tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956291957505838332024-03-13T05:03:38.108-05:00coming home to myselfDeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.comBlogger404125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-63401580205474507972023-03-17T12:11:00.002-05:002023-03-17T12:12:23.292-05:00Four Silent Months Led to Epiphany<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghgNfPpDnMwtOK1q0lQT897w44c-7PzU6PSgeYHkcHLmSvYSQSLKZVtLAAlm5YMPacQYnWmg9WX045e7oNeGPTPctbpOQHQgE7-j5uMJyJzDNj1IbzJFN5rEq7ekrcf_K8Pm0AsGO1NFAGc2Weduqb5JpKFHqFcfsYCgd01fS5Y1pm0wAZ096y80FF" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1464" data-original-width="1055" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghgNfPpDnMwtOK1q0lQT897w44c-7PzU6PSgeYHkcHLmSvYSQSLKZVtLAAlm5YMPacQYnWmg9WX045e7oNeGPTPctbpOQHQgE7-j5uMJyJzDNj1IbzJFN5rEq7ekrcf_K8Pm0AsGO1NFAGc2Weduqb5JpKFHqFcfsYCgd01fS5Y1pm0wAZ096y80FF" width="173" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Hello All, <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">For a little over four months, I’ve been dwelling with a series of health problems and well a malaise that thrust me into a shadowed place within my spirit. My heart. My mind.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">During that time, my brother and sister-in-law rushed me to emergency, and I stayed overnight in the hospital—some thirty-six hours of wondering exactly what was happening or had happened or would happen.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">However, out of that experience came an epiphany—one that I’m unable to share fully at this point because its ramifications are still making themselves known in my life.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m posting today to let you know why, since mid-November, I’ve been away from reading your blogs and posting on my own . Several months ago, I began a downward spiral on the slippery slope of self-doubt. I wasn’t clinically depressed. (I learned and experienced what that is when I was in my thirties.) <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">However, I did begin to feel “low.” To be “down in the dumps.” To cease to “live in the moment,” “to go with the flow,” “to look for the good” in all that was happening.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Throughout my life, when my body has experienced ill-health. Or my spirit has deflated like a carnival balloon. Or my mind has lost itself in the brambles of my thoughts. Or my heart has ceased to follow my bliss—as Joseph Campbell encouraged us all to do. Always during those times of drought, I’ve let go of reaching out to friends and taking care of myself.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Translation: I let myself dwell in my own shadows rather than reach out to discover what was happening with my friends. That is, in my self-absorption, I forgot that friendship can open doors for us. I forgot what I know so well—that to be open to the lives and concerns, the health and pain, the triumphs and joy of others could lead me out of my alienation from myself. It could lead me from the desert in which I wandered to the lush green of wonder and gratitude.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Also, during those four months, I had no interest in food or eating and so lost a number of pounds. I always wear loose-fitting clothing and a lot of it! In the winter, I layer: turtleneck, sweatshirt, down-filled vest or hoodie. Lots of loose clothing that effectively covers both weight gain and weight loss.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I tell you all this because the epiphany of just a few days ago is leading me to the green pastures that awaited me if only I’d let myself trust the words of Julian of Norwich, “All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be exceedingly well,” and those of Teresa of Avila, “Fear not.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The darkest part of my malaise was the belief that I would never write another book—whether memoir, cat tales, or novel. I began to grieve for this gift that had been given me as a child—this gift of imagination and connection.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Months ago, I began to grapple with this fear. It grew like a ganglion. Its tenacles squeezed my most cherished beliefs about myself. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I tell you now that in the epiphany given to me by the Holy Oneness of All Creation—all those who raised me, taught me, and befriended me—came a new belief. A belief that if my writing is for the good of the Universe, the words and story will be freely given to me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Amen and so be it and so it is.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Peace<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">PS: I haven’t figured out how to respond to any comments you leave. Moreover, I can’t figure out how to leave comments on some of your blogs. Please just know that you are all in my thoughts and prayers and beliefs that all—somehow—works out to good.<o:p></o:p></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-65423598433892068922022-11-12T12:08:00.005-06:002022-11-12T12:09:47.020-06:00One Lumberjack Home <p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLjA4VPibYoB0e8F2BT2F-n9OyH5QvR599QkgbwLKMgbC9UEMauKAF5ERHgt3JdCNTVDgrk05LRyeOQn89crGjRe3_zfRsaEkSsQvELyX-bAAuVAOs1rDdSJrJJyu9ueyLrLwm8aJRI6xrNI-HA2vtDJEtoW5Bg0O4hQkC1yqQXNdOlX73uA-miwdu" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="400" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLjA4VPibYoB0e8F2BT2F-n9OyH5QvR599QkgbwLKMgbC9UEMauKAF5ERHgt3JdCNTVDgrk05LRyeOQn89crGjRe3_zfRsaEkSsQvELyX-bAAuVAOs1rDdSJrJJyu9ueyLrLwm8aJRI6xrNI-HA2vtDJEtoW5Bg0O4hQkC1yqQXNdOlX73uA-miwdu" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">Stillwater, Minnesota, 1860 photo from Wikipedia</p><br />For nearly forty years, I lived in Stillwater, Minnesota. By the time I settled there the town had grown from a small village nestled in the bend of the St. Croix River to a welcoming site for tourists. Along the way, it had been the homebase for countless lumberjacks who spent months of each year in the North Woods. The logs they cut floated downriver to Stillwater and its mills. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">All that took place in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. By the time I bought a house on the South Hill, the lumberjacks were long gone but their memories and their myths of the folk hero Paul Bunyan and Babe, his Blue Ox, remained.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCe9SopBLxN5W0qLaCeS8ea6rBp0WXOetmcQ8uSS3i74xnFKJ_5866MxOG81OM8t1XE31fpIgSRRWBdO-5a469pIzJXtISVnWb9eS3EBZB-eAbl6lhbnKxQlzdn_tKl8ysdnPRLQh24_WpupBNf8AX4cn8dLuVyBaEYTL1TFFmlEhZATJ3wDMaJ3SC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="400" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCe9SopBLxN5W0qLaCeS8ea6rBp0WXOetmcQ8uSS3i74xnFKJ_5866MxOG81OM8t1XE31fpIgSRRWBdO-5a469pIzJXtISVnWb9eS3EBZB-eAbl6lhbnKxQlzdn_tKl8ysdnPRLQh24_WpupBNf8AX4cn8dLuVyBaEYTL1TFFmlEhZATJ3wDMaJ3SC" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">A Stillwater Sawmill of the 19th Century </span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">Becomes a 21st century Antique Shopping Center</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"> What also remained were the “lumberjack” homes, built of lumber harvested by them. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The lumberjack house I bought was built in 1870. It became the home of my heart. Toward the end of our sojourn together, I hired a contractor who changed the attached back porch into a four-season one for me and then remodeled the kitchen and bathroom, which had been added to the original house in 1910. That section of the house also had a pantry in which sat the washer and dryer.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The unfinished basement of the house had old, old, old windows that let in rain. The crawlspace beneath the 1910 addition became a hidey-hole for all the cats who ended up inhabiting the house with me. The basement steps, as well as those that led to the second floor, were narrow and steep. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">They were part of the reason I ultimately sold the house and moved back to Missouri.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Meniere’s entered my life in 2006, and the acute rotational vertigo episodes it brought with it made falling a daily—sometimes hourly—occurrence. In fact, I tumbled down the steps several times, but was always fortunate enough not to break any bones or suffer a concussion. However, the number of falls helped me realize that I had to live in a one-story home with no basement. Steps had become too hazardous. Also, both my friends and I were aging, and I needed more help with daily living. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">So, I left Stillwater and </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-LoezR-3NkYrPUgHBpz0JvTdyRg127VaBUhjB6X07OQwMXcUFAzoaqee9yIlQLBhTs1ZeNK0EqUxZmszEQZDuwgr7LK_LLrNHxD6fPA95Lj0-XyTRoiKVWV_18bPiQ_lI7Jop__4-bidOuWaCF3-65xGJ94W8WZJjbu26rwrWooyJBL3vL0EaSUgp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="500" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-LoezR-3NkYrPUgHBpz0JvTdyRg127VaBUhjB6X07OQwMXcUFAzoaqee9yIlQLBhTs1ZeNK0EqUxZmszEQZDuwgr7LK_LLrNHxD6fPA95Lj0-XyTRoiKVWV_18bPiQ_lI7Jop__4-bidOuWaCF3-65xGJ94W8WZJjbu26rwrWooyJBL3vL0EaSUgp" width="320" /></a></div>moved back home to where I had younger family members on whom I have come to rely as this life-journey continues. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">A young couple bought the home and were delighted with it. They felt that it had “good vibes.” They wanted to start their family in it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The inspector I’d hired to examine the house before I put it on the market had been impressed with all that I’d had done to it, especially between 2001 and 2009: totally new electrical wiring throughout the 139-year-old house; four-star double-glazed windows throughout and on the new four-season porch; a new furnace and AC,; all new appliances (washer, dryer, refrigerator, hot-water heater, and range) during those years; a new roof; new steps, railing, and sidewalk leading to the back porch; new front, porch, and back doors; and the remodeled kitchen and bathroom.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Unwittingly, the young couple hired the same well-respected inspector. On the day we signed the papers, they told me he’d encouraged them to buy, saying the house was “a heck of a deal!” He found only one thing needing attention: one branch of the tree at the side of the house had leafy twigs touching the outside electrical wiring. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"> All I had to do was to hire a tree trimmer who took care of that offending limb—although a quite graceful one—in a matter of minutes at a minimum cost.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">All this came to mind in the last week, as I purchased a new washer and dryer. I suspect that my next posting will be about that experience and the “vibes” of my home here in Independence. I tell you, with contentment in my heart, that life is good—when I keep things in perspective. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Peace. <o:p></o:p></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-32452518620222582422022-10-24T16:32:00.000-05:002022-10-24T16:32:45.914-05:00The Motorcycle Ride & Flashback<p> <span style="font-family: Palatino; text-indent: 0in;">Months, not weeks, have passed since I visited Idaho in late April. Since then, I’ve posted about the “so-called” date I had and the tattoo Ruby—who calls me Grandma Dee—did for me. I’ll end this trilogy of adventures with my motorcycle ride.</span><span style="font-family: Palatino; text-indent: 0in;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Last March, when Gino, one of Ruby’s tattoo mentors, bought a new motorcycle, she bought his old one. Seeing that motorcycle by the curb, I said, “You know, Ruby, I’ve always wanted to ride one!” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Not this one, Grandma Dee. There’s no flat seat behind me.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">That ended it for me. Not for Ruby. Unbeknownst to me, she talked to Gino, whom I’d met a few days before at his tattoo parlor. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Ruby called with the news: she and Gino would come by and pick me up in fifteen minutes.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I pulled on my thickest hoodie and tied the laces of my red shoes—ready for adventure. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Geno and Ruby arrived; I rushed outside to greet them . . . and Gino’s whiz-bang of a motorcycle. Trey and Elisa rushed with me. When Gino<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> crowned me with a helmet, I felt like Darth Vader. Fearless.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKORB3pV0xy_2cTZmASpZV3G-44yVtcFyC6uHVLoD7Tgt_DtOFRl18vhyVJ2MbSgQbekbU_oym4nt2wJzyRkf0eEfAR8QowAC92UWrAutYTxscBcRqaaRAsLCUvGBRu_VmLlziq4kQtVklHgmN5SKzHiW7webyCQJZ-NcMhfzGSAHIH3R9gbWUrDa/s4032/31B6CDB1-250B-41ED-9BB6-52F8D75962AC.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKORB3pV0xy_2cTZmASpZV3G-44yVtcFyC6uHVLoD7Tgt_DtOFRl18vhyVJ2MbSgQbekbU_oym4nt2wJzyRkf0eEfAR8QowAC92UWrAutYTxscBcRqaaRAsLCUvGBRu_VmLlziq4kQtVklHgmN5SKzHiW7webyCQJZ-NcMhfzGSAHIH3R9gbWUrDa/s320/31B6CDB1-250B-41ED-9BB6-52F8D75962AC.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Helmet donned, I tried to swing my right leg over the back of the cycle. No way! I simply couldn’t get my leg—with its knee replacement and its indicators that hip replacement is next—high enough to “throw it over” the backseat of that powerful machine. (It’s moments like this that tell me that at 86, I’m aging, aging, aging . . . into OLD.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Both Elisa and Ruby came to my assistance, holding onto my right leg and lugging it up, up, up until we had all 138 pounds of me, my clothing, and that helmet upright on the seat. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">There was no backing to the seat, so Gino encouraged me to sit as close behind him as I could and to hold onto the front of his down-filled vest.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Grip it!” he said. “And when I lean right or left, you do that too.” He demonstrated the graceful leaning, explaining that I’d need to do that when we went around corners. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">All in readiness, we departed. For the next fifteen minutes, Ruby led us up and down hills and out onto what I’d call highways. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Only once did I feel a frisson of fear. In her enthusiasm to “show me a good ride,” Ruby had gotten a little too far ahead of us. As we went around a corner, Gino had to put on a burst of speed. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I could feel my hands losing their grip and sliding past his ribs and then, as I’m desperately trying to hold on, my body starts moving backward. Inexorably backward.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">A vivid photo flashed in my mind of me flying off the tail end of that supercharged cycle and hurtling backward through space to land like a deflated hot-air balloon in the shrubbery of one of the homes we’d blurred past. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Years before, in May 1977, I’d been riding my ten-speed bicycle down a hill in Stillwater, Minnesota, and inadvertently pressed the handle brake when I hit a pothole. The bike and I separated; it flew up into the air, and—the neighbors told me—did a couple of circles before falling in a heap on the street.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"> I flew—the neighbors measured the distance—almost eighty feet through the air, landing on my right side. I ended up in the hospital for three days with my right collarbone broken in three places and the side of my face deeply scraped and raw. For the next ten weeks, I wore my right arm in a sling. Therapy helped me regain mobility and flexibility. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">That memory flooded my brain as I felt my body moving inescapably backward. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hold on, Dee! Hold on!” Gino’s words streamed past me. I tried to lurch my body forward. Tried to resist the force of momentum.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Gino yelled; Ruby heard him. Both slowed down. And I? I rejoiced that I hadn’t taken a ride on the air as I’d done in Stillwater in ‘77. All was well.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">And . . . I’d had a memorable motorcycle ride.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Peace. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwneyAtKPVT45iUnEKufq7spFdlzCpRN3ta38oFWIttuV-EUu1wilAsSEiePWuWo1AXoXyeF1PQxAAqrF3dcHSchTyoDCU5lZ6w7D1E3mP8ItV_HDW7z0_LKKBe1_3i2VBu_4ou_Cpu-kKoGvES090Byif9eMK_2pR_021zos3vYLiKcRo852_K2Hv/s403/279136028_533682861549381_495853962241220608_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="302" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwneyAtKPVT45iUnEKufq7spFdlzCpRN3ta38oFWIttuV-EUu1wilAsSEiePWuWo1AXoXyeF1PQxAAqrF3dcHSchTyoDCU5lZ6w7D1E3mP8ItV_HDW7z0_LKKBe1_3i2VBu_4ou_Cpu-kKoGvES090Byif9eMK_2pR_021zos3vYLiKcRo852_K2Hv/s320/279136028_533682861549381_495853962241220608_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2wJ5kxceqiiinAdXTklrbFm3BIECrtXkn9RmWkDylbl36rc60dv447cCm4uzPAHkkIukactM-L2CiaX5oUa_aWO58ka_tWLfObYWFJQd89z5ud9-3HEfxdYgYtjdkNhnPBHTEyJbTedX9NpR5c5nf9maDngrlX0o4QqsBK31gFB97bx5wbGaiQyb0/s4032/E16CE536-7B12-4E82-90A3-4B1C3C427F19.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2wJ5kxceqiiinAdXTklrbFm3BIECrtXkn9RmWkDylbl36rc60dv447cCm4uzPAHkkIukactM-L2CiaX5oUa_aWO58ka_tWLfObYWFJQd89z5ud9-3HEfxdYgYtjdkNhnPBHTEyJbTedX9NpR5c5nf9maDngrlX0o4QqsBK31gFB97bx5wbGaiQyb0/s320/E16CE536-7B12-4E82-90A3-4B1C3C427F19.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-41901128725891893782022-10-03T13:05:00.002-05:002022-10-03T13:05:20.818-05:00Belated Responses to Comments on 9-17-22 Posting<p> <span style="font-family: Palatino; text-indent: 0in;">Hello All,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Once again, I’m responding in a post to the comments you left for my September 17<sup>th</sup> posting about Elisa—the young woman who has become family to me—and the gallbladder operation scheduled for her.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"> In my posting, I indicated that the doctors had found cancer in her gallbladder. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><i>Fortunately,</i> that was incorrect. The surgeon in her hometown hospital recognized that she’d been having pain from the gallbladder for several years. The pain had nothing to do with cancer. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><i>Unfortunately,</i> since November 2015—at a time when I’d been visiting and Mike (her husband) and I had rushed her to Emergency at the nearby hospital, she’d tried to tell the doctors about the persistent pain she’d been having, but they dismissed it as simply back pain “that everyone has as they age.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b>With that information in mind, here are my responses to your comments:<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Cynthia’s comment:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> As I also keep up with her on Facebook and her blog, I think she has had the surgery by now, or it is imminent. At any rate she is encircled with my loving thoughts, with light, with wishes and hopes for healing.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Dee’s Response:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Dear Cynthia, You’re right. Elisa had her gallbladder operation last Tuesday (September 27) and all went well. The surgeon recommended that she rest for a week—really rest—and not work. She edits for a company in Idaho. Her work is done at home and the staff—from near and far—do a zoom meeting each day. Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Molly’s Comment:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Elisa sounds like an amazingly strong young woman. I hope things work out for her and that all will indeed be well. (finally sorted my sign in problems and can comment again!}</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Dee’s Response:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Dear Molly, she is all you’ve said, and things are working out. NOW . . . will you please, please, please share with me how you worked out the Google sign-in problem!!!!! The solution eludes me. I’m unable to leave comments on Bea’s, Inger’s, Cynthia’s, Joanne N’s, or Susan’s blog. I’d so like to be able 1) to leave comments on the blogs I follow—albeit sporadically!—and 2) to respond to comments on this blog. Please clue me in! Peace. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Inger’s Comment: </span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">And Elisa has been supporting me and giving me strength after my cancer diagnosis. Not a word about this. I will write her, for sure. I will read her blog first, then write. Thanks for this. Let's talk soon.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Dee’s Response:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Dear Inger, that sounds like her! I know she is concerned about your cancer diagnosis. I so hope all is going well for you. Will you be doing chemo or radiation? And when does the treatment begin OR has it already started? Your blog readers I’m sure are responding with their prayers and thoughts and good wishes. You mean so much to so many people. Take care. Peace. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">DJan’s Comment:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> I also included her by name in my morning prayers and will continue to do so. Sending her and you both my sincere love and hope for healing.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Dee’s Response:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Thank you, DJan. The hope for healing—expressed also on Elisa’s Facebook postings by many readers—expresses so beautifully a quiet, sincere, and tender belief in the power of prayer and of community. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Rian’s Comment:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> I keep Elisa and you, Dee, in my prayers always. There is a prayer I like that says, "May the Light of God surround me, the love of God enfold me, the power of God protect me, and the presence of God watch over me. Wherever I am, God is... and all is well.</span>”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Dee’s Response:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Dear Rian, thank you today and all days for your prayers. And thank you, also, for sharing the prayer of Light. I’ve written it down and have it by my bedside, here by the computer, and also by my easy chair in the room where I embrace my best thoughts in meditation and musing. I’m adding to it the community—the Oneness—of all of us so that I’m saying, “May the Light of God surround me and the cats and all creation . . .(remaining words and then) . . . Wherever we are in Oneness, God is . . . and all is well.” I so appreciate your sharing this. Peace. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Sandi’s Comment:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; font-family: "Apple Color Emoji"; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">💙</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Sending my love.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Dee’s Response:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Dear Sandi, thank you! I so love the blue heart. Somehow it has, for me, more depth than the red, despite the fact that red and purple are my two favorite colors. Blue, for me, has the depth of the Universe. Space beyond the beyond. Peace. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Jean’s Comment:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> I'm sorry your friend is suffering, and I will keep her in my thoughts and send healing energy out into the world aimed her way.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Dee’s Response:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Dear Jean, I just so appreciate your saying “aimed her way.” The image that brought to my mind was of a comet bound for Elisa and perhaps, meeting along its path someone else who needs your healing energy. And so, that energy, alive in our Oneness, may touch so many on its path to Elisa and within Elisa will touch others as she shares her story and finds the beauty that lies in us all. Peace. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Joanne’s Comment:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Dear Elisa, I pray that through the circle of pain you feel the circle of love and compassion we all have for you. Be with peace.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Dee’s Response:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Dear Joanne, I am in awe of your vision of a circle of pain being overlaid or encompassed on enlightened by a circle of love of compassion. What is so true for me is that when you and others leave comments, they plunge me deeper into my firm belief in our Oneness. All of us are in that circle of pain (physical or emotional or intellectual) and also that circle of love and compassion. That is Oneness for me. And sometimes within that circle we are most in need—of love or health or understanding or compassion or relief from the burden of our own misunderstandings or fear or hatred or loneliness. And it seems to me that you are saying that the love and compassion we send out to anyone may reach far beyond to encircle whatever another needs. Given those degrees of separation that have been written about, I’d say that your love and compassion and that of all able to think of others touches people way beyond our realization. Beyond and beyond the boundaries of our own lives. Peace. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Arkansas Patti’s Comment:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> I am so sorry that Elisa's cancer is now in her gallbladder and is causing her such pain. I just prayed for her and will continue to do so. May the doctors and God find a way to bring her wellness.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Dee’s Response:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Dear Patti, as you probably saw in the introductory paragraphs of this posting, I was wrong—the cancer isn’t in her gallbladder. She has had the pain though for years (since 2015 or even before). Right now, she’s relatively free of pain, but she so needs rest from the past nearly two years of the cancer journey + all the operations + the writing that she’s continued to do (it’s essential for her to write—like breathing!) + the being part of her family’s activities, etc. I continue to encourage her to rest and to say “No” to requests when her body lets her know that rest is necessary. I think, Patti, that I’ve become a “nag!”(Maybe a “hag,” too. Not sure!) Peace. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Sue’s Comment:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Thank you for this powerful, beautiful and heart-rending post. I am sending oceans of good wishes across the seas.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Dee’s Response:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> Dear Sue, I can just see those good wishes (oceans of them filled with live-giving plankton, sparkles of sunlight, and night-time mysteries) fluttering like butterflies over the seas to Elisa. Better yet, I can see them as those marvelous colorful Australian birds, photographs of which you share with us on your blog. Your words create images for me that tickle my fancy! Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">FINAL NOTE:</span></u></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"> I’m feeling somewhat giddy with delight over all these comments that reveal just how wonderful all of you are—so concerned with Elisa, so responsive to her story, so generous with your thoughts and prayers. Take care. Be gracious to yourselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">I hope to post this week on the final part of my vacation in Idaho: The Motorcycle Ride! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">Peace. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37474f; letter-spacing: 0.2pt;">PS: I don't know what explains the white behind the lines. You know, one of these days maybe I'll enter the 21st century and become tech-savvy! But don't count on it! Peace.</span></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-38385003894449044122022-09-17T00:58:00.001-05:002022-09-17T00:58:57.759-05:00Coming to You in Oneness<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEis6d4xjfhIWSCXKFKS0hY1iTOcZuzMPQZpSS3UYs-pNhhFrocYV0tTTw1v1dvt5PnQpXBP11hfDQbzsQNJnhb8yuVU-lZVSSVsuSIdNBlnKOfpnliiwSkByXRuHebrqlfCVHfaGN7I9aAfWmoJIIQQF5lUTaEU6iiNjt5inpNqK9AuY0U1ELZ7bpR5" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="329" data-original-width="440" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEis6d4xjfhIWSCXKFKS0hY1iTOcZuzMPQZpSS3UYs-pNhhFrocYV0tTTw1v1dvt5PnQpXBP11hfDQbzsQNJnhb8yuVU-lZVSSVsuSIdNBlnKOfpnliiwSkByXRuHebrqlfCVHfaGN7I9aAfWmoJIIQQF5lUTaEU6iiNjt5inpNqK9AuY0U1ELZ7bpR5" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Hello All of you who are regular readers of this blog and its sporadic postings. It’s late on Friday evening, but I just spent a wee bit of time looking at Facebook and realized I needed to share with you some news about Elisa, the young woman who has become like a granddaughter to me and who has Stage 4 melanoma of the bone.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The most recent news about the melanoma has been that the only tumor left was at the original site on her lumbar spine. All her Facebook friends and her family got this news a few days ago.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">However, tonight I saw on Facebook some concerning news about the cancer. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">First, let me explain that Elisa and I text one another nearly every day, wishing one another a good day and sending bushels and heaps of love. About every ten to fourteen days, we talk on the phone. I wait for her to call because I never want to interrupt her naps. Resting, as we all know, is necessary for healing.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">When we talk, she brings me up to date on what is happening. However, we haven’t spoken for several days. Her text greetings have been as upbeat as usual and when pain or concern was mentioned, I missed the implications.