Not Now But Now: The Gift in Being Present

By Leah Light

How do you rebuild your world when it falls apart?

 

I thought I'd answered that question once.

 

I rebuild my world by...

• Picking up the pieces,
• Healing and helping my family heal,
• Finding closure and, in time, making a new start.

Then Life asked me again: How do you rebuild your world?

 

Are you serious? Again? Well I guess I do all of the above. Again.

And write another book.

 

Not Now, But Now: The Gift in Being Present, is Leah Light's third book, detailing re-re-building a carefully crafted life after it once again crumbles to pieces. Beauty abounds, even in apparent brokenness. A mosaic or stained glass window is made from broken pieces, and yet it is a work of art; a masterpiece. It's all in how you look at it.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leah Light
• Release date: Jun 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393574224

Leah Light

About the Author Leah Light is an intuitive and empath who shares her gifts through writings, groups and private sessions. For more than 30 years she has taught meditation and healing classes with concepts that bridge both spirituality and holistic medicine. As a Wedding Officiant and Minister, it is her privilege to help couples tie the knot. Currently, she also assists her husband in running their home-based B&B. Her favorite roles are Wife, Mom and Grandmother.

Book preview

Now: The Present

Chapter 1

The Best of Times

THE LATE APRIL MORNING sun warms my face while the company beside me warms my heart. Both are surprisingly wonderful! We’re blessed with a glorious early spring this year, while this husband of mine has arrived in the autumn of my life, from an unexpected source and under my radar. Surprise!

The pergola stands at the other end of the yard, sturdy and zen in its simplicity. It showcases the lovely view down the valley past the state capitol, more than 36 miles away. Mr. Innkeeper built the pergola for our wedding a year-and-a-half back. However, being a wedding officiant, I was able to perform a couple of ceremonies for others, a sort of test run before we tied the knot in front of it. In answer to a question I'm often asked, no, one can't officiate their own wedding, at least not in this State. My friend, Laurel, did the honors for ours.

When we tell people we’re newlyweds, together just a couple of years, not decades, they seem surprised. It seems like we’ve been married much longer, but in a good way. As peers of the same graduating class at the same high school, we have a shared history. Nobody has to explain the Beatles.

Harold and I are perched on matching rockers, clutching steaming cups of coffee while gazing out over the yard and valley below. Oh look! he exclaims as a bright green hummingbird suddenly appears and hovers over budding lavender blossoms. Bumblebees amble about. They are gentle and harmless little beings compared to the wicked wasps that built mud nests over the eaves last year. I’ve heard that wasps don’t like lavender and thus I planted lots of it. I hope the Yellow Jackets hate it, too!

For a semi-retired couple like us, this porch-sitting routine is a stereotype, but a nice one. Marrying late in life has its pluses. At this stage of the game, many hard parts are behind us. We are free from responsibilities that come with raising children and struggling with careers while casting about to answer questions like: Who am I? What is my purpose? How am I going to feed all these mouths, and still pay the mortgage this month?

We’ve raised our kids into decent human beings. We’ve grieved the losses of our parents and are no longer burdened with their end-of-life care. Now we get to play with our combined grandchildren, and enjoy this lovely property. We are a couple with his-and-hers LLC’s; mine is officiating weddings, and his is this bed and breakfast where we make our home.

I’m pinching myself; all this contentment is certainly outside my comfort zone. I’m the product of parents and grandparents, all Great Depression survivors who trudged through life like brave little soldiers. They struggled to put food on the table, worked hard, and went without many comforts and pleasures. Mom and Dad did bloom during retirement, enjoying a decade-or-so stretch of happiness at the end. I guess I’m following suit, or at least I hope so. Two decades would be better. Unless Harold and I live to be 120, however, we won’t be able to log in the 58 years of marriage my parents achieved (nor his parents’ 50+ years). I’m chagrined to admit that I have, in fact, been married four times now! Four times! Does that make it bad juju for me to help others tie the knot?

Harold hands me a refill on my coffee, just how I like it, plenty of milk and no sugar. We clink our mugs as if toasting wine glasses. Here’s to spring, I say, I love this time of year! That is only partly true. I love how the earth comes alive; the pink and white blossoms bursting forth from the trees, and the promise of fair weather and good things to come. That said, April has not always been kind to me. A thread of discontent from days gone past stirs beneath the surface of my emotional landscape. I push it firmly back down. How dare I be less than cheerful with this lovely man at my side in this lovely setting? All this good fortune is plenty of reason to pinch myself.

