Chapter 1
Finding Light in Life's Darkest Moments
Mary Pipher's memoir "A Life in Light" has become a cultural touchstone for those navigating life's inevitable cycles of joy and sorrow. Born exactly 100 years after Thomas Edison on the anniversary of his light bulb invention, Pipher's life seems cosmically connected to illumination. The book has garnered praise from luminaries like Gloria Steinem, who called it "a beacon for women seeking wisdom in their later years," and Oprah, who featured it in her 2022 summer reading list. This New York Times bestseller resonates particularly with readers in midlife and beyond, offering a framework for finding resilience through life's darkest passages. As the pandemic pushed millions into isolation, Pipher's wisdom about finding inner light amid external darkness became unexpectedly prescient, making this book not just a memoir but a survival guide for our times.
Chapter 2
The Dance Between Attachment and Loss
Life's fundamental rhythm alternates between connection and separation, a pattern established in my earliest years. When my father returned from the Korean War before my first grade, he disrupted our family's fragile equilibrium. My parents were opposites-Mother a serious scientist likely on the autism spectrum, Dad an extroverted, impulsive charmer traumatized by two wars. Their nightly fights culminated in a devastating announcement: we were splitting up. Dad would take baby John to Colorado, Jake and I would live with him in Missouri, and Mother would remain in Denver completing her medical internship.
Life in Dad's cramped trailer gave me what I called feeling "squishy"-physically and emotionally unwell. He was rarely home, attending school on the GI Bill, often leaving us hungry and alone. Our salvation came through relatives-Cousin Steve who listened to our troubles in the mulberry tree, Grandma Glessie with her abundant meals, and Aunt Grace who once rescued us with her bright yellow kitchen and fried chicken.
That year without my mother shaped my life forever-creating claustrophobia, anxiety in confined spaces, and fear of separation from loved ones. Yet I learned to survive by always finding light-in a kind teacher, Steve's steadfastness, Aunt Grace's yellow booth, and Grandma Glessie's love.
When Dad announced we would rejoin our mother and siblings, Jake and I danced through meadows, twirling with joy as dew sparkled on purple clover. After our reunion, I experienced something remarkable-a golden light visibly enfolding us in the back seat, not metaphorical but real, haloing half the seat. This light would return many times throughout my life, appearing at moments of profound connection and healing.
Before this separation, one of my most magical childhood experiences was visiting the KOA radio station fountain with its rotating colored lights. Sitting on our warm Chevy hood, I'd become entranced by the dancing lights in cascading water-red, blue, yellow, and rainbow hues. This beauty transported me beyond everyday struggles into something vast and universal, teaching me early that beauty could be a refuge from pain.
Chapter 3
Growing Through Wonder and Imagination
Our parents allowed us whatever pets we wanted, making decisions casually and quickly. Dad bought us chameleons, and from Padre Island, impulsively purchased Pixie Rosarita, a Chihuahua who became my devoted companion. We had parakeets named Ernie and Eve who perched on my fingers until one January day when I found them frozen stiff in their cage. Jake and I buried them in the hard winter ground. Every spring, Dad bought rabbits we named and played with all summer, only to kill them in fall for meat-despite our tears and protests.
Nebraska teemed with wildlife then-frogs, box elder bugs, lightning bugs, jackrabbits, and turtles that became summer pets. I rescued many injured animals, creating a little hospital with shoeboxes and soft cloths. One rescued magpie, Maggie, returned every summer and followed me to the pool. The connection made when wild animals look into our eyes feels like a primal gift-like when I had a staring contest with a curious weasel that ended when he yawned and I laughed.
Beaver City's small brick library near the town square became my sanctuary. Everything about it seemed holy-the dim lighting, silence, and smells of leather, floor wax, and old paper. Mrs. Schaefer, the tidy librarian, knew everyone by name and suggested books I might enjoy. In my first year, I devoured the children's section, outraged at the treatment of horses in Black Beauty and inspired by biographies of Helen Keller, Lincoln, and Eleanor Roosevelt. These books taught me that good people act on behalf of others. Reading became my church and my way of understanding the world. The library's lemony light illuminated paths to my future as I constructed an identity beyond family bounds.
My mother worked tirelessly as the only doctor in Furnas County, maintaining a small office at home where patients stopped after hours. We children often went days without seeing her as she might come home late, sleep briefly, and leave before we woke. From fifth grade on, I worked in her office, sometimes riding with her to hospitals or house calls. I'd read in the car or waiting rooms during daytime visits, and sleep in the car at night. On farm visits, Mother would care for dying patients or handle emergencies like miscarriages. These journeys became opportunities for her to share stories of her childhood during the Dust Bowl, historical disasters, and moral lessons about character and truth.
As the oldest child in our neighborhood, I orchestrated elaborate imaginative games for kids aged six to twelve. One summer we spent acting out scenes from "The Silver Sword," where I played teacher to orphaned children surviving in Nazi-occupied Warsaw. Even when alone, I created stories constantly-inventing narratives for sock couples while hanging laundry or crafting tales about crockery while washing dishes. My greatest joy came on summer nights when neighborhood children gathered on our lawn to hear my stories while stargazing. One magnificent August night, we witnessed the northern lights-spectacular green plumes billowing into the sky, followed by explosions of pink, blue and purple dancing across the Milky Way. In my stories, I gave each child a heroic future-nurturing tales that helped them see bright possibilities ahead.
Chapter 4
Moments That Shape Our Perception
When visiting my grandparents' small house in Flagler, my grandfather proudly showed me a new "bed" he'd made from a refrigerator shipping crate-a wooden box with bedding inside. Terror seized me at the sight of this coffin-like container. Despite wanting to be polite, I blurted out, "I can't sleep in that." When my mother ordered me into the box, I shut my eyes and stepped in, immediately overwhelmed by claustrophobia and visions of being buried alive. I leapt out, declaring I'd run away rather than sleep there.
My mother finally relented but sent me to my grandparents' bedroom to "think about my behavior." This punishment became an unexpected blessing. Their room was filled with morning light, and as I lay on the white chenille bedspread, feeling sunshine and smelling peach-scented air through diaphanous curtains, I experienced a profound moment of bliss. Despite having to apologize to my grandfather, I felt proud of standing up for myself-a rare departure from my usual desire to please others.
Dad announced a Christmas trip to Padre Island to give Mother a rest. We drove over a thousand miles through small towns decorated with Christmas lights, stopping in Coffeeville for twenty hamburgers that we devoured "like piranhas." At our Gulf Coast bungalow, we children exploded with energy, spending days body surfing while Mother napped and Dad caught fish for dinner. One night, Dad took me fishing on a pier. As he caught silvery flounder "trimmed with yellow and mother of pearl," I absorbed everything-the water splashing against pilings, the fishy air, stars hanging low, and distant shrimp boats with bobbing red and white lights.
In that moment, I experienced an epiphany: all was right with the world. Nothing needed changing. I consciously committed every detail to memory-Dad humming Glenn Miller, my orange-striped shirt, the lights, smells, and liquid air. That night I taught myself "the skill of storing moments of revelation and joy," a valuable ability "in a world filled with at least as much shadow as sunlight."
Beaver City was my world, one I could navigate independently. Our community had characters like Alvin Rogers the janitor who sold coyotes, and boys whose father was in prison. While economic diversity existed, racism and prejudice against Native Americans, people of color, and homosexuals was common. We children enjoyed tremendous freedom, biking wherever we pleased despite packs of aggressive dogs. Once, my friend Jeanie and I biked to the next town just to sample their Popsicles, eventually catching a ride home in a stranger's truck.
After dinner, my parents would sometimes drive us to watch the prairie dog village-an enormous sandy area with hundreds of furry creatures chattering and working while predators lurked nearby. We'd sit on the hood watching until sunset, staying for "the afterglow...the pink and apricot clouds, the light just touching the tops of the soft blue hills." Our ecosystem teemed with wildlife then, before factory farming and industrial agriculture changed everything.
Chapter 5
Finding Identity Through Connection and Separation
In fourth grade, I found refuge in Mrs. Oliver's classroom. Unlike my chaotic home life, her classroom was orderly and calm with a collective hum of engagement. She read adventure stories after lunch recess, dropping her voice dramatically at cliffhanger endings. Under her guidance, I learned to diagram sentences and organize geography with precision. She understood children's needs, letting me read by the window when my work was done.
Salvation came when an elderly Dutch immigrant, Mrs. Van Cleave, offered to teach me pottery. Twice weekly for two years, I visited her elegant home where she served lemon bars and chamomile tea in hand-painted china cups. In her sun-drenched pottery room, golden dust motes danced as afternoon light poured through western windows while I chattered about my day. When I told her about my father's cruel assessment that with "my figure and big nose" I would never marry and should become a doctor, Mrs. Van Cleave looked stunned. "He is blind to your beauty, and, Mary, you are beautiful," she said, holding my hand.
The women in my mother's family embodied stoic resilience with surprising grace. My grandmother, despite lacking voting rights until after her third child and living with primitive conditions-burning cow chips for fuel and going without sugar-maintained her status as a cultured lady who valued education and classical music.
My mother Avis was the third of four sisters, each with distinct personalities that shaped my understanding of womanhood. Aunt Betty, designated to work the fields with my grandfather, married a wheat harvester and homesteaded near the Canadian border. Though married to a strict fundamentalist who forbade television and rock music, she maintained her joy in life.
Aunt Margaret, the artistic "indoor daughter," lost her musical career after a horseback accident. She recognized my intellectual curiosity and introduced me to literature, art, and progressive politics, telling me "if you are a reader, you can experience thousands of lives."
Aunt Agnes, the youngest, married an eighth-grade educated farmer with "the biggest feet I've ever seen." She managed farm work, butchering, gardening, and an egg business while enduring a husband who bellowed like an auctioneer and called her "woman" instead of her name. Despite his cruelty, Agnes maintained her dignity, and we formed a deep connection, talking endlessly while cooking and doing chores.
Through these relationships with the women in my mother's family, I absorbed vital moral lessons: work hard, remain loyal to family, and improve the world. They taught me self-care and nurturing by example, affirming my worth without flattery, instead offering attention, conversation, and encouragement to think ambitiously about my future.
Chapter 6
The Journey to Self-Discovery
When I was twelve, my family moved to a Kansas town of eight thousand. As a high school freshman, I briefly attempted mainstream popularity-joining band, pep club, and serving as class treasurer-but soon realized I wasn't suited for it. Football games bored me, cheerleaders intimidated me, and some boys targeted me with crude jokes.
Instead, I found fulfillment in a diverse circle of friends. Maureen, a thoughtful reader with an unpleasant father; Sue, a talented pianist whose father's suicide was met with uncomfortable silence; and Nina, a doctor's daughter and homecoming queen with endless matching sweater sets who could make me laugh uncontrollably.
One October afternoon walking home alone, I encountered a crimson maple tree illuminated by late sunlight. Its wind-animated leaves resembled a Van Gogh painting, appearing like a burning bush. In that moment of pure presence, I experienced a profound spiritual lesson about reality's dazzling perfection when perceived without mental chatter. These "burning tree moments" have repeatedly offered me rescue throughout my life.
During high school, my sanctuary was a sandpit lake five miles from town where my friend Nina would drive us on summer afternoons. These twin lakes connected by a narrow channel were remarkably deep and clear. We'd arrive with simple picnic lunches, then plunge into the sparkling water. While my friends merely waded and splashed, I swam laps and dove deep, feeling the water as a living presence with its varying temperatures and gentle currents.
These conversations revealed my emerging identity. When my friends discussed girdles-a teenage rite of passage-I tried one on but quickly rejected the painful constraint, making a lifelong decision: "comfort before beauty." I realized I cared nothing about objects or appearances, only about feelings and experiences.
My high school English teachers, Miss Meyer and Miss Fletcher, were silver-haired women who lived together and shared a profound love of literature. Though strict, they inspired through their passion for Shakespeare, Chaucer, and the great novelists and poets. At our town's Carnegie Library with its marble floors and high ceilings, I discovered Dickens, Twain, Buck, Michener, and Uris, alongside classics like Madame Bovary and Don Quixote. I fell deeply in love with Russian literature-Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov, War and Peace, and especially Anna Karenina. The Russian soul's tragedy and ecstasy matched my own emotional range.
At fourteen, I began working at the A&W on Highway 81 for fifty-five cents an hour plus tips. As a carhop wearing black slacks, checkered orange and black shirts, and a black leather apron, I served twenty carports along a runway. This work became my education in human nature. I observed all kinds-tired truckers, lonely bachelors, farmworkers, National Guard trainees, and teenagers cruising with friends. Some couples radiated kindness, while others sat in icy silence. Certain families created joy even in simple outings; others revealed darker dynamics-like parents who ate ice cream cones while their hungry children watched silently from the backseat.
At sixteen, I was promoted to chief cook and manager. Though my pay actually decreased without tips, I thrived on the responsibility, mastering the art of producing large amounts of food quickly. This first job helped shape my identity. Life seemed simpler then-I was earning straight A's, had a scholarship to the University of Kansas, good friends, and boundless confidence in my contradictory dreams of either wandering the world or becoming a New York editor drinking champagne.
Chapter 7
Navigating Loss and New Beginnings
My sophomore year brought one happy event and three devastating ones. The joy was my brother falling in love with my friend Jeanine. The sorrows began when my roommate Janice and her boyfriend quietly fled the country to avoid the draft without saying goodbye.
That Thanksgiving, my boyfriend Larry drove Jake and me to meet my family. My father immediately disliked him, perhaps because of Larry's leftist politics or the antiwar buttons on his jean jacket. The next day, my mother called to say my father had suffered a devastating stroke and was in a coma. Though he survived, he was left paralyzed on his right side, partially blind, and barely able to communicate at just fifty years old. I blamed myself, believing my relationship with Larry had caused my father so much stress that it triggered his stroke.
At Christmas break, I visited my father at Craig Hospital in Denver, where he struggled with speech therapy and physical rehabilitation. His speech was limited to just four words-"cigarette," "shit," "goddammit," and "coffee"-none of which matched his thoughts. Once, he begged me to smother him with his pillow, a request I couldn't fulfill though I secretly agreed he might be happier dead.
Meanwhile, Larry began hearing voices and was prescribed medication for psychosis. Overwhelmed by both men's suffering and feeling responsible yet helpless, I decided to leave Lawrence. After spending a summer helping with my father's therapy, I joined Jake in San Francisco, where I immersed myself in the vibrant counterculture to escape my guilt.
After graduating from Berkeley in spring 1969, I used my first paycheck to escape to Mexico, living in a small cabana for the summer. On my twenty-first birthday, I flew to London where I found work at a Jewish bakery. After nine months abroad, homesickness drove me back to Kansas. Then I became pregnant by a controlling man I didn't want to marry.
The fall and winter of 1971 were among the hardest times of my life. My mother was ashamed and didn't want me home, even for holidays. I was truly in exile-broke, lonely and vulnerable without proper clothes or even a winter coat. My salvation came through female friends who shared their homes and food with me. Without these women friends, I can't imagine what would have become of me.
In early March, my mother called to say she would attend my delivery. As I breathed through contractions, clutching my friend Laura's hand while my mother monitored the fetal heartbeat, she made a surprising offer-suggesting I could come to Concordia for the summer, or even that she could keep the baby until I finished medical school. I was horrified at the thought of separation, unable to imagine being apart from my baby even for a day.
Back in my hospital room, groggy and hungry, I longed for my baby. When the nurse brought him, I gazed into his sky-blue eyes that seemed to carry knowledge of a universe I'd forgotten. Just then, the sun rose golden through the window, embracing us in light-a Pieta in a Kansas City hospital with a broke, unemployed mother and sacred baby son. I named him Ezekiel Sunrise, knowing I would grow up for him.
Chapter 8
Building a Life of Meaning
In summer 1972, I drove to Lincoln seeking a graduate program. After the anthropology department accepted me without funding, I impulsively visited the psychology department where James Cole, the clinical program director, miraculously offered me a fully funded position. This stunning generosity meant Zeke and I now had a future.
On my first day, I met a tall, Native American-looking man named Jim outside Dr. Cole's office. Our small clinical psychology class formed study groups for the challenging statistics course. These sessions met at my modest apartment after Zeke's bedtime, where the elegant old fireplace became our study sanctuary. Jim, excelling in statistics, stayed afterward to tutor me despite our mutual agreement to remain "just study buddies" and never date.
During our December session before finals, something shifted. As snow fell outside and firelight danced across the room, I felt increasingly attracted to Jim. When he finally prepared to leave, both of us hesitated awkwardly until I confessed to having "non-study buddy feelings." After a long pause, he gruffly admitted the same.
That night by the fire, we couldn't have known we'd share fifty years together-the challenges of careers and families, funerals and cemeteries, dying parents and pandemic chaos. We couldn't foresee creating a family of twelve members or attending countless recitals and games. That December night, we stood on the incandescent cusp of our future, seeing only light, feeling only heat.
