It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
— William Shakespeare

We were all ages gathered at the Cenotaph. Children in strollers, elderly in wheelchairs. Bundled up against the crisp November air, we stood in the bright sunshine under a clear blue sky and paid our respects.

The wires holding the flag on high clapped against the flagpole, the Maple Leaf flapped in the breeze. Bagpipes whined a mournful tune and the honour guard stood on watch, heads bowed as dignitaries slowly walked up to the base of the statue of the Unknown Soldier and laid their wreaths.

C.C. and my youngest daughter and I waited and watched and listened and stood in silence as the words of John MacCrae’s poem, In Flanders Fields, echoed through the air.

The poppies were blowing in the wind yesterday. They shifted place, were lifted up by the breeze and moved from one ledge to the next of the base at the foot of the statue of a soldier without a name, standing on guard, in some unknown time to mark their place.

The poppies blow.

We had given a ride to one of the men from The Madison. He was there to lay a wreath on behalf of The Poppy Fund. “Did you hear my name called out?” he asked when he joined us after the ceremony. “I wasn’t expecting that.” And I could hear the pride, the sense of honour for the tribute paid him.

“I saw Mike* laying a wreath,” I said. And he told me that Alpha House, the program operator at The Madison, lays one every year on behalf of the veterans who now call The Madison home. There are 15 formerly homeless veterans living at The Madison. In total, the Calgary Homeless Foundation houses 49 veterans, with Veteran’s Affairs listing 65 individuals within the sector known to be veterans.

It is stunning, especially, as one staff member of the VA told me, pretty well every homeless veteran began their journey into homelessness at the same time as they left military service.

It is a mighty toll to pay for serving your country.

I asked my daughter yesterday why she makes a point of coming to the Remembrance Day ceremonies with me every year. “Two reasons,” she replied. “One, it’s a way to show gratitude for what Canada has contributed to the world, and two, it’s an important day and this shows I know it. It’s more than just a day off work to go shopping.”

My friend John McMahon wrote in his comment to yesterday’s blog,

“Today I think of my Uncle Guerard De Nancrede. He was my hero as a young boy. Pilot, father, brother, uncle, grandfather and rakish good looking guy whom I believe never could find anything in his after WW2 life to compare with the experience of being at war. Like you imply, being at war with an enemy, often times yourself in a prisoner of war camp of memory, is a horrid price to pay for doing the “right thing” even if it is not the “right thing”. Ambiguous words for an ambiguous struggle.”

As I looked around the crowd yesterday, as I watched news reports on TV of the ceremonies around the country, John’s words echoed through my mind. Memory serves us well. It erases the ambiguity of what happened and leaves only the reminders of the necessity of what we did in the name of doing the right thing.

I don’t like war. I don’t like guns and killing and fighting and shedding blood to create peace. I’ve never been able to understand how killing another can bring lasting peace. For every mother’s child who is killed a seed of anguish is sown in the hearts of every family. How do we make sense of losing a loved one in the name of war and peace?

And yet, it is important to stand on guard for those who have fought so that we can know our freedoms today. It is important to honour their names so that their sacrifices will not be in vain.

And it makes me sad. I stood and looked at the crowd, I listened to the voices of the dignitaries, I listened to the pipes and the clanging of the metal tie-downs against the flagpole and I yearned for a day when the list of names of those who went off to war would no longer lengthen. I yearned for a day when the lessons learned from the wars we’ve fought would be lived through true and lasting peace.

Let peace be our destiny. Let Love be the way.

When the war came, my father set out to find it. He was living across the ocean in what was to become my homeland. But the war was important, he told me once. Britain was his homeland and all the young men were going. He figured he’d be okay. So off he went.

It was a lie. Not just the one he told about his age, but the other, bigger one, about being okay. The war did not sit well with my father. Not then, and not in years to come.

My father seldom mentioned the war. He never spoke of what he saw, the things that hurt him, the regrets and sorrows he carried, the things he learned and wished he hadn’t. It was as if in the silencing of the guns, memory had to be silenced too.

I wondered about his memories. I wondered if that was where his anger came from. He wasn’t a violent man, my father, but he was mercurial. One moment the world would be sunny and bright, the next a dark and seething storm would erupt and all you could do to avoid it was run for cover. I wondered if it was his unspoken memories that pushed him over the edge into darkness. I wondered if in not speaking of what happened, the pain could find no release except through anger.

Over the years, my father’s anger waned. Over the years, the memories he never spoke of dimmed too.  I wonder if his anger would never have come home if he had found peace with memory.

This is a reprint of a post from my Recover Your Joy blog. I share it on Remembrance Day in honour of my father, and all the poet boys who never found peace when the guns were silenced because when they came home, they could not forget.

The Poet Boy

When the poet boy was sixteen, he lied about his age and ran off to war. It was a war he was too young to understand. Or know why he was fighting. When the guns were silenced and the victors and the vanquished carried off their dead and wounded, the poet boy was gone. In his stead, there stood a man. An angry man. A wounded man. The man who would become my father.

By the time of my arrival, the final note in a quartet of baby-boomer children, the poet boy was deeply buried beneath the burden of an unforgettable war and the dark moods that permeated my father’s being with the density of storm clouds blocking the sun. Occasionally, on a holiday or a walk in the woods, the sun would burst through and signs of the poet boy would seep out from beneath the burden of the past. Sometimes, like letters scrambled in a bowl of alphabet soup that momentarily made sense of a word drifting across the surface, images of the poet boy appeared in a note or a letter my father wrote me. For that one brief moment a light would be cast on what was lost and then suddenly, with the deftness of a croupier sweeping away the dice, the words would disappear as the angry man came sweeping back with the ferocity of winter rushing in from the north.

I spent my lifetime looking for the words that would make the poet boy appear, but time ran out when my father’s heart gave up its fierce beat to the silence of eternity. It was a massive coronary. My mother said he was angry when the pain hit him. Angry, but unafraid. She wasn’t allowed to call an ambulance. She wasn’t allowed to call a neighbor. He drove himself to the hospital and she sat helplessly beside him. As he crossed the threshold of the emergency room, he collapsed, never to awaken again. In his death, he was lost forever, leaving behind my anger for which I had no words.

On Remembrance Day, ten years after his death, I went in search of my father at the foot of the memorial to an unnamed soldier that stands in the middle of a city park. A trumpet played “Taps”. I stood at the edge of the crowd and fingered the felt of the bright red poppy I held between my thumb and fingers. It was a blustery day. A weak November sunshine peeked out from behind sullen grey clouds.  Bundled up against the cold, the crowd, young and old, silently approached the monument and placed their poppies on a ledge beneath the soldier’s feet.

I stood and watched and held back.

I wanted to understand the war. I wanted to find the father who might have been had the poet boy not run off to fight “the good war” as a commentator had called it earlier that morning on the radio. Where is the good in war, I wondered? I thought of soldiers falling, mother’s crying and anger never dying. I thought of the past, never resting, always remembered and I thought of my father, never forgotten. The poet boy who went to war and came home an angry man. In his anger, life became the battlefield upon which he fought to retain some sense of balance amidst the memories of a world gone mad.

Perhaps it is as George Orwell wrote in his novel, Nineteen Eighty-four:

“The very word ‘war’, therefore, has become misleading.  It would probably be accurate to say that by becoming continuous war has ceased to exist… War is Peace.”

For my father, anger became the peacetime of his world until his heart ran out of time and he lost all hope of finding the poetry within him.

There is still time for me.

On that cold November morning, I approach the monument. I stand at the bottom step and look at the bright red poppies lining the gun metal grey of the concrete base of the statue. Slowly, I take the first step up and then the second. I hesitate then reach forward and place my poppy amongst the blood-red row lined up along the ledge.

I wait. I don’t want to leave. I want a sign. I want to know my father sees me.

I turn and watch a white-haired grandfather approach, his gloved right hand encasing the mitten covered hand of his granddaughter. Her bright curly locks tumble from around the edges of her white furry cap. Her pink overcoat is adorned with little white bunnies leaping along the bottom edge. She skips beside him, her smile wide, blue eyes bright.

They approach the monument, climb the few steps and stop beside me. The grandfather lets go of his granddaughter’s hand and steps forward to place his poppy on the ledge.  He stands for a moment, head bowed. The little girl turns to me, the poppy clasped between her pink mittens outstretched in front of her.

“Can you lift me up?” she asks me.

“Of course,” I reply.

I pick her up, facing her towards the statue.

Carefully she places the poppy in the empty spot beside her grandfather’s.