I look around at the flowers popping up from their beds, like eager-beaver morning people. My mom was a morning person, always up and at ‘em early. I smile at the thought of Minnie and her mega gardening. From vegetable to flower gardens, she kept adding more, which of course meant more to maintain. She was a worker bee on steroids! For that matter, Harold’s mom, Anita, loved gardening as well, and both our moms were artists. Many samples of their paintings and other works of art are on display throughout our home.

Harold loves working with the soil, though he prefers landscaping and things like building retaining walls, over gardening. He’s a farm boy who just likes to work, period. He calls it play. Both are four-letter words; it’s all in how you look at it. Personally, I’ve never enjoyed digging around in the dirt. I limit my flower plantings to several huge ceramic pots that line the patio, and call it good. In other ways I’m becoming rather like Mom these days. For sure, the mirror reflects her face in mine more and more. My hair has gone salt and pepper and the salt is starting to win out; though hers turned completely white at least 20 years earlier than my graying timetable.

Harold has a full head of wavy gray hair, too, in place of the thick, shiny black mane I remember from our high school days. We re-connected at our 40th class reunion a few short years ago. These days I call him my handsome silver fox. He usually responds with, Oh pshaw. You’ll give me a swelled head.

My standard reply to that is, Me-thinks thou doth protest too much. I know he likes to hear praise, just like I love the bouquets of roses he brings home often. He knows how much that pleases me, and when we have guests, they get to enjoy them, too.

Who knew? This is evidently the man meant to be my Golden Years husband. Life is full of twists and turns, and Harold is a game changer in my cast of characters. I could have sworn that my last husband, Brian, would have been the man for this job. I had gotten together with him a few years after being widowed in the worst way; my late husband, Dave, had suicided. Brian was supposed to be my solace, my companion, my rock. And for nearly a decade, he was, more-or-less (toward the end, far less). Now he has been recast as my ex-husband. It has taken time for me to process the change. I grieved the loss of that marriage just as much as I had losing Dave. It’s not like I ever stopped loving Brian or Dave either one. But each in his own way had given me no choice.

I push Brian-thoughts aside—he still takes up way too much space in my head—and focus on being fully present with Harold. He is enthusiastically sharing with me his plans for building another cement block retaining wall next to the garage. He has already dug much of the bank back to create more driveway space and plans to eventually add a stone walkway up top. He could have dug the whole thing all in one day if he’d had access to a bobcat, but we can’t really afford to rent one right now. So he has been content to move all the dirt by hand, shovel by shovel.

You've learned to pace yourself and listen to your body, right? I remind Harold. It scares me to think I’d almost lost him six months ago. Scarier still, is the thought that I had nearly succeeded in pushing him away altogether the year before that, early in our relationship. Thank goodness for his persistence. If there’s anything sadder than having been faced with many losses and hardships, it’s passing up one of life’s most beautiful gifts so freely given.

He breaks into my thoughts, responding pleasantly. Yes, Dear. I'm being careful.  It’s the stupidity of the American male, is the way he puts it, to push past one’s limits and keep on keeping on. He's been guilty of that and often has a tendency to overdo. In that respect he reminds me of Dave, who had been a workaholic, except there is one big difference. Harold is a happy one.

I’m very pleased with the progress I made today, he will say, cheering himself on. Dave, on the other hand, grumbled and plodded through life, resenting his labor sentence, though it was largely self-imposed.

Molly and her dog-sister, Annie, are vying for our attention. Both are pure bred reddish brown Border Collies born and raised on the same farm. They are aunt and niece by blood, and gentle as can be, though their roles are entirely different. Annie, with large, soulful eyes, is sweet and submissive. She’s a big girl, as big as a full-on Collie. Aunt Molly, two years older and half of Annie (roughly the size of a Sheltie), is 100% alpha. She has shoe button eyes and an aggressive stare typical of alphas. When I first joined the household I used to wonder what on earth she was thinking as she stared so intently at me. I concluded that she was trying to figure out, What is my new job with this lady? Collies, after all, are working dogs.

