tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18038372976991656372024-03-13T23:48:22.179-07:00Touching on InfinityWords by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.comBlogger215125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-11373723557979040132021-01-13T14:57:00.001-08:002021-01-13T14:57:08.097-08:00Letters from Gale<p><br /></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-9ec26641-7fff-c05b-f718-9decee718da6"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Letters from Gale</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At 92 he had the right to say goodnight and take leave of this turbulent world. Those final weeks had stolen so much, I didn’t even recognize him when I went to say goodbye. He couldn’t even acknowledge my presence. Stepfather to my uncle; “Gramps,” to my cousins; I called him Gale because I saw him as a friend. In print, he addressed me sometimes as “Little One,” “Dear Migrant Poet,” and once, because he tired of “the same old salutation,” he called me “Annie, Baby.” That makes me laugh, because his beautiful wife had teased him that he was writing to his girlfriend.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Most of our relationship had been through letters, though our correspondence had dwindled to the yearly Christmas card. Declining health and a broken heart in the years after his wife’s passing had left him struggling to keep in touch. I felt guilty for not writing more often, even knowing I wouldn’t get a reply. He said he just had to take a little time, accepting that </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Slowly, ever slowly, my life is returning to some semblance of normalcy.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">His new normal, all alone, was not a life he wanted but he lived it fully, for as long as he could.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gale appeared throughout my childhood at family gatherings such as holidays and graduations, sharing his wit and artistic talents, but I didn’t really know him until that first letter in the late 90s. Away at college, I suffered a little homesickness and confusion about my life goals. My mystified advisor saw me switch my major from Biology to English as I dropped my dream of becoming a veterinarian. My struggles to stay afloat in science classes baffled me. Being a good student just wasn’t enough to claim the poster promise that I could do anything I wanted to in life. The only path to carry me was words: stories, essays, and poetry. Words had dared me to dream in the first place. When Gale wrote to me, I saw a new hope. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I was sitting here reading a little poetry . . . and thought of you, a lonely English major . . . and I decided to write. We sensitive people . . . must stick together.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Perhaps he missed the role of teacher, desiring to mentor and encourage me to go into that “noble profession,” but when the letters started coming, I was enchanted to reply.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I supposed he imagined quiet little me daydreaming, my days lost in verse. That Anne-of-Green-Gables romantic view of the world. Well, I hovered there, sometimes content to sit for hours and draw while my mind wandered. For Gale and I to know each other in letters, I could be that girl. The starving artist huddled in a cramped room, no heat, pages and pages lying at her feet. No food but words. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gale drew back the curtain on windows of his life sometimes, mentioning his teaching career but mostly focusing on his current pursuits of gardening, reading, and caring for his dog, Buddy Boy. He didn’t let me glimpse his Navy service during WWII, his split family, or any other trials of his past. I knew the best of him—a faithful volunteer and avid reader who pursued truth and beauty in the news and literature. Perhaps he hid behind his letters, too. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finding a letter or card from Gale in my mailbox buoyed my heart and kept the fairytale going. No one else I knew had such a unique friendship through the mail. We tried email, but he wrote of his relationship with the computer: </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I suppose in time I will expand my use of the “ever-loving” (sometimes I use less genteel language) machine, but I would have to give up something else that occupies my time. I don’t know what that would be right now.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even though his handwriting—so elegant and every way the ideal script for a letter—was a challenge for me to decipher, I much preferred the intimate connection it gave that computer fonts cannot capture. When I think of him I picture his words more than his face. That distinctive handwriting, like the fingerprints of his thoughts, was his voice in ink I could hear with my eyes.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Flipping through cards and letters from family and friends, I could recognize Gale's even before I saw his writing. He once referred to his eclectic letterhead by saying, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What you are looking at is old stationery with the address covered by stickers provided by charitable organizations, to which I send money. Which proves what I have always supposed about myself: Not only am I cheap, I’m eccentric. I’d worry about such traits if they didn’t make me feel so good.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can’t help but smile every time I receive blank notecards in the mail from organizations such as he would support. In that way, the post keeps his memory alive.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I feel the loss of what we shared when I sort through the mail now, tossing most of it into the recycle bin. There exists a near demise of my letter writing. Text messages and email fill the space. I see Gale shaking his head, sad that I’ve reduced my communications to such pithy notes as I can instantly trigger on my smartphone. Yet packed away in my garage is a box of letters reminding me of bygone snail-mail. Those in crayon harbour memories from grade-school friends; many more are cards from my mom. Lots are from my paternal grandmother and my best friends. I’ve considered throwing some out to make space, to try to minimize the disorder of my past keeping company in my present, but I won’t discard them all. I hoard the paper and ink to remember who they were and who I was and that we mattered to each other.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gale also wrote to my grandmother, which found him even dearer in my heart. I thanked him, but he told me not to, adding that </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“one has to be terribly insensitive to not appreciate what she has been through in a very brief time: loss of life-long companion; loss of home . . . and loneliness as a bookmark for whatever time is left. . . . I hope that you, too, will write to her.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Grandma had been my first pen pal. She wrote to me from my childhood through my college years. I had usually answered her letters as the obligatory thing to do, just as my mother had taught me to write thank-you notes. I never liked to talk to anyone on the phone, so writing letters was less painful. Just coming into adulthood I was starting to really appreciate the letters from Grandma. And when my grandpa died, I realized she needed to reach out to family all the more. Writing to her was no longer an obligation, but too late I saw how I could have had a real relationship with her. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Grandma died just after I returned from a year abroad, and with her gone the letters from Gale became all the more special. I was out of school, working and on my own and realizing I still needed guidance as I navigated the next stage of life. I was suddenly more able to appreciate what an older generation could teach me. In one of Gale’s letters, he tells me he should be writing more, working on his book, especially “considering Andrew Marvell’s admonition: ‘at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near’ ” (“To His Coy Mistress”). The chariot that carried away my grandma, and then Gale, will come for me. The chariot waits for everyone. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gale chose to write to me, though he didn’t have to. A letter from Gale was a knock on my door even when I studied thousands of miles away in France. He “visited” me in and out of country, through work and grad school, in the ups and downs of teaching teenagers. Unable to attend my wedding, he celebrated with me from afar. He penned his warmest congratulations when I had a baby. I cherished the face-to-face time we did have, but since it was rare, I relished his letters all the more. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thinking about the current state of our world, I have an idea of what his letters would say to me were he still around to share his thoughts. Oh what he would write indeed! But these feelings and opinions I imagine him to advise me on are his and not mine to reveal. So I’ll smile, and sigh and think how much I’d love his counsel; yet, how glad I am that he doesn’t have to witness such upheaval. He would, of course, not sit idle if he could help it, and he would give and give and give because that is who he was. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Though he is gone, the poetry of his life still sends me daydreaming once-in-awhile. In my mind I see him sitting at a desk by the window, the light fading, a feather quill (because it must be) in hand, a yellowed page before him. With flourish and care his hand moves along, pausing to dip the quill in ink, forming passages from Keats to share with that lonely writer far away. A bon mot, a little lift to give her as she toils away in piles of books. When the letter is done, he signs it, folds it and seals it in wax (naturally), and stands up and puts on his hat. He must walk into town, down the dusty road, to mail the letter, where it will travel by coach, many days to reach the girl. And there he goes, fading into the distance, carrying the letter in his coat pocket.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2sgcym3rqag/X_96rj5btgI/AAAAAAAA2qA/itg7SYDUGlc-BRF-qUcK787N1oPbvd7rACLcBGAsYHQ/s1920/old-letters-1082299_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="1920" height="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2sgcym3rqag/X_96rj5btgI/AAAAAAAA2qA/itg7SYDUGlc-BRF-qUcK787N1oPbvd7rACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h268/old-letters-1082299_1920.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><br /><br /></span>Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-90157037131752888392020-12-26T11:36:00.002-08:002020-12-26T11:36:14.083-08:00After<p>Christmas is over. Maybe that's a relief to you. Maybe it's a sharp pain in your heart to think about a long winter ahead behind closed doors. Maybe Christmas was the one day this year you felt joy. Maybe it was the day this year that hurt the most. </p><p>It's a literal dark day here, this day after, with the sky covered over and rain and snow taking turns falling down. In my little corner of the world, Christmas was bright. I have the luck of family and a child who, though he doesn't believe in Santa Claus, believes in magical moments that really do stand out during the holidays. The beautiful day that was Christmas is still sparkling today even though the world outside is grey. </p><p>I wish to share some sparks with you, to help you hold on, to let you know that you can fire them into the void if you need help, and to ask you to believe that they will be seen. You will be heard. But how? We lead up to Christmas with outpourings of kind acts, goodwill gestures, messages of hope. What happens after? If you were hungry before, hurting before, lonely before, chances are you will be still. What sparks of hope can I offer? Anything that comes to mind dies before it touches my lips because it's just words. What good are words?