I place her gently back on the ground.

She flashes me a toothy grin and skips away to join her grandfather where he waits at the foot of the monument. She grabs his hand.

“Do you think your daddy will know which one is mine?” she asks.

The grandfather laughs as he leads her back into the gathered throng.

“I’m sure he will,” he replies.

I watch the little girl skip away with her grandfather. The wind gently stirs the poppies lining the ledge. I feel them ripple through my memories of a poet boy who once stood his ground and fell beneath the weight of war.

My father is gone from this world. The dreams he had, the promises of his youth were forever lost on the bloody tide of war that swept the poet boy away.  In his passing, he left behind a love of words borne upon the essays and letters he wrote me throughout the years. Words of encouragement. Of admonishment. Words that inspired me. Humored me. Guided me. Touched me. Words that will never fade away.

I stand at the base of the monument and look up at the soldier mounted on its pedestal.  Perhaps he was once a poet boy hurrying off to war to become a man. Perhaps he too came back from war an angry man fearful of letting the memories die lest the gift of his life be forgotten.

I turn away and leave my poppy lying at his feet. I don’t know if my father will know which is mine. I don’t know if poppies grow where he has gone. But standing at the feet of the Unknown Soldier, the wind whispering through the poppies circling him in a blood-red river, I feel the roots of the poet boy stir within me. He planted the seed that became my life.

Long ago my father went off to war and became a man. His poetry was silenced but still the poppies blow, row on row. They mark the place where poet boys went off to war and never came home again.

The war is over. In loving memory of my father and those who fought beside him, I let go of anger. It is time for me to make peace.

I am always moved to awe when my words resonate so strongly with someone they tell me they’ve printed them out and will carry them in their wallet as a reminder.

Sometime ago, at a seminar, a woman told me she’d been carrying a post with her for a couple of years that I’d written on my Recover Your Joy blog (When Good-bye is Never Spoken). My heart leaped for joy because in her words I know I have touched a life, opened a heart, connected in a way that makes a difference.

And what more could I want then to know that my words here resonate?

It’s why I write here every day (except weekends now as I’ve given myself permission to relax on weekends!). I write here to inspire dreams, ignite thinking and open up minds to all that is possible when we let go of fear, limiting beliefs and self-denial. I write here to clear my mind, open my heart and set my day off in notes of optimism, hope, possibility and Love so that I remember always it is my responsibility to Shine bright and Live true! 

And when we all Shine bright and Live true! we create a world of brightness, a world of truth, a world of joy.

Like writing a love poem to C.C. for a year and discovering that Love is not about getting from another, it begins with me, writing here every morning reminds me that giving is receiving. It’s about the conscious intention to put into the world thoughts and words that inspire and create more of what I want in the world — love, joy, possibility, hope, harmony, acceptance, tolerance and awareness. I want to open people’s eyes to the beauty of our human condition and our capacity to live wildly in love with the rapture of now, sharing the best of who we are as we create from our higher good.

Writing here opens my day up to wonder and awe. It frees possibility within me. It inspires my thinking, and reminds me, every day, that we are connected. We are the same kind of difference that makes each of us different and unique. And in our differences, and our sameness, we share the beauty of this human condition called life on earth with all its challenges, opportunities, ups and downs and possibilities for more.

That’s what I set out to do every morning when I sit down to write. Inspire. Ignite. Activate.Connect.

And yesterday, when someone told me they had printed out my post to carry with them, my heart leapt for joy. I felt blessed. To know I have touched someone’s heart in such a way is a gift. It is humbling. It is uplifting. It is affirming.

I am truly blessed. I am grateful.

Every day people comment and I am given the gift of knowing I am connected to them in ways beyond just a mere, Hello. I am connected in ways that say our hearts resonate like a harp striking a note of harmony rippling from one string to another.

Your words feed my heart. They fill me up with joy, awe, wonder and Love. They enrich my life, my being here, my essence. And you remind me, everyone of you who takes the time to Like, to comment, to send an email, here and on FB, that we are all connected. We are all part of one big planet where it is possible to create a world of Love, peace, harmony and joy — by listening to one another and acting out in Love.

So thank you everyone. Thank you for being with me every morning (or whenever you read). For opening me up to the more of what I want to create in the world. For reminding me of our connection. For being the wind beneath my wings and the possible in my daily world.

