, every minute, every breath truly is...a gift from God.
 
by Ann Wells   Los Angeles Times

I was raised 25 miles from San Francisco. Then, at age 28, I was working at a children's ranch, working with a bunch of abused, neglected children. We had nothing in terms of materials to work with, and really, back then, with nothing much to do. Thus, I was thrust into the semi-extreme world of very "rural" Texas. This 15 hour Sunday, I took the nine teenaged boys in my care on a little hike:

This Calls For Brief Solution-Oriented Therapy

I was working at a kid's ranch with mainly abused, neglected kids. My group consisted of 9 boys, ages 12-15. We worked 48 hrs in 4 days, with hell day being a weekend day, a 15 hour workday. Man! All this for an amazing low salary....... This was in the summer, about 1981.

One Sunday we agreed on a nature journey down the Pecan Bayou (central Texas). Though it was hotter n' hell, it beat hanging around the "ranch" doing nothing for 15 long hours. The kids stayed within sight for about the first 45 minutes, but the older kids started to get further and further ahead. A few kids walked along the edge of the bayou (a slow moving muddy creek of sorts), and the rest of us were up on a slight ledge, about 10 feet from the waters edge. As I was about to yell my warning for the "scouts" to slow down and let us catch up, I heard THEIR yell for help. We ran for 30 seconds or so to catch them, and I was horrified to see Drew pulling himself out of what appeared to be a muddy hole, but James still stuck. As he struggled to get out, he sank from his knees to mid-thigh. He was clearly sinking in front of my eyes! I yelled for him to stop struggling, but panic ruled, and he put it into overdrive to extricate himself. This resulted in his sinking further. I might have seen this on Bonanza or the Rifleman, but hey, I'm a cityboy from California, not Pa Cartwright. I was having a stinkin' heart attack. I grabbed a dead tree branch off the ground and fed it to James, all the while assuring him to calm down and everything was going to be alright. However, when the rotted branch snapped in half two seconds after he grabbed it, my credibility was seriously diminished. This caused him to thrash about again, and he was down to his waist. As I broke off a long tree branch, he sobbingly informed me he thought his feet were touching something. He stopped sinking, I started pulling, and he slowly came out. He lost both boots in the struggle. His jeans turned to very stinky cement on the painful journey back, and he couldn't even bend his pants at the knee when we arrived at the ranch. We ended up throwing away the pants, and he didn't sleep a wink that night. Some of the older countryboys told me they had always heard the bayou had pockets of quicksand somewhere about, but they had never seen any. I sincerely hoped I would never see any more.

​What an introduction to my profession.........