What Really Matters, According to Me

I used to contribute to my little hometown paper. After a new editor and I failed to see eye to eye on a small handful of issues, we decided I don’t contribute to the paper anymore. That’s OK. We all have boundaries. In the process of the break up, I came to appreciate the power of the press more than I had before. Both my parents had worked in the newspaper industry (my mom as a typesetter/printer and my dad as a linotype operator, before the days of computerization), and I figured I had a healthy respect for the creation, description and dissemination of the facts. When news was not news, but opinion, it was clearly labeled just that: opinion. Before recently, I hadn’t considered the ‘responsibility’ of the editor to tell readers what they’re reading before they read it, via the headline (nor the possibility that editors or publishers in small-town America might be in the business of propaganda). A headline not only summarize a piece, but can easily influence the opinions of readers...

I’ve issued only one ultimatum in my life, so far. I haven’t found it necessary to draw a line in the sand at the end of a relationship, because I tried to draw my lines sooner. As I write this piece for submission to the new editor of the Blanco County News, I’m considering the possible ramification of some lines in the sand I’ve drawn between him and me. One, for instance, is my request that a header not be included at the beginning of Fit Tips to synopsize its content. It’s my intention that readers of Fit Tips not be told what they’re supposed gain from it before they ever read it. This column is similar to a personal training program, in my view, including not only physical aspects of coaching, but metaphysical. Mr. Domke has told me he’ll continue to include the header. I’ve said what I want; I’ve tried to establish clear boundaries in this new relationship. He is doing the same. Unlike establishment of boundaries, ultimatums are like dropping a bomb on a relationship, either wi...

I teach fitness classes. The strong women who regularly “Sweat with Sally,” come from varied backgrounds and range in ages between 40 and 70 (that’s not counting the youngsters who show up from time to time). We all have slightly differing motivation, but come together with the generally common goal to sustain and improve our overall health and strength. We each take something different away from the class for a few reasons. Consider: Each Monday, we do loaded movement training of upper body and arms. The same exercises that make Kim’s biceps achy may affect Robin’s front deltoids more than her biceps. Why? Partly because Kim’s body and Robin’s body have different strengths and different needs. Exercise response is dependent upon several factors. The level of exertion and the proper (or improper) form of the body during a workout, affects exercise response. Speed and load are variables that come into play. Age, gender and build are all influences that make a difference in the effects ...

At the root of the revolution in my life this past year 2014: What is love? Some have defined it as a feeling. I suppose the way we feel is part of it...but, if you feel something inside...if you say you love me because of how you feel about me; tell me how that affects me? I will tell you: It doesn't affect me. Just like what you think. Don’t believe me? Go ahead and think something right now. Are you thinking it? I can tell you honestly, it has had absolutely no effect on me. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know what thought you were thinking. And you know what? Not only do I not know what you're thinking, I don’t know how you feel, either. So, do your 'feelings' really matter to me? Well...if you’re significant to me, they do matter, but the point remains: HOW you feel has no effect on me. Now…WHAT you do about your feelings may affect me. Actually, it’s WHAT you do about your feelings that lets me know how you really feel…it’s what you do that may actually affect ...

I’ve tried to teach my children to be grateful and to express gratitude when having been given a gift. When they were generously given sports drinks (which I rarely buy), while at the home of a friend recently, not one, but TWO of them asked for a second. I was so embarrassed at such a display of poor manners. I realize their behavior is the result of my teaching, or failure to teach, as the case may be. I understand them, though. I receive gifts all the time. Then I ask for more, please. I’m sad because I didn’t get as much as I wanted. I’m disappointed I didn’t have it as long as I wanted. It wasn’t the exact kind I wanted. I’m unhappy because I’m ungrateful. I’ve had a three decade long marriage to a man who loved me. I’ve given birth to nine beautiful children. I’m not unintelligent. Father in Heaven has blessed me with many gifts, for which I'm grateful. I should be only grateful. I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself for some intermittent sorrow, now should I? The other evening I...

How many feet and inches below, she doesn’t really remember; it doesn’t matter anymore. Nearly a quarter of a century has come and gone; no mound of soil remains to whisper what happened; to speak words left unsaid. All is settled to even and grown over with blades of green. The place seems as any other patch of earth, except for the rectangular stone; engraved with small hands folded in prayer, roses in full bloom wrapped in a bouquet…a few numbers and words. Words: what do they mean? What do they say? Sometimes everything. Sometimes nothing at all. The words on this stone mean she is remembered by some; forgotten by most. The words tell who she was; who she is...but not who she might've been... Written words…inscribed to speak the words a grieving mother would tell any who pass thereby: she was here…she’s gone. Standing over that small piece of earth, where under is cradled the eternally sleeping remains; she remembers the warmth and scent of a small, wriggly body. She remembers...

I’ve spent thousands of hours reading literally dozens of books trying to answer the questions: What and Why? What is wrong here? What is wrong with me? What is wrong with you? Why? Why are you hurting me? Why do we hurt each other? Why is this happening? Why did God let this happen? When I get too far sunk down into what my mom used to call the ‘pity pot,’ I have to remind myself that I’m not the only one to ask such questions as these. I remember One who asked: “My God! My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” I remember he said something about wanting the bitter cup to pass from him; wanting that he didn’t have to drink it. I’ve felt like that. I’ve wondered why I felt so alone. Had God forsaken me? Is he there? Has he removed himself far from me? Have I removed myself far from him? Was he ever there in the first place? Was I ever near to him? I’ve hated the taste of the bitter cup I’ve filled, in some degree, for myself. If the glory of God is intelligence (as is the doctrine of the ch...