Well, yes. It is simultaneously a poignant and powerful time to take a look at this notion. Whether you are single or attached, the idea of loving and caring for yourself should never grow old or tiresome. To boot, the fact that the days of winter are rather short gives us the extra nudge to stay inside, nurture ourselves, and take time to sink into the quiet contemplation that winter invites.

Take time to create a list of things that you know will make you feel good — things that you don’t normally do. Taking concerted time to contemplate what will support you best in caring for yourself is part of the process. It can be easy for us to get into daily routine and then have the excuse that “I just don’t have enough time to think about or do anything for myself.”
So make the time.

These don’t have to be extravagant things that take a lot of time or money. They can be simple things that recharge your batteries and remind you that to love thyself is a worthy endeavor.

My Love-Thyself List:
* Create your own bath salts at Rebecca’s Herbal Apothecary in Boulder.
* Go to a hole-in-the-wall nail shop for an inexpensive, no-fuss pedicure.
* Drive yourself to Westminster AMC 24 to see a romantic comedy that you’ve been dying to see (even though it gets panned by the critics); be sure to buy popcorn.
* Curl up in a comfy chair and read your favorite Jane Austen title (purchased at your local bookstore, of course).
* Attend a restorative yoga class at Studio Be in Boulder.

— By Kimberly Jonas
Jonas is a Boulder-based intuitive guide and healer and teacher of sacred movement, yoga and meditation. Contact her at www.body-mantra.com or www.kimberlyjonas.com.

Potter

Three years ago, I was working at a doctor’s office as a part-time aide. I pulled patients’ charts, scanned medical documents and organized faxes for the doctors. But my favorite duty was calling patients to remind them of their appointments. Most patients were well past retirement, and sometimes I would have to yell for them to hear me. Sometimes they would think I was their daughter. Other times, they would tell me all about their incontinence, flatulence, son or daughter — or their son’s flatulence and their daughter’s incontinence. Some would hang up without saying goodbye or thank you, and others would simply not understand why I was calling them.

Then there was Roslyn.

She was my favorite. She would call me Booby, tell me I’m a doll and that she loved me. And for whatever reason, she turned into one of my favorite people in the history of the world. She would come in about every two weeks, and her appointment was always at 3 p.m. Every time I’d see her name on the schedule, my heart would jump and my hands would shake as I went to call her number. I wanted to talk to her for hours, and just listen to that quintessential New-York-Jewish accent call me affectionate names I’d never even heard of.

I always got off work at 1 p.m., so I had never met her — until my last day of work.

I waited around for two hours after my shift. When she arrived, everyone knew I was anxiously awaiting her, so they hollered at me to go meet my best friend. I peered around from behind the shelves of patient file folders into the waiting room — and there she was. I walked up in front of her and nervously stammered, “Hi, Roz, I’m Elizabeth, I’m the one who —” and she interrupted with a, “I know who you are, doll,” grabbed my hand, and pulled me to sit down with her.

We sat and held hands, like old friends, or family, or even some random seventysomething [hec: Erika – how should we write this?  :  ]sitting with some admiring twentysomething-year-old [epo: twenty-something or 20-something?:  ]super fan. She asked me why the hell I was leaving and I told her I was working two other jobs and she promised to come visit me. We talked about school and the future and how her granddaughter is about to write her master’s thesis and how her late husband used to teach plant pathology at the university. She pointed to her oxygen tank and told me she was coming from her lung therapy appointment — only to cut herself off, mid-sentence. She squeezed my hand extra tight, and looked me square in the eye with genuine love.

“Darling, I wish you all the little bluebirds in the world.”

And it was at this point, like a goon, I started crying. Why? I don’t know. Couldn’t tell you. Call me my emotional mother’s over-emotional daughter, but sitting there holding hands with my idol, she was everything I’d hoped her to be (minus the blue hair, diamond studded cat-eye glasses and sequined sweater I’d always imagined). She told me this job at the office was too boring for me because I was too smart for it. And she told me she always talks about her “peaches-and-cream” who calls from her doctor’s office. That she’d miss me something awful.

And that she loved me.

Turns out, I meant as much to her as she meant to me, however that happened and under whatever weird circumstance.

And maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop crying. Even now, years later, I am overwhelmed with unexplainable emotion when I speak of her. I met this strangely amazing woman who gave me a kiss on the cheek and called me her dear, dear friend, and I never ever, ever doubted her sincerity or love.

At the time, I was in need of the realization of the person I wanted to be. I was a mess of an existence: maxed out, working five months without a day off, 60 hours a week between three jobs, stressed, on edge, depressed and coming to a boil. Meeting Roz was like popping a zit of emotion or something gross like that, with all of this nasty stuff I’d been bottling up inside of me for absolutely no reason coming to a head and struggling to be freed.

I want to be like Roz. When it comes to the rest of my life, I want to be like Roz. I want to be that person you know nothing about other than notes in their doctor’s chart that you sneak peeks at every time you pull it to make sure she’s doing OK. And find yourself so moved by her genuine kindness and whatever magic little spark there is inside of her that you feel it in those two-minute phone conversations, and it makes you infinitely better for holding her hand for five minutes.

As I sat there next to her, I couldn’t even find the words to tell her she was my favorite person — or maybe I did, but I was so wrought with emotion that I may have not said a single word the entire time. I called my mom crying to tell her I met Roz, tried to mask my emotion when my boyfriend answered his phone briefly, cried while I filled up my car at the gas station, cried while I drove home, cried on the couch harder than I’ve cried in a long time, and am even crying again now as I write this.

Have you ever fallen deeply in love with a stranger? Even if it was only for a brief moment — like watching a little boy tenderly kiss his baby sister in the shopping cart at the grocery store. Or seeing a married couple in their 80s holding hands as they walk down the sidewalk. Or making a new friend and connecting with them so passionately, that after a week you can’t imagine living your life without them in it.

I believe that we each have a series of soulmates that we are meant to cross paths with in our lives. They each have a different lesson to teach — sometimes with a beautiful feeling, endless fits of laughter, or inexplicable familiarity; sometimes in the most painful of ways. They touch us in a way that can’t be put in words.

These soulmates aren’t here as missing pieces to our life’s puzzle. They’re mirrors; they reflect back to us pieces of ourselves. Sometimes it’s the part of us that we don’t want to be reminded of, and those are the people who usually drive us nuts. But what Roz reflected back to me was powerfully touching. She showed me the compassionate, powerful, loving woman I longed to be. The way she spoke of her late husband made me realize I was not in the relationship I wanted to be in. That I was too smart for all these random, mindless jobs I was trying to distract myself with. Her kiss reminded me of the pure love I have to share with so many people yet in my life.

And she reminded me that, damn it, I’m worth all the little bluebirds in the whole wide world.

— Elizabeth Potter, of Boulder

I would have thought 20 years was too much until my uncle married someone 20 years his junior and they are the perfect match. And they’ve been together more than 10 years now.  
— Danika Carter, of Colorado Springs

Beyond the age of consent. It’s not the age that’s important, it’s the maturity within the individuals involved.
— Karen Adams Charney, of Littleton

Doug and I are 15 years apart, and I like it that way!  
— Sarah Langbein Cohen, of Broomfield

My 50-something bachelor friend Paul says it’s a strict formula: half your age plus six.  
— Marian Rothschild, of Boulder

Does age really matter when it comes to love?
If we’re very blessed, we know love from the moment we take our first breath until the instant we take our last breath. “Love” encompasses so many things.

I have a feeling when most people read that question, the first thing that popped into mind was romantic love. But that’s only one kind of love in our vast and wonderful lives.  Does age matter?  Only in the sense that love becomes better because we hopefully become wiser as we age and love becomes more all-encompassing.

I may not have romantic love in my life right now. But at 62 years of age, I’ve known it — and treasure the memories.  As I do of the parental love I was blessed with. The love of best girlfriends who, giggling, shared secrets and dreams for our futures.  I still share that love with some of those long ago treasured friends.  I know sibling love, thanks to my brother, and that blesses me daily, as does the love of my niece and nephew. And the love of present day friends.

