PAULA SCOTT

I didn't set out to write a love story. I was just trying to heal. Trying to make sense of a breakdown. I once believed I wrote out of a big imagination, but this year, I learned I write out of my wounds. In an attempt to heal myself, I bleed on paper. In my novels, I hide the bleeding in fiction. But the book I'm working on now isn't fiction. It's a memoir. When I first started writing this story five years ago I was only seeking the truth. What caused my breakdown? Why did it happen? What in the world was wrong with me? I have a good memory. Sometimes too good. I began with my past, and then took a good hard look at my future. I was the get-er-done girl who wasn't getting it done anymore. I was feeling done. I was exhausted. And needed to know why. And then a beautiful thing happened. I saw God. St. Augustine said, "In my deepest wound, I saw your glory, and it dazzled me." I didn't mean to write about a great romance with God and with my husband. I was just writing Continue Reading

I never dreamed cancer and a breakdown would return me to farming, but that's what happened. The month I was diagnosed with melanoma, we lost our health insurance due to the rise of Obamacare. We had to pay out of pocket for my treatment, and then just a few months later, I had a breakdown. The medical bills gutted us. For a couple of years, we paid the hospital every month. I called them our mortgage payments because it felt like we were making a living to make that payment. I have to say I learned gratitude during those years of driving every month to the hospital billing office. "You're always happy," the woman who took the payment said to me one day. Most people come in here not happy." "I'm alive to pay this bill. I thank God for that," I told her. Her eyes widened and then she smiled too. "Well, that's a good way of looking at it," she said. Every month when I saw her, I prayed for her. And when I'd walk through the door, she would smile back at me. Once in a Continue Reading

I'm a hugger. I love hugging people. Each time I throw my arms around someone, a little burst of pleasure shoots through me. Does this happen to you? If it does, you might be an oxytocin addict like me. Both a neurotransmitter and a hormone, oxytocin is often called ‘the love hormone.’  Hugging releases oxytocin and so does simply being kind to others. Spending time with loved ones boosts your oxytocin. Cuddling your partner, your child, or a pet can also increase your oxytocin. Nursing a baby and making love skyrocket oxytocin. Even telling stories kicks oxytocin through your system. No wonder I love telling stories. Here are some other "happiness hormones" to consider increasing in your life. Serotonin is a mood-boosting neurotransmitter. Many of today's antidepressants involve the use of serotonin. The best way to naturally boost serotonin is daily exercise. That’s one reason going for a run or a trip to the gym does wonders for your mood. Carbohydrates increase Continue Reading

While our daughters were growing up, I tried not to step on a scale and encouraged them to do the same. I didn't want our girls to obsess over their weight. I purged the house of women's magazines with skinny models and drove Cami and Lacy to soccer, volleyball, and horseback riding lessons. I wanted our girls to be strong. To be healthy. Not driven by thinness and beauty. I wanted them to realize their bodies were temples of God's Holy Spirit, a house for their souls, and a gift to their husbands when that day came. When I began having children, my hips widened and my breasts drooped after nursing our offspring. I didn't really like my new body. By the time I hit thirty, with three babies under my belt, I'd become obsessed with how I looked. Staying beautiful was a battle. And cost a lot of money. I will never forget the day I dumped Glamor Magazine and Cosmopolitan in the trash, stopped buying expensive makeup, and said good riddance to the beauty battle. It took turning my Continue Reading

Dear Cabin: I learned to walk on your front porch. Kissed a boy there too. Plucked slivers from my feet and painted my toenails with my cousins on your sunny deck. Tried to tan in mountain sunshine, got burned instead, and have hidden under an umbrella’s shade since surviving melanoma. This year, I introduced my new grandbabies to you. They don't love you yet, but they will. S'mores will help. For more than forty years, I’ve done dishes on your back deck with my grandmas and Mom and now my daughters overlooking your cold blue lake. I love how your meals are an outdoor affair. Chipmunks are on your cleanup crew. Your coffee pots are 50 years old and so are you. I think these dish pans belonged to Grandma Helen half a century ago. They’re battered and worn, have bathed babies, and watered horses. My hands have soaked in them a thousand times over a camp stove’s burning flame. Your campfires have seared an everlasting image on my heart. You’ve seen so Continue Reading