Pilot born without arms meets girl with same condition


WWLP.com

OSHKOSH, Wisconsin (WISH) — They’re photos that are touching people near and far.

Jessica Cox and 3-year-old RE. (Photo courtesy of Nick Spark/Right Footed)
Jessica Cox and 3-year-old RE. (Photo courtesy of Nick Spark/Right Footed)

Jessica Cox is the world’s first and only armless pilot and motivational speaker. For three years, director Nick Spark followed she and her husband across three continents, chronicling her inspiring story in a documentary called “Right Footed.” 

The film made its world premiere last month at the Mirabile Dictu Film Festival at Vatican City, Rome, where it was awarded Best Documentary Film. Last week, it made its U.S. premiere at an aviation event in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.

It was there, before the film’s second screening, that Cox met a little girl she’ll never forget. Three-year-old RE and her mother drove six hours to be there. RE, like Cox, was also born without arms.

 (Photo courtesy of Nick Spark/Right Footed)
(Photo courtesy of Nick Spark/Right Footed)

Cox stopped signing books and posters and turned her attention to little RE and her mom. She showed her…

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My Angel


I wake up in the morning
And I look up to the sky
I wonder why he took you
before I said good-bye 

I look up to the stars at night
And know you’re looking down
I’d like to think you’re proud of me
But I’m just stumbling round

I crawl in bed and close my eyes
And realize that you’re gone
Then comes the fears and then the tears
And life just seems so wrong

I glance up at the heavens
And I know you’re flying by
My Angel’s watching over me
I’m happy as I cry

Hold On, Pain Ends

Our True Heritage


 

 

 

Our True Heritage

 

 
The cosmos is filled with precious gems.
I want to offer a handful of them to you this morning.
Each moment you are alive is a gem,
shining through and containing earth and sky,
water and clouds.
 
It needs you to breathe gently
for the miracles to be displayed.
Suddenly you hear the birds singing,
the pines chanting,
see the flowers blooming,
the blue sky,
the white clouds,
the smile and the marvelous look
of your beloved.
 
You, the richest person on Earth,
who have been going around begging for a living,
stop being the destitute child.
Come back and claim your heritage.
We should enjoy our happiness
and offer it to everyone.
Cherish this very moment.
Let go of the stream of distress
and embrace life fully in your arms.
 
 

 

I See You-Inner Wise Self


I see you in your stops and starts, your fears and resistances. I see you in your glorious unfoldings and creative inventions. I see you think you’re not enough, and then see you leap to the next spot, laughing. I see you write yourself in and out of memory and dream, smoke and shadow. I see your new writings taking flight. I see you refusing to quit for long, I see you willing to sob on the floor, I see you showing up to the page, over and over , over and over again- even when it’s boring, messy, not your favorite. I see you celebrating, creating, making your writing REAL and sharing your life’s purpose. I see you allowing the splendid imperfections and glaring omissions and inescapable truths and uncertainties. I see you, I know you, I love you unconditionally– completely and forever. Call on me constantly. I’m right here, right now, right always. I adore you.

 

With loving support,

Inner Wise Self  

Words To Remember

You Learn by Jorge Luis Borges


 

You Learn

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,

And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,

And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure…

That you really are strong

And you really do have worth…

And you learn and learn…

With every good-bye you learn.

~Jorge Luis Borges

Once you learn how to be happy, you won't tole...

Once you learn how to be happy, you won’t tolerate being around people who make you feel anything less.

 

Hug Your Mom Tight For Me – NYPOST.com


Hug Your Mom Tight For Me by Cindy Adams

I have reprised this column every Mother’s Day since springtime of 2000. That’s when I lost my own mom. It was akin to losing my whole world. Each year this special weekend is my only way of touching her.

I’m a mother lover. I print this annual tribute because I never loved any creature, big or small, man or woman, old or young, human or animal, the way I loved my mother. And not in this life nor in those the Spirits say I may pass through, will I ever love anyone more.

My grandmother, who came over from the old country, Russia, was a janitress in the New World. Cleaned stoops. Took in boarders. Made chicken soup so thick you broke your wrist lifting the spoon. And once washed my mom’s only party dress — pretend satin, trimmed with fake fur — then stuck it on a radiator to dry. The thing turned stiff. Grandpa never made a living. He was a tailor but couldn’t save mom’s only party dress.

They had five children. My mother Jessica, the baby, was born in Liverpool. Mother married a dentist but liked nothing about him including his teeth. She divorced him after I was born. An executive secretary, she was a single parent.

I was always sickly. But, no matter what, she was always there. She’d pawn things because we needed other things. She then married a dear man who loved me and sold insurance. Mostly I remember that she was always, always there for me.

She dug up my birth father when I was 12 so we could meet because he’d never once seen nor supported me. We met. I was distinctly ungood-looking at 12. He continued to not care to see me again. Years later as life changed for me, he then reached out. Mom and I both then told him what he could do with his reach.

Mother was beautiful. I was not. She had my nose fixed. Improved my hair line. Made me diet. Fed me little green Feosol tablets because I was always anemic. Gave me speech, posture and acting lessons. Took me to a modeling agent and announced: “My daughter is going to become somebody.” Underwhelmed, they said, “Maybe, but not here.”

At age 8, my class had a May 1 Maypole Dance in the park. We each bobbed and weaved, over and under, braiding our streamers into the Maypole. It was a chilly morning. Only my mother alone came bearing a sweater. I was mortified. Was I not a grown-up? No other mothers were babying their children. I hissed at her, “Go away.” She blinked at me. She went away. But there were tears in her eyes.

That happened civilizations ago, but I still cannot wipe that image from my mind.

Yearly readers request I reprise this Mother’s Day Valentine. Last week, again, a copy of 2007’s column was sent to me as a reminder. I think this is the part they want:

I can’t believe my mother is gone. Even in my heart the word is capitalized. Every winter she was in Palm Beach with an army of aides. Every summer in the Hamptons. Even when she lay unfocussed and unspeaking in the hospital bed in the country home I provided for her, she was in my life.

Even in those years when she didn’t know who I was, I knew who she was. I knew somewhere inside that shell was the stunning, bright, sassy, verbal, vibrant, witty, dynamic, fun-loving, killer lady who had forever been my everything, the core of my being.

The last time I hugged her an icy stab of fear sliced through me. I sensed an increased fragility. I wanted to crawl into that bed alongside her, but there was no way. No room. Besides, I was terrified I’d frighten her or, worse, the bed would collapse.

And so I pressed up close, my body flat against the protective side bars. All I could do was stroke that small head. And place against the cold steel railings of the hospital bed a stuffed teddy bear so those curled fingers might touch something soft.

I remember that gorgeous head when it was full of information. When it ruled worlds. When it was big and strong and knowledgeable and featured that powerful mane of thick red hair. It seemed tiny now. The hair white. Sparse. Shiny.

I was an only child. I married in my teens. So we were four. Then dad went, and we were three. Next, my husband, who was the same age as my mother. And then we were two. And now I’m one. And my only family are two yappy Yorkshire terriers — but at least they come from England as she did.

It’s tough. Tough to lose your mother. It is now a dozen years since I’ve lost my mother. It’s still tough. I’d give up everything to give her a gentle, easy, slow-moving hug today. Just one. One that wouldn’t alarm her. One that couldn’t be returned. Or even understood.

I’m aware that each Mother’s Day, for whatever reasons, families become aware there are wide gaps between many a mother and child. Not for me to sit in judgment.

It’s just that — if it’s within your ability — call. Buy flowers. Send a gift. Write a note. Tell your mother you love her.

I wish I could.

I can’t anymore.

Read more: If you still can, please tell your mother you love her – NYPOST.com.

A Dose Of Sarcasm For Valentine’s Day


Just when we thought we survived the holidays, here comes another one sneaking around the corner-Valentine’s Day. People have their opinions about Valentine’s day, some endorsing it and others dismissing it to a day dedicated to greeting cards.  Fact is, it is considered an annual traditional holiday and for people in mourning, it’s a reminder of our loss. It evokes feelings of memory and traditions, tugging at our emotional boundaries.

Here’s my advice: if you made it through the past two months of holiday “festivities,” maybe crying in your eggnog while hurled in a fetal position in your bed (oh wait, that was me..) then this too, shall pass.

Now, my opinion and 75 cents will buy you a cup of  coffee (unless you’re at Starbucks.) Make no mistake, I’m not an emotional counselor, a psychiatrist or any type of doctor of any kind. I simply blog about mental health advocacy and list the professional agencies here on the site for you to use as needed. My expertise is that of being a human being and any advice I give is based off of my personal experiences.

I’ve read many articles with suggestions on honoring your loved ones and their memories by baking cakes, writing personal notes, lighting candles, and so on. They bore me, especially because I won’t take any of those suggestions. Not only that, I won’t feel bad about not taking them. You know why? Because I’m learning how to live with loss my way. I have been doing that for years. There is no cure, remedy or corny sentiment that anyone can share with me that will make me any stronger than I am right now. We’re all unique individuals and we all learn recovery in our way, on our own time.

This year, another Valentine’s Day will come and go, like it does every year.  I’ll think of my life, my loved ones and probably get a postcard from my chiropractor or dentist, wishing me a happy holiday while reminding me to come in for my overdue check up.

For all of you One To Six readers, have a wonderful Valentine’s day. Celebrate it, ignore it, or simply sit back and see where the day takes you.  I’ll be here, thinking of my next holiday post…

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