But love isn’t restricted to feelings between people.  What about the love that is shared between animals and humans?  Some of the purest most unconditional love I’ve ever known has been shared with my pets.  And how about the love of art?  Of reading?  Of journaling?  Of handwork?  I recently went to see a performance of “Riverdance” and the love that was shared between the audience and the performers was palpable and at times had me in tears for the sheer joy of it.

Yes, love takes many forms, and if we’re truly blessed as we age, we become more aware of its many guises and embrace them all!
— Donna Hoff, of Longmont

Next month: Do you have a fashion or home DIY tip to share? E-mail it  to speakup@womensmag.com.

In response to the November 2009 letter from the editor on “the little things” and pregnancy:
One time in high school I gave a speech titled “Little Things,” which was about being grateful for all the many little things we do have in life. I’m very happy for you. It’s a little-big joy!
— Ellen Mahoney, of Boulder

First, as the secretary of Share-A-Gift, I would like to thank you for including us in “The Gift of Giving” in the December edition of Women’s Magazine. I’m not sure you know just how close our philosophies are regarding recycling and reusing items!

Share-A-Gift not only accepts new toys and books (and cash, whether used or new!), we also accept gently used toys. In October and November, we conduct “bicycle round-ups” at local middle schools to collect out-grown bikes.

In December, after a local Girl Scout troop cleans the bikes, bicycle mechanics from nearly all the shops in Boulder spend an evening fixing them up. Then, at the annual Toy Shop, parents can shop for their children. For each child, they may choose a new toy or bicycle, as well as a used toy or piece of sporting equipment, a used game or puzzle, and stuffed animals. Not only do children have toys for the holidays, but financial stress is reduced in the family environment, hopefully curtailing domestic violence. Thanks for the coverage!

Second, I’d like to thank you for your well-written and witty column (“Boulder and the Beautiful”). I never imagined that I would actually seek out a fashion-oriented essay. Thanks for providing entertaining, but surprising insightful, articles that are also grammatically correct! And thank you again for urging your readers to support Share-A-gift!
— Trude Kleess, of Boulder   

Correction:
Due to a math error, the “One in a million: How the little things add up big for one local photographer” story about Peggy Dyer in the November 2009 issue of Women’s Magazine contained an error. To reach her goal of shooting 1 million faces, Dyer would have to photograph 91 faces every day for 30 years or 2,740 faces every day for one year.

A good friend of mine is having a baby and confesses that she’s worried that she’s not going to be able to love this baby as much as she loves her first born.

She wants to know if I think there is something wrong with her. She wants to know how on Earth a mother — those primally programmed to be the open-armed kissy love machines since time began — could worry about loving one baby, and not the next?

I tell her I want to know how on Earth she got this far along, with her rounded belly and waddling walk, without realizing that 99.99 percent of women who give birth more than once face the same fear?

Maybe it’s our Heathcliff-and-Cathy, Angel-and-Buffy culture that seems to make us think there is one true love. A beloved pet dies, and almost every pet owner worries about getting another, lest the loss taint their affection for pet No. 2. Some of us get married — yay! true love at last — and fret about what age will do to our marital affection. And then what pets will do to our marital affection, and then what kids will do to our pet affection and our marital affection and I think you see where I’m going with this.

The answer, which we explore in this month’s magazine, is love. More love. And then some more. Heathcliff and Angel neglected to tell us that it truly is an exponential gift.

— Erika
erika@womensmag.com

Ah, balance.  

We launched this issue — our first of 2010 — with some exciting changes. We welcome several new voices: Stylist Marian Rothschild will share her insider fashion tips in a column, Mile High Style, and Boulderite Cheri Felix will dig deep as she tries to live 2010 as if it were her last.  

Once again, it’s all about balance.   

You’ll notice our stories are shorter (we know how busy you are, ack!), but we’re still rocking your favorite columnists, like Kate “Eco Diva” Nelson and Boulder’s organization goddess Liz Canavan.

Look for us now bimonthly inside your local newspaper, on stands throughout Boulder County or order your free subscription at www.womensmag.com. And if you’re a techy geek, don’t miss our Facebook fan page or our Twitter updates (@womensmag).

