Jennifer Goble

I've been thinking lately about how I take care of myself. I know for sure it isn't shopping. I had a massage (not message) today, and I was lying there in pure ecstasy, wondering how to do this every day, all day.

This article was published in the South Platte Sentinel on this day, July 2, 2014, twelve years ago. I've not changed one word. As we have this monumental anniversary of our country in two days, I thought it fitting to remind ourselves that even though change happens around us, what we believe and feel is constant and gives us strength and hope. God Bless America—Land that I love . . .

I'm a big fan of volunteering if it's someone else. I've done a lot of it in my life, and I decided there is something wrong with showing up, getting bossed around, and not getting paid. If someone wants to pay me, they've earned the right to tell me everything I do wrong—otherwise they don't.

Maybe it's because of the storms we've been having lately, but I've been thinking about home maintenance and wondering if there is a correlation between how we care for our homes and how we care for ourselves.

Outside my window, I watch a doe with twin fawns. Mom is standing guard, and the twins are bouncing, jumping, and running. Adorable.

A friend read a quote by Viktor Frankl on an art bench I painted during the pandemic: “Those who have a ‘why' to live can bear with any ‘how'.”

I reread a book, “Siddhartha,” about a fictional man by the same name who spent his life trying to get to the core of who he was as a man, son, friend, and father.

This article was published in January of 2021. More than five years have passed, and other than the COVID reference, it still feels relevant.

I'm reading old, wonderful books from my bookshelf. I have given hundreds, literally hundreds, of books away in my lifetime. I promised myself I would never buy another one, and then I can't resist. Those that have survived my moves are priceless possessions, and this week I pulled “Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” a story by Richard Bach. I have a signed first edition—1970.

I've been living with my two young grandsons for a week or so, helping out while their dad is in the hospital with a staph infection after a knee replacement — I know!