Kids are growing up over here, people.

It’s heartbreaking.

I wish I had a dollar for every minute I laid in bed promising myself I’d do just a little better by both of them when I woke the next morning. If that were the case, I’d be a millionaire by now.

Maybe you can relate.

Instead there’s this deep longing twinged with traces of regret as I look at their sleeping faces and question if there’s any possible way they could know how much I think of them, how much I love them and how challenged I am by all the very human things about myself that are right this instant shaping their own wounds and wonder.

It’s an ego trip, this parenting thing. We want to do it perfectly so at the end things can be easier and we can know we did it right and so, of course, no one will have to suffer. Such fiction.

But suffer we do and wish we might. And the wishing is so strong it ends up playing out like an addiction that keeps us coming back for more. Show me anything, we silently beg them, that says I didn’t completely screw this thing up.

Thank God, underneath all our good intentions is something even better than regret, longing, perfection or ego. It is Love. And it is the thing that makes our very bodies a homing device so they can always find us, no matter what happens. Yes, there might be years in therapy. Agreed, they will not always be happy with how we raised them. There might also be great denials about failings, and in the worst case scenarios, inquisitions and god forbid, great separations.

But even in all this: the chaos, the misunderstanding, the floundering, the hurt, the moments of redemption, there will be Love.

Today as you’re waving your sixth grader goodbye, as you’re looking your young graduate in the eye, as you’re feeling that last baby on your hip, as you’re packing for camp, as you’re trying to talk sense into your ten year old or hoping the best for steely silence with your teen, know this: it’s not too late to put in words the things that don’t always get said.

I am always always always here for you.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, can make me stop loving you.

I’m so glad you’re mine.

I have loved being your mom so much.

You’ve brought me more joy than you can really know.

Believe it or not, I did my very best.

I know you can do this. I believe in you.

It’s my fear that makes me like this. It’s not you, I promise.

We’re together the whole way, no matter what.

It’s normal to be terrified.

Go. Go. Go.

And if those words feel too hard or big, try these:

You don’t have to be perfect.

Being true to you is more than enough.

I’ll be right here waiting to hear everything.

Promise.

Write to me today if what you want to say to your kid just doesn’t feel right for public consumption. I’m happy to hear your worries and your unspeakables. Know that this ache we feel, this deep longing, is just a reflection of the way we ourselves need to be held. It is a distant reminder of the parts of us that still need reassurance and our own special declarations of belonging… from our own days of leaving and saying goodbye.

With love and light,
Jen

P.S. If you appreciate thoughts and sentiments like this, please sign up for our weekly messages at hopefulworld.org/join. Our hope is to bring radical acceptance for who you are with every message. And as always, we would love it if you shared this post… because we believe radical acceptance, belonging, and hope are messages worthy of sharing. Thanks!

But then he got older and I got older and the distance shortened and it was about a year before he gently pointed out that he’d been calling me every single week for a year, whether I picked up the phone or not.

Oh. I said. I hadn’t noticed.

He understood and was not offended. I thought twice after that before I let the phone go to voicemail. My dad would still contend that it’s hard to get me on the first try, but in my defense, I can’t wait to call back now. Because I understand now, too.

Life is long, a teacher of mine once told me. And so is love. It takes time.

It sounds like the most reassuring thought ever, until we apply it to fathers, husbands, brothers or other men in our lives that we waited for far too long. Men that we wish would lean in instead of back away. And I’m not just speaking to women. How many men have I met who never really had their fathers the way they needed them? Too many that I can mention or name.

We are all in one way or another in the process of missing someone we love. Someone we don’t quite know how to explain how important they are to us. Someone who we never quite find the words to say exactly how much we long or how much we need all those things it seems now we will forever miss.

Maybe in this regard, fathers know best.

Because I’m not sure there is a more misunderstood or underestimated population on the planet. The heart of a father, unless that man was blessed with a naturally warm mother and a very attentive demonstrative dad himself, is rarely expressed. That heart, under layers and layers of hurt, wounds, losses and misunderstandings, still feels.

And so, so deeply.