We continue to joyfully evolve to meet your needs and ideas. After all, this is the only magazine created right here in Boulder, by Boulder County women for Boulder County women. Our office is your playground.    
— Aimee  
aimee@womensmag.com

It became a ritual, a beautiful class at the intensive care unit. Yoga is unity. And I joined my dear friend for a different kind of yoga around her hospital bed, dressed alike in our blue paper hospital gowns and matching masks. Shed been trying to heal for a month now, beeping machines and blinking lights keeping her alive  and for many weeks before, fighting off the ravaging beast we call esophageal cancer.

Photo by Joe Glynn.

Then, one day we faced the decision I’d only read about in the newspaper. When do you let a person pass on  freeing her from the tubes that can both save and strangle? My friend was alert enough to talk with us. Unable to make noise because of her tracheotomy, her parched lips mouthed her wishes. Her son dabbed her mouth with a tiny pink sponge, rubbing ChapStick on pale lips, lightly purple because of weeks of labored breathing.
Just be sure, she said.

Sure of what, Mom? Her son asked, leaning close and staring in to her eyes.

She didn’t seem to have the strength to add more, but I think we knew. As with birth, when words are few, death also doesn’t demand much talking. It is all in the eyes. And my friend would only say goodbye if she knew shed gone the distance and there was no more hope.

Without our breath as a guide, our body finds no poses, no energy, balance or expression. Her breath was leaving and sadly none of us could help her find it again.

In her last days, she continued to be my teacher. I always brought gifts when Id visit, trying to help even if I couldn’t heal.

Last week I brought her a small mirror Id found among my daughters make-up. It had been two months since my friend had looked into her own eyes. At first, I worried, What would she see in her face after weeks of such sickness? I helped her unclasp the mirror, her swollen and bruised fingers trying to hold tight. Her wide smile filled the moment. She saw the beauty of herself. Her own reflection brought her such peace. She held her gaze tight, nodding and thanking me for my gift. I hope she knew she had given me even more: the reminder that self-acceptance is the greatest joy.

Today is the day that her children had decided that they were sure. They didn’t want her to struggle any longer, never giving up, but with dignity she could finally give in. As we gathered around her bed, we tearfully embraced her as she found her final savasana.

I had always wanted to take my friend to a yoga class, but shed always say, Im just not flexible enough. I wouldnt be good at it! I know she would be proud to know that she actually became a wonderful yoga teacher, bringing the peace of unity and self-acceptance to a small dim room in the ICU.

– By Priscilla Dann-Courtney

Dann-Courtney, of Boulder, recently released her first nonfiction book, Room to Grow: Stories of Life and Family, published by Norlights Press, www. roomtogrow.info.  

Get up and go: Dann-Courtney will be doing a reading 7:30 p.m. Feb. 4 at the Boulder Bookstore, 1107 Pearl St., Boulder. Free and open to the public.

Got a story to share? Submit open forum entries to speakup@womensmag.com.

She grabs you by the straps of your sports bra and says: What are you going to give me this year? How are you going to make this year better than the last?

Well, give us a break, January. We’re already on it.

We recrafted Womens Magazine in 2008, with a mission to connect with Boulder County women on several levels: We wanted to share your stories, offer you tips to simplify your busy lives and tell you stories to inspire and entertain you.

It’s been a tough task in a tougher economy. But it also has been the most enjoyable of adventures.

So many of you have contacted us over the months with your amazing stories: Stories about survival and of extraordinary transformations. We’ve heard from our neighbors, who are successful businesswomen, philanthropic powerhouses and kick-butt athletes. This is the kind of dialogue we’ve been seeking, people coming together to uplift one another in our journeys together as women, and as wives, friends, daughters and mothers.

So, here’s to 2010! We don’t need January’s ice-cold stern lecturing to get us motivated for a great year. We are already on our way.

Aimee Heckel, Editor
Erika Stutzman, Managing Editor

Photo by Molly Plann.

My husband and I love to take vacations, because when you have cancer, time away from chemo is probably what it feels like for an employee to take a vacation away from a nasty boss: pure bliss.

I love to go to Vegas, try my luck at the blackjack tables, see a show and eat some fancy dinners. It’s a great vacation where you can get everything done in a long weekend, but what I didn’t know was that my bowel loves vacations, too.

Sound weird?

