Terry Laszlo-Gopadze
Terry's Bio

Archive for the ‘General’ Category

Creating a Vision for Our Future

Thursday, April 7th, 2011

Jyoti“…we have reached a moment of humility and if we have the courage to embrace it, we will dream a new dream for our children and our grand children. If we cannot step out of our egos and into the heart of our Spirit, then we will continue to invest in the ways that are threatening the very health of the planet and her inhabitants.”


I met Jyoti  (a Hindu name that means light) at a peace conference.  She was speaking at the conference with a few of The Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers. www.grandmotherscouncil.org

Over the years, I have been able to get to know Jyoti. I can tell you that I don’t know anyone who is more dedicated to preserving the ancient ways of The Indigenous People and our dear planet. She does this from a place of love, deep sacrifice and commitment.   She does this even when she is going through great challenges in her own life.  She keeps showing up and creating a world that is better for everyone. www.forthenext7generations.com

When she first brought The Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers together (from countries all over the world) her vision was to preserve the plant medicine by learning from and working with these wise elders. However, they have formed an inspiring council for peace, prayer and healing. I am honored to have her story entitled “Prayer in Action” in The Spirit of a Woman. You can read an excerpt from her story here.

When I received this profound newsletter, from Jyoti’s Center for Sacred Studies, I wanted to pass it on to you so you can share in the amazing events that they provide and be encouraged by what they are doing.

TerryMay you walk in beauty,

Read Jyoti’s Newsletter Here.
Read Jyoti’s Bio Here.













Women’s History Month

Tuesday, March 29th, 2011

Janet Riehl“When women work together nothing is impossible.”

-Susan B. Anthony

One of the most fulfilling experiences of my life has been working with, and getting to know, the contributors in The Spirit of a Woman. They have enriched and deeply expanded my life and the lives of other women, leading us all to new places.

Janet Grace Riehl is one of those contributors, and she has generously helped me get the messages in The Spirit of a Woman out in to the world. It has been difficult at times, as our callings sometimes are, but I can always count on Janet to share her wisdom and experience with me. I also enjoy her enthusiasm and rich creativity.

Recently, I was as happily surprised when I read her essay about being a contributor in The Spirit of a Woman. Janet’s post “Life Takes Time. So Do Books”, is the first in the Womens Memoirs’ (www.womensmemoirs.com.) Wednesday series by authors talking about how the books they’ve written changed them. Kendra Bonnett and Matilda Butler are celebrating Women’s History Month on their site and I thought you might enjoy it, and think about giving your own books and stories the time they need to come to light, and life.

Read Janet’s essay here: http://womensmemoirs.com/memoir-book-reviews/life-takes-time-so-do-books-by-janet-grace-riehl/

Peace and Harmony,



Read Janet’s Bio – Click Here

Janet’s, Sliding Glass Door, is a beautiful story about the importance of friendship and history in the Changes and Choices chapter in The Spirit of a Woman.  Visit Janet at www.Riehlife.com










A Remarkable Woman and a Tender Story

Thursday, February 17th, 2011

Meeting Lena Rivkin, was a great way to start 2011. I felt grateful that we were in the beautiful embrace of Rancho La Puerta http://www.rancholapuerta.com/ where nature, nurture, organic food and delightful hikes abound and the interesting people that I meet there make it special.

I met Lena (a graphologist and artist) when I attended her wonderfully fun and revealing classes at the ranch. She can analyze you by your hand-writing! To learn more go to Abouthandwriting.com

I was immediately struck by Lena’s bright smile, humility and her genuine interest in others when I attended her class. I found her to be extremely articulate and talented.  Her analysis of the handwritings of the participants were startlingly accurate.

When Lena analyzed my handwriting she said, “Yes, I see you have a literary aptitude. Do you write at all?”  She was certainly correct. I told her I had a book published in June. When she mentioned my attention to detail, I knew she saw my “perfectionistic tendencies” and was being respectful!

Over lunch, I learned that Lena’s older brother has autism.  Lena is his guardian angel.  And so the bigger story unfolds about a sister who is loving, devoted and understanding to a brother whose limits have actually changed her into a deeper more compassionate person. You can read their story here http://blog.autismspeaks.org/2010/05/26/itow-rivkin/

They create artwork together.  Isn’t this interesting, beautiful and amazing?

