Tag Archives: finding love

A New Year’s Wish

New Year Candle

I called a good friend of mine for his birthday. Life is busy for him, as for many of us. He works 14-to-16-hour days and has very little downtime or off-time.

I jokingly told him, “Well, I hope you at least enjoy your work.”

“I hate it,” he answered, perhaps also somewhat jokingly. But his statement fell like a rock into my heart. Because there are few things I would wish more for him than to find a meaningful vocation, something he loves and looks forward to, a place he feels a sense of purpose thrilling him … perhaps not every day but most days.

It’s something I wish for so many people in my life. For you, who are reading this now. For my family. My friends. My children, even though they are still young. For everyone, actually, if it’s not too strange to extend a wish to the world.

That everyone had something of purpose and meaning to devote their time too. Maybe not a vocation. Maybe a hobby. Or a mission. Maybe a child. Or a dream.

That points you forward and directs your sails, like the Morning Star.

In this New Year, may you find purpose. And may it carry you through each day into a life of meaning. A life of love. Because when it comes down to it, that’s what it’s all about anyway.

As I mentioned in my other blog, I will not be blogging for a while or getting on Facebook. Disconnecting in order to reconnect. A friend of mine might be posting some quotes on the theme of purpose here every now and again. Otherwise, I look forward to connecting with you again in about 40 days.

Happy New Year!


What Is Real?

Velveteen RabbitDefinition of worn (adj)

 [ wawrn ]

showing effects of wear: weakened or frayed by use

showing effects of fatigue: showing the effects of fatigue, worry, illness, or age

hackneyed: used so much as to have lost meaning

Synonyms: damaged, shabby, tatty, dog-eared, dilapidated, tattered, worn out, threadbare
The first definition of the word “worn” reminded me of a story. A story I read as a child. A story I’ve read to my children. A story that still astounds me with its deep wisdom. Though it is for children, it is for bigger people too … like you and me.
Here’s the part of the story that I have a hard time reading to my kids without getting a little bit choked up inside. You see, I sometimes feel worn. But I guess it isn’t always a bad thing.
     The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery
magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.
“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
[From The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams]