The older and wiser I become, the more I appreciate people who vibrate at a high frequency, not because they make everyone around them feel better (although that is part of it), but because vibrating at a high frequency requires openness, honesty and authenticity, traits I highly respect and admire in others. 

In previous columns, I referenced a book by Dr. David Hawkins called “Power vs. Force,” and I’ve noticed myself referring to his teachings on several recent occasions, especially when it comes to parenting. This book is an impactful resource. 

Search online, or in a library or bookshop, and you’ll find how-to books about parenting. Recent popular titles include “Simplicity Parenting,” “The Five Principles of Parenting” and “How to Talk So Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk.” There are even books about how not to parent, like Leonard Sax’s “The Collapse of Parenting.” 

I’m no extremist. I like discourse with people who hold opposing viewpoints. You can sway me with sound arguments. I feel enlightened when coming away with a better understanding of why people think the way they do. 

Melvin McLeod Trawick, our first grandchild, came into this world seven days ago.

For years, Tuscola High School’s location high on the hill overlooking the Lakeside Plaza, a fragment of Lake Junaluska, and the Paragon Parkway, seemed like a metaphor to me. When our kids were still in elementary school and later in middle school, we would frequently drive by the entrance on our way to the fitness center, peer upward, and dream about the days that would surely come when they would take their turns as high school students “way up there.” 

Ever notice how the sparkle in a kid’s eyes diminishes with age? The older I get, the more I want to be like a kid. I want to laugh with my whole body and get excited about little things like chocolate chips in my pancakes or blowing a dandelion. 

I’m the mom to two boys, ages 14 and 11. Both of them are currently on the cusp of a big transition. My younger son, Case, is in fifth grade and will be starting middle school in the fall, while my older son, Brooks, is in eighth grade and will be entering high school.

By the time you read this, my folks will be motoring through Southwestern Virginia, probably deciding whether to just keep driving back to their native Upstate New York via Interstate 81 or maybe east onto I-64 and Charlottesville to visit Monticello again. 

As a child, I wanted to grow up and plan a big fancy wedding with a ruffly white dress, then have two little girls and name them Veronica and Samantha. As one of two girls in a family of four, this is all I knew. My middle-class childhood wasn’t indulgent in any way, but it was happy and secure. My sister and I knew our parents loved us more than anything. Both my mom and dad worked multiple jobs to give us opportunities and experiences we couldn’t have otherwise had. I’m forever appreciative of that, and I 100 percent credit them for nurturing and encouraging my adventurous spirit. 

I have faint but fond memories of picking strawberries as a kid: the twisty, dusty gravel roads leading to the farm, being handed my very own big-girl pail by the strawberry lady and, most notably, sneaking mouthfuls when my mom wasn’t looking.