Lena shared this note with me that she sent to the media. I was not aware at that time of this proposed budget cut. I wanted to share it with you too.

Re: Proposed Medi-Cal Cutbacks

“As siblings of developmentally disabled adults currently living in a group home, we are frightened and saddened by the Governor’s proposed reductions in Medi-Cal funding. These cutbacks would jeopardize the existence of their home and destroy the safe world that has been created for them. While we recognize that cuts have to be made, and regret that so many deserving people will be effected, it is unconscionable that this proposed budget would undermine the well being of the most vulnerable and helpless amongst us.”

As Franklin Roosevelt said,  ‘Society will be judged by how it treats its weakest members.’

Stu Silverman & Lena Rivkin

To learn more, or to help go to www.newhorizons.org

Lets keep Lena’s and Phillip’s story in our hearts and minds as we go through the changes in our state.

Big Love,

The Alchemy of Language: Turning Simple Words into Shimmering Works

Thursday, February 10th, 2011


I’d like to invite you to the Big Apple Conference in New York!   I’ll be attending the conference on Saturday to take the class on Memoir and Metaphor: Illuminating Your Life Through Writing.

Every story has a gift! I wonder what yours will tell? I wonder what I’ll discover about one of my own? I’m so thrilled to have this time to explore and nurture a story while meeting other writers and I wanted to share this conference with you.

On Sunday, I’ll be on the author panel talking about “The Spirit of a Woman” and the publishing process. If any of you are attending, please say hello!

If you go to the California conference, let me know how it goes!

With joy,



The International Women’s Writing Guild presents The California Conference:

The Alchemy of Language: Turning Simple Words into Shimmering Works

Friday, March 18 to Sunday, March 20, 2011

Bosch Bahái School, 500 Comstock Lane, Santa Cruz, California

Setting: The California Conference, in its 28th year, takes place at Bosch Bahai School, a 67 acre retreat center situated in the Santa Cruz Mountains among the Redwood Trees.

Program: How do we transform our simple thoughts into works that will transfix the reader? Can we become borrowers, using the information and form the great masters; nature’s images, and our own poetic lines? The alchemy of language stems from being open to inspiration wherever we find it. Come join us in finding robust nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs to make our writing shimmer.


Imitation to Originality – Modeling Our Work on the Masters’: Richelle McClain

Nature as Thesaurus – Culling Vibrant Images from the Pages of Nature: Mary Reynolds Thompson

Poetry as Springboard – Start with a Poem; Finish with a Flourish: Rachel de Baere

Workshop Directors:

Richelle McClain, Mary Reynolds Thoompson, and Rachel de Baere (see website for bios)

Conference Fees:


  • Weekend guests inclusive of entire program, two nights room and all meals: $375
  • Weekend commuters inclusive of program, exclusive of room and meals: $160
  • Day attendees – Saturday Only: $125
  • Day attendees – Sunday Only: $55


  • Weekend guests inclusive of entire program, two nights room and all meals: $395
  • Weekend commuters inclusive of program, exclusive of room and meals: $180
  • Day attendees – Saturday Only: $150
  • Day attendees – Sunday Only – $70

Registration Deposit (will be applied to the registration fee): $60

Meals: Breakfast ($9), Lunch ($12), Dinner ($13)

IWWG Annual Membership: $55

Payment: Payment may be made by credit card at www.iwwg.org. Click on Events/Calandar. Or send a check made out to IWWG and mail it to: IWWG, P.O. Box 810, New York, NY  10028.

Regional IWWG Representatives:

Northern California: Rachel de Baere (415) 456-4574, [email protected]

IWWG Headquarters: Hannelore Hahn (212) 737-7536, [email protected]

Author Exposure: Audio Review of The Spirit of a Woman

Friday, January 28th, 2011

Listen Here


Saturday, January 15th, 2011

by K.B. Quinn

There is no need to run outside for better seeing…Rather abide at the center of your being…Search your heart and see…

I woke with a start, realizing my husband’s side of the bed was empty. He had been on his way home when he’d called — hours ago. Did he stop at his brother’s? Or worse?

