In going about your day, how often do you say the word sorry? When you and another person come to the same spot in the store, each needing to go around the other. "Sorry."

When you couldn't get to your phone fast enough to answer a call before the voicemail picks up. "Sorry I missed your call."

If you forgot to bring the item you said you would bring while meeting a friend. "I'm so sorry."

I know if I listen to myself and others closely, we certainly are a "sorry" bunch.

When you are challenged in your life or when you are doted upon with kind words, what is the script you tell others?

Challenge: This always happens to me. This is the story of my life. Figures. I should have seen that coming. I want to trade my life with someone else. This was all a huge mistake. I can't do anything right. The world hates me.

Kindness: It was nothing. No, it doesn't look that great. You are too kind. Stop, you are embarrassing me. It's not mine, I borrowed it. No, no, no.

Recently, I have been inadvertently spending time with - by phone or in person -a different friend at least once a day. It's usually by phone, but it still counts in my book. The strange thing is that it has not been planned, but for one reason or another, I am sharing, speaking with, and listening to a friend. And how great it feels!

I end the phone call or visit feeling hugely inspired and grateful, and often expanded in my own thinking.

I'm going to assume that you have either experienced or been told about the phenomenon that exists in which several different people can witness or experience the same incident and yet have completely different versions of said event.

Many of us live this every day with spouses, children, and siblings.

I remember things so perfectly about growing up but my brother and sister each have completely different takes on things.

In my never-ending attempt to entertain my toddlers throughout the day, I took them to a free music class this morning at the library. In a room full of parents and toddlers, mine were the only two who refused to sit, participate, or listen. Running amok, dancing to their own music, they were happily spinning circles and running laps around me.

Being a bereaved parent is not something I signed up for. At least, not that I'm aware of.

Although, there is a part of me that believes we all "signed up" for this journey - and all of its gritty details - before we entered this plane of existence. That way of thinking sits well in my heart and helps me justify the death of my first born son. Other justifications simply do not work for me and make me want to either vomit or roll my eyes.

How often do you feel ignored? Lonely? Insignificant? Taken advantage of?

What if I told you that moping and complaining about these feelings would only bring more of the same? What if I said, if you are telling the same story of woe to your friends and family over and over, you are attached to the story? What if I just called you out, right where you are and said, stop complaining!