Thank you from my heart to yours, in Love!

Don’t only practice your art, but force your way into its secrets,
for it and knowledge can raise men to the divine.
Ludwig van Beethoven

I am writing to Beethoven this morning. This is not a thank-you a letter. This is a love song. An ode to joy. A benediction. A grace.

I am writing while his music plays softly in my ears, a melody of grace, a song of love, an ode filled with joy.

I am writing to Beethoven and to Grieg and Mozart and Pachelbel and Satie and others. I am writing to my step-son and my daughter and to the 30 million piano students in China. I am writing to musicians everywhere. They hear the music and set it free. Thank you.

Thank you for bringing music alive. For writing the notes that play on and on. Thank you for stirring the hearts and souls of mankind over the generations that still today, your notes ring true. Your sounds are pure. Your songs continue.

I got inspired by Mozart and Beethoven and musicians everywhere this morning. Hadn’t intended to but as I opened my Youtube Favourites list to access my morning meditation piece, I noticed a new video by The Piano Guys.  Kung Fu Piano: Cello Ascends. Being a lover of cello, piano and The Piano Guys music, I had to click.

I’m glad I did.

Imagine, The Great Wall of China. A millennium old fortification made of stone, brick, tamped earth, wood, and other materials, that stretches along in a primarily east to west direction of the northern states of China. It was a wall designed to keep marauders out.  It also kept people in. It kept their stories, their history, their culture protected outsiders, exposed only to evolution from within.  (source: Wikipedia)

Imagine this great wall that dates back in places to  220–206 BC, stretched out like a giant undulating snake through forest and over hillsides, along valleys and deserts, connected to itself, with serpentine tributaries that deke in and out and along its spine for over what is estimated to be almost 5,000 miles. Locking in. Locking out the world within and beyond. Imagine, the human effort to create such an incredible piece of architecture, of history. The sheer force and will it took to build it up, step by step, brick by brick, stone by stone. The lives invested. The lives lost.

Now, imagine along its back a beautiful grand piano set upon the stone work that was placed somewhere perhaps between the years 1368–1644 AD, during the Ming Dynasty rule. A man, white, Caucasian, dressed in traditional Chinese peasant garb black top, white pants,  sits in front of the piano and plays. At the far side of the piano another man sits on a stool, a beautiful gleaming cherry wood cello rests between his legs. He is clad in white top, black pants. The Yin and Yang in motion, in music, in song. He too is Caucasian. His eyes are closed, his body flows with every note he plays, together, in concert, sitting here on the ledge of The Great Wall of China.

I got inspired this morning by music. It does that. Music. It lifts me up, opens me up, sets me up to flow into the muse, with her and amongst her songs, rising on the notes she plays all around calling me to explore, to let go, to create.

I couldn’t help myself. I had to listen and watch and lose myself in the music and sights and wonder of this feat of not only playing on the Great Wall of China but of wondering, how did they get the piano up there? What did it take? Not just the physical act of moving it up there, but the paperwork, the logistics, the commitment to getting it done.

And then, I followed the music to another video, The Piano Guys live concert in Red Butte Gardens where they play in concert with the Lyceum Orchestra (comprised of youth 13 – 18 yrs of age). In this piece they stitch together 4 movements from Beethoven’s 5th Symphony with pieces of OneReplubic’s, “Secrets“.

I got chills. I wanted to get up and dance, to cheer, to laugh, to celebrate as the music swelled over and in and all around me.

Ah, the muse is alive and well and flowing amongst us. She is everywhere. All we have to do to know her, to feel her, to be one with her secrets is open our hearts, expand our  minds and breathe into the wonder and awe of the music everywhere.

All we have to do is listen to the beat of our hearts pounding out the secrets about who we. The truth is written in the music of our hearts beating wildly in love with our human condition. We are magnificent. Miracles of life. Wonders of the world. We are divine.

Namaste.

I am sitting in a small wooden boat, drifting across the placid waters of a lake. “Pick up the oars and begin to row,” the meditation master invites and for one moment awareness sweeps over me and I awaken to a deep inner truth. I have control of where I am, and where I go on the water.

It was profound. Enlightening. Awakening.