In April 1975, after passing my PhD comprehensive exams, my father called to congratulate me. With his stroke-damaged speech, I could barely understand him, but when I confirmed I'd passed, he tried to say "I love you" with his limited vocabulary: "Cigarette, cigarette."
Four days later, my mother called-Dad had suffered another stroke. After two days, doctors advised turning off life support. I hugged Dad's shoulders and kissed his forehead, watching the heart monitor flatten until it measured nothing-Frank Houston Bray, dead at fifty-nine.
My father had endured a short, hard life: raised during the Depression by a mother who married seven times, beaten by stepfathers, and scarred from childhood poverty. Despite his flaws, he'd been a better father than those who raised him, providing us stability he never had. His love language was admonishment-constant criticism meant to push us toward the education, respectability and security he never achieved himself.
When Sara reached third grade, I finally had small windows of discretionary time and realized: "I want to write." I began journaling about everything I couldn't say aloud. Writing helped me process my mother's death. I approached writing systematically, reading books on the craft, attending workshops, and forming the Prairie Trout writing group that has continued for thirty-five years. After writing letters to the editor and radio essays, I self-published "Hunger Pains" about treating eating disorders. This led to "Reviving Ophelia" in 1994, launching my professional writing career.
When "Reviving Ophelia" reached number one on the New York Times bestseller list, I was unprepared for the spotlight. People treated me differently-family teased me, strangers recognized me, and acquaintances suddenly sought my company. As a Midwesterner taught never to stand out, I struggled with the attention while being bombarded with requests for speeches, interviews, endorsements, and consultations. Eventually I realized I needed to greatly reduce my schedule, having learned that glamour exists only in others' perceptions, not in the experience itself.
Chapter 9
Finding Resilience Through Life's Challenges
When the pandemic hit in early 2020, Jim and I stopped leaving home except for essentials. Living between Lincoln's two main hospitals, we witnessed helicopters constantly flying COVID patients from rural hospitals, their lights blinking across the night sky. Ambulance sirens wailed day and night. As activities disappeared, so did my sense of self, which I had always defined through relationships. Life divided into "before" and "after," with the former becoming blurry while the pandemic era seemed endless.
Like my year in that Ozark trailer, I was again separated from family, my body feeling encased in ice when thinking of the children in Canada. Gradually, I adapted by reading Black American literature, writing a new book, setting up Zoom meetings, and walking with friends. Jim and I grew kinder with each other, playing "Do you remember?" games in the evenings. Small pleasures became big pleasures as I learned to notice each moment-reading by the fire, Leonard Cohen songs, drawing with my grandson on FaceTime-finding other kinds of light amid the omnipresent ambulance and helicopter lights.
Before the pandemic, our Buddhist sangha met Sunday mornings in a psychologist's office basement. We'd create a sacred space with an ornate Indian cloth circle, flowers, candles, and a Buddha statue, beginning with check-ins before forty minutes of silent meditation followed by walking meditation. Though thoughts constantly recycled-grocery lists, worries about offending others, responsibilities, family longings-occasionally I'd fully inhabit my body, relaxing my tight scalp and jaw, hearing my heartbeat and the wind outside. These rare moments of full awareness were worth the effort, sometimes bringing tears as I felt life's preciousness.
When the pandemic forced us online, I initially missed the physical elements but grew grateful for the connection. Our Zoom sangha expanded, becoming more diverse. When leading meditations, I often guided the group to imagine being permeated with golden light, dissolving boundaries between ourselves and the outside world. Though physically alone on my worn couch with my calico cat Glessie, I'd rediscover the golden light always within us.
On a beautiful May day during the pandemic, Jim and I drove to Zeke's land along the Platte River, joyful at seeing our son's family for the first time since October. We were hunting morels-those deeply grooved conical mushrooms that appear briefly each spring. Though I'd searched for years and occasionally bought them at farmers markets for twenty-five dollars per eight ounces, I'd never found one wild. When Zeke called me over to a patch of sunlight where a dozen morels awaited, I felt the same thrill as spotting a rare bird. After months of separation and sorrow, everything made me laugh. Surrounded by only the muddy river, blue sky, woods, and dappled light, with occasional herons and pelicans passing, I was drunk on happiness-an oasis of joy, a balm in Gilead, a spring day after a winter of despair.
