tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50380482705718736132024-02-07T15:42:23.613-08:00my turtle tracksthoughts on the glorious struggle through sand and seaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-56950217337444506782014-03-07T05:38:00.001-08:002014-05-04T05:59:06.527-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMNM2N3EVlIfHpEC0V-g6YY6cNz351muq8RVvzTlHbXunJLl8d9yolNYmx_eDC3ZDZbFUDBY7iN4tcdczzstVyu-5QiLdAk6Rmcsr2Zht20XxNfCGkzP2tRHYU2altIpgeusddmdtKQg/s1600/mm+green.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMNM2N3EVlIfHpEC0V-g6YY6cNz351muq8RVvzTlHbXunJLl8d9yolNYmx_eDC3ZDZbFUDBY7iN4tcdczzstVyu-5QiLdAk6Rmcsr2Zht20XxNfCGkzP2tRHYU2altIpgeusddmdtKQg/s1600/mm+green.jpg" height="320" width="245" /></a></div>
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<span style="background: #FCFCFC; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>Inspiration</b></span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">Although the characters in “Mateo’s Map” are fictional, they
were inspired by my ESL (English as Second Language) students. Years ago I
taught in Reagan’s amnesty program. It was one of my all time favorite jobs, no
paper grading and the students were a joy. The program required immigrants who
wanted a green card in order to legally stay in the US to spend 40 hours in
the classroom learning English, US history, and citizenship. The majority of
students kept coming to school long after 40 hours. They ranged from ages 16 to
well past 60; fathers, mothers, siblings, mostly from Mexico but some from Central
America, Sudan, Russia, Vietnam... And they came for reasons unique to them, to
earn money to support a parent or entire family, to educate their children, to
escape conscription in the army, religious freedom, even adventure. For most of
them getting here wasn’t easy. One young man from Central America swam across a
river known for crocodiles, then hacked his way through a snake infested
jungle. One of my meek middle-aged students had to hire a coyote and cross
with a group of strange men; she was the only woman. A Vietnamese student came over on
a boat after he escaped from a “reeducation school” where they “changed his
mind”. He hadn’t yet learned the English words for prison or torture. It takes
a lot of guts and often a certain amount of desperation to leave your home,
risk capture and other dangers in order to build a new life in a strange place.
I admire them for that.</span></div>
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<span style="background: #FCFCFC; color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Summary:</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: #FCFCFC; color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">In the 1980s, a Tzotzil native from the Mexican highlands
leaves his family to search for work in the US, but first he must cross a
treacherous border fraught with violence.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: #FCFCFC; color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">"Mateo's Map" is available on smashwords.com for free. You can also get it at Amazon, but it's priced at $1.29.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-74293732070549597372013-12-08T07:41:00.000-08:002013-12-23T20:04:52.103-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Rest in Peace Madiba</span></b></div>
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I don’t know when we’ll see a
heroic spirit like Mandela’s again. I’ll always remember him as a tall, straight,
elderly man with kind eyes and a broad smile. The physical description fits
the man inside.<o:p></o:p><br />
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He had the ramrod posture of a
warrior, which he was, but reluctant warrior who took up violence after one too many massacres of his
people, and later renounced it. I like that about him – that he admitted he
was wrong, that he had the courage to change and that he became a warrior of peace.<o:p></o:p><br />
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I loved his eyes. They were half-hidden
in an Asiatic fold that concealed the hurts and insults he’d suffered. But the
light in them revealed the depth of a man who saw the darkest part of us
and still managed to find the good. <i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">“No one is born
hating another ... People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate,
they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart
than its opposite.”</span></i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">That faith must be what enabled him to smile so broadly. In that smile,
I saw hope. If a man who spent 27 years unjustly imprisoned, whose spirit was
forged behind iron bars and when finally released, carried the fragility of a
new nation in his hands, could still give us a genuine smile, there is hope for
us all.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Mandela earned his white hair and wrinkles through hardship and
struggle. I like that about him too. Because even though my life is so much
easier than his was, I still struggle. Knowing that someone else has gone
through much worse and still made it through, points me in the right direction.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">The world loved and followed Mandela because we knew he was a great man
and to love him was to, in some small way, participate in his greatness.</span>