</p><p>Sometimes the real prayers are the wordless ones. So here I sit, typing words but feeling silent prayers. I don't have a quote for you, a Bible text, a greeting card, that can make everything right. I open my hands and see emptiness. My heart is full but I am at a loss. </p><p>The funny thing about the time after Christmas is that it is also the time before Christmas. What we waited for is over but coming again. A happy thought for me, a dreadful thought perhaps for you. But, if this time is also the time before, then it should still be the time of giving. There should never be an off season for generosity. </p><p>We look to January, every year, as the new start that can be better. I have no idea what will happen this time around, of course I didn't know last time either, but my only goal is to keep praying those wordless prayers so that I can be quiet to listen and open to giving. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NsDiFVrp0nc/X-eQAGWmB8I/AAAAAAAA1tQ/xju_uu37a_oHydB_nkA8etxGGPrQ_2vrwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1920/dark-1845065_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="1920" height="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NsDiFVrp0nc/X-eQAGWmB8I/AAAAAAAA1tQ/xju_uu37a_oHydB_nkA8etxGGPrQ_2vrwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h268/dark-1845065_1920.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-86758543549801963352020-11-03T08:32:00.011-08:002020-11-03T09:12:45.453-08:00Election Day: A How-to Poem for America <p><span id="docs-internal-guid-f0d82127-7fff-6522-b116-111887f57e71"><br /></span></p><div align="left" dir="ltr" style="margin-left: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-8ed96c45-7fff-e9e3-3637-b875f82c85c1"><br /><div align="left" dir="ltr" style="margin-left: 0pt;"><table style="border-collapse: collapse; border: none; table-layout: fixed; width: 468pt;"><colgroup><col width="32"></col><col></col></colgroup><tbody><tr style="height: 0pt;"><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">E</span></p></td><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Enjoy the little moments like the last glow of the moon in the morning, the sip of hot cocoa or coffee to start your day, the breath you take, in and out.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 0pt;"><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">L</span></p></td><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Laugh with someone, a friend or a stranger on the street, as you smile at a loose puppy running to greet you or a small child jumping in the leaves.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 0pt;"><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">E</span></p></td><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Exercise, even just a little, do some stretches, take a walk, take a break from the screen or the dishes or the duties that must be done.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 0pt;"><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">C</span></p></td><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Choose compassion. We all need an extra dose.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 0pt;"><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">T</span></p></td><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Try to see the good in others</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 0pt;"><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I</span></p></td><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ignore the impulse to judge someone whose life you know little about.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 0pt;"><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">O</span></p></td><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Open your ears and listen; sometimes that's the best way to be compassionate.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 0pt;"><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">N</span></p></td><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Neglect the news as much as you can so that all the above may be possible on this day. </span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 0pt;"><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">D</span></p></td><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dance like no one is watching.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 0pt;"><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A</span></p></td><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Allow hope to guide you.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 1.0462646484375pt;"><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Y</span></p></td><td style="overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes, we will make it through.</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table></div></span></div><p><span><span><span><span><span><span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O9J5gExjMMw/X6GF0mLYd1I/AAAAAAAA038/_CSibRYmvBoThzZ4gSji4z6wFflTa4cWACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/pexels-dominika-roseclay-2023384.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1437" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O9J5gExjMMw/X6GF0mLYd1I/AAAAAAAA038/_CSibRYmvBoThzZ4gSji4z6wFflTa4cWACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/pexels-dominika-roseclay-2023384.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span><p></p>Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-6340164789726350362020-10-19T21:32:00.002-07:002020-10-20T07:25:45.914-07:00Woolly Bears and Flying Tigers<p>"There's an all black one just down the trail. You know, they say that these caterpillars can predict if we are going to have a bad winter." </p><p>The kind woman continued on her way as Geddy and I watched a fuzzy caterpillar crawl through the dead grass on the side of the pavement. He had just assisted this one to safety, not willing to see it die by squashing as many bicycle tires zoomed past. It curled onto a stick after gentle coaxing, and then released its grip, moving without hesitation or any apparent fear, as if children with sticks were a natural mode of transportation. </p><p>We mounted our bikes again, using our "I Spy" eyes to spot several more daredevil multipeds as we pedaled through the autumn day, unexpected rescuers of these tiny meteorologists. Geddy was pleased to take on the role, though we spied many who had no chance of recovery. </p><p>I'd seen these traveling critters before and forgotten their name, so when we reached our destination for rest and a treat, I Googled them on my phone. Woollybears. Yes, that sounded familiar. Then I saw that they transform into a type of moth. "Hey, bud," I called over to Geddy, who was hopping about on some giant rocks and snacking on his chocolate chip cookie. "These bears turn into tigers." </p><p>How can something so small carry the weight of such ferocious names? It's all about the coats and colors they wear. The burnt orange band in the midst of a black body of fuzz foreshadows the orange wings to come, with black markings very tiger like. And, like bears, the caterpillars are supposed to hibernate through the cold weather, so perhaps, though they should be awake mostly at night, they are out in droves storing up calories for the long winter coming. I tried to decipher the message in their colored bands. Were they narrow stripes or broad? Wide means a mild winter and narrow means look out! Snow's coming. But we saw a variety, including the all-black one, so I guess we can't rely on these weather forecasters to give us any certainty.</p><p>That's a shame, because I'd like to know something about the near future. I don't want all the answers, but it'd be nice to plan a little. I'd like to be prepared for something, instead of how I've been going each day over these last seven months wondering when the other shoe will drop, and will it be a heavy steel-toed boot or a light flip-flop? I'd plan to duck and dodge one and let the other glance off my shoulder, no big deal. Instead, it's like being a caterpillar. We go across the path not knowing if we'll get smashed or if someone will carry us to the other side. </p><p>Here's what I really wonder: Do the woollybears know that they will get wings? </p><p>There's a beautiful story called <i>Hope for the Flowers</i>, by Trina Paulus, about a dissatisfied little caterpillar named Stripe, who got stuck in the hunt for "more" and forgot who he was and who he was meant to be. He ends up doing what he sees every other caterpillar doing, because they seem to have forgotten as well who they are and they climb caterpillar pillars, stepping on one another as they try to reach the top, but getting nowhere. They want meaning, they want more, but their actions day in and day out are meaningless. What makes the story beautiful is that Stripe, thanks to his friend, Yellow, finally gets it, and leaves the pillar to become a butterfly. </p><p>What would Stripe have done with his days as a caterpillar, had he realized all along that soon he would transform into another creature and fly? Would he have lived in fear, because it's kind of a big deal to go through such a change? Would he have waited impatiently, longing to reach his "better" self? Would he have actually been more content? </p><p>I don't know what will happen next. I see no sign of wings where my shoulder blades are. So much really is meaningless. Maybe that shoe will drop and hit us and hurt. Maybe I don't want to know. I can't live for the "what might" any more than I can for the "what was." I guess I'll just be here, crawling along, trying to see what's right in front of me and reaching out to hold it close. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fsTSVwVpXMg/X45nZyKUKyI/AAAAAAAA0bU/D2SnvAN7oeYZMLjo8a7X-Q9v5yhBWnPeQCLcBGAsYHQ/s720/woolly-bear-caterpillar-winter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="720" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fsTSVwVpXMg/X45nZyKUKyI/AAAAAAAA0bU/D2SnvAN7oeYZMLjo8a7X-Q9v5yhBWnPeQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/woolly-bear-caterpillar-winter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-87038974651159746952020-09-17T07:45:00.003-07:002020-09-17T07:45:25.700-07:00The Apple Seed<p> <span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Apple Seed</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-fe016290-7fff-dd15-5bcc-0dac4baa205a"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He pinches the apple seed,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">rescued from the core.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pokes it into the soil of the flower box,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">pats it down with confidence.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No more trips to WinCo for apples,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">he assures me.