"Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at last you create what you will."

George Bernard Shaw

We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another. 

Luciano de Crescenzo


All things break.  And all things can be mended.  Not with time, as they say, but with intention.  So, go.  Love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally.  The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.

L.R. Knost


Now and then, the calamities of life’s circumstances are so devastating it takes your entire being to maneuver the simple step of feet and wish of thought. A lesson beyond common intellect empowers you as reality grapples with your roots, quaking the sanity teetering with thunder.

It was one of those times as my world shuddered to a complete halt.  The sun ceased moving, the wind blowing, and nothing would ever be the same.


Blood splatters as my head bangs against the pavement.  My world starts spinning as people gather, begging consciousness.  I hear but can no longer comprehend as I lose consciousness, my body twitching, blood exploding, splattering like raindrops on the pavement below.

The ambulance arrives and rushes me to the hospital.  Within a matter of minutes, a Neurologist and a highly specialized medical team are performing a craniotomy to control the bleeding inside my brain and repair damaged tissue.

The following day, my daughter Melinda, my son-in-law and granddaughters are standing over me when a doctor comes into the room and orders me out of bed.  “Uh …,” Melinda reacts, “… that is so cold.  For god sakes, look at her.”

My Doctor explains, “Your Mother suffers from a brain concussion, with frontal lobe damage.  The quicker we get her out of this bed, the faster she will recuperate.”

“What is the frontal lobe?” Melinda asked with a worried look on her face.

“The frontal lobe is our emotional control center and home to our personality…,” he pauses, sensing overload then continues explaining, “… motor function, language problem solving, spontaneity, memory, initiation, judgment, impulse control, and social behavior.”

I lay incoherent for three days with neither peace nor sleep finding its way to Melinda’s pillow.  Fear and worry could not empty her mind long enough to allow her the privilege.  The fourth day, a nurse helps me out of bed.  I could walk to the end of the bed and back without fainting.  My world still spinning. I stare cluelessly at Melinda while she sits in a chair reading.  The fifth day is the same as the day prior. On the sixth day, my legs, arms, hands, and fingers bare frailty as I stumble the halls aided by nurses, dragging my legs behind.

Days pass like ghosts and disappear like clouds, and soon nothing was left of me but sorrowful longings kicking me in the teeth.

Six months later, I stand in the shower.  Clueless.  Watching water trickle off my head, lowered in bewilderment.  Something peculiar materializes, causing me to jump back in fright.  I turn.  It wings in front of me as another joins, causing me to scream.  As I explore this peculiarity, something looking like a branch mounds where edges smooth, twist and rotate; the branches extend and reach upward to explore a large ovoid.  I glance rearward.  It follows.  Exploring.

I jump out of the shower and staring in floating glass; this strange entity touches the large ovoid.  Dual specks focus and move, transmitting vision, understandable to my brain.  Interacting with perceptive depth, these dual specks encompass a three-dimensional examination of a misplaced formation.

Under trickling of water, I discovered a living being named Donna and a face - staring back, questioning with lifted brows and softened lips.  Startled eyes, leaking with drizzles.  Elongated arms, snaking and searching.  Robotic fingers, touching and discovering.  Rounded shoulders, straightening and relaxing.  Breath, slowly moving in and out.  A heart beating … rapidly.  Excitement, bubbling.

Tears stream as I cup my hands around my curved jawline and melt around lips stuttering a name as if hearing it for the first time: Donna … Donna LeClair.  I scream my name repeatedly, giggling; knowing I am alive and somewhere inside this visible being rest the innumerable possibilities created by beholding.

Long-limbed sticks called legs have a mind of their own and move with unrooted abnormal behavior.  When I get up in the morning, they run into walls.  My hands glide across a counter, directing the movement as they drag behind.  They are slow, awkward, more like a device somebody else is operating than the things that will lead me out the front door and into the life I am discovering.

I have difficulty placing concrete words or pictures into discrete categories and trouble understanding context.  I find out I was an author but have no idea what that means and how to write.  Stringy things extending from my hands create phenomenal characters, exciting me.

Night and day, I memorize the Alphabet Song backward and forward; concentrating on each and very letters until I could sing it waking and sleeping.

Banging on the keys of a computer, I ask, “What is this… what is this?” Giggling, I watch the squiggly things on the screen magically construct my name–Donna LeClair.  The probabilities excite me.  The idea letters on the keys of a computer can create unlimited possibilities with the flick of a wrist, touch of a finger.  The thought they can breathe life into that which once laid dormant.

As I began to know and love myself, life was frustrating during growing spells and unmeasurable in increments justified by reasoning or perception.  Time traveled with its keeper patience, and memory with its brat forgetfulness, but love resonated unwavering to its greatness, gifting Melinda and myself second chances after shattered peculiarities guided inward to healing fields where forthcoming lessons sanctioned.

Today, I live in peace and harmony, and I call it “GRATITUDE.