I got that familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach. He’d promised. How flatly that loaded word fell. Ben had taught me that promises were just more lines from Cinderella. Once upon a time I had believed in fairy tales — before I learned that promises could be used as weapons in the arsenal of love.

The slight slur and smoky rattle in Ben’s voice on the phone had told me that he’d been drinking. I’d asked, as I always did, and got the “just tired” response, mixed with a healthy dose of indignation for good measure. I loved him. I wanted to believe him. This was the tug-of-war that made my self-doubt grow like weeds among his lies. My logic knew what my heart wouldn’t accept. A mix of fear and anger flooded through me like adrenaline as I searched the house for any signs that he’d come home — a snore from another room, the light from a TV, recently smoked cigarettes. There was nothing but the emptiness that is three a.m.

Through the window, my eye caught the flash from a sliver of moon, reflecting off Ben’s SUV parked in the driveway. I could see swirls of exhaust blowing cold smoke into the night air. Did he just pull in? I waited to hear the sound of the downstairs door as he made his entry, trying to decide how to posture myself in defense. Silence. I tied my terry-cloth robe tightly around me, bracing for the night air’s change in temperature as I ran barefoot to his car.

The motor was running, and so was my heart. He was stretched unnaturally across the bench front seat, lying atop a pile of newspapers and a greasy McDonald’s bag. I pounded on the window, yelling “Ben. BEN.”

He did not even stir. Was he breathing? I pounded hard on the window, using my fingernails, clicking, anything to get his attention. I kicked the side of his door painfully with my frozen bare toes. Was the poison exhaust getting in the car? A long, gray ash hung from the nub of a burned-down cigarette between his fingers. A tiny crescent of half-dried blood crusted on his upper lip where his teeth had bitten through the skin. He breathed in, heavily, and the ash fell to the floor.

I had been placed in gifted programs throughout my schooling. I was the student who had gotten straight “A’s,” even from the toughest teachers. I was the child who had carried a picture of clouds forming the shape of Jesus to Sunday school, eager to share my wide-eyed belief. I was the one my sister nicknamed “Fluffy” because she said I was soft and downy inside like a marshmallow. I was always able to drive and make events happen, to use my will to overcome circumstances. But not now.

I couldn’t show Ben that he was sick and needed help to stop his drinking. I couldn’t prove to him that I loved him enough for him to stop drinking. He didn’t love me enough to try to stop. I imagined running down the beach and into the ocean waves. I wanted to be like James Mason’s character in “A Star is Born.” It was a relief to think of giving up. My heart was in danger of frosting over, justified with anger and evidence. I was tired and worn through in spots, like my terry robe. I was lost, and I was only twenty-four years old.

It was the bad boy in Ben that had attracted me. He had his own unshaven style, donned by a baseball cap with bandannas tucked into his jean pockets and rugged work boots that screamed “man” I thought that meant he was strong.

My own father left our family when my sister and I were girls. We saw him sporadically for afternoons at the movies. My mother tried her best to support us alone. She was a frightened, damaged woman-child, unprepared for the task. She turned to wine, and I turned my childhood into a blur of distractions designed to keep me from her dark home and her self-pity. I left home at eighteen and ran across the country to New York City to follow a family tradition of acting. I thought anything was better than going back to the tears and screaming of my past.

Ben hired me to work on his maintenance team at a trendy restaurant chain in the city. I showed up to the interview in my audition outfit, a silk blouse and linen pants. Later I learned they’d made fun of me, but they thought I was cute, so they hired me. It was the highest paying job listed in the want ads. I lied about my experience.

Before long, my free place to stay in the city fell apart and I had nowhere to go, except home. Ben found me in a back room at work, teary-faced, frightened, and trapped. He squeezed my wrenched shoulders just right, encouraging me to release my worries into his strong touch.

“I will take care of you. I have a great couch. You’ll see, everything will be alright. … string-free,” he added, giving me a twinkling smile to break the flow of my tears. He feather-touched my cheek and shivers went up my spine. I had never felt a sweeter touch. No one had ever promised to take care of me.

I had seen Ben drink at work; the late nights and the party atmosphere made it easy. I even saw him sneak shots before breakfast, his favorite scotch leaving a sour stench around him all day. My hairs stood up like red flags. I knew. I told myself this was not permanent.