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Recently, I finished writing a
novel in which Mandela inspires one of the characters. I wanted to explore what
makes us good. Even though I still have no firm answer, I think that part of
the answer is our connection to each other. The larger the connection, the
bigger the heart. Mandela was connected to the world.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">In South Africa, they don’t say that Mandiba died or that he passed
away. They say he transitioned. I like to think that when he transitioned, some
of his spirit stayed here with us, spirit that he’d planted in our hearts. It’s
up to us to keep it nourished and alive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-57444516602316269742013-02-27T05:37:00.001-08:002013-02-27T05:37:07.924-08:00<br />
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<b>Guerilla Art: Breaking out of the Museum<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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One day last fall I was rushing by the library in downtown
Trinidad and out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a white object. On my way
to complete yet another errand, I ignored it. Because I’m busy.<br />
We’re all busy.<br />
Too busy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Three errands later, I ran across Commercial Street, hopped
up to the sidewalk, then spun around. I’d almost stepped on something.<br />
Another
white object.<br />
Human shaped.<br />
I peered down at the sewer drain and found two paper cut outs in human form, or as their creator, Peggy Westmoreland, calls them, papels
(paper people). <o:p></o:p></div>
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I stopped. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Charmed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Here was a plain white piece of paper flush with the wonder of childhood.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDA3jaI9rl-XULWF17uFaf0Adw7AngNG9xwiU3SfAk8zXSZ3VieVd010u4R55YX0kEEvlu4b87QaSntaxS9A9a4evEbPTGzmRooIT7YtvHwXtAgmRPGPYTysZuktWIWjNUTy6UhFCybzk/s1600/papel+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDA3jaI9rl-XULWF17uFaf0Adw7AngNG9xwiU3SfAk8zXSZ3VieVd010u4R55YX0kEEvlu4b87QaSntaxS9A9a4evEbPTGzmRooIT7YtvHwXtAgmRPGPYTysZuktWIWjNUTy6UhFCybzk/s200/papel+7.jpg" width="149" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">And then I got to thinking... maybe back at the library I should
have paid attention. Then I might have known that there was
something I wanted to see. I walked back to the library and sure enough, there
were six papels reading and hanging out on the steps. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv8LY-NgwpONTkSPzxjpHMBVNaJ7vfxSDISShsM6EUFynLND55VPVIrgR2sbRZz_J6oZGCrQGXw0P_MtNHj55oco5-bq53ZOZ6lvLbrmp9m-Yp-1USQVu9VBxuNPcfOloYi-O4W5v0enI/s1600/papel+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv8LY-NgwpONTkSPzxjpHMBVNaJ7vfxSDISShsM6EUFynLND55VPVIrgR2sbRZz_J6oZGCrQGXw0P_MtNHj55oco5-bq53ZOZ6lvLbrmp9m-Yp-1USQVu9VBxuNPcfOloYi-O4W5v0enI/s1600/papel+1.jpg" /></a></div>
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I smiled. The drudgery of errands had
tuned into fun.<br />
How many other papels had I missed? <br />
I stuffed my list into the bottom of my purse
and decided to prowl the rest of downtown Trinidad. After all, who knew how
long these delicate papels would last. They were vulnerable to wind and rain,
wicked pigeons and clumsy feet.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I walked the streets again, slowly. </div>
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This time I discovered not only papels but the world they and I inhabited, the
rough brick of the streets, the grainy concrete sidewalks, the fire engine red
of the paper box, all of which had been there, passed over unseen by me and how
many others. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-PbHFOWScmI1r4zpI4gIHwxg-Jdz_eRsdK3YULyI-jTGNxu2OS_Zax7sRaQvDNAq0XBgElB_nVCXU51Z17WLrYXNbudWqmadLzjo7aPAP6RTCM8sb_QqZwGo2ugudOCG69V_1JagTul0/s1600/papel+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-PbHFOWScmI1r4zpI4gIHwxg-Jdz_eRsdK3YULyI-jTGNxu2OS_Zax7sRaQvDNAq0XBgElB_nVCXU51Z17WLrYXNbudWqmadLzjo7aPAP6RTCM8sb_QqZwGo2ugudOCG69V_1JagTul0/s1600/papel+5.jpg" /></a></div>
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But even more than that, I discovered the playful human imagination - that a lamp post can become a starting gate for a
race, a cement slab become a slide, a window ledge, a place to snicker at people running around too busy to notice you. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaSHpCuJk-Qyt6ns1nvN0gIWVPikuME_bHf3-uRJSvILRW-X9TAG5L4S5aGYMRh6fI2YMWnqDc3oYsfv6IVfHK0SrTxzXNRF53tjweK_F_urGerSk2i59ZHNMQ3Bhz_OqJZLUM0qw5OKg/s1600/papel+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaSHpCuJk-Qyt6ns1nvN0gIWVPikuME_bHf3-uRJSvILRW-X9TAG5L4S5aGYMRh6fI2YMWnqDc3oYsfv6IVfHK0SrTxzXNRF53tjweK_F_urGerSk2i59ZHNMQ3Bhz_OqJZLUM0qw5OKg/s1600/papel+3.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPO9OMbOmvAPpOVfmxO-OhP2a0vFm3OeaK19mh-krm9lRM-4mscKL785Rt-TEJgFYR2rRug3N4cafMjBEJUmPBH6RWhdQ7KTgGXYuuHknoC6JkXnrn8y3a05-LWUH4gU9wpasFxB_9sg/s1600/papel+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPO9OMbOmvAPpOVfmxO-OhP2a0vFm3OeaK19mh-krm9lRM-4mscKL785Rt-TEJgFYR2rRug3N4cafMjBEJUmPBH6RWhdQ7KTgGXYuuHknoC6JkXnrn8y3a05-LWUH4gU9wpasFxB_9sg/s1600/papel+2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy58DxSWpDvIX06IrCQ8o70EDrEjjRi5OExgipOeIFJ3jf0mP8Y3SM170Gjhos-Sajay5aHOzzVALmEw3Z3KQrGMhgVSoVt5MO4hdV8fqVwbRdA4NbRUSQRIk6E8w-aorXA1i5VHIveRM/s1600/papel+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy58DxSWpDvIX06IrCQ8o70EDrEjjRi5OExgipOeIFJ3jf0mP8Y3SM170Gjhos-Sajay5aHOzzVALmEw3Z3KQrGMhgVSoVt5MO4hdV8fqVwbRdA4NbRUSQRIk6E8w-aorXA1i5VHIveRM/s1600/papel+6.jpg" /></a></div>
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That
day I regained my sense of wonder, which is one of the many reasons we need art
as much as we need air and water. </div>
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Thank you Peggy.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-83412323389562537822013-01-18T09:55:00.000-08:002013-01-18T10:18:38.413-08:00Longing for Spring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoVWAdegS2Cd6fNsFCfoFHDerBEbnV7EBAPOrXd5VKpBGQolRuZOhwy2Tlz6eI0Om4msBzHR5eEZOBV24JFY5snZeYhSGWQ6Sr8AFt7s_2NRSbcenFnSohRDoXf3p-9OcL6zFp74BqTao/s1600/Polar+Melt+Blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoVWAdegS2Cd6fNsFCfoFHDerBEbnV7EBAPOrXd5VKpBGQolRuZOhwy2Tlz6eI0Om4msBzHR5eEZOBV24JFY5snZeYhSGWQ6Sr8AFt7s_2NRSbcenFnSohRDoXf3p-9OcL6zFp74BqTao/s640/Polar+Melt+Blog.jpg" width="494" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-60986786400888961972012-12-20T08:48:00.001-08:002012-12-20T08:48:33.866-08:00Santa's Wish List<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNo-ZbGhZSPmDpY71kfMrB3mXJuDpoIkwtTaRNvLDRafABo1payoFiyMXM_Ni9ERm8Vig5XM5WQ18gCY-M4VoFlAcxiWXMOAPPoWE3iQupxKL_yEadSpr_64ncO_98ZkHinHHT36x-qqY/s1600/P1010071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNo-ZbGhZSPmDpY71kfMrB3mXJuDpoIkwtTaRNvLDRafABo1payoFiyMXM_Ni9ERm8Vig5XM5WQ18gCY-M4VoFlAcxiWXMOAPPoWE3iQupxKL_yEadSpr_64ncO_98ZkHinHHT36x-qqY/s400/P1010071.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Waiting for Santa</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b>Santa’s Wish List<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Cookies
without calories<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Soy
milk<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->5
extra hours on December 24<sup>th</sup><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Wider
chimneys<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Smaller
skateboards<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Chiropractic
care on insurance<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->7.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->GPS<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->8.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Nicer
Birthday suit<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
Dear Santa,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Got your list. Sorry for the
extra butter in the butter cookies but Grandma insists on making them that way.
I had no idea you were lactose intolerant. As for the kids thinking it was
already morning and running downstairs before it was time, it was only because they heard Spot
barking when you got stuck in the chimney and shouted out a bad word. The dog has been
trained to tattle on anyone who uses that word. As for the skateboard, maybe it
would be better if you left the wheels off and let the kids attach them. That
way when a jet flies over the house and shakes its foundation the skateboard
won’t roll out from under the tree, slam into your foot, cause to lose
your balance and flip over the couch, subsequently ending in the need for a
chiropractor. Also, I promise to attach bigger numbers to the house so the Tom and Lizzie will not write you letters with stick bombs complaining about Barbie dolls in
their stockings. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
As for the gift card to Jolly Unwrapped
Hot Springs, you may exchange it for cash or use it in their store. They have
some lovely peppermint bath salts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="line-height: 30px;">An Apologetic Admirer</span><br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-78000629095728712152012-11-07T15:46:00.000-08:002012-11-09T05:41:27.584-08:00<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 30px; text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; text-align: start;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecdmmQbcbGE322uoZMP0p7ZhVrxzqORHl_OPwGkf16CkD8ecmBNIh23eU2sRA27C6cM89PT6C4OUZ4IL68i7gz0nBPvc5QpalH66mZbuDe820kLx16n58ymMk-0UwRUYzuR00aCJwKYI/s1600/guitar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecdmmQbcbGE322uoZMP0p7ZhVrxzqORHl_OPwGkf16CkD8ecmBNIh23eU2sRA27C6cM89PT6C4OUZ4IL68i7gz0nBPvc5QpalH66mZbuDe820kLx16n58ymMk-0UwRUYzuR00aCJwKYI/s320/guitar.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Day the Music Died<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: start;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLX4odhDTZG3NQ7nKAuzi21cQh-dPEOer75dvcrmpY7KZXXqGqAcCLIZ5rBFG9CSi0Sbs1cRouItek55oXm6d_3_OmoG7DE-Asb9sIciXSn36rvy27QPv8dgfRKxzS8QlEH-zIvenq4YI/s1600/grave.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLX4odhDTZG3NQ7nKAuzi21cQh-dPEOer75dvcrmpY7KZXXqGqAcCLIZ5rBFG9CSi0Sbs1cRouItek55oXm6d_3_OmoG7DE-Asb9sIciXSn36rvy27QPv8dgfRKxzS8QlEH-zIvenq4YI/s320/grave.JPG" width="240" /></a>A few weeks ago, our neighbor hiked three miles through the pine trees to our house. He took a shortcut through someone else’s land and stumbled on a grave of piled rocks and a cross made with two sticks held together with rope. Something stuck out between the rocks. He uncovered an electric guitar. Overcome by a spooked feeling, he replaced the rocks. When he arrived at our house, he told my husband Gary about the guitar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: start;">
Now there’s nothing Gary loves more than old rusty falling apart objects, which is one of the things I love about him. I figure it may never even occur to him to trade me in on a newer model who doesn’t have all that cool rust around the edges like me. We won’t discuss my half and all-the-way-fallen parts. Off they went to look at the grave and, of course, Gary came home with a dirt encrusted Harmony guitar. He planned to hang it on the wall or use it in a sculptural collage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: start;">
A couple of days later we lost a cat. And cats are hard to keep in the country, mostly due to owls and coyotes. We’d had bad luck with kitties in the past but these cats had lived two full years and we thought they’d survive to old age - until we found what was left of Tig out in the field. Our shoulders slumped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: start;">
Gary got to thinking maybe it was bad juju to have taken that guitar out of the grave.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: start;">
That night we had a few people over. Gary brought out the guitar and everyone debated whether it was cursed or not. And as they were a bunch of writers and artists, stories about why the guitar was there and who buried it started flying, continued all night and into the next day. Even people who heard the story later were inspired.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: start;">
Monday morning I went to work and Gary decided to take the guitar back. We still had one cat left. As soon as he grabbed that guitar neck and headed down the path, thunder broke out, then a light rain. It continued all the way there and back. You should know that we’ve been in a drought for quite a while and that rain was a blessing. As for the thunder, what musician doesn’t appreciate a concert in the sky?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: start;">
Click on PAGES below for the poems, stories and artwork that rose out of that grave. </div>
<br />
<b><br /></b>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-670746394173259162011-01-14T07:41:00.000-08:002011-01-14T07:41:41.831-08:00Do Overs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:RelyOnVML/> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilnKvpS7G53BCefM7tJhwrAKarJPH6O_MBml8fqw0y0sefELyq_xM9REy6K2VAwEGiw3jCds1JJ-w_xlf8OmMq3AxcmGjgL6bzKnE_YaCPyOYj2UZEGrmwVXRFv3VpU4dulQLUP7vjtYg/s1600/do+over.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilnKvpS7G53BCefM7tJhwrAKarJPH6O_MBml8fqw0y0sefELyq_xM9REy6K2VAwEGiw3jCds1JJ-w_xlf8OmMq3AxcmGjgL6bzKnE_YaCPyOYj2UZEGrmwVXRFv3VpU4dulQLUP7vjtYg/s320/do+over.JPG" width="207" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>I love New Years Day; it’s the big Do Over. I take out last year’s list of resolutions, cross out the one or two accomplished and move a half dozen or more to next year’s list. ‘Quit smoking’ was on my list for over twenty years before I crossed it off, and I think it helped to have it there. Those two words told me I could quit, and I did. Eventually. Of course, there are other resolutions that have been there just as long, or longer, like lose weight, but I’m not giving up. After all, I quit smoking, didn’t I? So if it takes until my 98th birthday, at least I got there. </b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><b><span></span>Nature has her own versions of the do over, like the moon’s gravity which creates tides that redo earth’s coastlines. Our brains seem to follow the pattern of lunar phases. The new moon is so new we don’t see it, like the idea in our head that we haven’t painted or sung or built yet. The blog I’m just thinking about. Just as the moon waxes, we bring the idea to fruition, then we rest or wane, until finally we come around to the new moon again when it’s time to try a different approach or move on to a new idea.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>And then there’s days. Sundown gives us a chance to pause and contemplate doing things differently come sunrise. If we blew it on Tuesday, ate fries dipped in fudge, yelled at our kids, didn’t get that report done, didn’t run a mile, or do fifty-six push ups, there’s always Wednesday. How many days that thought has comforted me?</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>But what about minutes? We can’t shrug them off just because they don’t last very long.<span> </span>Every minute that passes starts another minute so that bite of Snickers that you just swallowed can be the last bite of Snickers and your resolution can restart right then, at 8:47 pm. <span> </span>You don’t have to wait for sunrise. </b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><b>If every minute of our lives is a do over,</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><b>Then we are continually</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><b>Recreating ourselves as we canter along the</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><b>Years, moons, and days, though clouds and haze, </b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><b>Collaging layer upon layer of </b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><b>Efforts </b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><b>Failures </b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><b>And successes </b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><b>To become who we are </b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><b>In this instant, </b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><b>In all our color, depth and glory. </b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-31547523100179113982010-12-10T13:39:00.000-08:002010-12-10T13:39:30.057-08:00Snowbird<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1YrmIpECQhOD-cUYO9uVupL8J-uLqxHtB-LkYzdryQO5N2LKVn5ctJLRy8FjhLRdb2bv1Bzwq_PdqHeZcVhQmvcaD_6WDqRYLuIl7FvArzcdwih2EIdf8YK_znkNPQK9tJcKvreC354/s1600/P1010071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1YrmIpECQhOD-cUYO9uVupL8J-uLqxHtB-LkYzdryQO5N2LKVn5ctJLRy8FjhLRdb2bv1Bzwq_PdqHeZcVhQmvcaD_6WDqRYLuIl7FvArzcdwih2EIdf8YK_znkNPQK9tJcKvreC354/s320/P1010071.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><b>I live in the mountains of Colorado. During long cold winters I dream of being a snowbird. Buried under an afghan I conjure up warm Caribbean waters, gardens pungent with citrus, sleeveless cotton shirts, bare toes... </b><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Monday night our first snowfall confirmed what I’d been dreading. Winter had arrived. The outside light illuminated every frigging flake that dropped from sky and splatted on the deck. I paced the living room, sulking and feeling claustrophobic. Tomorrow the roads would be too slippery for driving, the air too cold for walking, wah wah wah.</b><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>The next morning the dogs were patiently waiting for our morning hike so I put on my boots, jacket, neck scarf, gloves and hat, and out we went. My two feet trudged along the dirt road while the dogs pranced on all four paws. They snuffled the snow, paused to pee, then joyfully zigzagged from smell to smell. Slivered prisms winked on the crust of snow. </b><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>I almost smiled. </b><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Grudgingly admitted it was kind of pretty.</b><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>We continued on, me walking, the dogs running and leaping. The road curved and the landscape changed from open field to tunneled forest. The path stretched out before me. Pine trees cast slate blue shadows across the snow; overhead a crow flapped his wings. My mind unfurled, empting niggles of tin and brass onto the wayside <i>The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, </i>leaving room for wondering, do frogs hibernate, what would it be like to have a tail, is my soul locked inside my chest or does it float around from knees to neck to elbow, or is it like a net, everywhere at once, if I could see it, what would it look like <i>But I have promises to keep</i></b><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>So we looped around to the back of the field. This time I made a full stop to admire the rainbowed prisms sprinkled over the snow. </b><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>By the time I arrived home, the grump was gone. For a while. I haven’t given up my dream of being a snowbird, but as long as I’m here, might as well chill.</b><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>So how do you all cope with winter?</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>A deep bow to Walt Whitman for <i>Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening</i></b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-31237676942825436082010-10-22T05:51:00.000-07:002013-12-15T07:03:04.288-08:00John Lennon and Martha Greysocks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
John Lennon’s birthday, October 9th, was all over the news. We still miss him. Several channels broadcasted an artist’s rendering of what he would have looked like had he lived to see his seventieth birthday. But it’s not the face we miss, it’s the music. What would he be writing and singing and playing today? Think of how much his lyrics grew in the forty years he did have.<br />
<br />
From the spring of his youth:<br />
<i>Well, shake it up baby, now</i><br />
<i>Twist and shout c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon baby now</i><br />
<i>Come on and work it on out</i><br />
<br />
To summer’s height:<br />
<i>When I was younger, so much younger than today</i><br />
<i>I never needed anybody’s help in any way</i><br />
<i>But now those days are gone, I’m not so self assured</i><br />
<i>Now I find I’ve changed my mind, I’ve opened up the doors</i><br />
<br />
To fall’s ripening:<br />
<i>I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round,</i><br />
<i>I really love to watch them roll,</i><br />
<i>No longer riding on the merry-go-round,</i><br />
<i>I just had to let it go</i><br />
<br />
John morphed through the seasons unafraid of changing from rock star to househusband, often forcing us to look at our clichés through the bite of his truth.<br />
<br />
<i>They say life begins at forty</i><br />
<i>Age is just a state of mind</i><br />
<i>If all that's true, you know that I've</i><br />
<i>Been dead for thirty-nine </i><br />
<br />
Still, he wasn’t afraid to visualize the ideal either.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>You may say that I'm a dreamer </i><br />
<i>But I'm not the only one </i><br />
<i>I hope someday you'll join us </i><br />
<i>And the world will live as one</i><br />
<br />
So I wonder how he would have viewed his wintery seventies. I think he may have felt like the character in a wise poem written by a friend of mine, Terre Compton.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Martha Greysocks said,</i></b><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>“The journey to the end </i><br />
<i>of my obligations</i><br />
<i>is a long travel.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i></i><br />
<i>In spring,</i><br />
<i>promise of new life</i><br />
<i>bends to the song of summer.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>In fall, my shadow</i><br />
<i>wrestles with my soul</i><br />
<i>until first snow.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>In winter, things</i><br />
<i>find a way to survive.</i><br />
<i>Secrets are like that too.</i><br />
<i>They have a way of</i><br />
<i>surfacing from the ground</i><br />
<i>so that I can know the truth. . .”</i><br />
<i> Terre Compton</i><br />
<br />
One of an artist’s roles is to awaken us from our preoccupation with surfaces. I think John might have mocked winter’s concern with wrinkles, arthritis, and the slowing of the mind, yet reminded us, as Terre does, there are still secrets to discover. Reminded us not to dread winter but to<br />
<br />
<i>Imagine</i><br />
<i>Surfacing from the ground</i><br />
<i>Where </i><br />
<i>We all shine on</i><br />
<i>Like the moon and the stars and the sun</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-45933511662252283052010-09-07T12:16:00.000-07:002010-10-15T11:06:56.227-07:00Squashed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibXpCGvLWhJIuB_GjkTsLtmP5M9fOM3lFU2606yjAL_MFPF4ZbZrSFI-6UqWrog3T0NLqXLxDdnIOXvJyVDIGjbww57mNCQg40xh1ujtaKLk4HZgZmjf68vp7Jf8WSqs6gtzeERYPGCPU/s1600/squash+pic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibXpCGvLWhJIuB_GjkTsLtmP5M9fOM3lFU2606yjAL_MFPF4ZbZrSFI-6UqWrog3T0NLqXLxDdnIOXvJyVDIGjbww57mNCQg40xh1ujtaKLk4HZgZmjf68vp7Jf8WSqs6gtzeERYPGCPU/s320/squash+pic.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Cchelo%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Cchelo%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Cchelo%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">If you live out in the country, you expect that sooner or later it will happen to you. Around late August, early September you get nervous and start locking your doors. Every neighbor with a garden attempts to sneak into your house and fill the fridge with zucchini. <b><o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Last Monday we forgot to lock up. When we arrived home there was a paper sack on the kitchen table. My husband and I looked at each other. “You open,” I told him.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Are you chicken?” he challenged me.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Wimp,” I said as I bravely strode over and picked up the sack. Out rolled three monstrous spaghetti squash. The culprits left no note but confessed two days later by email. Too late, we couldn’t return the squash as we had already grilled and consumed it. Our neighbor declared that next time she would leave a note saying, <i>you’ve been squashed.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Which started me thinking about the word ‘squash’.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It means not only a vegetable, but also to crush, squeeze, press flat, put down or silence. How on earth did such an abundant, friendly vegetable end up associated with a vicious verb? I think squash gets a bad rap because it’s common. What is common we fail to appreciate and think nothing of rudely squashing. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Look at the dandelion, a beautiful bright yellow that grows just about anywhere, even breaks through concrete. And it’s edible, dandelions aid digestion, are an antiviral, treat jaundice, cirrhosis, high blood pressure, gout, eczema and acne. The greens are high in vitamin A, C, calcium and potassium. The root contains inulin, which lowers blood sugar in diabetics. All for 25 calories a cup. And still we call it a weed, not a miracle. It’s not even considered a wildflower like the columbine, but then that plant is more rare, limited by where it can grow. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"> But I digress. Squash is also an excellent source of vitamin A, C, potassium, fiber, manganese, folate, omega-3 fatty acids, thiamin, copper, vitamin B5, vitamin B6, niacin and copper. So eat up. Then go out in search of more common vegetables, and fruits, and animals, and, and, and... In fact, let’s take a day, count all the ordinary things we encounter and try to envision our world without them. What would it be like? Would it be squashed?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-16425354000585862982010-08-17T16:07:00.000-07:002010-08-24T14:57:08.822-07:00On Becoming a Firefighter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_bDLsrAr9U4WFH68uDo4Xfq67Tt3JtOsb4JGMZuZ03F3e2JyEW_D81ueAjAd6uFrwMRM7D0EKbuPfMKdDjkCShHSMLma8b9umIv81D4wY1W7BLk4PJ_rVqWOljzZ2v6h4QkPUW2W3egQ/s1600/firefighter-profile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_bDLsrAr9U4WFH68uDo4Xfq67Tt3JtOsb4JGMZuZ03F3e2JyEW_D81ueAjAd6uFrwMRM7D0EKbuPfMKdDjkCShHSMLma8b9umIv81D4wY1W7BLk4PJ_rVqWOljzZ2v6h4QkPUW2W3egQ/s200/firefighter-profile.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Cchelo%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Cchelo%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Cchelo%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">My husband and I joined Stonewall Volunteer Fire Department about ten years ago. I was approaching fifty. Never, even in my fantasizing youth, did I envision myself as a firefighter. But there was a 300,000 acre wild fire burning not far from us and we were on evacuation alert. We figured we we’d feel better if we did something rather than nothing so we signed up. We didn’t get to go to that fire but there were plenty of others, luckily, none so big. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"> I have never subscribed to the ‘no pain, no gain’ mantra, never pushed myself past the ‘starting to sweat, better slow down’ philosophy. When I started digging line, that all changed. Overnight I found out that even though my arms were screaming at me to stop, and my hands had cramped so tight around the handle of my combie they couldn’t let go, and my feet had blisters on every single toe and heel and I had been doing this for over an hour, I couldn’t quit. No one around me was quitting and the fire was still burning so I thought of Bambi and Thumper and dug for another hour, and another, and another. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"> Our average fire is several acres and takes about six hours to get under control. I’ve built up muscle my body is now tougher than it used to be. So is the inside of me. Last Saturday I was getting ready for training, putting on my ‘pickle suit’ (yellow shirt, green pants), and I noticed that a change came over me. It wasn’t new, the same thing has been happening for a decade now, but this time I stopped to think about it. When I put on my uniform and turn into a firefighter I become - Macho. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"> Me? A fifty something, 5’4”, (I’m not tell how many pounds), English professor?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"> Years ago I remember explaining to my husband what it’s like to be me, how in situations like walking through a dark empty parking lot at night which he would do without much concern, I was scared.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"> But when I put on my pickle suit I don’t feel so vulnerable. I am a fire <i>fighter,</i> I can swagger across that parking lot. My security is partly an illusion, I’m not superwoman, but partly not. Maybe the creep lurking in the shadows will decide he’d rather tackle easier prey. That toughness feels good. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"> Firefighting has taught me a lot more than this but that’s another blog. Today it’s all about surprising yourself. When was the last time you did it? Do we get to surprise ourselves up into our 70s, 80s, and 90s?</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-29324561569785180562010-07-25T15:00:00.000-07:002010-07-26T12:14:14.817-07:00A Rattle in the Rocks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQ7cXUEXpSdOAYKJBLRpXHJdNVJw85n5IuNFeb2lRwbfXxHsBZv5kGKg726igBoAiC5eHwQ3QWjC2zGs6e1uH2BsZqsm8p0eU_c5r2-qSs6ezEXKLFpam__wxkWShnfRiZ19sg9Pm8RI/s1600/fountain.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQ7cXUEXpSdOAYKJBLRpXHJdNVJw85n5IuNFeb2lRwbfXxHsBZv5kGKg726igBoAiC5eHwQ3QWjC2zGs6e1uH2BsZqsm8p0eU_c5r2-qSs6ezEXKLFpam__wxkWShnfRiZ19sg9Pm8RI/s200/fountain.JPG" width="185" /></a></div>One evening my husband and I were sitting on the back deck when we heard a heart-stopping rattle and jumped up to investigate. One of our cats had its paw stuck in a gap of the rock fountain, trying to capture a rattlesnake. I grabbed the cat, Gary grabbed the shovel. Our dog, Smokey ran up, bellyaching as only a Malamute can. He hates snakes. Gary poked and prodded at the hole for twenty minutes but the snake wouldn’t budge. Frustrated, we stuck a hose in the gap and tried flushing it out, but that didn’t work either. Half an hour later we hit on an idea. We splashed charcoal lighter around one side of the gap and lit it on fire. Sure enough the rattler crawled out the other side and Gary chopped its head off with the shovel.<br />
Once humans, cats, and dogs were all safe, the adrenalin ebbed from my limbs I started to feel bad for the snake. It thought it had found a cool place to nap, hidden from predators. I remembered a reading I’d attended a few months earlier by Leslie Marmon Silko, one of my favorite authors. She described her home outside of Tucson. On the patio she has a long row of pots that she waters by hand. The morning had been cool with a promise of blazing afternoon heat and she had gone up and down the row several times with the hose. She was making her way back to the house when she looked down. Between two pots, curled up in the shade, inches from her bare foot was a rattlesnake. It must have been there the entire time she’d been watering.<br />
She let it be.<br />
I think she was able to do that because she trusted that the snake knew she wasn’t a threat or food. I know that both were true. Yet when faced with a rattler my reaction was a murderous one and if it happens tomorrow it will probably be the same. I have no more trust in the natural world than in the human one. I suspect that just as there are a few but significant number of stupid and paranoid people, I may run into a stupid snake that doesn’t realize I’m too big too eat or a paranoid one that sees everything as a threat. I would love to have Silko’s trust and relationship with nature, but it seems risky to me. I remember Treadwell, the guy in Alaska who loved and lived with bears. Until they turned on him. Maybe he just picked the wrong bears to trust. I’ve done that with people before. <br />
I wonder how many of us are truly comfortable with nature.<br />
How comfortable?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-47715058293868999632010-07-12T06:18:00.000-07:002010-07-12T08:05:58.091-07:00Wabi Sabi<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqMZhqdCOui1BVScNs4vCcP0U8-b1pA6fPGrAGHgBH0d3ou1LPZuYQ5xpLgykk3p3k7hrfyzDOfMRL0kXBeU_As2I-jh_4kFHoSZqf_N3KOXStinr_pxPL2alPYPkL_Vf58TMOesoHscE/s1600/wabi+pic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqMZhqdCOui1BVScNs4vCcP0U8-b1pA6fPGrAGHgBH0d3ou1LPZuYQ5xpLgykk3p3k7hrfyzDOfMRL0kXBeU_As2I-jh_4kFHoSZqf_N3KOXStinr_pxPL2alPYPkL_Vf58TMOesoHscE/s200/wabi+pic.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><span id="goog_1537817257"></span><span id="goog_1537817258"></span><br />
I first encountered the term wabi sabi in pottery class. Laura, my instructor, explained that pottery requires a certain attitude. Clay is a natural product and so one bag is never exactly like the next, it may have more or less sand, iron, bentonite, and other minerals. Hence, you get different results from bag to bag. When fired the clay’s reaction will vary according to air temperature, humidity, the makeup of the pot next to it, and how much tobacco Trish threw into the kiln. Even though you think that what you’ve made is a work of beauty, once you put the piece into the kiln, it’s best to let go. Nature may add a crack, stain the spout, or transform the glaze that was a turquoise the last 27 times you used it into a purplish brown. <br />
<br />
But simply letting go is not enough; the attitude of wabi sabi must be developed. The Japanese term means to see beauty in so called “imperfection.” It’s derived from wabi, meaning simple, in tune with nature, and sabi, the changes that happen with time and age.<br />
<br />
Last night I watched Kid Rock (who I sometimes like and sometimes don’t) on Storytellers. He told the audience that while a few of his songs may play in places like Baxter or Trinidad, those same songs would never make it on the radio or in Hollywood. They weren’t “smooth”, they had “scars”, dealt with emotions that weren’t nice or pretty, but were honest.<br />
<br />
And so now I’m at the point where I apply wabi sabi to me, to the cracks/wrinkles nature has given me without my permission, and see their beauty. To see an age spot as a beauty mark. Okay, I haven’t reached that level yet. How about a freckle? <br />
But even more difficult is to look inside at my rough spots that I think I’ve hidden from the world but still leave tracks and to see their beauty too. My imperfection is also my humanity.<br />
All we create, whether it be with paint, piano, clay, or words has a flaw somewhere, just as the lives we create have flaws. How we got those wrinkles, developed that fear of spiders, or lost our way is our history, our story, which is all we have in the end. <br />
<br />
Because we are all wabi sabi, aren’t we?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5038048270571873613.post-74741765107452838102010-06-27T16:00:00.000-07:002010-07-12T08:07:50.877-07:00Helping Hands<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Cchelo%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Cchelo%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Cchelo%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0CHW13re9BEdxRDtmuHBksROyL0HQZjIblUhvZqmNuoy3bZDOiZ8YaHplmC3UKbx3A4xxdoc-lWIID49t9URbxgioJleyYgNYUwHcDmUIWuG7VdUlKYNRrby09kn6BaO4xTmCjn1wjQA/s1600/green_honu3_douglasshea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0CHW13re9BEdxRDtmuHBksROyL0HQZjIblUhvZqmNuoy3bZDOiZ8YaHplmC3UKbx3A4xxdoc-lWIID49t9URbxgioJleyYgNYUwHcDmUIWuG7VdUlKYNRrby09kn6BaO4xTmCjn1wjQA/s320/green_honu3_douglasshea.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When my sister saw the name of my blog she told me that she and a friend take day trips and often encounter turtles crossing the road. They always stop and carry them to the other side, their limbs swimming frantically through the air, mouths opening and closing as if to complain, <i>whoa, slow down, this is waaay too fast.</i> Set down on tierra firma, they scramble off without so much as a backward glance. But Sher and Bonnie just laugh; they’re on a Good Samaritan high.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Which reminded me of a time years ago. An old boyfriend and I were on the River Road and we encountered a turtle making his way across the hot pavement. We stopped, and I assumed he was going to help the turtle cross. Instead he ran down to the river with it. Now I admit that had I been that turtle I would have preferred to slip into the river and let cool water fill my shell, but maybe he had a friend to meet or thought that on top of that steep hill the breeze would funnel through his shell while he admired the view and chomped on the grass. (Is there anything better than a shell? Protection from heat, cold, hungry wildlife, and scary giant hands reaching down for you). </div><div class="MsoNormal">But I digress. My point is - if you’re helping someone cross the road, <span id="goog_195857845"></span><span id="goog_195857846"></span>think about which direction they’re headed.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06454249176625251783noreply@blogger.com