When we live fully in the moment there is an aliveness that comes easily. When we are fully present, we offer our whole selves to whatever it is that we are doing. Our attention, our integrity, and our energy are all focused in the moment and on the task at hand. This is a powerful experience, and when we are in this state, we feel completely alive and invigorated. This kind of aliveness comes easily when we are absorbed in work or play that we love, but it is available to us in every moment, and we can learn to summon it regardless of what we are doing. Even tasks or jobs we don't enjoy can become infused with the light of being present. The more present we are, the more meaningful our entire lives become.

Next time you find yourself fully engaged in the moment, whether you are creating life, love or art, trying to unravel haunting mystifications or rejoicing in findings, or conversing with your best friend or passersby, you may want to take a moment to notice how you feel. You may observe that you are not thinking about what you need to do next, your mind and body is just rejoicing in the now. The moment when your thoughts tingle and your body feels like it's pleasantly humming. As you enjoy the feeling of being located entirely in the present moment, you can inform yourself that you may try to recall this feeling later. You might try this while driving home or getting ready for bed, allowing yourself to be just as engaged in that experience as you were in the earlier one.

The more we draw ourselves into the present moment, the more we honor the gift of our lives, and the more we honor the people around us. When we are fully present, we give and receive aliveness in equal measure. For today, try to be fully present in your daily activities and watch a new reality open for you. Try being grateful for you are, indeed, alive; therefore, gifted the choice of being fully present and feeling every moment of living.


I was standing on a street corner in Phoenix, Arizona waiting for my kid sister Julie when a faint voice echoed," Donna ... Donna." I am sure multiple women are named Donna, and the world does not evolve around me, myself and I; but, when one believes as I do, your eyes scout the heavens, “ Mom... Dad... Grandma... Aunt Dorothy... Aunt Millie, is that YOU?" Somewhere there had to be an angel ... someone was watching over me ...  I could FEEL their presence! I knew it to be the truth. 

  At 7:25 P.M. on Saturday, February 2, 1991, my Father passed away of Pancreatic Cancer. My encounter with his transition profoundly affected my perception and belief about infinity and its bond to being. Life after death was no longer merely a theoretical possibility, but an unambiguous actuality ascertained after perceiving Daddy’s transitory. His transition bestowed the insight that his presence would flower beyond the mere existence of flesh, thought, and heart. As I walked into futurity, I feared not the inevitability of mortality, for I esteemed the veracities of light evolving around my being.

  For 45 days, the pale shadow of Daddy lay motionless staring into empty space, unable to transition because of his tormented past. All of a sudden, his eyes dilated and lit as a faint light appeared and hovered close to the ceiling of the living room. Then a beam of illuminating pure light completely engulfed the room and bathed Daddy in brilliant ease and acceptance. He had an irresistible almost magnetic attraction to the light, and as his eyes widened to draw in that which we saw not, and his hands reached out to touch that which our eyes were blind, he began communicating with beings that we could not hear, but we could FEEL. 

  At first he seemed anxious: his voice crying out in fright, his facial expressions turning to anger as he expressed bitterness for his transition into death. He kept proclaiming he was not ready, “Not now!” he shouted, persistently insisting he was not going to leave his childrenMy siblings and I could tell he was glimpsing spirits of relatives and friends as he blew kisses, acknowledging them by name and voicing how much he missed and loved them.

  From his facial expressions, we likened a viewing of a rapidly expanding review of his life, and someone or something was provoking reflections and questions. The emotions and feelings associated with the images reflected in the dilation of his eyes as if he was viewing a wide-screen television and was afraid to blink in fear of missing something. His brows raised in startled alertness, his mouth opened in awe, his head bobbed as he questioned with curiosity what death and beyond were offering.

  Daddy aged twenty years as cancer bled life from his very being, accelerating the aging process. He earthly body evaporated before our eyes, becoming a mere shadow of the man he once had been: his hands bony and transparent with protruding blue veins that looked like the electronic traces of a circuit board, his skin tone bleaching into a milky iridescent illusion and the ghostly gray of hair lay in a halo against the back of his lounger chair, with his brows long and grizzly white flared out to blend in with the wiry hair mounting out of his ears.

   After four hours of staring into the ethereal light, blowing kisses and bartering hither and thither, he appeared sanctified with profound stances of solitude, love, and at last, tranquility: a peaceful quietness, a vanishing of all his worries. There was not any more pain or struggle in his face or actions, just a calm, silent existence. His steely gaze seemed to traverse some ethereal mystery that penetrated a place neither he nor I had yet to travel; yet a place spirit remembered, and born within and among that memory, was the presence of Christ and the union of one.  

   When he found himself approaching the barrier between earthly life and the next, in a faint and fragile softness, and with a great sigh of relief, he victoriously announced he was ready and called out the names of all of his children to make sure they were there. I clutched his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, and as peace radiated from his face, he decreed, “I love you, Share,” took his final breath and staring into the light, we watched the last of life scale his eyes as he slipped into the peaceful state of eternal rest. 


  "Donna ... Donna, come here, honey." I looked up from the street corner in Phoenix, and as a  young Mother called out the name, a little girl went running towards her. A little angel with awakard steps, trying to synchronize the feet beneath her wobbling legs. A little angel in ribboned pigtails, sparkling eyes of blue, wearing a grin that lit my heart with warnth of sunshine.