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’ll climb our apple tree and pick them.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This faith, that if he plants it, they will grow.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Squirrels ignore this seed in its shallow nest.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It sprouts and thrives on sunlight, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">a boy’s hope.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He passes dreams to this new life:</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Soon, surely this year, you’ll be mighty.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It rises </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">a foot above the box,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">a promise grows </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">to feed our family for life.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Soon, surely this year, apples </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">will weigh down its branches.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As tall as my child,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the leafy sapling fills out,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">soon surpassing the height of his daddy. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The boy creates a sign:</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Water my tallest plant Monday Wednesday Friday.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think he forgets all about it. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But no. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The boy sees; he knows.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Soon, surely this year, he’ll be climbing.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I worry. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Will it die? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Where will we place an apple tree,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">when our yard crowds with maples?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I plant it in a bigger pot.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We wait.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wonder with my boy.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Soon, surely next summer, apples. </span></p><div><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FsO8vw2kZWc/X2N2CqZOvnI/AAAAAAAAzh4/B2xtNbcxQQ0i93IVDq1sUx9eCAcjSoPjQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/pexels-kristina-paukshtite-1444630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FsO8vw2kZWc/X2N2CqZOvnI/AAAAAAAAzh4/B2xtNbcxQQ0i93IVDq1sUx9eCAcjSoPjQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/pexels-kristina-paukshtite-1444630.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add Photo by <span style="background-color: #e8e8e8; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "segoe ui", roboto, oxygen, cantarell, "helvetica neue", ubuntu, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: start;"><a href="https://www.pexels.com/@kpaukshtite?utm_content=attributionCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pexels" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-decoration-line: none;">Kristina Paukshtite</a></span><span style="background-color: #e8e8e8; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "segoe ui", roboto, oxygen, cantarell, "helvetica neue", ubuntu, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: start;"> from </span><span style="background-color: #e8e8e8; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "segoe ui", roboto, oxygen, cantarell, "helvetica neue", ubuntu, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: start;"><a href="https://www.pexels.com/photo/close-up-photography-of-apple-tree-1444630/?utm_content=attributionCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pexels" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-decoration-line: none;">Pexels</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-16889704844714599452020-08-24T13:49:00.001-07:002020-08-24T13:49:03.392-07:00In Training<p> I'm a serious soul. Chit chat drains me. Hot days sour me. Below the tip-of-the-iceberg is where I like to dwell in thought and conversation. I'm drawn to the darker days with a cool breeze because they brighten my mood. The book or movie that turns me into a rain cloud of tears moves me because I feel deeply. (But don't label this English major as a fan of <i>Wuthering Heights</i>. No. Just no.)</p><p>Still, I often entertain ideas of being a stand-up comedian. I like a dry joke that brings just a twitch to the corners of my mouth. Those parent tweets of the week? They crack me up. And in my house there's a certain small person who knows how to make me giggle. For whatever reason, however, I'm too often somber and mired in a muddy trench thinking about THE BIG PICTURE. It isn't just age that has brought me here. Five-year-old me thought frequently about the woes of the world. It's just a little much, you know?</p><p>Perhaps that's why Geddy, my perceptive son, has made it his mission in life to have Mommy smile and laugh. If he stumbles onto something that gets my eyes twinkling, he knows he's struck gold and he keeps it up. It's a rare treat. Whether it's pulling faces, dancing around the room, or saying hilarious quotes, he'll do what he can to center my smile in the moment. </p><p>The latest tactic involves a much more physical participation from me. Geddy calls it "training." We each grab a pillow, he gets the biggest, and face off near our giant bean bag. Then we run at each other. I usually twist to the side and smash him into the bean bag, but he's gotten some new moves where he circles around and sometimes, sometimes he catches me off guard and down I go. Down I go laughing. That's really what it's all about. I know he loves the action, the jumping, the bouncing, but he told me we were in training for the laughter. Mommy laughter. </p><p>It's so good for me. For us. This smokey, hazy, dreary, sickly everything surrounding us right now is definitely not bringing me joy. The busy season has begun with school, work, and the ever-present chores, but we'll be taking training breaks around here. And telling jokes. And pulling faces. And remembering that the big picture is made up of all these little colorful pixels of life. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aw4IpwZmZsQ/X0QnP8Gpp9I/AAAAAAAAzFE/vdlNTDrJ0Gg0-0D2WiZXMc16gQNePvc4wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1920/smiley-2055680_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1745" data-original-width="1920" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aw4IpwZmZsQ/X0QnP8Gpp9I/AAAAAAAAzFE/vdlNTDrJ0Gg0-0D2WiZXMc16gQNePvc4wCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/smiley-2055680_1920.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-31287078615369885532020-08-17T20:56:00.003-07:002020-08-17T20:56:58.819-07:00First Grade in Our One-Room Schoolhouse<p>Geddy started first grade today, and it was both strangely familiar to my first day of school in the 80s and wildly different at the same time. Let me elaborate.</p><p>When Geddy entered kindergarten, it was a whole new world for all of us. Kindergarten for me had been learning at home from my parents and sister, without a formal curriculum but with lots of books. We had computers, don't think that we didn't, and I remember playing memory games on the Texas Instruments. But I wasn't really "going to school" that year. I spent a lot of time watching old shows on our tiny black and white TV and running errands with my mom. For Luke, he attended a part-time kindergarten taught by his grandmother. There were a few other students included, but even though it was a little more school-like than my experience, it still wasn't formal. Geddy going to kindergarten meant a big public school with a non-relative for a teacher and multiple "specials" classes taught by more adults he'd never met before. It was every day, with bells ringing, lines for entering and leaving the school, and announcements over the intercom. The sort of business I had only witnessed on TV or read about in books when I was a kid. </p><p>This year was supposed to be the same, only he would spend all day at school, and even ride the bus once a week! I bought him a lunch box and wondered if he needed a new backpack. I wondered how he would do away from home for so long. I wondered how I would do. I guess I'll keep wondering. </p><p>Today, we started school at home, in the basement, in the former guestroom that we converted into a classroom.</p><p>In many ways it felt like "playing school" when I was little. We had all his supplies ready, just in case. A notebook, pencils, crayons, glue sticks. We stared at the map of the United States we had tacked to the wall. The globe on the little table sat ready to be spun, though it doesn't light up like mine from my childhood. During the day he read to me and I read to him. We had recess in the backyard, shooting hoops. He even did some learning activities on his computer. Of course we connected to the internet instead of clicking a cartridge into a slot above the keyboard. The only parts missing were watching black and white TV and going to the store. </p><p>Oh, but did I mention he and 25 other students signed into their computers to meet their teacher in a virtual environment? No bells, no lines, no cafeteria, no playground hijinks. No need to pack a lunch or a backpack. No fear of heading out the door too late. Instead of putting on shoes he put on a headset. And if any student talked out of turn, all the teacher had to do was press the mute button. Online school is not new, but it is not what we planned.</p><p>Though strange, it's kind of cool to look around our little one-room schoolhouse and realize that I get some more time with my son at home. I'm excited, too, that I can be present in his classroom every day (sorry, teacher!) and know what he's being taught. Some might wonder why I don't just homeschool Geddy, but we want to keep him connected to our local district so that he can more easily transition back when it is safe to do so. He's a social guy that needs other kids and grownups to interact with and learn from. For now, school at home <i>is</i> homeschool, just with an extra grownup. The only drawback to this semester is that no matter how much snow we get, there will be no snow day. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SACLuX3iZjk/XztRQjimQyI/AAAAAAAAy8c/T5IRkx_vMPMLpQxGnVb_4MmSE6-OJia4ACPcBGAsYHg/s4032/IMG_20200812_150858008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SACLuX3iZjk/XztRQjimQyI/AAAAAAAAy8c/T5IRkx_vMPMLpQxGnVb_4MmSE6-OJia4ACPcBGAsYHg/s640/IMG_20200812_150858008.jpg" /></a></div> <p></p><p><br /></p>Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-18144511337434024882020-05-27T22:43:00.001-07:002020-05-27T22:46:02.037-07:00Just Keep Swimming: When the only open pool is a parking lotResilience<br />
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Merriam-Webster provides a definition of resilience as "an ability to recover from or adjust easily to misfortune or change."<br />
