A few weeks before I was born my grandmother purchased a ceramic, five-and-dime-store knickknack--an imitation Hummel of a cherub angel, meant to represent me.  Being her first grandchild, this was in honor of my October arrival.

 She sits about five inches high and has tiny, silver wing-sprouts on the back of her shoulders. Her long-lashed, huge eyes glance upward and her cheeks blush a light pink, while wavy tufts of blond hair lay at the nape of her neck. Her hands are clasped in prayer as she kneels with a slight bend of her head. In Nanny’s heart, I was this angel. 

It’s been a long, hot summer and the world feels out of kilter. I make a conscious effort to remember how sacred life is and to connect to what matters every day. So here I’m sharing a sample of a way to start my mornings that helps me remember who I am and why I’m here.

When I was in high school, many moons ago, a friend gifted me a poetry book, “There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves,” and she told me it was perfect for me. She said it with a bit of a giggle because I’d already earned the nickname of…