Molly’s previous job had been to look after Lorna, Harold’s late wife, a Type 1 brittle diabetic. Both dogs acted as her guardians. No one trained them to do this. Being a herd dog and helper is hardwired into them. When Lorna went into a dangerous blood sugar drop during the night, they would suddenly become hyper and agitated, waking Harold from a sound sleep. Believe me, Harold sleeps like the dead! Collies are also hardwired to alert for danger. Help! Come quick! Timmy has fallen into a well!

A few months after I’d moved in, Molly had let me know that she’d figured out her new job. She must have sensed that, although I look and act able-bodied, my health is less than robust. Apparently she concluded that I was to be her new charge. I’d gone off to the bedroom one afternoon, for a two-hour nap alone (she usually sleeps in our room with us). When I woke up and opened the door, she was waiting for me in the hallway outside the bedroom, and bellowed a stern protest in her alto voice. Trust me, she’s got a big voice for her size! Never mind the language barrier between our species. I got the message loud and clear. What were you thinking, going off on your own without me? What if something had happened to you on my watch?

For Lorna, Harold was a good caregiver with a big heart, and so was his youngest son, Ian, a Millennial in his late 20’s, who lives with us. Lorna’s health had declined during her last few years to the point of kidney failure. She was forced to medically retire. Somebody had to make a living. Thus Ian volunteered to become her caregiver so that Harold could continue to work. Ian would shuttle her back and forth to regular dialysis and other appointments, and keep track of her medications. She was in line for a kidney transplant, but recurring infections prevented that. Then they discovered that she had Hepatitis C, a gift she’d received during a blood transfusion a number of years back, when blood products were not thoroughly screened.

Though blood transfusions are not allowed under the rules of the faith that Lorna and Harold shared, the man she’d been married to earlier had made the decision for her, when she was unconscious. She’d been pregnant with her only child. There was nothing she had wanted more in life than to have a baby. But pregnancy is not advisable for a Type 1 diabetic. She was living the life of Shelby, the character in the movie Steel Magnolias. Unlike Shelby, Lorna had survived for many years afterward, but her newborn son had only lived a day or two.

It was a sad loss for Lorna, and she eventually sought to fill the void by bonding with her step-children, Harold’s four kids. She and Harold were married for nearly 13 years in all, which was long enough to see them all grown and gone from the nest (with the exception of Ian). She also helped welcome the arrival of four of his grandchildren. Lorna made it to age 58, which is notable for a Type I diabetic who had been diagnosed in childhood.

Though I never met her, from Harold’s stories and from others who knew her, I gather that Lorna lived a full life and personality-wise, was full of life. She was a risk taker and adventuresome soul, to the point of being a daredevil at times. From the way Harold describes her, she was my complete opposite. She was a total gear head, for one, while I turn white knuckle when it comes to high-powered vehicles and speed. Harold tells the tale of how her eyes lit up when a friend allowed her to take his muscle car, a Ford Probe GT Turbo, out for a spin. Harold’s oldest son, Kyle, a teen at the time, had gone with her on the ride of his life, when she clocked in 100 miles per hour on country back roads. That woman is crazy! Kyle had exclaimed when they returned, his young life no doubt flashing before his eyes! Meanwhile, she’d laughed like a loon in the pure joy of the moment.

Lorna loved horsepower in more ways than one. She could not convince Harold to own any actual horses, as he thought they were too expensive. Besides, although Harold is also rather adventuresome, he is afraid of horses due to a bad childhood experience. So Lorna collected many figurines, paintings, art pieces, etc. of the creatures instead, which were displayed throughout the house.

I was a bit dubious when I had first moved in, with so many of Lorna’s things still around. It was shades of what I’d gone through with Dave, who had also been a widower when I’d married him and moved into his house. He hadn’t been ready to part with his late wife’s things. In fact, when we returned from our honeymoon, all her clothes were still hanging in the master bedroom closet and their wedding pictures were still on display in the front hall!

Having been widowed, I understand first hand of what it must have been like for Dave. Ironically, that’s because it’s the painful legacy that he, himself, passed on to me. Having walked in a widower’s shoes, also gave me compassion for Harold. He’d had a few years of healing time before hooking up with me, but he clearly still missed Lorna; he nearly waxed poetic when he spoke of her. Then he would look up at me and backtrack, I see I have over-shared. It was fine, really, since he had stopped to consider my feelings.