“Be careful,” a visiting friend said to me after Ben had gotten so drunk that he actually fell in a gutter. I assured her that the relationship wasn’t serious. I was only having fun. But it soon became easy to rely on him, to love him even, but keep the deepest part of me walled off. I kept this distance protected. As long as I did, I felt secure in Ben’s apartment, and he welcomed me into his world. Soon, I met his family.

As we drove through the wooded lane leading to his family’s huge old farmhouse in the country, I could feel my walled, protected self begin to unfold. Ben’s father was a doctor. His mother greeted me with two Bingo cards as she rushed to seat me at the kitchen table. His grandmother was in the kitchen, cooking, with a tub of Crisco out on the countertop. There was activity everywhere. It was a hive of happiness, protected all around by a German shepherd named Greta who patrolled the property. It was warm and it smelled good. It was a womb.

Every chance I got, I pushed Ben to bring me to his home. I grew close to his family and ignored his drinking. I let down my wall in order to grow up inside his family. I let his relatives nurture me. I thought I could pay the price for this treasure. I convinced myself that I could love him enough to make him stop drinking.

At the wedding, my father walked me down to Ben and kissed him. “Now I don’t have to worry about her anymore.” Angry and embarrassed, I watched the stranger I called my father walk back to his place in line. Since when did you worry about me? I thought to myself. I had asked him to give me away to show Ben’s family that I belonged. I was pretending.

I thought that being married would change Ben. I thought a wedding ring would make him come home when he said he would. I thought a poem about love would keep him from lying. I thought a prayer could heal him. I thought he would know that other things were more important than drinking, now that we were building our own family. “I am what I am: green eggs and ham,” he said to me. I didn’t believe him.

Our fights became like a broken record, the same lines repeated. The anger and resentment built up like storms against a dam. I closed my eyes and lived for the time spent on the farmhouse, safe in that womb where decorations for each holiday lay safely boxed in the attic, orderly and predictable. His family grew as attached to me as I was to them. We fit together. All I had to do was brave the time between visits.

Someone suggested Al-Anon meetings, where I heard messages about turning my will and my life over to a higher power.” The serenity they promised washed over me like the promise of a warm spring rain. I listened and watched, but I was waiting for a recipe to make Ben stop drinking. I believed that was what I needed for serenity. I continued to search outside myself for an ever-elusive peace while my resentment grew like a tumor. Why wouldn’t God make Ben stop drinking?

I quit working for Ben. I had put together a system for him to organize his projects and budgets at the restaurant. He referred to it as that “cute little book.” He said he was kidding, but his belittlement stuck me like pins. I felt proud when a visiting architect saw it and asked who had created it. Ben pointed distractedly over at me. The architect handed me his card and said, “If you ever want a job…”

I quit acting, too. A friend that had known me since grade school said, “It must be hard for you. You are so used to succeeding at everything you do.” I felt no control over my future. I needed to do something that made me feel better about myself. I needed validation; I needed to feel that I was good at something. I decided to go to college. Ben’s career was going well. I talked with him about school and went and registered full-time. It wasn’t long before it was brought up in every fight. He worked harder; he made more money. I never bought anything. My underwear and socks had holes in them; I gained twenty-five pounds. But I kept going to school and earning my A’s.

The years were blurs of holidays and term papers. Ben and I moved to a house in the suburbs. It was framed by tall pines and sat on the edge of a lake. When I saw the large stone hearth, I knew I needed to live there. I imagined long days spent floating on the water, embraced by the warm air. Ben wanted a child. I convinced myself that he would change when he became a father. I was almost finished with school; I had one last semester to go. It became a good idea.

The nights spent making love to create life became science for me. The right timing, the right position. It became an assignment to get an “A” on, as the sour smell of scotch seeping through his skin repulsed me. I started smelling it on my clothes and on the curtains in the house. I focused on having a child, on believing that I could be happy when I had another life to love. I kept doing and thinking to avoid feeling. I repeated all the lessons I had learned from my childhood: move and do to stop the feelings from flooding up like bile. The happiest moment for me was telling his family about our baby; it fueled a big celebration coupled with the 4th of July. At the end of the long weekend of celebration, there was blood on my underwear. I cried myself to sleep alone.