And this is I believe what that father would say if he had an unshackled heart to speak his truth:

I wish you knew how much I love you.
I wish you knew how much in my own ways I tried.
I wish you knew how many times I just didn’t know what to do.
I wish you knew how much my distance or my silence had nothing to do with you.
I wish you knew how much I wanted to do this right.
I wish you knew how hopeless it feels sometimes, after all the mistakes I’ve made.
I wish you knew how clear I am that this is way too often about my pride.
I wish you knew how proud I feel when I see you do your thing, even from a distance.
I wish you knew how I much I see me in you, and how much I feel pride that you came from me.
I wish I had protected you.
I wish you knew how much my pain before you even got here destroyed my chances of getting this right.
I wish you knew how much I wish I had the strength or knowledge or something to get things right.
I wish you knew how ashamed I am.
I wish you knew how much I wish we were closer now, and how much I wish it didn’t have to be the way it is right now.
I wish you knew how much I regret about it all.

I know, I know. Not my dad, you say. And I believe you, maybe you’re right.
But today, on a day where you can’t get away with forgetting and it’s too painful to remember, it’s not too late for you to get it right. To say outloud what you wished for, what you wanted, what you still need and what will never be the same because you didn’t get what mattered to you most.

We’re grownups now, some of you might argue. There’s no time for this. But I would like to propose that this is all we have time for. Because each one of us in our own ways is still walking around like a seven or eleven or seventeen year old kid inside. We’re organizing our lives around our hurts and wounds, doing things at work and at home that feel strangely similar to the way it was back then, and the only way to break the chain is to speak your truth.

What better day than today?

Today, because fathers are so important and need to be loved so much like all human beings, and because there’s no way around how much each and everyone of us need them, we’re inviting you today to do two things.

One, if you’re someone who is really feeling the pain of this particular kind of missing, please send us an email at help(@)hopefulworld.org with MISSING in the subject line. We’ll be so happy to send you a short audio blessing back from the fathers of Hopeful World… a dear collection of men in our community who are the actual voice of love, strength and compassion when we need them most.

And two, if you’re a dad, who is able to speak to this pain… either to help us understand or to alleviate our suffering, please feel free to share your own honest words in the comments. We love you and welcome your voice to this important conversation.

Maybe the missing eases a little bit, if we each take one step closer to each other and stand in the places where others cannot, for the sake of our shared hope and healing.

With so much love,
Jen

photo by Patience Salgado of kindnessgirl.com

P.S. Will you share this around? We know there are others who need this today. And if you know you appreciate things like this, please sign up for our weekly messages at hopefulworld.org/join. Our hope is that everything we send out with love brings radical acceptance for who you are and eases your suffering.

It made me wonder how much suffering of mine would melt away in an instant if I could let myself say mistakes and all, it’s really okay. But I just couldn’t help but hold on to the feeling that was the source of all the pain.

Maybe you know what I mean.

That feeling that it’s just plain wrong to forgive yourself.

That deep sense of responsibility for the happiness or disappointment of those we love the most.

That nagging inner insistence that everything (and everyone) would be so much better off if you were someone other than you naturally are?

There’s a way that in our current culture, we’re quick to conclude that these kinds of feelings are indicators of an imbalance in our brain chemistry or signs that something is seriously wrong with how we’re processing information. And I don’t want to suggest for a minute that sometimes this is absolutely true.

But what if, what if, some of these upsets in our system are manifestations of the tender, fragile, raw longings of our heart? …hearts that desperately want to please, want to fit in and want to feel and express ourselves in ways that never ever create pain for those we love — even if that means withdrawing into our own private caves of discomfort and isolation where the difficulties of our own unruly hearts wage battles of sanity and sensibility on their very own.

The internet and a thousand online teachers and best selling authors and retreat leaders and books gathering dust on our nightstand have taught us that the first step is to acknowledge that we are enough and that in that struggle, we are not alone.

But that does not change the fact that sometimes (and often) we still feel like total crap, and that those feelings need somewhere to go and that not really knowing how to be with them and express them and think about them is killing us and that all the medication and therapy in the world doesn’t change the fact that this is a normal, natural human experience — to wrestle with the wild unpredictable nature of human emotion. And that all the surprise and shocks of life and relationships often leave us bewildered, unsure, scared and not fully confident that all the parts of us are necessary, needed and actually welcome for our lives to be fulfilling and whole.

Today I want to make space for the possibility that some of the heaviness you’re feeling inside can lift just a little when together we honor how fragile and tender our hearts are and how truly hard it is sometimes to hold how deeply we love and how truly we long to be and become and contribute to those we love in ways that leave us feeling accepted, valuable and free.