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Thus, I was not aware of the intensity of the pain she’s been feeling for nearly two months. It must have been Tuesday night that her husband rushed her to the ER because the pain had become unbearable (my word, not hers). <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The ER discovery was that the cancer had attacked her gallbladder: the reason for her two months of intense pain. The next day, she drove down to Salt Lake City for her monthly scans and her infusion (immunotherapy). The doctors there confirmed that she needed to have her gallbladder removed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">However, because the meds for the cancer and for the tests and operation conflicted and also because the operation is “iffy” given the cancer, there has been much stress finding a way forward.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">In her Facebook posting, which I read this evening, she spoke about “crying” and “sobbing” and simply feeling unequal to the test that was necessary today. She is, as many are, claustrophobic, and the test simply overwhelmed her senses and exacerbated her fears. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">She is so tired.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">And so, I come to you again, to ask that in the Oneness that unites us all you will hold her and her life dear. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">That as you hike, weave, write, feed the cats, go for walks with the dogs, watch a favorite television show, explore the wonder of our world, rest within your own thoughts, or deal with your own health concerns (and I know that several of you are in the midst of your own cancer journey), you will at some moment hold her in Oneness.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">That you will trust, as Julian of Norwich did during the Black Plague all those centuries ago, that “All shall be well. And all shall be well. And all manner of things shall be exceedingly well."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtLkF9lkXbRzvP9DUDGeQE_a56Ah5O6QrZB1WgDL1HxRjn8a8JHJIrPs_iat6LFWa6vk6Vs4D31kZUXLUASsaWTr_wFKCPaRc1BemTS8ba2bn-bJfWrKD19oEfnXILlLAhFLm2cLIfDXAQ60wIrsVkHXAwcUni1HaM-Sp5k5u8UrITSiotbFN5d6rq" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtLkF9lkXbRzvP9DUDGeQE_a56Ah5O6QrZB1WgDL1HxRjn8a8JHJIrPs_iat6LFWa6vk6Vs4D31kZUXLUASsaWTr_wFKCPaRc1BemTS8ba2bn-bJfWrKD19oEfnXILlLAhFLm2cLIfDXAQ60wIrsVkHXAwcUni1HaM-Sp5k5u8UrITSiotbFN5d6rq" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">We have no control over much of anything—or so I believe—except for the way we respond to life: its hollows and hills, trauma and triumph, heartaches and happiness.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Moreover, none of us truly knows—despite our deepest fears or our abiding faith—what <i>well </i>means in Julian’s prayer . . . or in our own. The question is always, “In this situation, what is the best that might happen for all concerned?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">For myself, I simply trust that whatever happens will be for the good of the Universe and the people involved. A basic tenet of the way I live my life is that out of everything comes good. Always, there is good—maybe not immediately, but in the long run of the days, weeks, months, years that form the span of our lives. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Still, I want to hold Elisa—and all those who are going through dark days—in Oneness for we are all, truly, One. We all unite in that which makes us most human—the desire to reach out and hold the hand of another with love, compassion, mercy, gentleness, and acceptance in our hearts. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Thank you.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Peace.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilDmzTceeRZFh2cz3n28SrwxFrt5aXYKW7kxtk8EGQo1o8R4xBKSyOa3S1qNQIANC0lZaqKpP3s6Xa8WVQTtymNKEM6yqASQagzxJHbwLpoex9c0irjwDVpKHq9lFnUnPMdXcbRTEhiyg0Dgo8kdvIsHJBnoNu23RdtL3PZ5vGQC7J1AQHOUbsAQXv" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="354" data-original-width="440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilDmzTceeRZFh2cz3n28SrwxFrt5aXYKW7kxtk8EGQo1o8R4xBKSyOa3S1qNQIANC0lZaqKpP3s6Xa8WVQTtymNKEM6yqASQagzxJHbwLpoex9c0irjwDVpKHq9lFnUnPMdXcbRTEhiyg0Dgo8kdvIsHJBnoNu23RdtL3PZ5vGQC7J1AQHOUbsAQXv" width="298" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">The three photographs are from Wikipedia.</span><p></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-75537492175870907262022-09-13T14:44:00.003-05:002022-09-13T14:45:59.165-05:00Belated Responses<p> <span style="font-family: Palatino; text-indent: 0in;">Finally, finally, life has settled down, and I can respond to the comments several of you left on my last posting (8/30/22). I simply cannot figure out how to respond to your comments on my blog page. It’s the Google signing in that defeats me. So, I’m doing what I consider the next best thing: printing your comments here with your name and then responding. I hope this works for those of you who left a comment. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Cynthia:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Ruby is just precious, and your tattoo is perfect! I know you are enjoying it and all it stands for, along with the memories of the day you got it. Dee, you are truly amazing!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Dee:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Dear Cynthia, I do continue to enjoy Arthur’s face on my forearm. As I type—even now—I can look down and see those eyes and feel that all is well in my world. Peace.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Sue:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I love that Arthur is permanently a part of you - as he was from when you were first given him all those years ago. This is a delightful post, Dee. Thank you. And you ARE amazing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Dee:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">He truly was a gift when I was five and so lonely, missing my parents and brother. No one ever knew about him and his presence until 1976 when, inadvertently, I let his presence and that of the Three Presences from the convent, slip out. The memoir on which I’m working will talk about all this. I so hope I can do justice to the four of them. Peace. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><o:p> </o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Jean:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">She did an amazing job with your Arthur tattoo. I'm happy for you that you got it, and it was a memorable experience.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Dee: <o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Dear Jean, it truly was memorable. Ruby didn’t talk while she was working except to explain anything I asked. She’d made a template of her drawing of Arthur—from the figurine—and pressed that template on my skin and then did something I didn’t see and then began with the ink and the needle. I felt nothing but deep contentment as Arthur’s face slowly revealed itself. Peace. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u><o:p> </o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>DJan:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">What a wonderful experience! And you shared it so well. I especially like the third from the last photo, not just of the tattoo but of you, too. Thank you for sharing this with me!!!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Dee:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Dear DJan, thanks for mentioning the photo you liked. To be truthful, that’s the photo in which I thought I looked as if I were “three sheets to the wind”!!!! Also, I see that I posted that photo twice! But perhaps I miscounted and the photo you are talking about is the one of Ruby and me. She is such a love. Peace. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Jo-Anne:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">What a great experience, I would love another tattoo.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Dee:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Dear Jo-Anne: And I’d love to read a posting about your tattoos! Or at least see photographs of them. Hint! Hint! Peace.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Joared:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">That's a very good reproduction of Arthur -- always with you now.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Dee: <o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Dear Joared, yes, she captured him. And I find myself looking at him as I type or wash my hands or prepare a sandwich. The truth is, and this may sound strange, but I seem to have plunged into a pool of serenity in the last few months since Arthur came to be imprinted on my arm. Peace. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Joanne:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Arthur is a fine fellow, and now lives on your arm as well as in your heart. Elisa and Ruby as point and counterpoint made for a lovely afternoon. Job well done, all.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Dee:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Dear Joanne, I so like your terms “point” and “counterpoint.” I hadn’t thought of that, and it just tickles my fancy. And, yes, the afternoon was lovely. Meeting her mentors was a delight. One of them will appear in my next posting—about a motorcycle ride. Peace. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Patti:</u></b><b><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></u></b><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I am delighted that Arthur is now with you wherever you go. Ruby nailed the image and I love how you entertained the other artists and clients. Bet they are still talking about that neat lady they met and her cool tattoo.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Dee:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Dear Patti, I’m not sure about their continuing to talk about our conversation in the tattoo parlor, but I bet that they do shake their heads every time they think of meeting a nun who laughed loudly, belly shaking, and shared stories of riotous times in the convent. Peace. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Linda:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Good for you! I got my first tattoo when I was 70, and the second-and-final one at 72.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Dee:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Dear Linda, so good to find a comment from you. It’s been a long time since I’ve visited your blog, but I will do that sometime soon. I’ve truly been an on-again/off-again blogger for the last several years. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">I’d love to see photos of your two tattoos and hear the stories behind them. I plan on getting one more also—it will be written—in my mother’s script--on my left forearm and say, “Dolores, you find what you look for.” That was one of the most instructive legacies she left me. In some ways, it is the bedrock of my life. Peace. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Rian:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Love the pictures, Dee... and the tattoo. I do have a question (just curious), when you decided you wanted the tattoo, how did you decide where you wanted it?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Dee:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Dear Rian, I knew that the entire body could be and has been for many the canvas for tattoos. However, I have for the past two years been trying to write a memoir, and the threads that hold it together have eluded me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">When Ruby began her career, the thought came that perhaps being able to sit here at the computer and type and look down at my right arm and see Arthur’s gentle eyes and his abiding love for me would help me find the way through this labyrinth of a memoir. Peace.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Inger:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Ruby did a great job. I love the pictures, #6 of 14 is my favorite. It's so wonderful to see you all together and having such a great time.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Dee:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Dear Inger, I, too, especially like that photograph. My long-sleeved t-shirt with the stained-glass window effect also pleases me mightily! Peace.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><b><u>Dee’s Comment on the Posting:<o:p></o:p></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">You know, one question didn’t come up in these welcomed responses from you, the readers who are so dear to me in Oneness. That question is, “Why no color to the tattoo?” The answer is that I have a form of cutaneous T-cell lymphoma—a skin cancer labeled “mycosis fungoides.” In its early stage, this cancer reveals itself in pale pink patches on my skin. These patches are sometimes active and sometimes not. When they are, I do light treatments three times a week and/or use a cream medication. When active, the patches are seen because of the pale color. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">When I spoke to the dermatologist whom I see every few months about getting a tattoo, she was enthusiastic, but said that I couldn’t have color because that would hide the active stage of the cancer. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Ruby’s artistic ability, I think, truly shows in Arthur’s tattoo because the black seems shaded, in some places, and thus “colored.” Peace. <o:p></o:p></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-79191545077587617022022-08-30T12:26:00.000-05:002022-08-30T12:28:39.286-05:00Finally, the Tattoo!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFjR9LaGqnroBr2FFAeEJKJR2s0pMA-1w3dD5G4w2LSzxbXdF9QkeMa1mr3XftTbZzwIhqbmfVW8a2BdRGU4Yr1XZf6KH30HDuj4PNi5CquHtHtqhh4arNsCIf14sWnwVegUZ5d9jMli1nHQEFlk6R1IuTnY323nRpeScBBnL9tFzKqet5ySmzln3J" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1792" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFjR9LaGqnroBr2FFAeEJKJR2s0pMA-1w3dD5G4w2LSzxbXdF9QkeMa1mr3XftTbZzwIhqbmfVW8a2BdRGU4Yr1XZf6KH30HDuj4PNi5CquHtHtqhh4arNsCIf14sWnwVegUZ5d9jMli1nHQEFlk6R1IuTnY323nRpeScBBnL9tFzKqet5ySmzln3J" width="129" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFjR9LaGqnroBr2FFAeEJKJR2s0pMA-1w3dD5G4w2LSzxbXdF9QkeMa1mr3XftTbZzwIhqbmfVW8a2BdRGU4Yr1XZf6KH30HDuj4PNi5CquHtHtqhh4arNsCIf14sWnwVegUZ5d9jMli1nHQEFlk6R1IuTnY323nRpeScBBnL9tFzKqet5ySmzln3J" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibBmIVCCEWgcsvJl_jk6sXpfi42uevkOZVIE_dPTsxe4KfugR0CHV7vCBlBFd_xyKdynO11sZUz7Xx6urECkLgz-hh6B8UcbQOmZCwTd_tAYijUDQGBPatRQVSw1q6cu69dyQ3pZErAjtwpCpC9bFCJi6gPH5eY4hK-DOesumn8-W57ykjW-Rzlwv7" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibBmIVCCEWgcsvJl_jk6sXpfi42uevkOZVIE_dPTsxe4KfugR0CHV7vCBlBFd_xyKdynO11sZUz7Xx6urECkLgz-hh6B8UcbQOmZCwTd_tAYijUDQGBPatRQVSw1q6cu69dyQ3pZErAjtwpCpC9bFCJi6gPH5eY4hK-DOesumn8-W57ykjW-Rzlwv7" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Okay!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">From your comments, I’ve concluded that my past three postings have whetted your interest in the Arthur/Dee tattoo. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">In the first posting, you met Arthur, my lion friend, who’s been with me since September 1941—kindergarten. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">In the second, you met Ruby, the enterprising child of the dandelion patch.