I graduated Magna Cum Laude with a double major. I finished school despite constant barbs and needles about my schoolwork in psychology being “psychobabble bullshit.” I got a job as a therapist in a nearby hospital. Ben told me I wasn’t qualified. His rancor was growing, and I spent my emotional energy thinking of ways to rehabilitate him. What could I do to make him stop? If he only stopped drinking, I knew we could be happy. We could enjoy our beautiful house and create our family.

But he came home less and less. I never relented trying to find ways to show him how he was hurting himself and me. I was terrified of losing him; at the same time, I nearly hated him. Our relationship became a dance, balancing the love that remained with the acid frustration and anger we both felt. On the nights he was late, I would fantasize that he might have an accident on his way home, leaving me our home and insurance money. I would drown in guilt and relief when the door slammed announcing his presence.

Now, in the driveway under the sliver of moon, I watched Ben, breathing in sync with the rhythm of the car’s motor, comfortable in his own mess. I searched my mind for something new to say to him, some emotion I hadn’t tried, some trick he hadn’t seen. Instead, my mind drew an image of myself holding a baby in this night air as I pounded on the car window, the baby screaming in confusion and bewilderment. I pictured the child waiting patiently for her daddy to come home — he had promised. I saw her grow up wondering what she could do that would make him stop, that would make him love her enough. I saw her choose a husband who needed her to heal his wounds.

How could I do this to another innocent child? All of my illusions slipped away and the cold reality slapped me hard, knocking the breath from my body. How had I lost myself along the way? How had I become so afraid? A faint voice inside me whispered, “Turn your fear into faith.” A voice from all of those Al-Anon meetings I had attended and saved like a bank account to draw from, sitting in the hard metal chairs, cursing the smoky surroundings and the chocolate chip cookies that I ate but didn’t enjoy.

Faith. I remembered all the moments I had been somewhere at exactly the right time, all the people that had been in my path with the right words and the right touch. I remembered warm hands reaching out to guide me across icy roads. I remembered all the moments where the universe had embraced and protected me, and I knew that I would be carried when I didn’t have the strength to carry myself. Hiding is only a temporary harbor. No matter how deep you crawl into your hiding space, the light will find you, even as it does at the depths of the deepest waters. I was exposed, and I couldn’t hide anymore. Sometimes just a glimmer of the burning, unshielded sun is enough to blind you. I surrendered.

The dim light from the quarter moon illuminated Ben’s sleeping body, sprawled over the front seat. I could see my breath in the night. The anger was gone.

I would not run or think away my feelings. I was ready to pull the fragments of myself back together. I had built my own prison. No one had helped me. Only I had the keys. It wouldn’t be easy. Ben’s family would call me cold and harsh. They would not understand my disloyalty. My family would cry for my loss of security. No more house, no more lake. I hugged myself and like the little blue engine, I knew I could do this. My heartbeat slowed to the pace of the thick night. I tasted serenity float in on the salt air. I felt my power grow as I walked back into the house.

I coached myself like a loving parent through the fear. I reminded myself of my successes at work and of the friendships I had nurtured as I packed my suitcase. I imagined living in my own space, truly safe for the first time in my life. I thought of curling into an overstuffed couch, pulling the covers over my cold, naked feet while a fire burned in the hearth. I needed a place in which to unlock my secrets and come out of hiding.

I would get help. I would get a counselor. I knew I was sick. I had been infected in childhood and had never been cured, but I could heal. I would plug myself back into the universe and rekindle the fires of my faith. I got my car keys and my uncashed paycheck and walked out. I would not look back.


K.B. Quinn benefited from many years of therapy.  She also continued her schooling while working and earned a masters degree in business. She is now a vice president at a Fortune 50 company. She shares her success with her three sons and her second husband, who live with her happily in their home in the Midwest.

Inviting in the New Year

Wednesday, January 5th, 2011

Every year at this time I have a ritual. First, I ponder the lessons I learned from last year. I also go over my list of what and who, I’m grateful for.  Thankfully it is a long list. Then I write out my intentions for the next six months.

After that, I take the time to let go of the things I need to let go of, particularly any negative emotions or judgments towards myself, or others.  Then I ask myself, what I am release in my own nature that isn’t serving me and I make a commitment to do that in the coming year.