He had followed up with de-horsifying, only keeping the pieces we both liked. He even paid to ship her most personal items such as her baby pictures, to her cousin. Then he called the cousin and offered her an entire glass china case full of Lorna’s things if she would come and pick it up. She did so, thereby making room for my antique roll top desk, an antique glass case full of my crystals, and some of my other things. Most telling was Harold’s comment, It’s just stuff. No one can take away the memories, and that’s the only thing that’s important.

Wow. How refreshing is that? I'd divorced a hoarder who had taken over my house and refused to make room for me. Whenever I had asked Brian to corral the explosion of possessions that he spread out in every direction, he would bark, Don’t touch my stuff! He was like a dragon guarding his hoard. It was so unfair. Though I wasn’t happy about it, I had tolerated all the stuff he’d acquired; it was only when he acquired a girlfriend that I drew the line in the sand. That was the ultimate deal breaker. Dave had killed himself, while Brian had killed our marriage. Though the betrayal had practically killed me at the time, at least emotionally, it had also freed me. I was very good at playing the long-suffering wife, a role I’d perfected during my Dave years. If Brian had not insisted on a deal breaker, I would have continued to hang in there while he drained me dry. I firmly believe I would have gone down with the ship. It may sound melodramatic, but I’m convinced that had I stayed, I would have died in that house with his stuff stacked all around me, probably sooner rather than later.

It’s amazing how much a life can change in just a few years' time. The end of my marriage to Brian was the beginning of my descent into a very dark time. But it was only by going through it that I was able to come out the other side. A quote from Winston Churchill says it best: If if you're going through hell, keep going! Doing that led me to a very good man who has stepped into the role of Golden Years Husband. It’s also proving to be a golden time in my life. At least that is how I would characterize it at this moment.  If nothing else, I've learned one thing for sure. Nothing is cut in stone. In fact, I know for sure that at some point, it will end. The older we get, I’m increasingly aware that we are a lot closer to the finish than to the starting line in this game called life. Until the final moment, I intend to live my life to its fullest and savor all the blessings I’m given. The past is a memory; the future only potential. All we ever have is the here and now. It’s a gift. That’s why it's called the present.

Five Years Earlier

Chapter 2

The Worst of Times

THE OCTOBER MORNING sun slowly burning through the fog, matches my mental state. I’m attempting to get clear on a lot of things. The trees are in full display, dressed in their most beautiful colors—orange, candy apple red, burgundy, deep gold, pale yellow, and varying shades of green. This spectrum radiates through the mist, as if aiming to cheer me. God knows I need some cheer.

I know in my heart that this place is right for me for now. This little one-bedroom apartment has been my home for a week. It is set in the woods with little walking paths meandering throughout where people walk their dogs. I enjoy people watching and this is a healing environment for me. I need to rest. At first I was too agitated to sleep much for several nights before, during and after the big move. My acupuncturist friend, Laura, made a house call to treat me last week. Mercifully, the session helped to calm me down, allowing a decent night’s sleep for the last two nights. My vision also improved a little, and my balance is quite a bit better. It’s surprising how healing simple rest can be.

Several friends worked together to move as many of my things from my house as would fit into this place, with the rest going into a storage unit. I’d left behind whatever I didn’t want, including a 250-pound weight from around my neck, so to speak! I acquired some new things: bedding, silverware and other kitchen items, a couch and a few accent rugs, which have been strategically placed. My BFF, Lori, had stayed to help make up my bed for the first night in my new place. A couple of days later another friend, Deb, came for the unpacking and Lori joined in as well. Debbie should be an interior decorator, plus she’s great at organizing.

Lori is the consummate best friend. I’ve leaned on her especially during these past few weeks; I truly do not know what I would have done without her. She and Deb both worked all of one day unpacking, getting my kitchen and living room set up, hanging pictures, breaking down boxes and taking them to recycling. With their help, it has all really come together. My new home is neat and tidy, warm and 100% me. It is my refuge, my cave, my sanctuary where I’m retreating to lick my wounds, of which I have plenty.

I thought that awful day 13 years ago when my then-husband, Dave, had committed suicide, was the worst day of my entire life. It came out of the blue after we’d ridden the rapids of other hard changes, beginning with my father’s death two months before. My mom then came to live with us. Meanwhile, our business partner, Hal, was dying a slow death from lung disease. Dave had gone over there a lot, trying to help. He had bonded with Hal’s younger wife, Noni and they’d begun a brief affair. When I’d found out, literally within days, it was the final straw that apparently made him think he was a worthless human being and we’d be better off without him. Who knows for sure what he thought? There was not much to go on but a cryptic suicide note addressed to me, the kids, and his mother, saying only that he was very tired. There would be karma to pay. So be it. Time heals.