  Angels, everywhere angels:  living angels, risen angels, loving angels, breathing wings of godliness on every street corner, here, there and everywhere. In every crowd ... every face ... every heart ... every spirit. 

 Can your sincerity see the light of their being, or are they invisible to the spectrum of your lens that shelters faith?

 Can your spirit sense the wings of godliness encircling the tingling energy beyond the aura of your own vibration?

 Reach deep into the light of trust, knowing nudities of compassion shall sanction the enlightenment of the unseen, the unheard, and the uncertain.

 Silent, gentle beings around us, guarding us, carrying us, and protecting us. Messengers delivering thoughts as true and pure as the driven snow, entities bearing silent powers that emit evil through the awakening of good -  blessings of the infinite miracles cast upon eyes anew.

  Impact! Angels we choose to let in, those who wander in unexpectedly, those veracities of light who soar to broaden wings of godliness and those who birth awakenings across a planet sanctioned into the communion of enlightenment for a species carefully woven as one. We all bond through the compassion of humanity for a reason beyond the scope of our realization, and in one split second leave imprints on the grains of eternal passages.

All of us are ANGELS for WE NEVER KNOW while traveling through our cosmic path which street corner will echo our voice ... our actions ... our energy and cause another to look to the heavens and reflect on the magnificence surrounding them as they bow their head in THANKS! 


     IMMERSION OF REALISM by Donna LeClair

  LIFE provides us with an instinctive appetite for all the stories we create through living - be it fairy tales at the beginning or obituaries at the end. Life, after all, is the story: a broad community of COMMON experiences in which ALL OF US participate. The point of the story is to cultivate spirit and elevate energy to elation beyond our current lens ... not to make us IMMEDIATELY happy.

  I wish life had fairy tale endings, and I wish life were as simple as our childhood stories make it out to be, but, this is life …this is real, and with life comes soul slaughtering experiences that can overshadow ecstatic peace at every level, or schooling that gifts spirit with cultivating choices about oneself and in the process of enlightenment honor ones obstacles, awareness, and innocence.

    Astounding beings mystified through insecurities and fraught with blights of experience disregard that equilibrium evolves as perception grows. They unconsciously stifle the wisdom of yesterday, the fullness of today, the virtues of their sins and affairs heavy to their thoughts in lieu of muddling patiently through the days and braving open thoughts into better worlds.

    Life gifted my wonderland perfection as a child, calamity shattered it before puberty, nativity of wings birthed vastness of haughtiness when wet behind the ears my illusions did soar, and now in the middle of life fruitful tapestries are unearthing courageous tutorials and resurrecting the potency of belief. Fresh wisdom is sanctioning conscious virtues and dignity while fertilizing virgin possibilities as I relinquish embezzled tribulations and dawn an abundance of awakenings immersing into a stream of realism.

    As I stroll through libraries of memories and reclaim my thoughts, I realize the long gray corridors of my journey are in fact the only place I can find pure gratification; I realize I have developed into an autonomous woman who surely would not have emerged if the middle of my life had not torpedoed skeletons from my closet, and obliged closure to hauntings long time past. Everything does become clear as we travel through globule of tears and into passages of light.

    The Divine created menopause to awaken what the Judas dollar disregarded in the quickening of youth. AT MY AGE, I am wise enough to identity the saving grace that shall lead me to sanctuaries veiled by the covert of my fore-mothers and the innocence of youth.

    The innocent knows not the illusion concocted in the mirror reflects a hologram lured by circuits’ time and error that connect not to the presence of now. Threads of wax lace the shoes of youth and copied roads laden with crumbs. Our paths flower with silk of golden and the hands of our divine couple the shoes that journeyed our path.  

     Realistically, does the happily - ever - after aspired by fairy tales truly exist? Ah, I don’t know: I think the knight in shining armor should be reserved strictly for blind princesses wandering around in bogus wonderlands, chasing talking white rabbits and having tea parties with those holding half a deck. As for this damsel-in-waiting, I shall follow life’s yellow brick road and travel through thoughts that explore my crucial right to love and respect while stumbling down my path and finding my way back home.

   I have often forsworn the chance for deep happiness in settling for the easier and safer one, selling myself to the first and lowest bidder. During those occasional menopausal moments when my emotions scream louder than logic, I hope mindfulness grabs me by my feeble ankles, drags me back down to a revived lesson, and reminds me that happiness is somewhere out there just beyond the reach of a hundred tears … simply quietly waiting for the cloud of doubt to ease my bruised ego and raise my spirit to heights beyond the spectrum of my current belief.

I KNOW we will all make it to the finish line with a sane mind and strong body because we have each other, and there is something so incredibly solid about the bond that cradles the rock.

An angel reading - YOU! I bow in honor. Thank you!

Have a blessed day! I appreciate you.

Donna LeClair

Words are singularly the most powerful force available to humanity. We can choose to use this force constructively with words of encouragement, or destructively using words of despair. Words have energy and power with the ability to help, to heal, to hinder, to hurt, to harm, to humiliate and to humble.

Yehuda Berg