Well this year, when I was struggling with what to give up I decided to give up self-control and so I realized I was in a losing battle with myself, but I could still laugh at myself!

Then, magic happened, Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg sent me the most amazing article on this subject.   Please see the link below to this inspiring woman’s message!

Let me know what you are inviting into your life in the New Year!!!!


Go to Caryn’s link to this writing exercise for the new decade: “Writing Your Year Anew: Arrivals, Departures and Your Own Best Life” at http://themagazineofyoga.com/blog/2010/12/26/holiday-edition-caryn/

Caryn is also one of the most creative people I know!  So, I asked her to share a poem she wrote too:

When the Train Stops in Brooklyn

The conductor doesn’t know how long we’ll be here,
can’t tell us why we’re paused, but the open doors of time
don’t care. Looking across the air, the doors mercifully open,
the childhood neighborhood, sealed under a bank of clouds
and band of orange light, comes back. This is where
my fingernails formed in utero, my heart came into beating,
my arms learned to unfurl. This is where I first saw this sky,
early December, the first long tilts of winter light.

There, a row of scalloped brick tops of buildings,
a blue awning, the racing diagonals of a thousand fire escapes.
The man next to me, a player in a new Yankee’s cap and low jeans,
reaches into his wallet, pulls out a $5 for the slim Russian woman
with a crying babe in one arm and in the other, a sign asking for help.
The sky tilts back. Look, the seagulls point, this is where
the streets held themselves together with green tinsel banners
swimming over my line of vision from the back of the station wagon.
This is where my mother sang “Tora Lora Lora” with verses made from
loneliness, her young face all blushing petal and pain. This is where
I played red light green light 123, the tree sturdy as the house wasn’t
while the graffiti of another language claimed the wall facing us.

The doors close, the conductor tells us we will be moving forward,
back into this time, the past suspended always right below,
the inverse shadow of what’s to come, all migrating backwards.
I look across, let the motion — something just like love — carry me.

Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg If you haven’t read her story on this website in the Stories to Empower and Inspire section here is the link – Click Here

Do find out more about Caryn! You will be happy you did!

http://themagazineofyoga.comCaryn Mirriam-Goldberg writes a weekly column, alternating between poetry about yoga and living in/as a body, and reflections on finding connection and expansion in our lives and bodies

http://BraveVoice.com — writing and singing for your life collaborative performances, workshops and consultations with rhythm and blues singer Kelley Hunt and Kansas poet laureate Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg, all geared toward reclaiming your whole voice

Happy New Year Everyone!!!!!

Kuulima by Nichola Moss

Wednesday, January 5th, 2011

Kuulima by Nichola Moss

by Nichola Moss


Wednesday, December 29th, 2010

New Dimensions Media


I’m pleased to let you know that “New Dimensions” radio is featuring The Spirit of a Woman on their worldwide radio broadcast on Wednesday, December 29 – February 4, 2011 “The Power of Stories to Heal with Terry László-Gopadze.” Hosted by Justine Willis Toms. Program #3378

It will be airing the week, December 29 – January 4, 2011 (broadcast week begins on Wednesdays) on stations throughout the U.S. and Australia. You can also hear it streaming for free on the New Dimensions website for two weeks, beginning December 29th or you can download it for a small fee at any time after December 1st. Go to “Listen” on their website menu for a list of stations and carry “New Dimensions.” http://www.newdimensions.org


Podcast Excerpt with Justine Toms of New Dimensions Café on The Power of Hearing a Good Story with Terry

Monday, December 27th, 2010

Terry will have another interview on New Dimensions Media on December the 29th. Listen to an excerpt from her previous visit with Justine Toms below.

Click to Listen (15:16 Minutes)

Book Review by Denien Robbins for Author Exposure

Monday, December 27th, 2010

Author ExposureThe title of this book says it all! It’s true that stories passed down from generation to generation can empower and inspire, teaching us many valuable lessons. As author Gladys Taylor McGarey said of The Spirit of a Woman, “This book, by telling stories of individual women, helps all of us to see past the circumstances in our lives which seem to be roadblocks. We find, as we relate to each other, resilience within our own spirit which adds life and color to our lives.”