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">In the third, you met her as a young adult who’d set herself the goal of becoming a master tattoo artist.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Now! Voilà! The three meet in the Tattoo Parlor along with Ruby’s mother and my “grand-daughter”—Elisa. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">I’ve never done a blog that featured several photographs. Today, however, I’m letting the pictures tell the story. You may ask, “Was it painful?” No.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“Did I ask Ruby a lot of questions?” No<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“How long did it take?” About a half hour and during that time, Elisa stood next to the tattoo chair. She kept telling the clients and the three other tattoo artists—Ruby’s mentors—what an amazing person I am. I just let her say whatever as I knew I’d never be meeting any of them again and so it didn’t matter if they held preposterous thoughts about me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">She threw in “. . . and she was a nun for a number of years!!!!!” That bit of gossip caught the interest of everyone there. So, for the remainder of the tattooing, I responded to questions from everyone. None of them had ever known a nun before, much less one who’d left the convent. They seemed amazed that I had a sense of humor and that I was—well, frankly—a human being!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">All in all, a rollicking and somewhat whimsical experience for me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">And while Elisa encouraged questions and “egged” everyone on and I responded, probably with some exaggeration, Ruby just worked her magic. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEio49kVv8KzevJIv7w7lNqdGcLftvSwOXTdqY2LVMdDqvprS7wlFNfAK-TBN0790mOim5-UB8ByOpgfVh7TknF-hoGUrDtdezLrkLcUlj88F1zrWIbCZi9qXdcGJB58QVX3p8O4QOOhoYYMebHb43q-wHAo0fvKliDV8KCiYLd5CwKICyE0KhefKL3L" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEio49kVv8KzevJIv7w7lNqdGcLftvSwOXTdqY2LVMdDqvprS7wlFNfAK-TBN0790mOim5-UB8ByOpgfVh7TknF-hoGUrDtdezLrkLcUlj88F1zrWIbCZi9qXdcGJB58QVX3p8O4QOOhoYYMebHb43q-wHAo0fvKliDV8KCiYLd5CwKICyE0KhefKL3L" width="129" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFqcM9hlo-5KN_m-9SaUfsRKguS7586cDyuQh8IPfFdNmopF0IkFEU_Bpi4roFkfO69k6_97RBoYyCiFJKp1sg4nQV5YkUrGz4_Cu9YBtShPCCi_etNKIbGuKfy0jDp5q4K7FlvJC2Xi4xf8FpkeNr9072FKR6tIzhmaJpHo7Uu8ykqbxVUnMQn7Kb" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQ2EYXCqGuKFXDvLFz8FglLgH_k_qXQDFauhbTAMy54Hwuw2OWJi2NtubTvAl2AP8OYzHvT2ud5iEr09jPc1lzdj3L9XqMmfNj_cQKBfGDWOZknBENRDvXQO43cqU2T4yiuHVTs5_dctw2BIKTjs98WopNJIhQGGPdUwln-6OZbjdzYWO74f0zkUgz" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1792" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQ2EYXCqGuKFXDvLFz8FglLgH_k_qXQDFauhbTAMy54Hwuw2OWJi2NtubTvAl2AP8OYzHvT2ud5iEr09jPc1lzdj3L9XqMmfNj_cQKBfGDWOZknBENRDvXQO43cqU2T4yiuHVTs5_dctw2BIKTjs98WopNJIhQGGPdUwln-6OZbjdzYWO74f0zkUgz" width="129" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4F-a4wrdZgLgagxLMYsu_o-lvzTKfeC8uX3BHJex256r_oq1bsjnusIlF5CLQuaGeTNuV_p_UPlGM-PrgOvRueoIQdcoTPiIbv6mTzLiKhfJ2EWqX5b96BzbcZ2xJv0jJct4sQ-tAnsgjJkj2DzbTKNQYiQTB989WJMKuv07jRgIwXQSQw1plx1uT" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4F-a4wrdZgLgagxLMYsu_o-lvzTKfeC8uX3BHJex256r_oq1bsjnusIlF5CLQuaGeTNuV_p_UPlGM-PrgOvRueoIQdcoTPiIbv6mTzLiKhfJ2EWqX5b96BzbcZ2xJv0jJct4sQ-tAnsgjJkj2DzbTKNQYiQTB989WJMKuv07jRgIwXQSQw1plx1uT" width="129" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiU2kdsuuboGGbqtKIU3BFGJEI35lT7ud4OhU-8Q2kG4y5v0DNHpcxcaQSH6X2WvgtGG3VL6ixMEGo4a-VuOYTbWXMr7TgbokkBA_c1giiZ9f3ArjwC8A8CGPtrh5zJ68te0V0zMnySVHNUUBwQpq3vx1p6LTOi0pIyyDQ2sCQIjZsDGAzdHTW5eF2S" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiU2kdsuuboGGbqtKIU3BFGJEI35lT7ud4OhU-8Q2kG4y5v0DNHpcxcaQSH6X2WvgtGG3VL6ixMEGo4a-VuOYTbWXMr7TgbokkBA_c1giiZ9f3ArjwC8A8CGPtrh5zJ68te0V0zMnySVHNUUBwQpq3vx1p6LTOi0pIyyDQ2sCQIjZsDGAzdHTW5eF2S" width="129" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0amg2nzJhfuQPOCfImUjs5pQ8lv5oPuUxsWTLaHCyhs1W6BvJOhiUuULbNgkdSF6MEgbHVS7SDvKpJy_v3OWlEjEapXCi5Pg6fT7Puw7fQUqnBE1tBW0x5er7kXGAqDYcQMzfqG_qUwJrsUeIEItdr8ARPDctUdlAta0EeVDK6JrJUaPcDBZHOWlh" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0amg2nzJhfuQPOCfImUjs5pQ8lv5oPuUxsWTLaHCyhs1W6BvJOhiUuULbNgkdSF6MEgbHVS7SDvKpJy_v3OWlEjEapXCi5Pg6fT7Puw7fQUqnBE1tBW0x5er7kXGAqDYcQMzfqG_qUwJrsUeIEItdr8ARPDctUdlAta0EeVDK6JrJUaPcDBZHOWlh" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwR3PZvfMAI5E-hwqx_VTjCuqkLeYFoitWNjy0RpSUHxQRrQ_z1e0vF3f3RNO87UYkM93BhDyqS3ehLkA7vgadrxY0qkhOomIPLlDUSUj08RBOfbU6PpaM2kentnXCEPxFqDxlcKGuMNih03vxLKtjC8s8WA2BZVrTKwRI2MY0wSAWMuljYbNmcBGX" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwR3PZvfMAI5E-hwqx_VTjCuqkLeYFoitWNjy0RpSUHxQRrQ_z1e0vF3f3RNO87UYkM93BhDyqS3ehLkA7vgadrxY0qkhOomIPLlDUSUj08RBOfbU6PpaM2kentnXCEPxFqDxlcKGuMNih03vxLKtjC8s8WA2BZVrTKwRI2MY0wSAWMuljYbNmcBGX" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimrZnPsdS34mqQDyYa076Zv4J6QkzZF-im6lRz36l0XtaG9Eu6U5EXAS4yhFN_hL3NNt9I724tCw1YCrLP58IGV8uqTDHDGWFzYuH4MnYbuEDqbSQ36lM1itjdk2bQiZmO90oWa5z4F6ZzOsve_scd8nnDxRRoQ5n36HzbUiQTKnqEiNFvdsAkWFKp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimrZnPsdS34mqQDyYa076Zv4J6QkzZF-im6lRz36l0XtaG9Eu6U5EXAS4yhFN_hL3NNt9I724tCw1YCrLP58IGV8uqTDHDGWFzYuH4MnYbuEDqbSQ36lM1itjdk2bQiZmO90oWa5z4F6ZzOsve_scd8nnDxRRoQ5n36HzbUiQTKnqEiNFvdsAkWFKp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span> PEACE.</span><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-53594250145425221462022-08-19T11:22:00.000-05:002022-08-19T11:24:00.180-05:00"Can't Help Falling in Love..." with Tattooing<p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Fourteen years ago, Ruby, a six-year-old, provided forks for her hired playmates to use while digging up dandelions. She and her mom didn’t agree on the profit margin Ruby had established. However, the young entrepreneur made enough money to purchase tools for her next venture: Art.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Throughout her school years, she entered art contests and won ribbons. Whether using oil, watercolor, pencil, or chalk, on paper or canvas, her creations were evocative. She carefully listened to someone, like myself, talk. She “saw” pictures; she “felt” emotions; and then, she produced a piece of art that spoke to that person in a personal way.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">I have been the recipient of several of her creations—one sits on a bookshelf across the room from me. I’m looking at it now. It’s a path through a forest. In the background is the silver sliver of a waterfall. Whenever I gaze at that oil painting in its pentagon edging, I travel through that forest, to that waterfall, and stand ready for its tumbling water to drench me in memories that will speak to the readers of my next memoir. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">I have other pieces of her art on my refrigerator door, on my bedroom wall, and in a folder entitled “Ruby’s Art.” Through these gifts, I can trace her growth as an artist.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">While still in high school, Ruby began to post her artistic designs online. She sold many of these and also took orders for more individual designs. She is now twenty—soon to be twenty-one. All those years of art have morphed into one love, one passion: to create personal tattoos with ink as the medium and skin as the canvas.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">When she first shared this love with me, I thought of Elvis Presley singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Elvis sang of physical love. <i>Ruby,</i> I thought, <i>can’t help falling in love with tattooing.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vGJTaP6anOU" width="320" youtube-src-id="vGJTaP6anOU"></iframe></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">When that love affair began three years ago, Ruby’s went to a local tattoo parlor that was well-known in several states. “Will you take me on as an apprentice?” she asked the three renowned artists there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“No!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Ruby didn’t take that emphatic “no” for a final answer. Instead, after school each day, she came to the shop and did odd jobs: unpacking and shelving supplies, sweeping floors, dusting cabinets, cleaning toilets and sinks, picking up lunch for the men. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Periodically, she’d ask, “Will you mentor me?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> “No.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">For a year she showed up each workday afternoon. (It reminded me of the Little Prince and the Fox in the classic book by Saint-Exupéry.) During that time, the men gave her an assignment: To study the history of tattooing, its diversity of styles, and its most famous practitioners; to write papers about her studies; and, finally, to create designs that were examples of the varied styles. When she talked to me about her discoveries, I could hear the excitement in her voice.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Weeks, months, passed. Then last summer, while she swept the floor, the three men—convinced of her commitment—spoke: “Ruby, we’ll mentor you.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">She began with customers who wanted simple designs. As the weeks passed, her mentors had her take on more complicated tattoos. Under their tutelage, she began to develop her own distinctive “light” touch tattooing and her own distinctive style.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">She did all this without pay.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">In 2022, she began charging for her work. The photo below shows a recent tattoo she did for her sister. As children, they’d both modeled outfits their mother designed, made, and sold. One photograph shows Sky in yellow; the other, Ruby in maroon. These aided Ruby in her design.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaoSSgGR6I1mvGQ0ClXmXk-zGhqbCrLjK2NXfw2YtP0CkALmplp1MBROx2DZNGeQ7lQJxeFcPbWcVSXxLRypXauroDJkTjjLoD_2o-MwJmzhfvjDIw97RkgElwuAQk6rzJ-7dWqa6fbJovlAQsrbczhZcEfGaWZuonfzvCJkuZptUCfR8nvikN8c8v" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1386" data-original-width="784" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaoSSgGR6I1mvGQ0ClXmXk-zGhqbCrLjK2NXfw2YtP0CkALmplp1MBROx2DZNGeQ7lQJxeFcPbWcVSXxLRypXauroDJkTjjLoD_2o-MwJmzhfvjDIw97RkgElwuAQk6rzJ-7dWqa6fbJovlAQsrbczhZcEfGaWZuonfzvCJkuZptUCfR8nvikN8c8v" width="136" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-foZ9ARChShGNlMqikiLWD79aMIGuvnBIEACsIK2DLuJjgj1qKKe3DDjfnZkAk02mga1oTnwJ1jZ_rjrzemp4lKNFx5luz1bknF1AUx7TRxo5GwbjZQ03PxNwjpPOv9iLRTYpuzwGUupTMZZLdsXlB3Bd5ZVPmUHkQJgxpHz1_ZIlTI5DmOyKXc4K" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="437" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-foZ9ARChShGNlMqikiLWD79aMIGuvnBIEACsIK2DLuJjgj1qKKe3DDjfnZkAk02mga1oTnwJ1jZ_rjrzemp4lKNFx5luz1bknF1AUx7TRxo5GwbjZQ03PxNwjpPOv9iLRTYpuzwGUupTMZZLdsXlB3Bd5ZVPmUHkQJgxpHz1_ZIlTI5DmOyKXc4K" width="164" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYWPqkQ2Yancelv9v6XH9_WpoWu4Q9s6xPkqk5eQouWdib-k07k5djY9hUbwMnzl4zCtBWF2vglwp1Y1bN01b4eHtHRKSm-U9AA8oznY-pX9gltKOmwNiEbkz2At9daDPswwAnxsrYiyTXrDoXGYpuKffys4iWH_r5W666XHF_D5nwCWUlRKuDQJ2H" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="495" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYWPqkQ2Yancelv9v6XH9_WpoWu4Q9s6xPkqk5eQouWdib-k07k5djY9hUbwMnzl4zCtBWF2vglwp1Y1bN01b4eHtHRKSm-U9AA8oznY-pX9gltKOmwNiEbkz2At9daDPswwAnxsrYiyTXrDoXGYpuKffys4iWH_r5W666XHF_D5nwCWUlRKuDQJ2H" width="186" /></a></div><br />When next I post, I’ll share with you the tattoo Ruby did for me.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-62791352849963050112022-07-31T15:27:00.000-05:002022-07-31T15:27:42.974-05:00Background on Tattoo Artist<p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguJ24AZAlz6Mj9viF81FkQL-lGELqk1mDP-pgyb3aM5nBm7QI82gSw8mJp9eXtaImwQ2eUgxgdTOEctp2ffbfD28yBPjEo-6A0DeJqWqv10oPRU1gNg_80zDO77OUcsfyzHi1BqpYc9YD24gI3lzOVuJXvRIEAF_6zuoU-T0SKDh-Pof5WWLRpHfq8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1792" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguJ24AZAlz6Mj9viF81FkQL-lGELqk1mDP-pgyb3aM5nBm7QI82gSw8mJp9eXtaImwQ2eUgxgdTOEctp2ffbfD28yBPjEo-6A0DeJqWqv10oPRU1gNg_80zDO77OUcsfyzHi1BqpYc9YD24gI3lzOVuJXvRIEAF_6zuoU-T0SKDh-Pof5WWLRpHfq8" width="129" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Palatino;"><br /></span><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Ruby, Elisa, and Dee during the 2022 date-tattoo-motorcycle visit!</span></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">When first we met, in January 2012, Ruby had just turned eleven, and I could see, during her visit here with her mom, Elisa, that the young lady already had a mind of her own. She didn’t hem-and-haw when I asked her about the recipe she concocted for our Saturday night dinner. Nor did she hesitate when I asked what she’d like to do next. I thought she was, in some ways, shy, but she was also extremely capable of speaking up for herself.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">During that visit, I learned about what she was like at six. It was then that she showed herself to be a true entrepreneur. One day that Spring, her mom offered to pay her ten pennies for every dandelion she dug up by its roots. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Ruby hurried outside with fork, knife, and the trowel her mom provided. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Elisa returned to her writing and didn’t notice, as time passed, that Ruby returned to the kitchen several times for more dinner forks and knives.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> An hour later, when Elisa had finished here blog posting and gone to the sink for a glass of water, Ruby bounded into the kitchen again. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“Mom,” she asked, “do we have any more forks. Or trowels? That would be good! Any trowels?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> “Why do you need them? You took a trowel and a fork, too, when you went outside.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“I’ve got more workers than forks,” Ruby replied. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“Workers? What are you talking about?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Ruby’s face, at six, gave nothing away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Elisa marched with her first-born daughter to the front door.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">What greeted her was the sight of a number of children—most Ruby’s age or younger, but a few, older—assiduously digging up dandelions in the front yard. Because a gentle rain had soaked the grass the night before, all the youngsters wore muddy feet or shoes. Mud smeared their hands. Their shorts. Their tops. Their lips. Clearly, a few had, in their industry, licked the lumps of mud that clung to their cheeks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“Hi, kids,” Elisa called. Most of them looked up and “highed” her back. Several, however, unwilling to be distracted, simply continued digging, mudding themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Looking down at her six-year-old, Elsa asked, “Ruby, why exactly are all the neighborhood kids digging in our yard?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">With a gap-toothed grin, Ruby said, “I hired them, Mom. I’m the boss. They’re the workers.