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    Your Words Matter

    I have a note from my dad taped up on my bedroom wall. It is a note he tucked into a package he mailed to me while I was in college. It contained very precious cargo — a dress I wanted to wear to an upcoming school salsa dance. I kept the note because it made me smile. Written in his signature-style handwriting and on his new (at the time) OHSU Foundation letterhead, it reads: Caitlin– Have a terrific time at the dance! Love, Dad I pulled the note out again a couple years ago, and having lost my dad several years prior, I burst into tears. But not for…

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    I Hope You Dance

    I love to dance. And for a year and a half now, I have not been able to. So Lee Ann Womack’s song that goes, “And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance,” even as just a metaphor for life, somewhat breaks my heart.  That’s because physically, I’ve been doing a lot more sitting than I’ve ever done before or ever thought I would do–especially at 28 years old. Literally sitting, not dancing. But by sitting, I’m playing my part right now; stepping up to do what my body and soul have asked.  Which means that what I’ve been doing IS dancing.  That’s right, I…

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    The Girl in the Coffee Shop

    She sits on a small bench with a little patch of sunshine shining through. She sits with her journal, with her cup of chai — and she reflects. Thinking about her life, her loss, pondering all the moments gone by. Wondering about her future, wondering what it will be, what it will bring — more fearful now than ever before. But she doesn’t know this. She just sips her tea, and she writes what she’s grateful for. She always focuses on the light, you see. Always focused on bringing in positivity, harmony — grace. She’s convinced it can always be found, and she finds little bits of it everywhere. In…

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    Embrace the Extra{ordinary}

    He walks out the front door every afternoon.  His body is dignified in the way he moves.  His dark, close set eyes are focused with determination, as he carefully makes each step down from the front door.  He grips the black, cast iron railing, the way he used to hold his tennis racquet in preparation for a powerful serve. Before the strike of terminal illness, my dad didn’t sit – he could do everything faster and with more coordination than anyone else: running, biking, shooting hoops, and playing catch.  Gradually that changed.  He was forced to slow down and each step in itself became a challenge.  As a recent college graduate, I had moved to Portland to…

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