I was in the kitchen this morning when I heard the girls from The View announce that Julio Iglesias would be singing Willie Nelson's classic, "You Were Always on My Mind." I couldn't see the TV, but the liquid honey that is that remarkable Spaniard's voice found its way to me, and I started crying.

I admit it, I AM the world's biggest crybaby, but oh, the words. For any woman who is loved, has been or wants to be, those words strike a raw nerve. You all know the tune....here are the words.

Maybe I didn't treat you
Quite as good as I should have
Maybe I didn't love you
Quite as often as I could have
Little things I should have said and done
I just never took the time
You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

Maybe I didn't hold you
All those lonely, lonely times
And I guess I never told you
I'm so happy that you're mine

If I made you feel second best
Girl I'm so sorry I was blind
You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

Tell me, tell me that your sweet love hasn't died
Give me, give me one more chance to keep you satisfied, satisfied

Little things I should have said and done
I just never took the time
You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

I think the line that resounds the most with me, is the one...."And I guess I never told you, I'm so happy that you're mine."

Wow.

You know, I grew up in a house filled with great love....but my father and mother were not big on the verbal, "I love you's". It was felt and shown, but never said. I was privileged to know my paternal grandmother for 44 years, but only ONCE did I ever snuggle into her arms and say "Baba, I love you." I was 43. And even though I was her first-born grandchild and knew no greater love than hers, that was the first time I heard her say, "I love you too."

I know it's not for everyone; these sweeping statements of affection. It almost feels dangerous. Funny. We jaywalk; we crank it up to 140 km on the highway when we think no one's looking; women walk alone at night; kids play in the street. But the most dangerous act we all commit, is committing. To a friend who's true blue; or to someone who beckons to your heart.

After spending the majority of my life, saying it with Hallmark, or with a smile, hug, or simply with the light of love shining from my eyes....I've decided to live dangerously and never leave someone wondering ever again.

You don't need to haul out the "geetar" and croon your feelings like Willie or Julio....but promise me someday, that you'll all take a minute to stand bravely before whomever you care for and say....I'm so happy that you're mine. You are always on my mind.

I'm reading a fascinating book called "Pearls in Vinegar" by Heather Mallick. Mallick is a Toronto columnist, reporter, editor and now author of a "pillow book". The first known pillow book came out of Japan circa 990. The Lady Sei Shonogan kept a record of her observations and musings during her service as a lady-in-waiting to one Empress Sadako. According to one source, "it included lists of all kinds (agreeable things, disagreeable things, things without merit), personal thoughts, interesting events in court, poetry and some opinions on her contemporaries."

Mallick's pillow book, true to the tradition, is a collection of her thoughts and experiences spread over 162 short chapters with titles such as; Snake Balls; Enemies List; Things that bedevil one. Unlike journal writing or diary keeping which tend to be moralistically and historically driven; pillow books are a good example of what the brain would look like if it was turned inside out and on display. In her introduction Mallick wrote, "Interesting things happen. In fact, I am of the school that everything is interesting, even while painful, and will ring a bell with someone."

So I thought I'd give it a go, albeit in a much condensed manner.

Donuts: There is nothing more perfect than the donut. Especially a fresh one. I love the feeling of grease and sweetness on my tongue. And I don't even have a favourite. Bring 'em on. French crullers that melt on your tongue. Those chocolate glazed ones from Druxy's that taste like sin. I love the anticipation of a box of filled, not knowing what you're going to get inside. Licking the sugar off my lips and dipping my tongue in Bavarian cream. Gave up donuts in 1995 when I decided to get slim, but I swear if I'm ever diagnosed with a mortal illness, I'm going to Country Style and start with a dozen fresh ones.

Hairy Big Toes: Why do some women have hair on their big toes and some don't? I do. My cousin does. My sister doesn't. Is that fair? I'm a girly girl and it offends me. Is it because I'm blond? I'm convinced blondes are very hairy. You can hardly see my eyebrows (a true test of "real" blondness), but my cute little piggys make me one step removed on the evolutionary scale from a hobbit.

The 1976 Olympics in Montreal: Try sitting in a stadium with 10,000 people and hearing Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" blasting into your eardrums. It was one of the most sublime moments of my life. I teach yoga and have told this joke as an icebreaker and a lesson, but mainly because I like idiotic humour. "What did the yogi say to the hot dog vendor? Make me one with everything." And that's the way I felt the day of the opening ceremonies in Montreal. I felt like we were one soul blended in harmony.

Irrational Fears: Answering the door without being in ironed clothes.
Answering the door without my hair being brushed.
Answering the door without my liner and mascara on.
Going out the door without my convenience card.
Going out the door without being ironed, brushed and make-upped.
Worms.

My Barber: Her name is Anna. She and her husband run the little shop across the street. I started going to her a couple of years ago. I just wanted a blunt cut; one inch off the bottom. I asked how much. She said $15.00. I said, "Do it." Like everyone else who wanted to chop my thick fall of hair into various shapes and styles over the years to update my image, Anna's been dying to get creative. I finally gave her the go ahead earlier this year and I have to admit I love it. I love my flippy little curls, but I love Anna most of all. Last Thursday I was very upset over some bad news. I usually give her a $5.00 tip and I did that day as well. She put it back into my hands and said, you have been very generous to me, but you need it now.

