r hearts, withdraw into a shell and just walk zombie-like into each day, oblivious to life going on around them.

Each day is a Gift!

Hopefully, we can eventually realize that each day on this earth is a gift given to us to u

When I was a 5-year-old child, I remember hearing my grandmother telling my mother, “Stop crying over spilt milk!”

My mother said, “Yes, I know you are right, but I just"...

Even though they were both sitting at the kitchen table, I saw no milk spilled. In fact, my mother did not even have a glass of milk to spill. They both seemed to understand what the other meant. I was mystified by what seemed to be their foreign language. Besides, if someone had spilt a glass of milk, my French Canadian grandmother would have spieled off a few French words and cleaned up the mess in disgust, for the waste of good food, but not this time. Even in my childish understanding, I accepted that they were communicating on another level.

Lamenting the Spilt Milk

Today, I see a lot of tears, resentment and anger over “spilt milk.” Divorced and almost-single friends agonize over their own private “spilt milk.” Some close off their hearts, withdraw into a shell and just walk zombie-like into each day, oblivious to life going on around them.

Each day is a Gift!

Hopefully, we can eventually realize that each day on this earth is a gift given to us to us

table, I saw no milk spilled. In fact, my mother did not even have a glass of milk to spill. They both seemed to understand what the other meant. I was mystified by what seemed to be their foreign language. Besides, if someone had spilt a glass of milk, my French Canadian grandmother would have spieled off a few French words and cleaned up the mess in disgust, for the waste of good food, but not this time. Even in my childish understanding, I accepted that they were communicating on another level.

Lamenting the Spilt Milk

Today, I see a lot of tears, resentment and anger over “spilt milk.” Divorced and almost-single friends agonize over their own private “spilt milk.” Some close off their hearts, withdraw into a shell and just walk zombie-like into each day, oblivious to life going on around them.

Each day is a Gift!

Hopefully, we can eventually realize that each day on this earth is a gift given to us to u

a glass of milk, my French Canadian grandmother would have spieled off a few French words and cleaned up the mess in disgust, for the waste of good food, but not this time. Even in my childish understanding, I accepted that they were communicating on another level.

Lamenting the Spilt Milk

Today, I see a lot of tears, resentment and anger over “spilt milk.” Divorced and almost-single friends agonize over their own private “spilt milk.” Some close off their hearts, withdraw into a shell and just walk zombie-like into each day, oblivious to life going on around them.

Each day is a Gift!

Hopefully, we can eventually realize that each day on this earth is a gift given to us to u

ommunicating on another level.

Lamenting the Spilt Milk

Today, I see a lot of tears, resentment and anger over “spilt milk.” Divorced and almost-single friends agonize over their own private “spilt milk.” Some close off their hearts, withdraw into a shell and just walk zombie-like into each day, oblivious to life going on around them.

Each day is a Gift!

Hopefully, we can eventually realize that each day on this earth is a gift given to us to u

r hearts, withdraw into a shell and just walk zombie-like into each day, oblivious to life going on around them.

Each day is a Gift!

Hopefully, we can eventually realize that each day on this earth is a gift given to us to use as we wish. If we hate our life, it is because we choose to. If we embrace each new day as a possible new adventure, that is also, our choice.

Where does our richness lie?

Our richness is not the paycheck we receive or the amount of savings we have stashed away. It is not even the fine home and car and all the amenities! It is how we perceive each precious day, that we continue to survive in hopefulness. Our mistakes, our wrong choices, can be invisible spilt milk, the stain on the tablecloth of our life constantly reminding us of what a messy person we were. The key word here is: past tense! If we choose to sit at the table and stare at that stain, we are stuck in the past and life is passing us by at breakneck speed. The person who continues to contemplate on “spilt milk” is keeping the lock on his own self-designed prison. He has weighed down his own heart by chains meant to constrict, to hold back and control mov