Our Vegas trip was set, bags were packed, money in hand and the only thing left was getting on the plane. Little did I know, my view of the water show at the Bellagio would end up being a view of the cancer-center parking lot; my down comforter pillow with 1,000 thread count sheets would be a stiff hospital bed; and instead of enjoying a pinot noir and filet at Le Cirque, I would be eating ice chips at Le Cancer Ward.

The night before we were scheduled to leave I awoke with this unbearable pain centered in my stomach and radiating into my back. No big deal, just ignore it because nothing was going to keep me from boarding that plane. Regrettably, by 3:30 a.m. I was sobbing, and on the pain indicator (the one you see at doctor’s offices with a smiley face all the way up to a red face with blown up cheeks), I had hit the face off the radar.

Imagine a purple, mascara-stained face with a look of absolute horror, sweat pouring and matted black hair; that was me.

I had a bowel obstruction. Bowel obstruction equals a five-night stay in the hospital with no food or drinks, praying it will heal itself by giving the gut a rest hoping to eliminate the need for surgery. Needless to say, there was no Wayne Newton. Only my husband doing a rendition of Viva Las Vegas with his own twist, Viva Las Foothills. I laughed and cried at the same time.

After spending four days in the hospital, my bowel obstruction was looking less like an obstruction and more like an ileus, or “sleepy bowel.” Basically, a small part of your bowel becomes inactive sometimes requiring surgery. Luckily, I dodged that surgery, was released from the hospital days later after my “sleepy bowel” decided to wake the heck up, and we are rescheduling our trip for Nov. 13.

We have to make light of it. This is the fifth trip that we have had to cancel due to unforeseen complications from my disease.

Having cancer has forced me to disregard how I’d like my life to go and accept whatever comes my way. Not dwell on the bad, and enjoy the good, even it’s watching a funny made-for-TV movie on a 13-inch hospital television. My family, husband and friends sat in my hospital room laughing at our misfortune and enjoying each other’s company, which, at the end of the day, trumps all.

I just wish my Vegas package wouldn’t have been downgraded to a single in the west wing of the Foothills hospital.

— By Deandra Trevino
Trevino, of Boulder, was diagnosed with stage 3C ovarian cancer in July of 2007. Check out her online blog at www.carepages.com, and search “deandramtrevino.” Contact her at deandra.trevino@gmail.com.

We lived in our former home longer than we had lived in any home: 12 years.

When I was in the newspaper business, we lived in four different communities and moved five times. The longest we had been in a house previously was six years. While moving is certainly disruptive to the family, it sure promotes shedding stuff. In 12 years we had collected a lot of stuff.

The primary reason for the move was to downsize and simplify. And finally to have a view of the mountains we love so much.

But this move was bittersweet. Living in a home for 12 years, doing the work to make it our own, celebrating holidays and gatherings with friends, cements a place in the heart. We will miss it and all the personal touches that made it ours. But we were ready to move on.

We went from 4,000 square feet to 2,600 square feet. Clearly, we had to get rid of a lot of stuff. And we had to organize this move ourselves. There were no moving angels from the corporate relocation company. We are thankful for sons and the sons of friends and young friends with strong backs and pickup trucks. And for the professionals who moved the piano and the really heavy furniture.

For the six weeks leading up to the move it seemed daunting; impossible, even. As I walked form room to room I discovered still more stuff hidden in drawers and cupboards, under beds, on windowsills. I thought I had been absolutely ruthless in sorting and donating duplicate and extraneous stuff, and yet we still had boxes and boxes to pack and move.

Still, when moving day came it all went into the trucks, got unloaded into the garage at the new house and is slowly starting to fill the corners and occupy the walls at the new place that is beginning to take shape as a real home.

And this view is worth all the hassle. On clear mornings we awake to a panorama of the Continental Divide in all its snowcapped grandeur.

We have nearly an acre for our big dog. My husband has a wonderful workshop, and come spring I can do some serious gardening.

In a few days we’ll trim the tree in anticipation of our first Christmas in this new home. What a gift!

— By Colleen Conant
Conant, the former editor of the Camera in Boulder, retired after a 35-year career in newspaper journalism. She’s currently on the staff of the Community Foundation Serving Boulder County.