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“And do they get those ten pennies I promised you could earn for each dandelion root?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“No. No way. They get five. I get the rest.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“So how much do you think you’ve earned?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“Lots,” Ruby said, looking up with her gapped-tooth grin. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“They did all the work though,” Elisa said. “You’ve got to admit that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“But I bossed them.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> “Well,” Elisa said, never being a complete fan of capitalism, “I think you earned three pennies for furnishing the equipment and for being bossy. The kids each get the seven left.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“No, Mom!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">And so it was that Elisa and Ruby called a halt to the project, gave each child his or her earnings, and accompanied them each home to explain to the parents. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">This was the beginning of Ruby’s entrepreneurship. In my grab-bag of stories, I have more I could share with you about Ruby, but the one you need for my next posting is this: How She Came to Be a Tattoo Artist. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Next posting, I’ll “expound” on that. I know you all want to see my tattoo, but as those of you who’ve followed my blog for years know, I have a need to always provide background. Only by doing that do I provide justice to a person, a happening, an emotion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">So, two weeks from now will be another story on Ruby at twenty—sixteen years after today’s story—and then, two weeks later, the unveiling of my tattoo and the experience of having Ruby create it for me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Postscript:<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">What Elisa’s latest scans at the Huntsman Cancer Institute in Salt Lake City revealed about her Stage #4 melanoma of the bone has, as Elisa says, been “awesome.” Many others are using the word “miracle.” Her oncologists say that they’ve kept from her not only the dire seriousness of her cancer but also their doubt that she’d live even two years beyond November 2019 when it was discovered. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Here’s what has caused the elation: All the tumors are gone from her brain, her lungs, her upper back, her hips, her pelvis, her ankles. She still has tumors at the base of her neck and on her lower—lumbar—spine. But . . . a big BUT . . . these are smaller than they have been. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">So, thank you all for your prayers. Positive thoughts. Healing visualizations. Continuing concern. May peace and joy descend upon you and bring into your life the overwhelming contentment that comes when we know that the Holy Oneness of All Creation, of which we are all a part, has enfolded all of us, once again, in an experience that reveals our Oneness. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"></p><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Peace.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-72288611490147770362022-07-17T14:10:00.000-05:002022-07-17T14:10:19.223-05:00Part 1 of the Tattoo I Now Wear<p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">During a recent visit with friends in Idaho, I got a tattoo. In today’s posting, I’ll share with you the background of that tattoo, which I’m now wearing on my right forearm. It is and will be until I die, a reminder of a Presence that got me through an emotionally difficult time during my childhood—a time of despair, desperation, and loss of the idyllic security of my first five years of life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In August 1941, my carefree childhood ended. My parents and young brother disappeared from my life; I didn’t know where they’d gone nor if they’d ever be back. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">My grandmother, angry at her son’s precipitous escape from her dominance, used me as his scapegoat. Every Saturday, during my weekly visit, she’d pummel me with the same harsh words: “You’re naughty, Dodo! That’s why your folks left you behind. They’re having fun without you. But your little brother got to go. They’ve deserted you.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I learned not to cry. Or ask why. Or whimper. I knew what would come next. Each visit she’d wallop me with the same litany of abuse.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">“They don’t love you. They’re never coming back. You’re an orphan now. And I’m certainly not going to let you live here. Not with me. You’re just a bother.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> During those months of kindergarten, I ceased to be happy, carefree, spontaneous. I became, instead, somber, downcast, silent. For the next three years, I remained so. When, at the end of my kindergarten year, my parents returned, my 180</span><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">°</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> personality change distressed them. Daily they queried me: “What’s wrong, Dodo?” “What’s happened?” “Where’s your smile disappeared to?” “Where’d my little girl go to?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">But Grandma had done her work. Fearful, I said nothing. I could trust no one. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">No one except Arthur, who was known only by me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I met Arthur in September 1941 as I walked the path through a corner city lot of wildflowers and weeds. Emerging from the plumed grasses, he padded toward me. I felt no fear of this approaching lion with his brown ruff and swaying tail. What I did feel was a sure knowledge that I could sink into the loving depths of his eyes and be happy, moment by moment, breath by breath.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_7LdheMYqACKz3Qb2eYtmVYNuo1nknkatOZ-Cjc8qVeb1WsrYn_Kd_rQAIMTXAytmPSq-S2lo7o9Q_uXtx-0BfhGFXNhsxwamFKrB9MzsaX-5PArezQyAQRb1wsE1AycuMR7UEYrybuSnQNWb3xG8UHIzf5ucJHbCI7FxXV3gvGjWz5-nIbhtxVs/s4032/4F8117B3-CF6D-405C-B0BD-CC035A68C72B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_7LdheMYqACKz3Qb2eYtmVYNuo1nknkatOZ-Cjc8qVeb1WsrYn_Kd_rQAIMTXAytmPSq-S2lo7o9Q_uXtx-0BfhGFXNhsxwamFKrB9MzsaX-5PArezQyAQRb1wsE1AycuMR7UEYrybuSnQNWb3xG8UHIzf5ucJHbCI7FxXV3gvGjWz5-nIbhtxVs/s320/4F8117B3-CF6D-405C-B0BD-CC035A68C72B.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">During the next few days, I realized that only I could see and hear Arthur. On our way to school that first day, he’d purred that he’d be with me always, loving me no matter what I did or said or didn’t do or say. “You are my Beloved,” he said. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I did not know what that word meant, but I trusted whatever he said. His words were not razor-sharp as Grandma’s were. The tawny quilt of his being wrapped me in an all-embracing peace. He became my shield against the “slings and arrows” in my grandmother’s quiver.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Arthur got me through the hard days, weeks, months, and years ahead.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAcwIQczKv2Y-PWT2bB3g3YTwuVJFint9ilCLLQ8h4T4nOKbSPhpFY39V4U_zbisfHCWn-jyOf2KQDR2ucgSybQ17YZpX7sAYjYes1qSpkRbBQw0F5Py0uaTLqBetoD7sOmtUwKprcnDmKYeUFXUbKvUeAkH6_plraYybSb4oBkQsPOXTTnw3aocrz/s2048/B35AD077-8337-4842-8A9D-D26AB3A7609F.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAcwIQczKv2Y-PWT2bB3g3YTwuVJFint9ilCLLQ8h4T4nOKbSPhpFY39V4U_zbisfHCWn-jyOf2KQDR2ucgSybQ17YZpX7sAYjYes1qSpkRbBQw0F5Py0uaTLqBetoD7sOmtUwKprcnDmKYeUFXUbKvUeAkH6_plraYybSb4oBkQsPOXTTnw3aocrz/s320/B35AD077-8337-4842-8A9D-D26AB3A7609F.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Twenty-seven years later, in September 1968, while visiting Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio, I found a ceramic figurine of Arthur. While browsing in the college’s gift shop, I looked down and there on a table was the figurine. I recognized him immediately. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">For fifty-three years, from that day until last year, his figurine was always near: on my bedstand in Ohio and New Hampshire, on my office desk in Minnesota and here in Missouri. Always, I was just a glance away from the security that Arthur so graciously and gleefully had given me on that September day in 1941.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdVeKGhBYCD-pCto280J75ozAGlczHxthQzZ53938VkgNcf9LmhSIe3u6pGbNNohOWlfxb-wC4G8Hn6Zf6MKZGc6clsy3qcMTGyYPf_fyT32HCcss1p_7xsKqD1bUeQ9mHzN6WwjE3Ab4Gqe1qXX-UecnqdF0ttFXhF_3BbejURarLnIaMJ5ivr1q1/s4032/6B769E54-6061-40C2-8E81-E9B49A246622.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdVeKGhBYCD-pCto280J75ozAGlczHxthQzZ53938VkgNcf9LmhSIe3u6pGbNNohOWlfxb-wC4G8Hn6Zf6MKZGc6clsy3qcMTGyYPf_fyT32HCcss1p_7xsKqD1bUeQ9mHzN6WwjE3Ab4Gqe1qXX-UecnqdF0ttFXhF_3BbejURarLnIaMJ5ivr1q1/s320/6B769E54-6061-40C2-8E81-E9B49A246622.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Moreover, for all those years, whenever some persistent emotion overwhelmed me—fear, happiness, panic, gratitude, anxiety, joy, exhaustion, glee, jealousy—I would pick Arthur up and hold him. His rump pressed into my left palm; his snout into my right. Then, seeking the depth of abiding peace, I’d let emotion flow down my arms and into Arthur. And he, a seemingly boundless vessel, would take what I was feeling and leave within me the breath of Oneness. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Last April, I visited Elisa—my adopted granddaughter—in Idaho and spent five days with her in Salt Lake City while she did radiation for her Stage 4 melanoma of the bone. I’d carried Arthur’s figurine from Missouri to Utah, knowing that he’d always watched over, comforted, consoled, encouraged, and delighted in me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSo-cEZMc1qbbxD6CSiu_LR3tAQQI0KqimlElBCqy2vqnjktMsUousWESUUVt9nRY2CdWM29g_TQXKmt4pUw8Qu1EjM5pkj-dto_E7JZTlk7qb9AuWFDiWREaROrgVpkMyM3nug8w1AfW32M8d6BdtDcGvp3oNbDXIZEWWREuqFGi-IoUj8PBn5cAX/s4032/8E82C093-78BF-4F6A-93AD-78CBDE895A65.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSo-cEZMc1qbbxD6CSiu_LR3tAQQI0KqimlElBCqy2vqnjktMsUousWESUUVt9nRY2CdWM29g_TQXKmt4pUw8Qu1EjM5pkj-dto_E7JZTlk7qb9AuWFDiWREaROrgVpkMyM3nug8w1AfW32M8d6BdtDcGvp3oNbDXIZEWWREuqFGi-IoUj8PBn5cAX/s320/8E82C093-78BF-4F6A-93AD-78CBDE895A65.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">It was time, I realized, to give his presence, represented by that figurine, to Elisa. I trusted that just as he'd protected and watched over me, so his presence would enfold her and what she was going through.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">She knew his story and was touched by the gift. However, when I returned home and looked to the left of this computer, to where he’d once stood, I missed him. Greatly.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">His eyes; his ruff; his sturdiness; his steadfastness; his humor.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">And so, in my next posting—hopefully two weeks from now—I’ll share with you the tattoo that now blesses my life. I’ll describe the tattoo experience and the delightful tattoo artist who gave me the gift of Arthur in a new and quite wonderful way. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">PS: This has been, I know, much longer than my normal posting of 600 words. However, Arthur and his steadfast presence in my life deserves no less from me. I hope you will return in two weeks to discover the story of the tattoo that is now emblazoned on the very skin I wear.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-8724782422274751432022-07-10T15:16:00.000-05:002022-07-10T15:16:50.653-05:00Foiled by Google<p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYxIZTfml0ByeRqHZabmV6WllCWUdkmFDTxXa55XZF-5W13OqWXfCR2dMzOulNTIjTm5_xtsZ5WwjSQOakQam7YJsvyq01rYrOC29K4l6qrPQntmvgYuzmQ4FHtImG29XuCjyXocUM5ROn41YWxcR7U82k0v5e5fAJcIsWsHpgFoz25UUscBTfRFeU/s360/e-portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="305" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYxIZTfml0ByeRqHZabmV6WllCWUdkmFDTxXa55XZF-5W13OqWXfCR2dMzOulNTIjTm5_xtsZ5WwjSQOakQam7YJsvyq01rYrOC29K4l6qrPQntmvgYuzmQ4FHtImG29XuCjyXocUM5ROn41YWxcR7U82k0v5e5fAJcIsWsHpgFoz25UUscBTfRFeU/s320/e-portrait.jpg" width="271" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;"><br /> Hello All of You Who Leave Comments on my Blog Postings: </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">I find myself unable to "sign in with Google." My niece has </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">tried--for almost three hours--to figure this out . . . to no avail.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">So I suppose that from now on, I won't be able to respond. I do </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">hope you know that I welcome your comments and would like </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">to respond to each individually as I seem always to have </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">something to say!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">However, I'm just going to thank you now for the comments </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">you've left on my most recent posting (July 4th). And for any </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">comments you'll leave in the future. I value your thoughts and </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">responses always.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">Peace amidst the confusion all around us . . . </span></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-49655473157756093372022-07-04T17:10:00.000-05:002022-07-04T17:10:22.493-05:00A Lesson in Dating While Vacationing<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3kZbAGmzTSzOshtSdSRmT4w8bzjElpy8isaFhBedQ-NUicZzBOI2WJJ64ZjF3EhNMv3vgYQ8KRqMJ6Q-ZZJVACRw7uQHLWZGHnryFwMr5VvhR1pkREv8St3cgoS-vAbBtkfd7qVnRQ4j0fn4OD0pn6HkC8hEObFPH_B5j9FEO5T7rjvMOEWS7T0wA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3kZbAGmzTSzOshtSdSRmT4w8bzjElpy8isaFhBedQ-NUicZzBOI2WJJ64ZjF3EhNMv3vgYQ8KRqMJ6Q-ZZJVACRw7uQHLWZGHnryFwMr5VvhR1pkREv8St3cgoS-vAbBtkfd7qVnRQ4j0fn4OD0pn6HkC8hEObFPH_B5j9FEO5T7rjvMOEWS7T0wA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Recently, I visited my “Idaho family.” For two weeks, I spent time with Elisa’s four offspring, who now range in age from twelve to twenty, and with Elisa and Mike. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTN4BqQ82AUoVfWPmbSBYyKHkCAMTpnsyIka2nKN-fmFn_ADArvgLz1s8yQxSEjVQInmjXZpaC8she45tZgXKJ6aT3uW5dG1uZC0jmZ-vPGQmydXtLMoajMxN67juwFidFQPxJTDsJw89UWegjNVk8aWuXDM4vYUsTDL9MllN8G6xKiLF9SWqht9Yu" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTN4BqQ82AUoVfWPmbSBYyKHkCAMTpnsyIka2nKN-fmFn_ADArvgLz1s8yQxSEjVQInmjXZpaC8she45tZgXKJ6aT3uW5dG1uZC0jmZ-vPGQmydXtLMoajMxN67juwFidFQPxJTDsJw89UWegjNVk8aWuXDM4vYUsTDL9MllN8G6xKiLF9SWqht9Yu=w200-h198" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In addition to family time, I had three unexpected experiences: I got a tattoo. I went on a motorcycle ride. And I had a “date.” Or at least that’s what Elisa told me I had. Today, I’ll share my confusion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">First, the background: I’ve become friends with one of Elisa’s elderly Idaho friends—a philosophical man. (Let’s call him Palmer.) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">When Elisa was in the hospital in November 2020, she asked me to call Palmer and introduce myself. She wanted me to keep him apprised of what was happening with the cancer. He doesn’t have a smart/cell phone nor a computer, so the line-land phone is his way of communicating<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">That’s how Palmer and I met. Since then, we’ve spoken on the phone every couple of weeks about how Elisa is progressing as well as about books, political happenings, and quotations that have struck us as incisive. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In April 2021, while visiting Elisa, I finally met him in person.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">On this most recent visit, Palmer came to Elisa’s home for a boardgame afternoon with the family. The next day, he called and suggested we have lunch together that coming Thursday. He drove us to a nearby restaurant—and yes, he’d checked beforehand to see if they had any vegetarian entrees on their menu. I enjoyed the food, our conversation, and his candy-apple red sports car.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqiNqwJVr5G1bti9lgxwQWfXSh27PJXoZQaVuF7EnVvCPgQBT1qOVmyg6i0N_iTYkc339XwJN7HUmeUlo-N28s3L52yAJL7D8qxHa_xKC1F9d_VviqD2ln9XCna6hLTpFX4Qx5ttBLqnO9CcaSxK9i9WHkGIjfMcCBeC76xZt0z6OlwMCEGCPdWX2A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqiNqwJVr5G1bti9lgxwQWfXSh27PJXoZQaVuF7EnVvCPgQBT1qOVmyg6i0N_iTYkc339XwJN7HUmeUlo-N28s3L52yAJL7D8qxHa_xKC1F9d_VviqD2ln9XCna6hLTpFX4Qx5ttBLqnO9CcaSxK9i9WHkGIjfMcCBeC76xZt0z6OlwMCEGCPdWX2A" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRaplnbGYH2WOmFfqIhPywXxnF495wzidt8J05E1vi6ha9xR9jZ1oq60auSN1zJmo0ssmN-xRLIT2hEt3zApl7pGGUK1DRpKZveUoTCQs-LIqZLzVUXZBgadnYlIX-lAUBeWX3XRnz_ery342J_jN6vTb5aTg0wOiZzQjzt5UlK1egwsb6qoxDFFMc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRaplnbGYH2WOmFfqIhPywXxnF495wzidt8J05E1vi6ha9xR9jZ1oq60auSN1zJmo0ssmN-xRLIT2hEt3zApl7pGGUK1DRpKZveUoTCQs-LIqZLzVUXZBgadnYlIX-lAUBeWX3XRnz_ery342J_jN6vTb5aTg0wOiZzQjzt5UlK1egwsb6qoxDFFMc" width="320" /></a></div><br />When we got back to Elisa’s, he opened the car door for me, which I thought was quite nice. Then, as we stood together, he said, “Dee, you’re good with words. What would you call what we just did?”</span><div><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Puzzled, I thought, “I’d call it ‘getting out of the car.’”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Before I voiced that thought, he said, “I’d call it a date.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Floored, I found only one response—the one I say to anyone who takes me to a doctor’s appointment or away from home: “Well, it’s time for my nap.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">He walked me to the front door where Elisa stood—like a vigilant mother. She’d been wanting to drive that Mustang ever since they’d first become friends. So, when he offered to let her do so, she jumped at the chance. The two of them zoomed down the street to the highway. I zoomed to bed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">When they returned, Elisa came inside, and Palmer drove off.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">She told me then all the complimentary things he’d said about me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">“I think he’s a fine person, too. Fair and just. A good friend,” I replied.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Then, I told her about his using the word <i>date. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">“Well, Dee, of course that’s what it was!” she exclaimed, clearly surprised at my confusion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">“No, it was two friends having lunch together.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">“Look . . . he called and asked you out; he took you to a restaurant; he paid for the meal; he drove you home; he came around the car and opened your door and helped you out. That’s a date.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">“It’s two friends having lunch together. That’s all.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">“Dee, Dee, Dee,” she murmured, looking at me as if I were a butterfly who’d just emerged—innocent of experience—from the chrysalis. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">“I know,” she said, gently pushing me down on a kitchen chair, “that you never dated much either before or after the convent. And I know your last date was maybe fifty years ago [she was right about that]. But what you just did was a date. That’s what a date is!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">So that’s what a date is. Hummmm. You learn something new every day. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">PS: In a future posting, I hope to explain the how and why of the tattoo and the motorcycle ride. I have photographs of both.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p></div>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-45042676356987343802022-05-23T13:11:00.001-05:002022-05-23T13:11:36.914-05:00<p> <span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: x-large;">Hello All,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">As I indicated in the postscript of my most recent posting, I am experiencing difficulties with Google and blogging. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">I tried to visit many of your blogs this past week, but I was unable to leave comments. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">Also, I cannot respond to comments you've left on my blog.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">Today, while visiting DJan's nature/hiking blog, I tried to leave a comment (her hiking days always inspires me!) but, once again, was unable to do so.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">However, a notification did come up that I'm sure will help me solve these two problems . . . if only I could understand what is being asked of me in the notification! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">As I've written before, I'm totally inept with computer technology.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;"><span>BUT</span></span><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> . </span></span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">. . my niece Linda, who holds down two jobs and so is busy, is a whiz-bang with computers. So, when she's here again (probably bringing me grocery ingredients for the fried rice I'm craving and want to prepare), I'm sure she'll figure all this out.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">Until then, I'm lying low, trying to write a new memoir. I've put aside the other two that I explored in the past two years. They simply refuse to be shaped into a story.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">I'm excited about my new idea as it represents the attitude that I bring to life in this ninth decade of my span of years.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: x-large;">Moreover, </span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">I've discovered how to sit on the screened-in porch in this lovely springtime and use the talk-to-text aspect of my iPad (the "note" app). Then, I e-mail what I've spoken/written to this computer. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">Thus, I now have a combination of leisure and work--a combination that gives me great pleasure as I can look at nature while telling a story. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">Also, of course, this is good for my vision as when I'm "talking the story aloud," I'm not focusing on the screen. So this new method is truly a winner!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">As soon as Linda comes and figures out how I can leave comments on your postings and respond to comments on mine, I'll be back to enjoying what you all write about as you share your lives. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: large;">Take care. Please be gracious to yourselves and know that you all have become so dear to me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: x-large;">Peace.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-12566435903184014992022-05-17T06:43:00.001-05:002022-05-17T06:43:54.594-05:00Review of Memoir "Two More Years"<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/B7B6Ni6tK2M" width="320" youtube-src-id="B7B6Ni6tK2M"></iframe></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">“What do you do?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">That’s the most common thing we ask—or so it seems to me—when first meeting someone. Generally, we mean, “What work do you do?” The answer helps us place the person in a category with others who do the same work. It gives us a starting point for discussion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">We could ask, “What’s your favorite movie?” Or, “What hobby do you enjoy?” Or, “What’s your best memory? Your worse?” The list goes on, depending on our own interests, our willingness to hear, “It’s none of your business,” or our ability to hear . . . and see . . . beyond the mask many of us wear. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">The questions, the answers for which I find myself most interested at this stage of my life, is “What do you ‘be’?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">And “Do you be grateful for being?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">And “What have you learned in being?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">It is these three questions that are the main threads in the tapestry of events that make up the recently published memoir <b><i>Two More Years </i></b>by E. C. Stilson.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">A memoir about living with Stage 4 melanoma of the bone may sound—and could be—a downer. A real deep down dark downer! However, <b><i>Two More Years </i></b>uplifts this reader, who is, admittedly, a friend of the author. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">At least that’s what happened when I read the memoir before bed during the last week. I read only a chapter or two at a time—not because of vision constraints but because my mind needed to consider, perhaps ponder, the story, the attitude, the experience, the philosophy of life, the gift the author was sharing with me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Before reading her words, I knew first-hand that Elisa does not want to be defined by cancer. And yet, how can she not be for what she is experiencing is a defining moment in her life. A moment, which, like the 2020 Pandemic, halves our lives into “before” and “after.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In this defining moment that spans what? Weeks? Months? Years? Elisa has chosen to take the definition and flip it. Turn it on its head. She lets us know what cancer has done, is doing, may do to her body and to her sense of self. It is that she shares with us. That is, she lets us know what it has taken from her . . . and her family. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Then, in almost each chapter, she shares with us what this insidious disease has given to her. It takes; it gives, just as any disease does. This memoir explores both the taking and the giving. As well, it reveals to us the possibilities of growth in the human spirit through the journey into the dark caverns of possibly a terminal illness. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Yes, that journey, but also another: the journey into the glades of gratitude that await someone whose essence has been and continues to be that of joy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">My experience of Elisa is that she is like the sun. By that I mean that the sun lights up the day. When she comes into a room, she lights it up. She radiates joy and lifts our spirits—in life and in language.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> Throughout the memoir, she relates how the disease is progressing: when it retreats; when it advances; when it teases with expectations and when it disappoints with the advent of new tumors, new scans, new immunotherapy, new prognoses. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">It’s all there: the fear and the sorrow as well as the hope and the faith.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">But what is also there—what is the main thrust of the story—is the realization on her part that she is One with everyone she meets. Twice before in these postings, I’ve quoted Philo of Alexandria who said, two millennia ago, “Be kind, for everyone we meet is fighting a great battle.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Elisa’s memoir uplifts instead of downloads. That is, she relates how again and again in the past months she has met someone who seemed to have a life much more “charming” than hers. Must less fragile. And, through conversation, listening, and opening her heart to possibilities, she finds that the person also is fighting “a great battle.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">And aren’t we all? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In some way, at some time in the span of our life, we fight a battle that can temper the steel of our being. What I find in her memoir—<b><i>Two More Years</i></b> (the prognosis given her in November 2020)—is that her tempering has led to great gratitude and a deep appreciation for the Oneness that connects us to all engaged in the battle to find, at the deep center of ourselves/the wellspring, the fortitude to embrace the moment, to live in the present, and to sing—yes, sing!—of the Holy Oneness of All Creation. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">That is, to understand that all of us are united in the quest to find the praise of gratitude. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">PS: I’d give you a link for Elisa’s memoir on Amazon, but Google, to which I’m tied with this blog, seems to have done something that (1) doesn’t permit me to link and (2) doesn’t permit me to leave comments. I’m not sure whether you will be able to leave comments. But no worry, no sweat. Let’s just take wish the best to one another.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/oHRNrgDIJfo" width="320" youtube-src-id="oHRNrgDIJfo"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span><p></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-57037413290599169362022-04-18T14:00:00.001-05:002022-04-18T14:00:51.041-05:00A Song for Youth & Age--Part 2<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GbPl91kTFro" width="320" youtube-src-id="GbPl91kTFro"></iframe></div><p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">My previous posting detailed a few of my post-convent years. Accompanying that posting was a video of Judy Collins singing the song “Turn, Turn, Turn,” for which Pete Seeger used eight biblical verses. Those verses have woven themselves into the fabric of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Today, I’m returning to one line: “a</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing.” I want to share how that line impacted my life in 1967 and on my recent birthday. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">When I first heard Seeger sing those words, I’d just been released from the religious vows I’d taken in 1963. I’d taken them in good faith, trusting that in living them, I would more deeply abide in the community of Oneness. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">By November 1966, I was mentally ill, hallucinating, yet holding myself together so that I wouldn’t end up in an insane asylum. In a stupor, I walked away from my home of nearly nine years. I’d embraced that home, that life, those vows. Now it was time to cease from embracing them. But, oh, the feeling of failure, the disdain I felt for myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In that time of internal turmoil, Seeger’s song eased my mind. Trees embraced leaves in Spring; in Autumn, they let go of those leaves. Nature embraced; then refrained from embracing. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Nature let go. Left the past behind.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">“Turn. Turn. Turn.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I, too, was part of nature. Given that, I began to think about the vows taken in marriage. For thirty years, I’d accepted the Roman Catholic’s teaching on divorce. If there was a season in which I could let go of my vows, then why not those who were married? Didn’t all people change with time? Weren’t they drawn inexorably to a fulfillment that they hadn’t even recognized at one time?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">And that, of course, was the path to looking at all that I’d accepted as irrevocable. To look. To examine. To question. To let go of the rigidity of my certainity and to open myself to possibilities and alternatives. To see flip sides. To become, in a real way, a critical thinker willing to examine all my beliefs about everything and discover what, if anything, was immutable. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">That one verse on embracing led to the overturning of much I’d accepted as unalterable and helped me begin to let go of the judgmental attitude that there is only one way to be, to think, to act—and it’s my way! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Flash forward to my recent birthday: </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">A friend treated me to lunch. As we ate, we talked about aging. She expressed regret because she didn’t get more done each day. I found myself saying, “You know for everything there is a season. During this past winter, you made quilts for your daughter . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">“I haven’t quilted since Christmas,” she countered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">“Maybe,” I offered, “you’re in a new season, one of taking care of yourself. You’ve set a walking goal, and you’re accomplishing it!” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Once home, I considered my own new season. As I’ve posted before, for decades, I believed I had to accomplish something every day to be worthwhile. While encouraging others to be gracious to themselves, I’ve demanded results of myself. What a masochist!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Ah, there it is: For decades, I’ve talked the talk; now has come the season to walk the walk . . . of letting go of always feeling that I am not enough. For me, now is a season of contentment in simply being; a season of delight in holding dear who I grew up to be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">At 10:30 PM on my birthday, content with where and who I am, I lay on my bed, put in my eyes the final drops of the day, and said to my mini-google, “Please play some music for me.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">And guess what? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">The song Google chose, one I hadn’t heard in years, was Pete Seeger singing, “Turn, Turn, Turn.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Mystery and peace.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">(PS: It's another mystery to me why white appears behind so many lines!)</span></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-31171255604277332382022-04-04T21:33:00.002-05:002022-04-04T21:33:33.240-05:00A Song for Youth & Age (Part 1)<p><br /></p><p><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="310" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/K3kKqfTjsj0" width="519" youtube-src-id="K3kKqfTjsj0"></iframe></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt;">Fifty-six years ago, having left the convent just three months short of my thirty-first birthday, one of the songs I first heard was “Turn, Turn, Turn.” (Its title was also “For Everything There Is a Season.”) </span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> For this song, the beloved folk singer Pete Seeger had composed music to accompany the first eight verses of Chapter 3 of the Book of Ecclesiastes. The only lyrics he’d added were the refrain (turn, turn, turn) and the last verse on peace being possible even then . . . even now. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">During the escalation of the Vietnam War, I mostly listened to folk music. Seeger’s “Turn, Turn, Turn,” and Dylan’s “Blowing in the Wind” became anti-war songs. Those two anthems radicalized me politically.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> Two other insightful songs, “Sounds of Silence” by Simon and Garfunkel and “All I Know” by Garfunkel, spoke to the recesses of my heart that I’d bolted and locked. The songs seemed to be the soundtrack for my life—emotionally, spiritually, politically. They charted my journey from where I’d been, to where I was then, to where I might be headed. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">At the time, three companions—three psychotic hallucinations whom I could both see and hear—accompanied me everywhere. Daily, the four of us imprisoned one another: one cheered me on, one cautioned me, one excoriated me. And I? I said nothing. I played a role that hid me from what I expected would be the loathing of others.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">The two anti-war songs, plus the example of two friends whom I’d met in Dayton, Ohio, led me to protest the Vietnam War, which led to shotguns being aimed at me and guard dogs sicked on me. It also led to my meeting men who’d come back from the war, their hopes, dreams, and minds bruised and battered irrevocably by the war and by the reception they’d received on campus. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In August 1971, after completing my studies for a graduate degree, I returned to Dayton only to learn—from a kind storeowner from whom I’d sought employment—that the FBI had a file on me and was encouraging those to whom I applied for work to disregard me. According to the bureau, I’d become both traitorous and unemployable. Fortunately, I was able to get a job in a factory beyond the city boundaries and later to teach at a drop-out center for Black students. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In the late 1960s, while teaching at an inner-city school in Dayton, I’d taught students the history of slavery; taken them into the downtown area where many of them had never been; and written numerous letters to federal, state, and city government leaders about Civil Rights, racism, and segregation. I’d also written to department store owners who had no black mannequins in their window displays. I have no idea if that info was also in the file. And, if so, what it implied to the FBI.</span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I was not a true social activist for I was never arrested or jailed. I was in some season of my life that did not include imprisonment but did include gathering with others to right wrongs. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">The songs of the 1960s and early 1970s accompanied me from Minnesota to Ohio to New Hampshire to Missouri and back to Minnesota. They inspired me, helped me discover and name my loneliness and fears, and brought me ever closer to revealing to someone the three hallucinations who hounded me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">As my life changed in those turbulent times that ultimately, for me, became years of settling down, finding a career, and discovering my passion for writing, Seeger’s song especially continued to speak to me: “For everything there is a season.” I found new meanings in it as my experiences evolved. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">That’s what his song did then when I was young in thought and hope. In my next posting, I hope to share with you what happened on my recent birthday that connects Seeger’s song with my aging. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-17686665658715893162022-03-21T14:21:00.000-05:002022-03-21T14:21:42.959-05:00Personal Observation on Aging<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAiWVZmMP3yXAIuZ2kGmCNGSJ0jC4RLE0Zfh7LZ1E5QEFyaCM7ilwozfk9YBbSO4oLmWS0XpItjXTJFQiC50x_O7CP93tFqBN5InD9F4GkfW0zkesNIn1b413N9ZF3ryQ52gOGzzTUOw6yBIpvKWS9UD7NOanaBpu5NganJIcMUKXwdB-5jObyBwyO" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="314" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAiWVZmMP3yXAIuZ2kGmCNGSJ0jC4RLE0Zfh7LZ1E5QEFyaCM7ilwozfk9YBbSO4oLmWS0XpItjXTJFQiC50x_O7CP93tFqBN5InD9F4GkfW0zkesNIn1b413N9ZF3ryQ52gOGzzTUOw6yBIpvKWS9UD7NOanaBpu5NganJIcMUKXwdB-5jObyBwyO=w256-h320" width="256" /></a></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Reading "Le Figaro"</i> by Mary Cassatt 1878</span></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Besides my own experience of aging, I’ve read two books recently the themes of which have led me to reflect on the journey to Beyond that may include aging and aging some more and finally just being OLD!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">That’s where I find myself now. In less than two weeks, I will celebrate my 86<sup>th</sup> birthday. I had such plans for my eighties. So many books I wanted to write and share with readers. So many friends here and there with whom I wanted to stay in touch—to know what was happening in their lives, how aging was going for them. Had they found contentment, fulfillment, the heartwish at the end of the rainbow of a long life?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">For me, the decade of the eighties began well. I wrote daily, not with any idea of self-publishing but simply because to write was to be in the present and in Presence. Writing is quite simply a form of prayer for me in which I discover the Holy Oneness of All Creation. That is, I discover that, in truth, all has worked out for good throughout my life no matter what tragedy . . . sorrow . . . setback . . . loss has occurred.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">This does not happen unless in Oneness others have supported or consoled me. Rejoiced with me. Grieved with me. Been there when my mind was muddled; my heart bruised; my spirit depleted. All who raised me; all who taught and educated me; all who have befriended me are with me still whether living or in the mystery and grace of Beyond. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">Yes, the eighties began well. The first two years, I worked on a memoir. Unable to interest an agent in representing my writing, I decided—with the help of two other women—to self-publish. My niece Linda took my words and made books; Sally, a long-time friend, created covers. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">So, in 2018, the three of us worked together to publish <i>Prayer Wasn’t Enough: A Convent Memoir.</i>That same year, we came out with new editions of <i>A Cat’s Life: Dulcy’s Story</i> and <i>A Cat’s Legacy: Dulcy’s Companion Book.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">The <i>Life</i> book had been published twenty-five years before. For its anniversary, I wrote a reflection on how the book first got published. For the <i>Legacy</i> book, my niece did new formatting that made the book more appealing visually. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">Thus, 2018, when I was 82, was both busy and fulfilling.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">In 2019, the three of us published the novel <i>The Reluctant Spy, </i>on which I’d worked, off and on, for twenty years. Also, that year we managed to produce another cat book—<i>The Gift of Nine Lives</i>—which I’d written in my late seventies.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">Then . . . nothing. Not because I had nothing I wanted to write, but because I couldn’t find the motivation . . . commitment . . . energy to journey for months, or maybe years, with another book. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">What does this have to do with aging?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">My observation: The furnace of accomplishment that had always flamed within me no longer warms the room in which I now reside at almost 86. For years as a free-lancer, I met numerous deadlines; worked fourteen hours a day, seven days a week for a month; rested, recouped, and then began the next project.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2nY8DD0vnHmXfnLzinsQyR5MUoOc7nnMT0YqCUd4oDONytKPhNkGfeT_IQcqt-IBKWJpvaITgfcPMjjwaC2r8oz8G8Sp-OkPQSZUbG4gA_3RGbS9ONCrY9QJhAZCjrJlYUuSDsu71vFqet7iIgwSpEqUvU-90bVYmUrRIV8Hx1et_jGs6-DH47fUV" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="625" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2nY8DD0vnHmXfnLzinsQyR5MUoOc7nnMT0YqCUd4oDONytKPhNkGfeT_IQcqt-IBKWJpvaITgfcPMjjwaC2r8oz8G8Sp-OkPQSZUbG4gA_3RGbS9ONCrY9QJhAZCjrJlYUuSDsu71vFqet7iIgwSpEqUvU-90bVYmUrRIV8Hx1et_jGs6-DH47fUV=w320-h320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"><i>The Fisher Girl</i> by Winslow Homer 1894</span></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">No more. I could say that my mental capacities have waned. Or that my energy has withered. Or that I no longer cherish what used to fill me with wonder.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">And maybe some of that is true. However, what is also true is that I want less responsibility. I resist being tied down to a schedule—no matter how flexible it is. I want to sit on the screened-in porch and let my mind and heart embrace with gratitude the wonder of my life. Or, simply become absorbed in the story another writer has fashioned.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">In two weeks, I hope to say more about aging. More in general, not the specifics of my life. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">Peace until then. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Both paintings from Wikipedia articles on Mary Cassatt and Winslow Homer<br /><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-50177345254222492572022-03-07T15:12:00.002-06:002022-03-07T15:12:52.369-06:00A Column, A Book, A Realization<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxoZw0SDDLe_sLA1t4nDQ10QVO4LW7EencYuiAVqiNk4ykrvw5YFGe9Dz3uGS8HZqtH3WHPn4mDQVGdg_Qt9dZxuky-eOQfz4xh8uLztEo8Sjebl7w_O4jBZEcmyN5xCSEryfBVromtitJTP65TxMMFTBKR8jMFMm7t2HDY71lrp6Jr5A_m9xNCihP" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="355" data-original-width="600" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxoZw0SDDLe_sLA1t4nDQ10QVO4LW7EencYuiAVqiNk4ykrvw5YFGe9Dz3uGS8HZqtH3WHPn4mDQVGdg_Qt9dZxuky-eOQfz4xh8uLztEo8Sjebl7w_O4jBZEcmyN5xCSEryfBVromtitJTP65TxMMFTBKR8jMFMm7t2HDY71lrp6Jr5A_m9xNCihP=w453-h267" width="453" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">The digital copy of the <b>New York Times </b>appears daily on my computer. Its headlines keep me abreast of the news. Since the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg in September 2020, I’ve seldom watched the national news or even the PBS NewsHour.