As always please pass this along to anyone you know who might be struggling. And if accepting your emotions however they are is challenging to you (as it is to me), I invite you today to sit with me for this three-minute reflection on why it’s hard and what can make it worth letting go. If you want messages like this directly in your inbox, come join us here.

Love and Light,
Jen

P.S. This art is an expression of Ria’s own soulful journey into the realm of emotion and the soul. You can find her inspiring work here at Hope Speaks on Etsy. Please help us spread the word!

Maybe it’s because I can see how deeply responsible I am for my choices and the life I’ve created. Maybe it’s because I think when I’m suffering as a result of my mistakes or missteps I deserve punishment more than any comfort or companionship.

Are you ever hard on yourself in this particular way?

I wish I could tell you I’ve got this great new trick I do that helps me not isolate or hibernate like this, but I don’t. What I can say is that I’m beginning to realize there are so many people around me who can see my dilemma and are willing to offer me solace if I’m willing to admit things are not okay.

Choosing to acknowledge that we are loved more than we can sometimes say breaks down the case for thinking we are alone. It gives us back our power to open up and acknowledge the host of people around us who are trying to get through, the dear ones who want to be near even though we can’t imagine why and had our sights set on others who were more distant and elusive.

Last June, during a particularly painful time, my dear friend Corinna Robbins came to visit me for a weekend of making art and hanging out. My oldest friend Maya Story flew in from Portland to stay with us in the big yellow house. We didn’t realize at the time that this would be the very weekend that my housemate and dearest family friend Rachael Maddox would see the final break in her marriage and agree with her husband Brian to part ways.

Brian and Rachael more than any other two people I know believe that even at the darkest moments you can experience hope, connection, comfort and light. We spent the weekend filming both their last moments together in between bouts of crying, laughing and being quiet with each other on the couch. The whole weekend was surreal. It wasn’t until we were in the editing process that we realized every single person you see in this video was living through a major life transition when we filmed, even the kids.

It’s been almost a year since we were all together. I had to leave the big yellow house. Brian and Rachael have forged an honest friendship. The little boys you see who were like brothers to my son have moved far away to Turkey. The woman celebrating a birthday is beginning a new life. Corinna is on the cusp of breakthrough as a filmmaker, and I’m not nearly as low as I was that day Corinna filmed me, sprawled out on my bed saying all the things I myself most needed to hear.

Everything changes. And when we can remember that during the low times, our hearts can fill with hope. And when we can tell each other this in the good times, our hearts can fill with gratitude. No matter what, we can be gentle, we can be kind. And we can remember, that even in this, we are never, ever alone.

Here’s the link to our first Hopeful World short film here… we know this content is not for everyone, but for those of you who are walking through big changes or who are feeling the pain of loss and regret, please accept it as our acknowledgment of what you’re going through and of the hopeful future that awaits you.

With so much love,
Jen

P.S. Thank you so much for sharing our Mother’s Day post. Ria and I were so honored by the way this message of comfort spread far and wide, in part because of you. We hope you’ll continue to share anything we create that you know will speak to someone who is hurting.

It was in the aftermath of this devastation that my grandparents were officially betrothed and finally married. Lola would point to their wedding picture, which I will always remember perched on her dressing table in a black iron frame, and explain that her veil and her dress were improvised from the only materials that were available at the time, jersey and netting.

“There was no silk or tulle back then!” She would exclaim.

Right after the war, they moved into one of the four apartments that my great grandmother, Augusta had managed to keep out of Japanese hands.

“Our furniture? All wooden crates!” My Lola Daisy would shake her head in recollection.

I used to marvel at all she had been through, what inner strength it had required to stay in the battle zone of Manila instead of fleeing to the surrounding hills like so many others.

So understand that on the day I was scheduled to leave for the States again, the day before New Year’s Eve, I had expected nothing less than the austere countenance of the Lola Daisy I had known my entire life, the woman who did not flinch when she looked a Japanese soldier in the face and refused to relinquish her deceased father’s fountain pen. People were bayoneted for less.

My suitcase was in the trunk. The car was already running. All that was left was goodbye. We stood in front of the iron gate, the same one I had opened and shut a thousand times through all the years of my life. As I reached out for her, I was taken aback when she crumbled in my arms. Then we both knew what we refused to say out loud… that this was the last goodbye.