In the past, to lull myself into a relaxed, meditative state, I sometimes imagined myself to be on a raft drifting on the water. All was calm and I imagined I had no cares, no thoughts, no desire to be anywhere other than on the raft drifting along with the gentle current. Eventually, my raft would bump lightly up against the shore and I would step off onto the lush, green grasses of an island filled with all the wonder and beauty imaginable.

But in this meditation, I direct the small wooden boat which I row towards an island. I determine where I go.

It is a small yet significant shift.

I direct my boat. I control the speed, the direction, the outcome of where I am. I have absolute and total control of what I do and where I am going in my life. I have the capacity to respond to the environment around me, to avoid eddies, skirt storms, speed up or slow down.

I have control of how I row my boat, and where.

On Friday, when I presented at Break the Silence for the launch of Violence Prevention Month, I shared the story of my fall into hell and my journey into becoming a victor in my life.

Afterwards, several people came over to thank me for my words and for shifting the focus from being a ‘survivor’ to embracing the attributes of ‘victor’.

“We really do want our women to rise above the abuse. To go beyond survival mode into living life as victors,” said one woman. “We need to watch our language,” she added.

And we do. Need to watch our language. We need to be conscious and expand our understanding of the power of words and their ability to hold us in place, or set us free.

Sometime ago I spoke with a friend who was involved in the establishment of the new Sheldon Kennedy Child Advocacy Centre (CAC) here in Calgary. The CAC offers “hope, help and healing to children, youth and families impacted by child abuse – all in one amazing place.”

The friend told me, their voice rigid with disgust, that they would never feel compassion around ‘these guys’ who abuse children.

What if you were to re-frame that to ‘at the moment’ I feel no compassion around these guys who abuse children? I asked.

They made choices, they told me. They need to live with those choices.

I agree, I replied. They did make choices. But what if in our insistence they live with those choices forever more we are locking them into that place of shame, anger and guilt that lies at the core of their actions. What if in not allowing compassion to filter through the cracks of our resolve to hate, we inhibit all possibility of redemption? What if in our disgust of what they’ve done, we block the possibility of transformation?

No one is born a child molester. Just as no one is born a murderer, gang member, or an abuser.

Becoming those ‘labels’ are learned behaviours that at one time served a purpose in their ability to protect, and/or defend their position in the world. At one point, their responses to what was happening in their world became their behaviours in the world — and the molester, murderer, gang member, abuser was born.

And yes, for those with personality disorders, with mis-matched chromosomes and faulty brain synapses the behaviours appear to be hard-wired. But they are the minority.

Even the man who abused me deserves my compassion, for in his inability to understand or feel or see the harm he caused so many people through his insistence that he had the right to lie and steal and cheat and deceive to get what he wanted, he is locked in a vicious cycle of self-abuse.

And hating him, vilifying him, locking him into a fortress built of condemnation will only harden his resolve to stay the course of his destruction. Hatred will not change his path. I believe love can.

Not the love that says, “I give you permission to act out in my life.” Because that isn’t love. It’s self-harm. It’s blindness. It’s wilful disregard of my own safety.

I am speaking of the love that holds a space for transformation to occur through our human capacity to choose a path other than the path of least resistance that leads to our repeating the things we’ve done to harm, hurt, betray and destroy lives.

Once upon a time, I chose the path of least resistance. I let my raft drift aimlessly along the surface of my life, waiting for a miracle, or a magic wand, to appear to calm the waters.

Today, I know, no matter how choppy the waters, no matter how distant the land, I have the power to pick up the oars and row myself to safety.

I have always had this power even though there were times the sky appeared so dark, the waters so threatening, I didn’t believe I had the strength to pick up the oars. I am grateful there were those who had the wisdom, and the courage to show me I could.

We all have this power. No matter what we tell ourselves about our circumstances, we all have the power to row ourselves to safety.

We can’t continually shame those who disobey or disregard the mores of our society for causing the rough waters on which we sail. Yes, many have broken laws, created havoc, caused distress.

In our shaming of them, however,  we keep stirring up the waters and losing sight of the possibility and the power we all have to create a world of wonder, a world where calm seas welcome every sailor home to the heart of who we are as human beings — magnificent, divine creations of Love.

As my friend Kathleen from GP taught me long ago, “We take God’s breath away.”

And that means all of us.

I believe in Love. I believe in the power, the majesty of this energy that wraps our world in so much beauty it takes our breath away.

Once upon a time… I believed in Fairytales.