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This word keeps popping up lately. The counselor lesson for the final week of school in Geddy's district was resilience. We sat and watched online as one of the school counselors read <i>The Hugging Tree: A Story About Resilience</i>, by Jill Neimark. A tree grows on a cliff, facing storms and dangers, but stays strong and determined through it all, largely because of the kindness of a young boy. The same day we heard this book, I signed into a Zoom session my friend, a speech language pathologist and professor, was presenting about stuttering in children and how to build their resiliency. I had signed in for the chance to "see" my friend and get a glimpse of her in professional mode, but I was surprised as she dove into the topic. </div>
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Her focus was on helping children who struggle with confidence and self-esteem because of their stuttering, but what hit me was that we can teach children, and even ourselves, how to become resilient. Sure, I'd kind of known that. Therapy, church, meditation, prayer, exercise, friendship-all these are about helping people feel loved and strong and work through their mistakes and handle stress. But how often do we either neglect teaching resilience or get it terribly wrong? How often do we casually throw around the phrase "children are resilient," as if to imply that kids will just automatically bounce back and they will be fine regardless of what life throws at them? How often do we rush in to say, "don't cry," or "buck up," thinking that burying the emotion in the moment is the way to get over the bumps in life? </div>
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In the past, most of the time I heard "children are resilient," it sounded like the wrong notes in a familiar song. I would think, sure, maybe some children are, but there are some scars on the soul that never fade. Why are so many adults screwed up? They have moments from childhood from which they didn't recover. When I became a parent, suddenly hearing, and even saying to others, "children are resilient," became an immense comfort because I didn't (and don't) want my mistakes to mess up my kid. (I sure hope he's resilient, because otherwise he's screwed!) </div>
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It eats away at me to dismiss children's feelings and tell them to "just get over it," when I, as an adult, don't want anyone saying that to me. I can't imagine any adult wants to be told that. </div>
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This whole pandemic thing, a likely reason resiliency is a hot topic, makes me want to watch what I say in regard to helping my family or friends through so much sadness and change. I'm not going to say, "buck up," but what if even saying "it's going to get better!" is the same as a slap in the face? What if I spew out, well-intentioned but ill-timed phrases such as "at least you didn't lose your job," or "at least your family is healthy"? I don't think that would teach anyone how to be resilient. </div>
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I think I'd rather join Dory, my favorite animated fish, and sing, "just keep swimming." Just keep going, don't give up. That's not much of a tool, especially for those of us who never learned how to swim, but it's positive without assuming anything or preaching. I mean, it could still be the wrong thing to say, but maybe if I can figure out how to wear the attitude-teach myself resilience-I can better share it with others. </div>
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It turns out that this week a bunch of children (innately resilient? explicitly taught by loving adults in their lives?) modeled resilience in a very literal Dory way. Though neighborhood swimming pools should be getting ready to open for the summer, our city has announced that they won't open at all this season. COVID-19 is cancelling a lot of fun, and it just keeps going. But as the city also spent the day flushing water lines, they inadvertently flooded a parking lot that has a clogged drain. As Geddy and I were heading out to play ball in the park, we noticed the massive man-made pond. Three kids, siblings, were already splashing away, and Geddy raced to join in. Soon, a father and three kids showed up in a car. Then another father and two kids rode up on bikes. Two more kids on bikes were followed by three others. Shoes came off, clothes became drenched, and parents waited on shore, shouting advice for keeping distance. My son shouted his excitement that he got to have a pool party for his birthday week. Two kids went home and came back with goggles and swam under water, the width of the lot. Yes, the water was dirty. Yes, some kids had trouble keeping that social distance. But there was joy. There was a moment in time that could be remembered not for what was canceled but what was created. It was hope. </div>
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Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-30614112960909722382020-04-30T06:29:00.001-07:002020-04-30T06:29:13.438-07:00As a Bird<br />
Up the trunk, following Geddy who narrates, “Step here, and here. This might be hard for you, because you’re in your older years.”<br />
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I, at 40, laugh but sigh: some truth to that. He knows that I used to climb trees as a child. For a moment, my eyes close and the river damp floods my nostril memories of Russian Olive, Weeping Willow. Where’s the sweet scent of horse’s nose, searching for the girl stretched out on a branch, dangling her legs in open air?<br />
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My eyes return to my son, crawling along, finding his footholds, finding his triumph at climbing so high.<br />
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“Is this the highest you’ve ever climbed as a parent?”<br />
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I turn my head about, gaze below. “Yes, I think it is.”<br />
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“And now we have our picnic,” he smiles.<br />
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We snack on granola bars, not minding the crumbs tumbling down to ants and whatever else hides in the weeds.<br />
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I see the people, sometimes two by two, moving along the dirt trail near us. It might be a regular weekend. Then some walk by in cloth face masks. Others give the next passersby a wide berth. In this tree are we safe from everything but falling?<br />
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I wish to stay all day, like the birds who continue nesting and singing, ignorant of panic. Or do they know? Do they know that all around them the humans are hoarding? Do they shake their feathers, sad at our fear? Matthew comes to mind.<br />
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“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them” (6:26). <br />
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But I am not a bird. I don’t have that trust, though I’ve known my entire life that I should. When have I been without?<br />
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We climb down, explore around the fallen tree, finding more hiding places for spiders and snakes. Another snippet comes to mind, though I forget the poet’s name: “It’s never the edges of the world that worry.” I feel like I’m on the edge and worry is all I see. We’re all afraid we’ll disappear, like in a magician’s trick, but he won’t be able to bring us back.<br />
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Down by the river’s edge, we stumble along on the rocks, trying not to splash the toes of our shoes in water or muck. Geddy makes a game as we avoid touching any wet part of the rocks, moving down the bank, ducking under branches. The Canada geese are nesting near. The mallards swim about in twos. They keep going, ready to raise their families, even as the world feels stuck in a time loop.<br />
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A heron flies over the river, graceful giant, off to the rookery to attend to its own nest. This parent must go “shopping” daily for food, hunt it down, and take it back to its offspring. I cringe to go to the grocery store where even in a time of empty shelves I find enough to feed my family.<br />
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Before long, Geddy and I return to our home, our roost, with warmth and water and beds. With snacks and games and books. He shares the excitement of our adventure with Luke, telling how I climbed, too; delighting in the look of horror on his daddy’s face while watching the video of the snake we saw.<br />
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I imagine fluffing my feathers, tucking my son under my wing, knowing that tomorrow’s troubles are for tomorrow. Are we safe here? Safe for today.<br />
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Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-40049537577057073832020-04-24T20:32:00.002-07:002020-04-24T20:38:17.352-07:00Creating a Final Exam In the era of Covid-19(Guest post by Luke Hindman)<br />
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The Covid-19 pandemic has resulted in a lot of changes to the way I teach and interact with students in my courses. Working from home these last six weeks has added its own unique set of challenges. It has also resulted in a breaking down of some of the barriers between my professional life and my personal life. What follows is a snapshot of trying to update the Final Exam for CS121 so that students will be able to take it at home.<br />
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Morning department and committee Zoom meetings beginning at 9:00a. Meet with other instructors teaching CS121 at 10:30a. Four instructors teach six sections. After an hour of discussion, come up with a plan.<br />
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<b>Tuesday</b><br />
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I actually don’t know what happened on Tuesday. Maybe there was a time warp and this day was skipped???<br />
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<b>Wednesday</b><br />
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Meetings with students, teach over Zoom, office hours, email… Beautiful day so a quick 17 mile bike ride to Lucky Peak. No time to work on the exam.<br />
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<b>Thursday</b><br />
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Zoom meetings all morning. Start working on the exam in the afternoon and realize there is no way that the plan we came up with on Monday will work. Send the course coordinator a text explaining why our plan won't work. Ask if we can have a Zoom meeting for later that night to discuss it after kids are in bed.<br />
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Get out of shower around 8:35p, see that I received a response from the coordinator at 8:30p saying we could meet at 8:40p. I check the time and it is now 8:38p. I text a quick response “Works for me!” I finish drying off and grab a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt from the closet and am still drying my hair when the Zoom session begins. In a moment of panic I quickly check the shirt to make sure I didn’t accidentally grab my DNS is Sexy shirt.<br />
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Quick tangent here… It is amazing to me how my attire for Zoom meetings has changed over the last six weeks. Business Professional slid to Business Casual, then Casual, and now At-Least-I'm-Dressed. Sheesh!<br />