“Thank you.” was all I could barely whisper in that moment. As I held her close, I smelled the familiar scent of her prescription sunscreen mixed with the Revlon hair coloring she used to keep her thinning locks an auburn brown. I made a pact with myself to remember the fragrance forever, and the feeling of her skin against my face — a loose, delicate soap paper that threatened to dissolve in an instant.

What I meant but could not bring myself to say for fear that a deluge of tears would engulf us both was, “Thank you for my life. Thank you for saving me too. Thank you for letting me go, in order to save myself.”

So I shut the heavy gate behind me — between us — my heart collapsing in the process. The country of my girlhood was on the other side of that gate and in that moment, it too was closing to me forever. I climbed into the car and said nothing as the driver took me ever farther away from my lola with each mile. In thirty-six hours I would be on the other side of the world. In seventy-two hours, I would receive an email that confirmed what was impossible for any of us to really know then.

Lola had cancer. She was given four to six months to live.

“All of the lines to the country you are calling are currently busy.” Said the automated recording, over and over for the next 24 hours. I was informed later that the under sea phone lines had been damaged by the recent typhoon which was why, despite my frantic efforts, I could not contact anyone in Manila.

I fell asleep frustrated and restless, dreaming that Lola called me instead. I had a wall phone, I remember because as I listened to her, I twirled the black cord around my finger. In the dream, Lola was very pregnant and she asked me if I would be her doula, assisting her in the birth of her new baby. “Of course,” I said.

I interpreted this quite literally. My dear lola was preparing to cross a threshold, to be born into her new life and I was the one she had asked to assist in her death and rebirth. Later, I also came to understand that her death was in many ways, the beginning of my journey back to myself.

When the real phone lines were finally re-established, I was able to get the details of Lola’s illness. It was cancer of the liver. It had been less than a year since her husband, my Lolo Miguel had succumbed to pneumonia. As physically strong and healthy as she seemed, at least for 89, I knew she would not outlive him long. In fact, at his funeral in March of the previous year, I begged her to wait for me to come home again.

I said as an incentive, “Look! I already booked my ticket for Christmas. I’ll be home for two weeks.”

It was just days after my return from this holiday trip, after that last goodbye, that I got the news.

Our family began the process of preparing her and ourselves for her death. My aunt traveled the nearly 8,000 miles between Wisconsin and Manila four times between January and April. She took care of most of Lola Daisy’s physical needs, making sure she was comfortable. But my aunt asked me what her mother had essentially asked me in a dream.

“Can you help her?” Tita asked me on a real phone this time. “There are some things that she can only hear from you.” This was true.

The most difficult words were best exchanged between two people who spent years exchanging no words at all, when understanding passed only through cool towels placed on feverish foreheads, and steady hands that plucked stray eyebrows. Trust was painted on in layers and hours spent next to each other in cars, in beds, and at tables. Comfort was wrapped in a silk scarf from Hong Kong that guarded against the chill of air-conditioned restaurants, kept in a purse specifically for this purpose.

Circumstances had forced me to leave the cocoon of my lola’s care when I was thirteen but this meant that our trust remained intact, even through my teenage years. As she was dying, I was able to talk to Lola on the phone almost daily, somehow channeling the words that she needed to hear to gently let go of her life.

“When I lie down, it hurts. When I sit up, it hurts.” Lola complained to me during one of our last phone conversations.

“Are you getting tired of this?” I asked.

“Well… I must admit it’s getting a little old… like me!” She joked.

“You’re funny!” I laughed a courtesy laugh in return, my heart pounding inside my chest. I was apprehensive about whether or not I had the courage for my task. “Well… when you are ready, all you have to do is turn your attention away from your physical body… you know this, right?”

“Yes… I think… I do know.”

During such conversations, I myself would feel disembodied… as if I was watching someone else deliver instructions I had no business knowing. Afterwards, I was overwhelmed by the unreasonableness of it all. I hung up the phone once and realized I was shaking involuntarily on the overstuffed purple couch I loved so much, because my rational mind could not explain what was happening.

“What is happening?!” The words I said out loud echoed in the living room, empty except for me and the dog curled at my feet.