Coward! Dave had dumped virtually everything in my lap then ducked out. I was left with two traumatized kids—a barely adult son with a drug problem and a 15-year-old daughter who had been a Daddy's Girl. I also had to deal with my frail and elderly mom, Dave’s devastated and mentally ill mother, our home, my mom’s home, several vehicles; the list was endless.

I wrote about this in my first book, We Are Becoming: Souls Evolving, which became a major source of healing therapy. Eventually I came to a place of compassion for Dave. He had no doubt inherited some of his mother’s mental illness. He was a broken man with a big heart who would not purposely hurt another human being. He had simply become lost and had painted himself into a corner in his life. Consumed by his own unhealed pain, he had only wanted to escape. Only thing is, wherever you go, you take yourself with you. I believe that the soul survives the body and once they pass, they may become aware of everything from the other side. In the case of a suicide, they would be made to see the pain and suffering they caused to those who loved them the most. I don’t believe in heaven and hell, per se. But that would have to be some kind of hell.

I eventually found love again and wrote about rebuilding my life after Dave. The second book was titled: Picking Up the Pieces: Becoming a Greater Whole. On hindsight, I see that was a misnomer. It should have been titled, Picking Up the Pieces: Digging a Bigger Hole! Of course I didn’t know that then. I just moved forward the best I could, doggedly re-rebuilding my life, brick by brick. Things gradually got easier. Dave had been right about one thing, at least for the most part. Time heals.

My kids, Adam and Katie, eventually grew into functioning adults to create families and lives of their own. After an exceptionally long goodbye, my mother finally graduated to the next plane of existence, whatever that might be for her. I was able to sell her home and large acreage and divvy up the inheritance among my three brothers and me. I put down roots, buying a place that I shared with my new husband, Brian. Though he did not have children of his own, he took an interest in mine, and even more so, in the grandchildren that began arriving. Together we welcomed several of my grandbabies into our hearts. I would have thought all the really hard stuff was behind me. That’s what I get for thinking!

Yes, Dave’s suicide had clearly been the worst day of my entire life, up to that point. Then this last year delivered several more to rival its place in my personal hall of fame of Worst Days Ever. Most of this last year has been a complete disaster! So much can change in just a year. Though for quite some time things had been sliding south between Brian and me, one of my friends pinpointed what might have been the trigger to bring on the total take-down. She reminded me of the statement I’d made at my last birthday party, the previous November. In front of Brian and all my friends, who are also members of my spiritual community. I had declared my intention to the Universe. I want to go to the next level, and I’m ready to deal with whatever comes up to get me there. I wonder if I would have been so forthright in that decree, had I known what it would cost me.

Within a month Brian had reconnected with his first love, Terri, from way back in high school. They had not been in touch for the whole of their adult lives. He’d tracked her down on Facebook and they had met supposedly for an innocent cup of coffee that lasted three hours. The event slipped under my radar. It wasn’t as if he was sneaking around; he’d discussed it with me both before and after. It was supposed to be all above board, and therefore no alarm bells went off. He’d never given me a reason not to trust him. It didn’t faze me, either, when they arranged to meet again a couple of weeks later. He was gone even longer that time. There had no doubt been some phone calls and/or emails between them as well. I didn’t keep track; I was busy working as always, performing as many weddings as I could pack into a weekend. Somebody had to make a living.

Actually Brian did bring in some money indirectly. He’d built a little apartment downstairs in our home and was technically caregiver for his dad Wayne. This was after the latter had fallen and broken his hip year before last. Truthfully, Wayne mostly took care of himself, though he needed to use a walker and therefore, was at risk for falling. Thus, his doctors did not believe he would ever fully recover. Going back home to live alone in his own home was simply not an option. He had absolutely hated losing his independence and acted as if he hated Brian as well. Wayne was a curmudgeonly sort, though he’d always been nice to me. I give Brian credit for stepping up to do the right thing, and yet he benefited as well. Wayne’s monthly contribution helped keep us afloat and saved Brian from going out and finding a real job. In that sense it was a win-win, as we charged Wayne far less than a care home would have required him to pay. Plus Wayne got a measure of independence in his own little space. Hermit that he was, living with other people would have driven him completely nuts.