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Thankfully I had grabbed my Commodore64 T-shirt. Breathing a prayer of thanks, I jump into our discussion. Fifteen minutes later we have a workable plan. We spend another 15 minutes catching up on life and then return to our evening plans. One to “Good Omens” on Amazon Prime and the other to “Tiger King” on Netflix.<br />
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<b>Friday</b><br />
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Begin working on exam questions, but have trouble focusing. Text the course coordinator. She has a similar struggle and is not making progress either. I go dig dandelions. I’m just getting settled down to start working on the exam again when my 6-year-old son begins complaining that he is bored. I offer him a dollar to pick the heads off all the dandelions in the front and back yards. He counters with 50 cents for just the backyard. I consider that a win and accept the deal.<br />
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Go back inside and write the exam overview and review guide. I send a copy to the course coordinator for her feedback. She is frustrated at creating exam questions. I suggest we pull a few questions from our existing quiz pool and only create a few code reading questions. She loves the idea.<br />
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At this point I feel really good about my progress and it is a beautiful day, so I bike to Lucky Peak.<br />
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Feeling satisfied with the ride and all the progress I’d made on the exam, I grab coffee on the way home so I can have a burst of energy to wrap up the exam questions.<br />
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While drinking the coffee I receive an email from a friend asking about how professors create final exams. I feel this is an important question that requires serious consideration. When I get home I write this blog post describing the process. I check the clock, realize that it is nearly 5:00p, and decide to call it a day. I'll finish the exam on Monday!<br />
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And THAT is how a final exam is created in the era of Covid-19.<br />
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Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-35673666598847967802020-04-23T14:13:00.003-07:002020-04-24T13:21:50.693-07:00Look at What We Have<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“You’re going to say no, but I have an idea.”</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">He stood before me, so tall at almost seven years old. I looked at my phone: ah, how-to-avoid-going-to-bed thirty. Right on schedule. I looked into my son’s negotiating blue eyes and decided to listen before opening my mouth. </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“You change into your pajamas, and Daddy changes into his, and I change into mine, so if you say no, I will be ready for bed. But I’m not going to tell you what we’re doing yet, ‘cause I don’t want you to say no yet.” My boy kept eye contact, presenting his plea. </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Getting comfortable in my pjs sounded reasonable. After a long day in this new stay-at-home era of social distancing, and trying to clean the house and corral a boy through rewards and promises into “doing school” at the dining room table without interrupting Daddy in his office; we all needed some comfort. </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Once we convinced Daddy to change, our son revealed what he had in mind.</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“So, we’re going to the backyard and we’re going to take out some chairs, and pillows, and blankets, and we’re going to look at the sunset and the stars, and look at our beautiful big tree and our park, and our house.” </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I did not want to say no to what sounded like a take-it-all-in and be thankful moment. No screens. No news. No work. No thoughts of what we couldn’t do or where we couldn’t go. </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I arranged two dining room chairs on our back porch and returned with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Daddy came quietly, in pjs and coat, and Geddy brought out another blanket. </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Daddy and I sat down in the chairs and Geddy said he wanted to sit on my lap first. I opened the hand-knitted blanket and wrapped him right in. His long legs reached so far, my lap could hardly hold his length. But he who dislikes kisses and says I tell him I love him far too often, he wanted to cuddle up with his mommy, so I offered no complaints. </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">We watched a neighbor family of four play pickleball on the tennis court in the park. The echoing ‘plock’ competed with my thumping heartbeat. Three quiet dogs stalked each other in the grass, running about then dropping to their bellies and crawling, somehow not breaking into sound. Pink clouds stretched their fingers, holding onto light. The hint of yellow-orange glow amongst the trees and the houses sheltered above the horizon.</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Geddy spoke first, directing our attention. “Look at our big tree. Now look at our house.” We turned our heads. “Look at our garden beds. I can’t wait til spring.”</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Spring is here,” I murmured.</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“No more winter?”</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well, it could still snow, but basically no more winter.”</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I looked at the bulging buds on the tree branches and the bright green of new grass shoots. Spring dared to venture out of hiding. </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Our backyard started yawning toward evening as we kept looking around, snuggling in the blanket. Then my boy got up and said it was time to snuggle with Daddy. I felt the absence of his warmth and weight, like the time of his birth, when nesting him safe inside me had ended. </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">In the fenced yard, time waited with us, but darkness frowned with impatience. </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Then the goodnights began. </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Good night, trees.”</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Good night, slides.”</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Good night, moon,” said Daddy.</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hey, that’s a book!” Geddy chimed in.</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I said, “Good night, slugs.”</span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Slugs!” Roared Geddy. </span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And then we blinked. The light had faded; the blush gone from the sky. We carried the chairs and dragged the blankets back inside. Then our boy climbed his ladder to his loft bed. We tucked him in and prayed “Thanks,” and “Please.” And we whispered, “Good night, Geddy.” And we paused. And I thought, Look at what we have. </span><br />
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Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-79496292666831775872020-04-19T14:57:00.002-07:002020-04-19T15:05:50.257-07:00In Quarantine With the Seven DwarvesMy husband's sneezes shook the room. Yes, he appropriately covered his nose and mouth, but nonetheless I wondered if another earthquake had happened. It wasn't moments before that the house was also startled by a loud crack when our son slammed his bedroom door. I sat in silence after the storms, watching our cat sleep peacefully in the chair across from me. Then it hit me: I am in quarantine with the seven dwarves.<br />
<br />
I know, it's just three of us here, well, four, counting the cat, but somehow this home confinement can make it feel as if we have a crowd. All the emotions keep coming out and bumping into each other. Sometimes Happy can be hard to find, though we take turns being him. If there was a Weepy dwarf, he could be me when I watch another good-news story about kindness and helpers. Although, the allergies affecting my husband bring out more than just the Sneezy in him. I've always been Bashful around people outside my family, but I suppose he isn't present much when I'm stuck at home. Our son can change from Happy to Grumpy with the blink of an eye. I sit here hoping he can switch back just as quickly.<br />
<br />
If the cat is Sleepy, then where does that leave Doc and Dopey? Well, those fall to my husband, too. He's brainy as always, not letting this time of uncertainty diminish his creativity. There's the rocket launcher he built the other day. And he's a professor, working tirelessly from home to teach his students online. The Dopey side comes in with part allergy-pill-popping and his quirky sense of humor. Case in point: As I just finished telling him about all the dwarves living here, he flashed a sly grin and said that if he's going to be a dwarf, he's got dibs on Sexy. <br />
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-69519689486474668292019-10-21T12:19:00.001-07:002019-10-21T12:19:14.735-07:00Minimizing the Minimalism A few years ago I bought one of those homemaking bundles on the internet that offers hundreds of ebooks, courses, and information on keeping the home organized—all for one low-hurry-up-and-order price. Topics ranged from budgets to meal plans, managing clutter to making your own soap. I suddenly had access to all these "experts" who could help me get rid of junk mail and always know where to find the mates to my socks. I was sure I had the determination to follow all the advice and make our home stress-free. As I started skimming and reading through the material, however, I discovered that only some of it was useful and most of it just cluttered up my computer and my brain. I didn't have less stress I had more.<br />
<br />
I next tried listening to a podcast about organizing the home, but I came to the realization that everything the hosts were discussing <i><b>didn't have any meaning</b></i> at all to thousands of people in this world. Meal planning? For families who eat only one meal a day, they know exactly what's for dinner—if they're lucky enough to even have dinner. Organizing your closets? There are people in the world who have maybe two outfits total. Maybe just one. Reducing the clutter in your kids' rooms? Some families have only one bedroom where everyone sleeps, with room enough only for beds or mats on the floor.<br />
<br />
Why, when I had a safe home in a safe neighborhood with plenty of food to eat, clean water, money to pay the bills, time to take vacation with my family, was I suffering under the stress of trying to not have so much stuff in my life? How did I get there?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
I was born in a certain skin, in a certain culture, in a certain social class, to a certain hard-working and loving family, in a certain part of a certain country where I don't have to wonder how I'm going to feed my family or whether we'll have a place to sleep each night. Accidents and unexpected illnesses could happen to us, but we have a relative security that so many thousands of people in the world don't have. That I get stressed about having too much has become rather sickening to me.<br />
<br />
It's become too easy to buy anything I want, whenever I want, to be delivered right to my door if I want. But the easy shopping leads to a crowded life that leads me down a path of taking everything for granted. Then the burdens pile on, and not only have I forgotten to be grateful, but I'm grouchy and uncomfortable in my comfortable life. And I'm not even rich! Sometimes I go to enter a sweepstakes and then I catch myself thinking, What if I win? I'll really be miserable! Ha!<br />
<br />
So I start looking for help, but there are so many experts out there making money on this problem of abundance that shouldn't even be a problem. Yes, some of them have genuine hearts to help people. Some of them just want to make millions. They aren't wrong that having too much is a problem. They aren't wrong that the educated, privileged, well-off don't always know how to take care of the smallest details. But running out and buying all their books and taking all their courses isn't necessarily the way to solve it. There's the danger that people will think as I did that if I just read the right book, listen to the right podcast, I'll get everything together.<br />
<br />
The trouble is, what do I do? Prayer, yoga, deep-breathing exercises might be a start, but I think I need to stop looking for the solution in the minimalism frenzy. For me, anyway, I've got to put down the books and log off the websites and just tackle each job one at a time. It's not easy. But there are bigger problems out there.<br />
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-15674249594065319602019-10-03T08:36:00.001-07:002019-10-03T08:36:30.520-07:00Learning to Hold My Tongue and Cover My EarsThe other day, as I nagged in my usual mom way, reminding Geddy of all he had to do, words of wisdom flowed from his mouth, catching my breath as I heard: "It's hard for you to remember that I'm growing."<br />
<br />
Apologizing and biting my tongue, I said I would try to let him show me he can be responsible without my constant prodding. I'll try.<br />
<br />
Because yes, my son, it's hard. I see you still as my baby, just as mothers do, even when my baby is not only walking and talking, but picking out his own clothes to wear and dressing himself in the mornings; pouring his own juice and cleaning up his spilled water; going to school and learning to read on his own. It's hard for me to see that you can make many of your own decisions now and that you have to experience mistakes and failure to grow. It's hard because I don't want you to grow up, and yet of course I do.<br />
<br />
At the beginning of kindergarten I worried: what if he's still not ready? But, seven weeks in, he's showing Luke and me that now is just the right time. He comes home talking of new friends, new lessons learned, new games played. When I pick him up after school, his friendly voice calls out kids by name, telling them goodbye. He still needs help and guidance, but he's moving into this new phase of life with gusto.<br />
<br />
And his vocabulary is growing quite nicely. Before bed the other night, as I sat in the dark of Geddy's room, singing his goodnight songs, I heard a bump.<br />
<br />
"What happened?"<br />
<br />
"I hit my head on the wall."<br />
<br />
"Ouch. Are you ok?"<br />
<br />
"Cover your ears; I'm going to say a bad word."<br />
<br />
"Oh really? Ok. Go ahead."<br />
<br />
"HELL!"<br />
<br />
"Do you feel better?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
"Go to sleep. I love you."<br />
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-74055010290139864932019-08-28T09:19:00.002-07:002019-08-28T09:19:39.906-07:00Walking Away, Waving BackThose blue shoes tied on you, carrying along your green backpack with water, a snack, and a folder,<br />
run to search for new friends on the playground. They take you away from me, into a world of bells, worksheets, music class, PE, and the pledge of allegiance. Into several hours each day, Monday through Friday, when I won't have my eyes on you. I won't hear you humming, laughing, making explosion noises as you play Minecraft or LEGOs. I won't see you listening, chasing other kids, eating a granola bar before recess. I won't know every detail of your day and chances are, you won't tell me. And that's OK.<br />
<br />
No tears flow down my face as I watch you race away. But then you turn and wave, keep running, turn and wave again, looking back at me. I know somewhere I'm still on your mind today, just as you are on mine. I'm still a part of you and you are still a part of me. You grow, you stretch, you fly. I'm still here. You're still you.<br />
<br />
I wave back, too, and walk away. I wave and walk away, but take a little of you with me, and leave a little of me there, smiling at you on the playground, waiting for you to return.<br />
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-29626166532982906832019-08-21T08:48:00.002-07:002019-08-21T08:48:57.485-07:00Nothing Masked the Odor, but the Perpetrator Wore a Mask<br />
<br />
When camping, it's not unusual to encounter some nasty odors. Whether it's from one's own body, not showering for days--and hey, who remembered to pack the deodorant?--or the eyeball-scorching smoke from the fire after throwing on something that shouldn't be burned. Maybe it's the dead whale decomposing on the beach, such as we experienced this summer, or the vomit-inducing waft from the dumpster every time a camper opens it; a campground can be rank. It's worth it, of course, to live through the stench, and there are plenty of welcome aromas to overpower the bad ones. Who can resist the smell of sun-baked pine trees, salty sea air, crackling sticks on the fire? Even the scents of sunscreen, bug spray, and my son's sweaty hair make me happy. Camping smells bring smiles because we're away from the daily have-to's and into the outdoor must-haves that open up all our senses to restore our souls.<br />
<br />
After a long trip in the car, I was ready to leave the smells of gas station pit stops and greasy fast food to breathe in all of nature under the trees, by the ocean, in Cape Disappointment State Park. Summer almost always finds our family somewhere along the Pacific. This year we ventured into new territory, crossing over into Washington after a visit to one of our favorite Oregon treasures. We got the key to our yurt--hey, it's still camping!--and drove the winding way through the park to our site. It looked just as it should, just like the yurts in Oregon, so we knew it would be clean and comfortable. I unlocked the door, swung it wide, stepped inside, and smacked my olfactories into an unwelcoming yuck.<br />
<br />
It wasn't the smell of death, garbage, or cleaning solution. When I sniffed the canvas siding and the furniture, nothing struck me as the source of the grossness. It smelled like urine, I was immediately convinced. Perhaps the previous occupants had sneaked in an incontinent dog? Luke rolled up the window coverings and we went to work airing it out, while also unloading the car. Maybe the smell would be gone in a few hours. We shrugged and went to the beach.<br />
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That night, the smell still there, I started to get used to it, but Luke was getting a headache. The next afternoon, Luke was sitting outside the yurt, reading, and I was going back and forth from the yurt to the picnic table, getting lunch ready. Geddy and I had already wandered the campground, found the dead whale, and experienced a few mosquito bites, but the day was warm and all was well. Except for the smell. It seemed just as strong, maybe even stronger than when we had arrived. Luke glanced over at the camp host's RV, wondering if the hosts were there, and suggested we go ask them about dealing with the smell. So I went and knocked on their door.<br />
<br />
The friendly woman came out and heard my story and walked over to a phone, made for contacting the camp office, and called in our drama. But then she wanted to come over and check out the smell herself, as we waited for park rangers.<br />
<br />
I thought she'd probably not notice anything at all, since she lives there months of the year, smelling all the camp smells on a daily basis. I hoped she wouldn't think we were clueless city slickers or whiners, vying for a discount on our accommodations. With a little relief, I heard her say that she smelled something not so good. Of course there wasn't anything she could do about it, so we chatted awhile and then she left, wishing us well.<br />
<br />
Moments later, a truck pulled up and a maintenance worker got out. "I heard you had a bad smell over here," he began. I stepped aside so he could go in for a whiff. "I don't smell anything," was his almost immediate response. Hmmm. Because Luke was suffering, I knew it wasn't just a smell that only women could detect, like most bad smells that men don't seem to give a second thought too. But then again, this guy spent his days cleaning up after campers, so how good was his nose? He asked if I wanted to smell the solution he used to clean the yurts. I took a big sniff and said, "Well, that actually smells good!" It was a pine scent. That was clearly NOT what we were smelling in our yurt. He apologized that he couldn't do anything and drove away.<br />
<br />
Our camp host came back over with a pop-up air freshener, hoping it would help. I set it inside on the little shelf by the door, hoping it wouldn't give <i>me</i> a headache from it's overpowering perfuminess. It was meant to smell like flowers. It did not smell like the nature I wanted to spend time in.<br />
<br />
We carried on with our lunch, enjoying being out of our yurt, away from all the smells inside. Then two pickups pulled up and two vested, armed rangers got out and walked over, looking friendly on their faces but their body language was telling me I needed to put my hands up and confess to every cookie I ever snatched from the cookie jar when my mom wasn't looking. "We understand that there is a bad odor over here? May we enter the yurt?" I led the way, confessing that now it was filled with air-freshener and they might not smell anything else. I could still smell it though.<br />
<br />
We told them that the last guy hadn't smelled anything, but that the host had. One of them laughed and said, "Well, that guy used to be a mortician, so I don't think he can smell at all!"<br />
<br />
They went inside and took a few whiffs, then one of them said, "I thought we were going to find something dead." I did some mental digging and couldn't find any crimes in my past related to dead bodies, so I sighed with relief. Then he said, "You know, it kind of smells like patchouli oil. Some people like to wear that. I don't know why. Maybe someone spilled it in here." The other guy kind of smelled something but wasn't sure. "I don't know what we can do for you. The camp is full, so we can't move you to a different yurt. Unless you want to leave and get a refund."<br />
<br />
Leave? Leave after only one night and not anywhere near enough time refueling our souls? No, we didn't want to do that. We thanked them and they got in their trucks and drove away. I looked at Luke, "Well, I guess we have to live with it. I'm sorry."<br />
<br />
The smell in the yurt (and we didn't smell it anywhere near the bathroom, incidentally) would fade and then grow stronger during our stay, and we kept wondering if it would ever stop. On a small sign inside the yurt by the door there was a notice about wildlife, specifically about raccoons. It warned us not to feed them, but that they were kind of a nuisance. Huh, I thought, I wonder if we will see any while we are here. I figured they would only come out in the late evening or night, so maybe I would stumble across one on a groggy trip to the bathroom.<br />
<br />
The next evening while I was again going to and from the yurt to get our food ready, Luke was sitting in a camp chair by the deck railing, reading a book. Suddenly, a curious little face peeked at him from between the yurt and his chair. A full-grown raccoon, not at all shy, was doing a little sniffing of her own, looking at us with moist, dark eyes.<br />
<br />
"We've got to keep the door shut," I announced. While excited to finally see a raccoon, I didn't want her little paws going through our belongings.<br />
<br />
I admit, I didn't know at that first meeting that we were being spied on by a female, but what happened next confirmed her gender. We looked around the outside of the yurt and saw one tiny body after another crawl out from underneath and wiggle along to a nearby tree. Four raccoon babies in all began following their mother up into the very top branches.<br />
<br />
Geddy and I went to watch and take pictures, admiring their cuteness. But then I stopped to think about something. Five animals were nesting under our yurt. I've heard raccoons are "clean" animals, in that they like to wash their food, but where did they go to the bathroom? And did they have any other bodily fluids that they might use to mark their territory? I concluded that we'd found the source of our nightmare odor.<br />
<br />
During the rest of our stay we got used to watching the mama coon come out and look for opportunities to steal our food. We were very careful about dropping even a crumb, not wanting to encourage her. As she wandered around, grooming her babies, and taking them on daily climbs, I remained wary, knowing that raccoons can also be aggressive little bandits.<br />
<br />
She didn't end up getting any food from us, but she snagged an open bag of Doritos from our neighbor, right in front of the woman, and raced back to dive under our yurt, leaving a trail of chips in her wake.<br />
<br />
As our time in the campground came to an end, I wondered if anything at all could be done about the raccoon problem. I didn't want the animals killed, but this was a serious issue. Chatting again with our camp host didn't bring any solution; she basically said there was nothing that could be done.<br />
<br />
Even after all the literal headache of the smelly vacation, we'll still stay in yurts again. The time on the beach, the hiking and biking on the trails, and the quiet moments just being outside as a family more than made up for the hassle of living with stinky downstairs neighbors. But we might need to add air freshener to our camping checklist for next year. Or maybe we should just stash a bunch of Doritos in the neighboring sites!<br />
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-4893681348853188852019-02-03T07:44:00.002-08:002019-02-03T07:44:37.865-08:00Barista Service Above and BeyondThere we were, visiting the local Starbucks as usual, and they know Luke by face, by name, so it wasn't unusual that the smiling blond brought him his pastry right to our table. But then everything proceeded to go off the path of expectation when she knelt down beside him and began to meticulously cut his pastry into tiny pieces.<br />
<br />
What the what?!<br />
<br />
I sat there seething, trying to be polite and therefore biting my tongue, but angry at her attention and annoyed that my husband didn't seem to mind. When she finally stopped and walked away, I let my husband have it.<br />
<br />
"Look, I appreciate that they know you well here and all, but that was going too far. Come on! What was she thinking! Why didn't you tell her to stop?"<br />
<br />
Then she walked by again, so I had to shut up. She was all smiles, as if I wasn't even there at all.<br />
<br />
When she had passed, Luke said, "It's not that big of a deal. You're making too much out of this."<br />
<br />
Argh! That only made me angrier. Then the barista had the nerve to come by again, addressing only my husband, and tell him that they had a nice wine available and he was welcome to his first two glasses on her, but he'd have to pay for his third.<br />
<br />
Wine! Seriously?<br />
<br />
I couldn't stand it! I stormed out, getting in the car to go home. I reasoned it all out again, knowing that I was in the right, ready to blow up at my husband when he came out.<br />
<br />
Then a voice started yelling, "Mommy! Mommy!" I awoke with a start, realized it was night and I was in bed, dreaming. As I went to check on my son I vowed to remember the dream so I could scold Luke in the morning.<br />
<br />
A few hours later, I awoke again, this time to the sounds of Luke getting ready for work.<br />
<br />
"Hey," I said. "I had this crazy dream." I told him all that I remembered.<br />
<br />
"Well that just sounds like good service," he replied, laughing, when I'd finished my tale.<br />
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"Ya, well she wasn't your type. She was blond."<br />
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"Oh," he said. "Well then there's nothing to worry about."<br />
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-8548451154153708452018-10-30T07:51:00.000-07:002018-10-30T07:51:40.578-07:00Count Your Blessings"Counting Every Blessing," by Rend Collective swelled on the car radio as my son and I drove through town. Kinda listening to the music and mostly lost in my thoughts, I zoned in when the voice in the backseat asked,"Why don't we count our blessings?"<br />
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"Good idea, buddy. We definitely should. Want to count some now?"<br />
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"Yeah," he answered.<br />
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"OK, what do we have? Let's see, friends are a blessing." We were on our way to join friends for some fun at the revamped historical museum.<br />
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"Candy!" yelled out the boisterous boy. "I'm thankful for candy."<br />
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"OK, candy is nice but is it something you just want or something that is really a blessing?" I tried to get us on track. "How about a nice warm house to sleep in?"<br />
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"Yeah, I hope we don't move," my son sounded concerned. "How would we move everything?"<br />
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"Well, we might move someday, but not now. We'd just pack stuff in boxes. And put stuff in a big truck. Remember the moving truck that your grandparents packed?"<br />
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"It was a big truck."<br />
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"We also have clean water to drink," I continued. "That's a blessing."<br />
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"It doesn't have leaves in it," came the confirmation.<br />
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"Right, and no nasty chemicals," I hoped. "So, I guess I haven't been counting. How many blessings did we say?" We went back and counted. Then it was quiet for a little bit.<br />
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"I liked when I was three and Daddy could pick me up and walk me on the ceiling."<br />
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I smiled as we turned into the parking lot. "That was very fun, wasn't it? I bet you could ask him if he could still do that."<br />
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"But he isn't feeling good right now," my boy replied thoughtfully. His daddy had a headache. "I don't want him to walk me on the ceiling because he needs more rest. Is that a nice thing?"<br />
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"Yes, buddy, that's very kind of you."<br />
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As we got out of the car I made sure to count one more blessing: this boy.<br />
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-1440348933370758382018-09-18T14:41:00.001-07:002018-09-18T14:41:44.461-07:00What I'll Miss<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">When you're grown, I'll miss you riding in the shopping cart, arranging all the cans in towers, boxes in rows. I'll miss you asking to visit the cookie and bread aisle for a free sample.</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">When you're too big, I'll miss you leaping into my arms from the couch, wrapping your limbs around me and saying you'll never let go.</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">When the preschool days are far behind, I'll miss you saying you love to hear me laugh. You telling knock knock jokes again and again, hoping to get me chuckling.</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I'll miss you back there in your car seat telling me the trees, the signs, the cars, and the clouds are singing as we zip along to the YMCA.</span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I'll miss the sweaty smell of your head as you crawl into bed between Daddy and me, diving beneath the blankets to hide from the shadows.</span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I'll miss your strong voice, at the top of your power, singing the classic "Spiderman" theme song as we head out the front door, eyes looking around to see if you have an audience.</span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">When you're too cool I'll miss coming downstairs to see you dancing wildly in the living room, the radio blasting whatever song fits your beat.</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I'll miss how you love to record yourself singing ABBA: "Monday, Monday, Monday; in a rich man's squirrel." </span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">When you're moved out, I'll miss checking on you before I go to bed, hearing you ask me questions in your sleep, waking abruptly in the night to you asking the time.</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">It might not seem so, but I'll miss wiping the jam from your nose, cleaning the honey from your fingers, trimming your toenails.</span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">It's in the moment, in the magic, in the ordinary; what I'll miss is side by side with little you. </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-11357874692126611532018-04-26T07:57:00.001-07:002018-04-26T07:57:33.396-07:00Morning PrayerEach morning the light reminds me of Your Light, and I sip the crispness of it, letting the warm glow slide down my throat and dismantle the darkness that kept me from sleep.<br />
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Though my eyes remain heavy and my heart fretful over what I cannot control, I seek Your promised hope. Please create a change in me that shines outward like a blessing so all will notice Your Peace on my countenance.<br />
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The darkness lost already, though I fight on in Your armor. Carry the weight and lighten my load, Dear Lord. But if not now, show me how to lead others to Your Rest.<br />
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-20779461820372727632018-03-17T15:45:00.001-07:002018-03-17T15:45:28.776-07:00ChoicesIf every person on earth looked exactly the same—same height, same weight, same hair and eye color, same skin tone, same number of fingers and toes, same curve of hip and shape of nose, same twitch of smile, same dimples and moles—would people still find ways to hate and abuse each other?<br />
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We're a messed up crowd never without a reason to pick at, squash, and topple our fellow humans. If we looked the same, we'd still ridicule one another for how we talked. If we spoke the same, we'd scoff at how others walked or danced or ran. If we moved the same, we'd still tear each other apart for having different ideas. If we thought and created the same we'd be dull, dull, dull. We'd have few choices for food on the menu at a restaurant, a limited song list for our ear buds, a lack of patterns for our clothing or designs for our buildings. Life would be a sameness that gave us no meaning. We'd have nothing to talk about, nothing to celebrate, nothing to dream.<br />
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Imagine going to a zoo that only had giant anteaters. Fascinating animals, yes, but would people want to keep going back to the zoo all the time just to look at anteaters? How fun would it be to visit an art museum that only displayed paintings with the color red? They would never get any new artwork; it would always be the same canvas pieces with red paint. What if the only type of flower that existed was a yellow rose? My grandmother's favorite flowers were yellow roses. It's comforting and joyful to have a favorite color or flower, but if there were no other options, I'm not sure if would feel as great.<br />
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One might argue that if all we ever knew was sameness, we'd be fine with it. But would we be kind? Can we have no purpose yet treat each other well? Why would we choose kindness simply because we were the same? Would it still be a choice? If we didn't have choices, would we be happy?<br />
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It's all hypothetical, to imagine a world lacking diversity. What's real are the choices we make. If we really desire sameness, let's all choose to be kind.<br />
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-55232518270040226222018-02-18T08:56:00.002-08:002018-02-18T08:56:49.480-08:00Nighttime I Love Yous"I love you to the moon and back!"<br />
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"And I love <i>you</i> to the moon and back!"<br />
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"I love you more!"<br />
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"I love <i>you</i> more!"<br />
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"I love you most!"<br />
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"I love <i>you</i> most!"<br />
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Geddy and I go back and forth like this as I snuggle him to sleep. Last night he chimed in with a new one.<br />
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"I love you to freedom and back!"<br />
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"What is freedom?"<br />
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"Freedom is the mostest loveness."<br />
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My heart is full like the moon.<br />
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-55425676121215219942018-02-15T14:59:00.001-08:002018-02-15T14:59:42.754-08:00In the WordsSongs that came to mind this morning:<br />
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"When the Children Cry," by White Lion<br />
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"Give Me Something to Believe In," by Poison<br />
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"Mad World," by Tears for Fears<br />
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"Show Me the Way," by Styx<br />
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"The Sound of Silence," covered by Disturbed (fresh in my soul after the French couple in the pairs figure skating competition rocked the tears down my face last night)<br />
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The list grows as I listen to the music. From my childhood, from now, the poetry in the words addresses several levels of pain we inflict on the world and the world on us. Right now our nation is drowning in the pain. What do we offer for healing? All we have are words.<br />
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I remarked to a friend yesterday that I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard about Columbine, but every mass shooting after is getting lost in the wicked smear of familiarity. I'm still crying but worried my tears will dry up. Will I succumb to the numb response, "My thoughts and prayers are with you" but in the normalcy of terror forget to pray? Will I type these words, wipe my tears, and forget this Valentine's Day?<br />
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What comes to mind: The pen is mightier than the sword; however, Actions speak louder than words.<br />
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What can we do?<br />
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Christians believe the madness will only get worse. The end has a light, but until then do we sit by and wait, saying it's just how it's meant to be?<br />
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Jesus said Go, do, love. What would he do with all of this? What is he doing? If we are his hands and feet, what will we do? What are we doing?<br />
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Arguing about rights and freedoms and equality and inequality and government hands off and government responsibility and rules and laws and fairness and unfairness all ends up <b>just</b> <b>being more words</b>.<br />
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I'm stuck. The sadness, the fear, the blaming, the hatred stir sickness inside me, and I want to hide or leave.<br />
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But I won't, because it's not all about me. It's about my child, your child, everyone's child. In my bewildered state I don't have answers for what to do, but I don't want to be a person "hearing without listening." We've got to work together "to a better day for all the young," or artists will keep singing the tragedies as we "turn on the news to find we've so far to go."<br />
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-7178475824300747742018-01-17T14:25:00.000-08:002018-01-17T14:25:10.787-08:00Winter's ApologyWinter tiptoed in this year, afraid she'd be unwelcome after last year's frozen fairy tale turned ugly. She asked forgiveness for ice-capped streets and cars stranded in driveways and roofs caving in or leaking. All dressed in white for Christmas, she showed us her best side. We welcomed her with tongues lifted to catch all the flakes and arms and legs in jumping-jack form to make angels. The little red sled learned to bobsled and luge and carry snowmen home. Snowballs sailed over snowfort walls, and the shovel happily scooped up fluff instead of chipping away at ice in the street gutters. Winter waltzed around, relieved to see we weren't holding a grudge.<br />
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But something went wrong because Winter left abruptly. <br />
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She left in tears, melting all but the tiniest of snow piles. She took the snowmen, Snowy and Brian, sphere by sphere, until they were nothing but memories. She took the icicles, drip by drip, as if a hairdryer burned them out. She took it all, dance over, song done. She took it well before Spring.<br />
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Did we step on her toes? Did we say something rude or sarcastic? Did we get nervous that she was settling in to stay too long? Did she get scared we'd remember running out of ice melt, falling on our backs, breaking down on a friend's street?<br />
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Maybe it was part of her apology to leave while we had only laughter and celebration on our cold cheeks. Or maybe she'll return before the tulips to give us another dusting of beauty, deciding that we like her best in short visits. We hope she comes again this season, because we aren't ready to pack up the sweaters, stow away the scarves, push the boots to the back of the closet, and hang the sled in the rafters. Our dance card isn't full, and we've got some new steps to try.<br />
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1803837297699165637.post-1418705412866469072018-01-05T21:20:00.000-08:002018-01-05T21:21:19.849-08:00And Now I WaitI ordered a sweater the other day with some Christmas money. It isn't here yet, and although I purchased it from "that" company with the free two-day shipping deal, I am feeling impatient. I want it now.<br />
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My son is always hungry, starving he even says. If I'm making a meal I say, "food will be ready soon." He says, "can I have something to eat while I'm waiting?" My son's got my impatience gene. Ok, so perhaps I nurtured that one into him. Whoops.<br />
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The calendar changed again, and while I didn't exactly make any new year's resolutions I did mentally prepare for a fresh start to do better, be better. But I want all my goals accomplished NOW. This is why too often I fail to get any of them done. Failure is good for a person, but not when it happens from inaction. This year I really do want to have more failures, but I want them after trying and giving something my all, and then I hope to turn them into successes. (A new spirit of patience would be great to have immediately so I can get started on all this trying and waiting!)<br />
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Reading over my journal from this past year, I laugh, as I do every year, about some of the goals and promises I made. They were good ones, ones I should have been able to keep, but I didn't. This blog, for example, did not get much attention from me in 2017. I wanted to post something new every week, even twice a week. As I think about that goal for this year, I think I'll put more try into it, but I think the most important focus for me should be writing something, somewhere, every day. I might not have anything I want to share publicly every week, but through lots of writing—and writing whatever, even junk—I will find success on the slower goal of writing better.<br />
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It's tough. To tell you the truth I've been working on this blog post for a few days (or at least thinking about working on it over a few days, impatiently wishing it was finished) and, in fact, my sweater arrived and I like it, but I'm waiting on something else. Never content, huh? I want to learn to celebrate what's happening in the moment, or at least the moment before I go to bed and the house is quiet and still. I don't want to feel guilty about what didn't get done or feel upset about what hasn't come.<br />
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I want to wait in the stillness and in the noise. I want to work hard for something that might take months or years, and I want to be patient when there isn't anything I can do at all but wait.<br />
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Blessings to all of you who are learning to wait.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can hardly wait to visit this beautiful place again! </td></tr>
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<br />Words by Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08395701648467942454noreply@blogger.com0