I believed Prince Charming would come calling…and he did… but he didn’t ride up on a white charger, He drove up in a Red Ferrari and it was sleek and fast and he swept me off my feet and we drove off on the road to happily ever after, and I was in love like never before.

And then, he started to lie – but I couldn’t see the lies – my eyes were clouded in the rosy glow of my dreams come true. I was lost in Love.

‘Cause here’s the thing – when you’re falling in love, the last thing you’re looking for is lies and deceit. In love, all you see and feel and hear, is what you believe to be true — his love reflected back at you. Until the first time you suspect, and then you wonder, but he (or she) doesn’t admit to the lies, he (or she) admits only to love. So you breathe a sigh of relief and fall back into that place where love is all you need to believe in him.

And then, it happens again. You wonder and he denies and while you think maybe you’re wrong, you don’t actually let yourself think he’s lying. Because to do that would be to question all the things he’s told you about who you are and what you’re capable of that you want so desperately to be true.

And so, you fall.

And he continues to smother you in your heart’s desire until it’s too late to see that while his right hand was holding out love, his left was getting ready to cast a mighty blow of fear and terror as it spun a dark, deep web of lies and deceit all around you. by the time you see the blow coming, it’s too late. You’re already lost in the mists of abuse. You’re already lost.

When I was in love with the man who abused me, I learned to tolerate abuse in small, imperceptible ways until abuse became the norm. I kept struggling to keep the vision of my Prince charming alive as he kept spinning his web of confusion, lies, deceit, fear, terror and shame.

Eventually, shame consumed me. I was so ashamed of what had become of my life, I could not tell the truth, I could not tell anyone. and I was too proud to even believe I could be wearing a label called, Abused Woman.

In my shame, Silence consumed me. Silence is a powerful co-conspirator of abuse.

In my silence, I let go of everything I ever was, and everyone I loved – because I believed I didn’t deserve Love – I believed I deserved only what he gave me, only what he told me I could have — and that was his lies.

And then, one day, he told me we had to leave. He was fleeing the police. I wanted to get him away from those I loved. They deserved life free of him. I didn’t.

And so we disappeared and for almost four months my daughters waited for the police to come and tell them they had found my body. And I waited to die.

Every morning I would stand by the river that ran in front of the place where we were hiding out and I would imagine that I could unhook gravity’s hold upon my body and of its own volition it would fall forward into the river and be washed out to sea. And in that act, all memory of my having been here on earth would be erased and my daughters would be free of remembering I had ever existed.

but I couldn’t do it, the only truth I had left was the fact I love my daughters, and I couldn’t make a lie of that truth by taking my own life.

And so I turned away from the river and as I did,  a miracle drove up in a blue and white police car

and I was set free

I was lost, frightened, alone, broken and broke. I had lost my home, my job, my life savings, my belongings, my relationship with my daughters and my self-esteem and self worth. I had 72 cents in my pocket, a few clothes and my golden retriever.

I had no choice — I had to reach out for help

I had to trust that when I did, help would reach back. And it did and I was given the gift of rebuilding, reclaiming my life.

Falling in love should never wind up on the road to hell – but it happens. It happened to me.

It’s not something I asked for, invited, expected or wanted. It’s not something I planned for or desired

We don’t go searching for abuse. we go looking for love. And that’s the thing, an abusive relationship is never about love – it is always about abuse.

Healing from abuse is not about healing from a love affair gone bad – it’s about healing from abuse. Because when someone lies and deceives and manipulates and hurts others to get what they want we need to call it what it is — Abuse.

Abuse is wrong. Abuse hurts. Abuse destroys. Abuse kills.

It is possible to heal from abuse. I have and in my healing I know, ending abuse – is possible.

I learned a lot of things on that journey through hell– I learned to forgive, to breathe and to trust in Love not abuse. I learned that Miracles happen and in their happening, anything is possible.

and here’s the thing — it doesn’t take a miracle to end abuse. It takes us, all of us, working together, committed to creating a world free of abuse to make it happen.

We can do it. We must because abuse hurts. Everyone.

Once upon a time, I was an abused woman.

Today, I am free and I am grateful. Because I know no matter how hard someone else wanted me to keep believing in fairytales — I believe in Love. Love is and always will be the answer.

******************************************

November is Family Violence Prevention Month. I am speaking at the launch today and the above is taken from my speech.