Anyway, regarding Brian and Terri, what was unfolding had yet to sink in. I can be the Queen of Denial. It’s a defense mechanism. Though I’m intuitive and often get a heads up via dreams or impressions of upcoming events before they happen, I believe I didn’t want to know what was to come.

Upon reflection of recent events now in the rear view mirror, I ponder this question, What day from this year would I pick as the new worst day of my life? Several jump out, all related to my marriage and home. There was the day this past April when I’d left Brian and landed first at my daughter, Katie’s, then on my friend, Laurel’s doorstep, bawling my eyes out. Thoroughly awful! So, too, was the day that same month that my lawyer had advised me to sign away ALL the equity that I’d ponied up for my home with Brian. It was my entire inheritance!

Was Easter Sunday the Worst Day Ever, which had likewise fallen in April this year? That’s the day I’d gotten an email from Elroy, my eldest brother and co-trustee on our mother’s estate. Was he writing to wish me a Happy Easter? Of course not. His email was to inform me that he was refusing to repay any of the debt that had fallen back on the heirs, despite having pledged in writing to do so. The way he put it, It’s every man for himself. Which also meant, by the way, that the other two brothers weren’t going to honor their agreements either. The entire sum due would come out of my hide. Historically, April has not always been kind to me. The date of Dave’s suicide had been April 1. April Fools!

Another dreadful date from this year had been August 1, just two months ago, when I knew Brian and I had reached the point of no return. Between April and August, I’d been coming home on weekends to explore the question, Can this marriage be saved? When I’d left, I’d given him two conditions to meet before I’d consider moving back in full-time as he had been campaigning me to do: #1 cut off all contact with Terri and #2, declutter the house, thereby making room for me. The first condition was effective immediately, and he gave me his word that he had done so. I gave him a deadline of August 1 for accomplishing Condition #2. Alas, August 1 rolled around there were more piles of clutter than ever lying throughout the house. And then I ran across Terri’s name and number on the caller ID for the house phone. It was the final straw.

Moving day, a week ago, also qualifies as a horrible, if productive day. Several of my friends joined me in descending on the house I’d shared with Brian for a blitzkrieg of extricating and packing my things. He was there, ostensibly to help, but more likely to make sure nothing that belonged to him was taken by mistake. My friends had been polite to him. We spent several hours packing and labeling boxes and tagging furniture that would go into the moving truck. Laurel, the friend I’d been staying with since leaving Brian, broke out in song to lighten the energy. The others followed suit, forming a chorus. It was still very sad and I found myself fighting tears all day. At one point I tripped and almost fell; Brian led me to a chair where he made me sit down and take a break. He also brought me my cane and reminded me I should be using it. In spite of everything, I still loved him. Though he’d continued in recent weeks to urge me to come back home so that he could take care of me, I had refused. And then what, Terri will be my nursemaid? Moving out lock, stock, and barrel, was gut wrenching, but he had given me no choice.

The husband of a good friend had agreed to drive the U-Haul I’d rented. At least my new apartment was only a few miles away. I’d also hired professional movers to load and unload the heavy boxes and furniture. We’d invaded the place as a team, packed up, and were out by evening. Before I left I gave Brian a hug. This wasn’t the ending I ever wanted, I had told him.

Me either. He’d replied.

It’s not like I didn't give you plenty of chances, I added.

I know, he’d replied, while hanging his head, I’m sorry. The words were no more helpful than the empty promises he’d made months before that he would do whatever it takes to make things right, while continuing his affair with Terri, behind my back.

Last thing before leaving, I went downstairs and gave Wayne a goodbye hug. He looked like he very much needed one, lonely old man. It would likely be the last time I would ever see Wayne and I think we both knew it.

Chapter 3

Family Tragedy

A WEEK AFTER THE BIG move, I’m in my apartment watching the flood lights come on along the walkways outside my window. It’s that time of year, the day before Halloween, when Daylight Savings Time ends and it’s dark by 5 PM. It feels more like midnight! My daughter and her girls are here to celebrate Katie’s 29th birthday a day early. Her birth seems a lifetime ago, and it spells the passing of two eras for me. My life with Dave and raising kids, and then my ten