Criticism: I can't take it. I've tried. Even if it's that so-called constructive kind. It drives me nuts to be criticized.

Blistex: I think I'm addicted to it. I have big lips. I can't smile without it. Fear of cracking. If I forget it at home when I'm out and about, I panic. Guys hate it. But somehow guys don't hate ultra red, pure sex-in-a-tube, lipstick.

Kissing: Is there anything more delicious? I remember being kissed for the first time. All I knew was what I saw in movies. Open mouths and frenetic caressing. I didn't know that at some point you had to close your lips around his. The much older man I was kissing told me I had an interesting technique; but didn't bother teaching me the proper way. Many happy "experienced" years later I have some advice for guys....your tongue is not a weapon, nor is it a swordfish. Nibbling is acceptable; biting hurts. Don't kiss with your eyes open; all you're going to see are a pair of crossed ones blinking back at you. If you want to see into your lady's soul, back up about 5 feet and tell her you love her. Then kiss her, with your eyes closed. Yummy.

What's in your pillow book? It's crazy eh? All of these random thoughts; likes and dislikes; beliefs, desires, experiences and observations? We all have them. The ones I shared with you are tamed down and edited within an inch of their life.

The pundits claim that we think approximately 60,000 thoughts a day; and a surprising number of those thoughts are just repeats of the day before and the day before that. When we meditate and clear all those thoughts away, where do they go? And why do they come back? And what do we do with those thoughts? Most of them we don't share. It would be bedlam.

I don't think I could write a "real" pillow book. I think we were meant to keep our little bursts of borderline madness to ourselves. What is spoken can never be taken back. So make sure what comes out of your mouth is worthwhile, decent and kind; funny and witty without being cruel; uplifting and loving; interesting, provocative and inspiring.

I'm reading Robin Sharma's book, "The Greatness Guide." I keep returning to the chapter entitled, "Who Made Success a Dirty Word?"

He said, "Too many people believe that there's something wrong with aiming to be really successful. Too many people put down productive achievement. Too many people snicker at go-getters who set their goals and then devote themselves to realizing them. I've heard it a lot these days, the suggestion that if you strive for success, you must not be all that concerned with making a difference and being significant. It's almost as if being a go-getter is incompatible with being compassionate and a good person. Nonsense."

I think those are really important words. I've struggled over this issue myself. Can I be Oprah Winfrey AND Mother Teresa at the same time? Is my craving for a "nice" life inconsistent with my desire to do good?

I was speaking to a friend of mine, a business owner, about this very issue. Now by all standards he is a successful man. He's well-traveled, can afford the luxury of travel; his daughter is attending a private school; he's not Donald Trump wealthy, but he's doing ok. His belief is that the abundance of the universe is ours to share. All of us. By conducting his business thoughtfully, with an eye to providing his clients the most excellent service possible, he has no problem reaping the rewards of his endeavours. He believes he deserves it. I remember standing in his office cringing slightly, wondering if the karma fairies were going to strike him where he sat. I mean who says that out loud? But then I thought about it. Here is a man who, in his middle-age, built a business from the ground up; whose personal and professional code of conduct is thoughtfully measured and monitored; and a man for whom his employees have great respect and admiration. If that weren't enough, he gave me the money to attend the course I need to complete my training as a Life Coach. Just out of the blue, one sunny day, out of the goodness of his heart, he gave me this opportunity.

In his case and in the case of so many other good folks I have the opportunity to call friends, success, whether personal or professional, has been the catalyst to uncovering their "goodness".

The chapter continues, "Here's my take on the "success versus significance" issue: An extraordinary life contains both. The essence of life is balance. Without success, I have a sense that the best part of you will feel a little hollow. Part of what makes us human is the hunger to realize our greatest gifts and to live life fully. We were built to be great."

For myself, I know what makes me "feel" successful. I love to give; of myself. I love to touch lives and leave them better. It doesn't matter that I live simply, without the outward trappings of success. Would I like to earn/have enough money to ward off the worry and stress of not being able to meet my financial obligations as a good citizen? Absolutely. Will it make me happy to have more money? Only from the standpoint that it will give me a more secure base from which to conduct my calling as a teacher and mentor. If I'm not worried or preoccupied, then my clients/students will benefit from my undivided attention.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling a little whimsical, I think how neat it would be to pack it all in like Harrison Ford's character in the movie 6 Days, 7 Nights. He was a pilot and lived in a shack on an island in the South Seas. He lived from day to day, working when he needed to and absolving himself from all responsibility to the world around him.

I could build a hut in the Ganaraska Forest, bill myself as the "witch woman" of Campbellcroft, Ontario. I could ply my "coaching" trade from the sawed off stump next to the camp fire and sell corn husk dollies to keep me in gruel.

Or maybe not. My love is here. My passion is here. My students await. Whether or not I become "successful" according to the world's standards doesn't matter to me. I can't take it with me, but I can give all I have now. Success is a matter of perception and degree. Significance though, brings rewards beyond measure. And the only way you can spend those rewards is to give them back again. Neat system and really, that makes me a very wealthy woman indeed.