After summer dinners, I stay outside until dark, sometimes gardening or reading in my hammock, other times just watching the light change as day quiets. My backyard view suits me as well as any on earth-tall hydrangeas to the north, dinner-plate hibiscus below, and to the west, Korean spice viburnum and forsythia with stately white pines against an old wooden fence. The light filtering through pine needles at sunset astonishes me, changing from almost clear to lemon to soft golden butter as the sky's colors shift. A peace falls over the land and all us animals upon it, which I drink in like fine champagne. The sunset may be the greatest tranquilizer ever created, leaving us alert yet relaxed.
Chapter 10
The Wisdom That Comes With Time
I wonder if my grandchildren will retain memories of our earliest connections-how I carried them outside as babies to experience the sky and greenery, tickled their faces with flowers, blew dandelion fluff for them to watch, and guided their tiny hands to feel tree bark and ferns. Will they recall my arms around them as I carried them through the house naming objects-"Book. Kitty. Banana"? Will they remember summer nights at three AM when I carried them outside to lie on blankets as I told stories about the stars? Can they envision us turning over rocks looking for roly-polies, our butterfly net expeditions catching katydids, our wild animals with names like Cinnamon and Mint? And how much does it matter that they remember? I remember every one of these things and many more.
On New Year's Day at sunset, Jim and I walked on Holmes Dam, beneath a silver-pink winter sky with long blue shadows across the snow. The soundtrack of winter-geese flying overhead-accompanied us as skaters, ice fishermen, and sledding children in bright coats dotted the landscape. We observed a little boy in a red cap who, after sliding down the dam, refused to stand up despite his father's offers of help. The scene reminded me of an incident earlier that week when emergency vehicles converged across the lake to rescue a fisherman who had fallen through the ice. As I watched the apricot moon rise over the frozen landscape, I pondered how both stories ended well-the boy eventually stood up and rejoined his family, and the fisherman survived his hypothermia.
By mid-February 2021, a year of pandemic suffering had reached its peak-no vaccines yet, warnings of virus mutations, the second impeachment trial, twenty inches of snow, and temperatures of minus five. I had been yearning for my family so intensely my heart physically hurt. Then one morning, from deep within me, a voice cried out, "Enough." Enough making myself miserable, enough placing the power to be happy in my children's hands, enough waiting for reunion.
During meditation, I contemplated the Buddhist three poisons-anger, ignorance, and attachment. I finally understood that my constant yearning for my children and grandchildren was causing my suffering. I needed to loosen my grip and surrender to what I couldn't change. Connection had always felt like a life-or-death matter to me, but I was no longer that abandoned child. I could choose to stop making myself unhappy by waiting for something that would never happen. I could end my argument with reality and accept life as it is. When this revelation came, I felt a great release-tension flowing from my body, breathing deeper, nightmares stopping.
Two weeks after our second vaccination, Jim and I drove to celebrate our son's fiftieth birthday. This would be our first time hugging Zeke's family and dining inside their house since before the pandemic. When we arrived, we embraced longer and tighter than usual. Standing in the spring-green yard, I took nothing for granted, my blood feeling like champagne, a goofy grin spreading across my face as the slanting sun etched everything with gold. Being back in real life, unmediated by screens, I could once again live in the vibrant stream of the senses. On the long drive home, I decided that while "home" might be the most beautiful word in English, perhaps "reunion" was even more beautiful. Or maybe they're the same word. And there's another beautiful word: "acceptance."
We are palimpsests, our lives layered over ten thousand generations of ancestors, carrying all their trauma, happiness, defeat, and resilience. From genetics, circumstances, and choices, I've developed an identity composed of all my experiences. My story began as a baby watching dappled light through trees. Though dependent on family for love, by ten I knew how to seek loving relationships and comfort myself with animals, rivers, trees, and books. Now in my eighth decade, I've returned to childhood patterns-enjoying family gatherings, waking at dawn to watch wildlife, reading in my hammock until dark, and finding joy in dappled light.
The pandemic took me to my core loneliness, but I learned that deep happiness is independent of conditions-it's a matter of attention. I've learned to control my focus, accept responsibility for my happiness, and find light within. Like my grandmother who survived the 1918 pandemic, Dust Bowl, and Great Depression, I've learned to "make the best of it." Through meditation and mindfulness, I've become more present to beauty and primed for ecstatic experience. Light is my intoxicant-whether watching sunrise over a lake or rainbow bathing with my prism. In my truest moments, I disappear and become one with the light. Dear reader, you too can write your story as a life in light.