At that moment, in response to my unreasonable demand, memories of my life appeared in a mental slide show, each scene as if selected and placed in the carousel in a specific order so that I couldn’t possibly miss its significance. This is how I came to understand that if only I had believed I was safe, if only I had belonged, if only my mother had asked for what she needed, if only my father had chosen love over filial duty… if each and all those things had been true, I would not be who I was in that moment.

I was the daughter of a grandmother, her midwife, holding space for her to birth her new life. This must have been one of those occurrences I had read about – a Sacred Mystery — moments that your rational mind cannot understand that your whole being knew to be the absolute truth.

The following week, I casually asked her on the phone, “Are you ready?” as if she were just going on one of the many three-month long European trips that she took with my grandfather when they were younger.

In an equally surreal way, she responded, “I suppose so. I’ve asked your uncle to transfer all the funds from the joint accounts. That was the last thing.”

“So… sayonara!” she quipped, trying to add some levity to the situation.

We were there again, on the precipice of goodbye.

“I love you, Lola.” I said slowly, letting the words sink in. And before we ended the call I added, “Thank you.”

“For what?” She asked.

This time I said it out loud, “For my life.” And let the tears come.

“Ay, my dear… having you grow up with us… they were the happiest years of my life!”

And with that thank you and goodbye, two days later, she was gone.

* * *
Tomorrow is the last day of 2013 The Grandmother Power Blogging Campaign but I invite you to consider sharing a story about your own powerful grandmother. If you know of, were cared for, nurtured by, loved or changed by a powerful elder, consider sharing this post.

P.S. If you are moved by stories like this — of unexpected blessings and hope and, you want a peek into my secret musings on the art of embracing your truest self, join me here.

Let’s be real. Mother’s Day can completely blow sometimes.

You want to be cheerful. You want to be with the program. But some years there are all these little points of pain that will not go away.

The baby you never had.
The one you gave up.
The kid you lost to something bigger than you.
The child that slipped away before you ever held her.
The one that was never born.
The one you worry you’re failing.
The one that failed you.

The mother who’s so close and yet so far.
The one you loved so much who couldn’t love you back.
The one you could never love because it hurt too much.
The one you lost too soon.
The one who is slipping away.
The one you can never please.
The one you wish you could live up to.

There are no cards to honor these children or these mothers. There are no holidays to contain all the parts of you that fall outside the lines of generally understood sorrow or celebration.

But there is this moment, this incredible moment, where you can feel it all. Where for once you can’t stuff it down or forget it. Where you have to be with it, because it is not going away.

And here, my friends, is where something important happens. This is where we connect, where we understand we are frail, where we are human. Where we see in new ways what life means. Where we are issued a compelling and persistent invitation to mother ourselves. To cut ourselves the breaks we didn’t get. To ask for the help we always needed. To let tears come and say, This is how it is. I’ll ask in this one tiny moment, for the courage I need to let everything just be.

No matter what your point of pain or challenge today, I want you to know that you are not the only one. Somewhere over a silly Mother’s Day breakfast, there is a woman faking a smile who feels just like you do. Somewhere in a very silent house with no one to call, there is a woman who is tending the ache of her loss, just like you. Somewhere standing in a shower there is a woman who is feeling it all and letting the tears come, just like you.

As you go about this day, know that over here, Ria and I have candles lit for all these unspoken things, and that we are holding the space and thinking of you. You — the faraway, soulful you — will be in our meditation and in our warmest thoughts. We are sending you light and love and the deep wish that you would know today of all days, nothing is wasted and we are together in ways we cannot always see but are just as true. That the night can never last. That even in our darkest moments, there will be someday, the surprise of a laugh, a comfort, a dawn.

With so much love, hope and light,
Jen

P.S. Will you share this around? We know there are so many women who are feeling it today. And if you know you appreciate things like this, please sign up for our weekly messages at hopefulworld.org/join. Our hope is that everything we send out brings radical acceptance for who you are and relieves your suffering. Thanks!

photo by Patience Salgado of kindnessgirl.com

In some office building somewhere a hundred investigators are picking up clues like puzzle pieces, wondering who masterminded the explosions in Boston yesterday afternoon. Meanwhile, families explain to their little children what happened while loved ones receive treatment and help for wounds seen and unseen.

One flash, one choice and everything changes.

In times like this we tend to look at how things are falling apart. We see what’s broken in us. We rage at whatever wounds or wickedness would incite another human being to wield harm on another.