Read the rest of the review at: AuthorExposure.com

The Blesseders by Nichola Moss

Monday, December 20th, 2010
We are so happy to have Nichola Moss as the artist for “The Spirit of a Woman”!
She has a new blog at www.Nicholart.com.  Visit her and be inspired and blessed.
Happy Holidays!

Suni Paz dedicates a song to “The Spirit of a Woman”!

Friday, December 17th, 2010



Click Here>> Mujer (Woman)

Daughter of light and darkness,
Of seaweed and stars
Consider for a moment
The kingdoms awaiting you
Dream every dream
Spring forth from the earth
And in search of futures
Fertilize a new song
And crown the palm trees

Custodian of the grape vines,
Water the calendars,
Break the strongest wills
Move people’s hearts
Until they tremble!
Taste the unusual
Modify the legendary ways
Dress yourself with the dawn
Fear nothing!

© Suni Paz, Spanish Lyrics and Music
(P)Smithsonian-Folkways in Spanish
© 2010, Suni Paz, Adaptation into English



Suni Paz is a writer, singer and songwriter known to audiences worldwide.  In The Spirit of a Woman she tells a poignant story of her early years as a wife and mother struggling to survive with her family in a remote area in the northeast of Argentina, where she was blessed by the miraculous generosity of a distant neighbor. Read her bio here >

Ride with Larry – An Inspirational Parkinson’s Documentary

Thursday, December 9th, 2010

Larry“If you love life, and have a life that you love, you’ll fight for it.”

-Betty Smith

Parkinson’s disease affects over 1.5 milion people in the United States.  Those who are afflicted carry the burden of a hidden disease, one that saddles each diagnosis with a story of eventual decline and the prognosis of a wheelchair.  Depression and shame can quickly follow.  However, there is another way.  For some people there can exist a great empowerment after their acceptance of Parkinson’s, a chance to prove one’s worth to the world and show that the value of a life is not defined by any diagnosis but by the way in which one confronts and surmounts these obstacles.

One such example is the powerful story of Larry Smith, a retired police captain, now a beloved small town baker in South Dakota, who has had Parkinson’s disease for the last 20 years. His remarkable spirit is uplifting and, despite his condition, has had a remarkable impact on his town of Vermillion, and beyond.

Although there is no cure for Parkinson’s yet, Larry doesn’t give up. He fights every day to live the best life he can and enriches the lives of everyone he touches.  It’s his courage and tenacity that allow him battle Parkinson’s in the best possible way: keeping his body active and mind positive.   Larry proves that the sometimes the best cure is living life to its fullest.

Larry’s daily bike rides have had such an incredible impact on both his mind and body that he has decided it’s time to spread the message. Together with his family and community, Larry will ride across South Dakota in the spring of 2011, pushing his limits and expanding the boundary of possibilities for those with Parkinson’s disease.

Each leg of Larry’s journey will be filmed for a documentary, Ride with Larry. Weaved amongst this narrative will be an intimate portrait of the everyday battle against Parkinson’s, the voice therapy, exercise routine, medications, treatments, and the community love that makes it all possible and worthwhile.

This documentary is being made because, as filmmakers, we want to make a difference in the lives of those with Parkinson’s disease, family members, and caretakers. Each one of the filmmakers involved also has a personal story of Parkinson’s in their family.  Beyond Parkinson’s disease, anyone facing a life altering illness can find inspiration in Ride with Larry.

We’d like to invite you to be a part of this important cause which will help improve the lives of many people.

To learn more about Ride with Larry and how you can help make this powerful project a reality, please click on the link below and help spread the message.

Kickstarter Campaign: http://kck.st/faTC3H
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ridewithlarry
Twitter: @ridewithlarry

A Time To Give

Thursday, December 9th, 2010

I love the holidays.  It is a time to show appreciation, gratitude and support for others.  With great joy I want to share what my friend Andrew Rubin is doing for Parkinson’s awareness and to improve the lives of many. Andrew’s own father has Parkinson’s and I was greatly touched and inspired by this trailer. The love and connection that people have with Larry is incredible.  This is a story to remember and to share with those you treasure.



Read about it here: https://womens-spirit.com/?p=955

The Spirit of a Woman Available at:
Barnes & Noble

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