Nancy Range Anderson – Author

If people were to write something about you, what would they say? When I was in high school, people often signed my yearbook with the words, “Stay as sweet as you are.” Somewhere in my twenties, I decided I didn’t want that word hanging over my head anymore. “Sweet” sounded naïve, soft, unassertive and maybe even weak. So I tried to change it. It didn’t work. Life happened. Work, marriage, children, responsibilities, loss, healing, all the things that shape us as adults. But recently I found myself thinking about those yearbook comments again and realized something important. The sweetness never really went away. And maybe it was never really about being “sweet” at all. Maybe it was about being kind to people. Listening. Looking them in the eye. Remembering things that matter to them. Being available when someone needs comfort, conversation, or connection. There is nothing wrong with being remembered that way. In fact, I think I would be proud of it. I think people would also remem...

  Every day on my way to yoga, I drive past what was once my parents’ home. We sold the property 17 years ago and the house was torn down, leaving only an open lot. If you saw my other post, my father, Arthur R. Range, died on Memorial Day 32 years ago. He was a retired Lieutenant Colonel who loved his country deeply. Every time I pass the property, I still send a little message or blow a kiss toward my parents. Today I stopped the car because I noticed this small American flag tangled on a bent “Keep Out” sign. It was messy, weathered, imperfect — and somehow beautiful.   I stood there looking at it and thought: “Hi, Dad, thank you for saying hello.” I truly believe that the people we love find small ways to remind us that they are always with us.

  Memorial Day has been seared into my heart because of my dad, Arthur R. Range. He was a retired Lieutenant Colonel in the U.S. Army who piloted Search and Rescue missions over “The Hump” of China, Burma, and India during World War II. He later worked in Army Intelligence during the Cold War and ran the Counter Intelligence office in Newark, NJ. He often said his place in life was to serve God, country, and his family. I hated being number three on the list, but over the years, I learned to live with it. My father died on Memorial Day 32 years ago. It didn’t feel like happenstance. That was his way, his choice, and it certainly made sense given how he lived his life. My father showed us the world, whether we were stationed in Heidelberg, Germany, Eatontown, or Long Branch, NJ. Every place was an adventure. He taught me how to fold the American flag, make a bed so a quarter would bounce, and stop whatever I was doing, stand up, and place my hand over my heart whenever I heard the N...

 “Modification is not failure.”  I thought about that today in yoga class.   Yet as I adjusted my positioning during certain poses, part of me still felt like a failure. I caught myself thinking , I can’t do that . And then I thought - Yet . Augie with my mat and PT instructions  I became self-conscious of every modification. I felt vulnerable, awkward, limited. I was convinced everyone in the class must be noticing me even though they weren’t. An unspoken rule in yoga is not to look at others and compare yourself.  In many ways, I was experiencing exactly what Ken Blanchard described in his Dynamics of Change – “People feel awkward, ill-at-ease, and self-conscious.”  I almost didn’t go to class at all.  I was driving home from physical therapy and realized I had just enough time to make a stretching class. I was tired from PT and part of me wanted to skip it but another part of me realized something important, new growth often comes from...

  Today in yoga, my intention was simple: I am a Warrior. At first, I thought about it physically. Healing. Recovery. Strength. Endurance. But as the day went on, my mind drifted back to another season of my life when I was also a warrior, though I probably did not call it that at the time. I thought about being a newly divorced single mother to a little girl who was only 18 months old when our lives changed. I remember the day my daughter, our dog Norman, and I left our family home and moved about 45 minutes away to a three-bedroom condo in Hillsborough, New Jersey. I chose it because it had a colonial feel to it. In some small way, it reminded me of the home we had just left, and I did not want the transition to feel too drastic for my little girl. That moving day was exhausting. My daughter and Norman stayed with friends while I finished packing and directed the movers to our new home. Before bringing her there, I quickly set up her bedroom to look as much like her old...

Today I found myself driving through my old hometown of Elberon . For a moment, I almost missed my turn off because I was busy calculating how long it had been since I last lived in our family home. Forty four years. But who’s counting? The house itself was a beautiful 125 year old Victorian. My father lovingly restored it piece by piece over the years. My mother, who jokingly called it “Witt’s End,” somehow transformed it into something far greater than wood, paint, wallpaper, and furniture. She made it "home". This weekend, my daughter and her family moved into a new home. Same town, different house. As we talked, she mentioned that aside from our family home where she grew up, the house they just left will probably always be her favorite. I understood exactly what she meant. I feel that way about the house where I grew up. Sometimes, especially when I can't sleep, I find myself walking through that house in my mind. I can still remember the exact placement of t...

  I’ve been thinking a great deal about the recently released Silenced No More report from Israel documenting the sexual violence, torture, mutilation, and murders committed during the October 7 attacks. The details are horrifying. Women, men and children unimaginably violated. Families destroyed. Young people murdered. Hostages abused. Human beings treated with unthinkable cruelty. What has sickened and disgusted me almost as much is how quickly many people choose to question, dismiss, minimize, or politicize the suffering of the victims. When did compassion become conditional? When did we become so cynical? When did rape and brutality become something people debate depending on who the victims are? At the same time, Christians in parts of Nigeria and the Democratic Republic of the Congo continue to be brutally murdered because of their faith, often with far too little outrage from the world. We should be able to mourn innocent Israelis attacked on October 7. W...