But on Monday, in the flash, in the horror, some people chose to run toward the wounded. Some did everything in their power to help. And receiving that help I am positive required a particular kind of courage. When you’re terrified and in pain and confusion, it’s hard to let someone touch you, especially if at first you might feel that pain even more.

Not every helper is skilled. Not every wounded soul is gracious. Sometimes we rail. Sometimes we cry. Sometimes we resist or run away or refuse. Even when everyone around us is doing their very best.

Today, as a part of the human family, you and I both have an opportunity to make connections that make a difference. We can move toward the wounded people in our lives. We can let in help where we are hurting. We can say we belong, that we are together, that we are not leaving, no matter how scary it gets. No matter how helpless or awkward we feel when it’s not clear what to do.

Not every bomb makes a sound. Not every wound generates a cry. Some injuries are silent. Some souls never ever say where it hurts. Some tragedies happen without either party saying a word.

Today I’m tying a little string around my wrist to remind me to receive when someone comes close to a place where I am hurting. I’m doing this to remind me to give when I suspect someone might be suffering, so I can be part of the rising contingent of souls who stay and don’t run away when we need or are needed the most.

As always, feel free to pass this on to a friend…the little bits of goodness below might be particularly helpful for families or anyone you know who’s feeling scared or anxious from the week’s events.

Love and hope,
Jen

Not sure where to start? Download this easy-to-follow family friendly PDF to help you and your loved ones practice giving and receiving for the soul emergencies that are happening everyday all around us in our world.

Terrified by the violence? Overcome with fear? Listen to this soothing seven-minute meditation from Jen to ease the troubled mind, especially designed for the worried five year old who lives in your heart.

It’s a dilemma, since they love their sports and activities but even they will admit that when a rare winter storm stopped our fair city in its tracks, they were relieved. And then my daughter and I both caught this year’s dreaded never ending flu bug and I was apprehensive that my son would go bat __ crazy just “hanging out” for an entire weekend. Who just “hangs out” anymore, right?

Well, those few days of us just being together was a blessing in disguise and apparently just what the doctor ordered, not just for the healing of our bodies but the healing of our souls. The doctor in this case is our friend, life balance coach and speaker, Renee Trudeau, author of Nurturing The Soul of Your Family: 10 Ways to Reconnect and Find Peace in Everyday Life.

It’s a wonderful book that not only offers those 10 ways that are really for real! I swear! But Renee tells how she comes by this wisdom… from her own life, from the healing of her wounds, from herself discovering a new way of being. It’s what makes this particular book resonate for me. The gifts that Renee shares are hard-earned. And, she walks the walk. Every day. When she says, “unplugging to plug in.” I know it’s true. I know that Renee is diligent about her own digital consumption… and that includes the cell phone use! ;P

The big ah-ha for me was about self-care… and not just, you know, go to the gym, eat right, etc. but to really tune into your body and what it needs, which may not necessarily be the popular prescriptive. I love this concept so much — really tapping into your own body wisdom! Let me tell you, during that stay-at-home-family weekend, my body knew exactly what I needed, what my daughter needed, what our whole family needed: hours and hours of being creative together! We painted and wrote stories and told stories. My son made up songs on the keyboard. We ate when we wanted and slept when we wanted.

If you’re reading this… if something’s telling you to slow down… if you’re thinking to yourself, “There must be another way…” Renee’s Nurturing the Soul of Your Family could be the roadmap calling to you.

“It takes tremendous courage to live an awakened life: a life where your actions are in alignment with your deepest values, where you’re making decisions that support your family’s emotional and spiritual well-being. Is there anything more important?”
~ Renee Trudeau

What you see above is just a peek of the lusciously good fruit of (Heart) My Art, the creations of gorgeous souls around the globe who accepted my invitation with open and loving hearts — among them @carmenareyes, @BELLA_AND_WILL, @okayalison, @mumturnedmom, and @henrylohmeyer — whose art you see above.

As I see everyone’s creations in response to our daily play prompts, I’ve been so moved. Each piece is so authentically beautiful. Even though I was involved in its creation, I can’t help but feel that I was simply a channel for something bigger.

So thank you, friends for coming out to play. Thank you, lovely Pippa for introducing me to your amazing Story of Mum community.

I am so grateful for your presence and I truly soooooo (heart) YOUR art!!!!

xo,
Ria