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">The truth I discovered back in 2020 is that the news distressed me, and if I let it, it plunged me into anger, confusion, and fear. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Given that stress exacerbates most health concerns, I decided to sort of “cold turkey” listening/watching newscasts. However, I do read the NYTimes headlines—not the articles—so as to have some knowledge of what is occurring in the world beyond this room in which I find joy in writing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">For over a week, since Russia invaded the Ukraine, I have watched the PBS NewsHour. I was five when Pearl Harbor was bombed, and we entered World War II. Now, eighty years later, I’m eighty-five and find myself on tenterhooks about the possibility of a third world war.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">But the NYT brings me more than news of the world beyond this small room. It offers me columns that stretch my mind, gentle my heart, and bring laughter to my belly. One of the columnists I’ve followed for several years is Frank Bruni. I delight in his phraseology and humanity. He always astounds me with the depth of his empathy and his ability to truly see that we are all united in whatever makes us human.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Bruni is now in his fifties. After a rare stroke compromised his vision several years ago, he accepted a teaching position at Duke University in North Carolina, however, he continues to write occasionally for the NYT.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">During his distinguished career as a journalist, Bruni’s written four books, all of which have received accolades. His latest book, which I got from our library as an audio book read by the author, is <i>The Beauty of Dusk: On Vision Lost and Found.</i> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In it, he shares the story of waking up to discover that his eyesight was not only diminished but erratic.</span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt;"> Bruni announced the publication of this memoir in his column on 2-17-22, which he entitled </span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt;">“How Many of Us Just Fake Our Confidence and Calm?” That title led him into his own experience with vision lost and found.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In reading his column that February day, I thought of something Philo of Alexandria had said back in the final years BCE. I quoted him in my posting of July 13, 2021. This Jewish philosopher said then, “Be kind, for everyone we meet is engaged in a great battle.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Bruni doesn’t quote Philo, but he is saying the same thing in his February posting—that we all live with, struggle with, suffer with, feel shame or despair for something that has brought us low . . . but may also raise us high. Because of that realization, life calls us to awareness and its gift of kindness.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">His memoir so tenderly and gently shows us the path he’s taken to find “beauty in the dusk” of vision. And it shows us, too, that we do not need to hide the “great battle” in which we are “engaged.” Everyone we meet is struggling. So let us be aware. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In being human, let us be One.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">The URL for the column is as follows:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #954f72; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2022/02/17/opinion/happiness-confidence-struggle.html" style="color: #954f72;">https://www.nytimes.com/2022/02/17/opinion/happiness-confidence-struggle.html</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_B7VIt2kZNrlyjA5pftLx7q00Q8_BMzw_XuX5H1N5g029F8gpFybUGj0WJQDFkNOEfOg1tAFUqFiLWGJJrUvw6-gQgWeGYkaGwXmuOqzkO9kDrzNKtuS1eVD6yjNqxLFPUrJKh3GJALh2Vpa0QRE56OH24mNz9JuyrXNXXTROMZyIJGUyBBet75hc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="167" data-original-width="250" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_B7VIt2kZNrlyjA5pftLx7q00Q8_BMzw_XuX5H1N5g029F8gpFybUGj0WJQDFkNOEfOg1tAFUqFiLWGJJrUvw6-gQgWeGYkaGwXmuOqzkO9kDrzNKtuS1eVD6yjNqxLFPUrJKh3GJALh2Vpa0QRE56OH24mNz9JuyrXNXXTROMZyIJGUyBBet75hc" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Peace:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In today’s world can we live within ourselves and with others in peace?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Surely what is happening in the Ukraine and what is happening with those refugees from Central America who seek asylum in our country because of the violence and murders and gangs in their own country and what is happening in so many places throughout our world tells us that we must find a way to study peace, to embrace it, just as for centuries our leaders have studied war. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-58803953791037458512022-02-21T12:39:00.002-06:002022-02-21T12:39:45.921-06:00From Poets to Memoirs to Gratitude<p> <span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt;">Today, it’s a hop, skip, and jump from poetry, to my “granddaughter,” to my gratitude for all of you. So, let’s begin:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">#1<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">On February 6, I posted about Sister Mary Lee who introduced the fifth-grade class, of which I was a part back in 1946-47, to poetry. She began with “story” poems, which I detailed in that posting.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Soon after we’d memorized the first of these story poems, she introduced us to a much shorter poem that lent itself to interpretation: “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost. After she’d handed each of us a copy of the poem, she invited us read it in unison. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg26FpFq9EmGXwg7WL1Y5mCNHA56FTJ3UoC24gm1ax23ENuLg8Yu5JT7cqRy7RnsFOZzWwqcEZ2bM1Q-UHanDD5n8Jg-67EwiL-zQDtWq0wzZYN6Q5foZ8lyPKKgKawGEyLL_NI3SI0ZhC7n-TdT38ro0SPYx0sP8GqnX6PHl-mqs8gw0HI5m9RND1r" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg26FpFq9EmGXwg7WL1Y5mCNHA56FTJ3UoC24gm1ax23ENuLg8Yu5JT7cqRy7RnsFOZzWwqcEZ2bM1Q-UHanDD5n8Jg-67EwiL-zQDtWq0wzZYN6Q5foZ8lyPKKgKawGEyLL_NI3SI0ZhC7n-TdT38ro0SPYx0sP8GqnX6PHl-mqs8gw0HI5m9RND1r" width="154" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Then she asked us what story the poem told. As we shared the story that had come to our minds, it became clear that the poem brought different stories to individual minds. That was a revelation to all of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Then she asked what the final stanza meant to each of us. There, too, we encountered differences among us. Another revelation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">For the rest of the year, she introduced us to poems that lent themselves to individual interpretation—like “I’m Nobody. Who Are You? By Emily Dickinson. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGofEIWZtKiZxEvJM8MQM4GVM3uZuPE95ngM58l-J58-9IyryX8MF9J0bID30u5OT6_OHuAmV9kYkpQHjl5JXgpI9HetmxJXL5nn3h4NcVJKzfHBYLMSBjTw-Okizupqz_qntfOaHTArVk7249mG0EyialF4g9IUhGdb3zQNOxOfMH7bK4OTWMqSjw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="261" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGofEIWZtKiZxEvJM8MQM4GVM3uZuPE95ngM58l-J58-9IyryX8MF9J0bID30u5OT6_OHuAmV9kYkpQHjl5JXgpI9HetmxJXL5nn3h4NcVJKzfHBYLMSBjTw-Okizupqz_qntfOaHTArVk7249mG0EyialF4g9IUhGdb3zQNOxOfMH7bK4OTWMqSjw" width="157" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Sister Mary Lee was such a fine teacher; her enthusiasm and nonjudgmental acceptance of our responses to poems touches my life still. She has truly gifted my life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">#2<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Elisa, the young woman who has become like a granddaughter to me and whom I introduced to you in posting back in November 2020, is doing well with her Stage 4 Melanoma cancer. She has been writing about it and now has a contract for a memoir that will be released in June of this year.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">#3<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Starting now, I’m making a commitment to myself to post every other Monday, at least for 2022. I’m announcing this because letting you all know that creates an imperative for me. And believe me, with my tendency toward “when-in-doubt-about-what-to-do—Read! Nap! Watch BritBox!” I need something to goad me on to getting in touch with all of you. Reaching out, as it were. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Because of not driving, I’ve truly become a recluse since October 2016. However, I’m extraordinarily fortunate in that I have friends living here and there—Minnesota, California, Boston, etc.—and I talk to two or three of them each week. So, I do stay connected with the human race via a voice on the phone. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">These long-time friends share their happiness and sorrows, their woes and triumphs, their heartwishes and health with me; they keep me from the self-absorption that can come from living alone. Also, from the self-pity that can ferment in seclusion. In their graciousness, they are the mainland of my solitude.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">As are all of you with whom I want to stay connected. Through the years of blogging, you have become treasured and cherished virtual friends. I am so grateful for all of you. When I visit your blogs, in which you share the ups and downs and realizations of your lives, I step out of my own remoteness and enter your daily routines, your philosophical realizations, the books you’re reading, the friends you cherish, the incidents that bring joy or confusion to you lives. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">That is so wonderful, whether you be in the states of Washington, California, the Carolinas, New York or in Australia, New Zealand, Pakistan or anywhere else in this country or around the globe. All of you bring me the sustenance of life. Thank you. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Please know that you are in my thoughts and prayers and that we meet in the Holy Oneness of All Creation. That is, in the great river of grace that flows toward the depth-less ocean of Love.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Peace. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-53338675915686424122022-02-06T13:56:00.001-06:002022-02-06T13:56:27.413-06:00Songs, Poems, and Memorization<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Words have always enthralled me. My real appreciation for their power, beauty, and background came in the fifth grade at St. Mary’s Grade School on Liberty Street in Independence, Missouri. That year—1945-46—Sister Mary Lee, a short, enthusiastic educator—came to our classroom each Wednesday to introduce us to the realm of poetry.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">She started with lyrics to popular songs. Most of my classmates listened to the radio and knew the songs of the earlier decades as well as the patriotic songs of World War I and II and the songs from Hollywood musicals. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Just the year before, Bing Crosby had sung “Swinging on a Star” in the musical “Going My Way.” All of us—some twenty-one students—knew that song: it’s lyrics; its beat; its cadence. The melody coursed through our bodies so that our feet got the beat, our hands clapped the cadence.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">In our first poetry session in September 1945, Sister Mary Lee invited us to sing the Academy Award song. Then she invited us to recite the words and let our bodies feel them. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">For each stanza as well as the refrain, she asked one of us to act out the words with our bodies—face, hands, feet. She had us laughing with one another as individual students pantomimed the four animals—mule, pig, fish, and monkey—of the song.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">The following week, she directed our attention to the words the song writer had chosen. She suggested other words, and we discussed why the lyricist perhaps hadn’t used them. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">She’d ask, “What picture comes to your mind with this word . . . that word?” “How does that word make you feel?” “What memories come to mind?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">In the following weeks, we studied two or three other songs. Then Sister Mary Lee introduced us to “poems” without melodies. Depending on their length, we learned one poem a week for the remainder of the school year. In the beginning, these poems were stories in verse. For instance: <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 200%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman"; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><span> </span>“The Owl and the Pussy-Cat” by Edward Lear<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman"; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">“The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat” by Eugene Field <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman"; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">“The Ride of Paul Revere” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: 200%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman"; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">“Casey at the Bat” by Ernest Thayer <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Each week, after Sister Mary Lee read aloud the new poem, we discussed its story, savoring its words, pictures, and rhyme. As the weeks of that school year progressed, we learned alliteration, rhyme scheme, cadence, stressed and unstressed syllables. That is, we began to study some of the tools a poet uses.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">At the end of each Wednesday class, Sister Mary Lee gave us our weekly assignment: Memorize the complete poem or, for longer verse stories, memorize a certain number of lines. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">“Be ready,” she’d always say, “to recite for me and your classmates next week! Practice in front of a mirror! Listen to yourself! Feel the words in your mouth. On your tongue. Whisper some. Shout others. Give this all you’ve got!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">That was the beginning of my memorizing each poem I met and liked in the years ahead. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Next week I hope to introduce you to some other poems introduced to our class by Sister Mary Lee—poems that led to my burgeoning desire to write. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">I’m wondering what poems you remember learning in grade school. Did you memorize some of them?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Peace. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">PS: I finally responded to your welcomed comments on the three postings I did right before Christmas. If you have the time, energy, and inclination, you may want to scroll down and read my responses.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-55231266405443226932021-12-23T15:38:00.000-06:002021-12-23T15:38:36.508-06:00Gifts of In-Breaking: Part 3<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrCnnf3Kgyk_RfVBzYdhyphenhyphenHsAaJgWoDxafnPodDMty3g-k-VWx-TMhkTich0YDrp1CQVhidqemOyb0a2dXYcHLAQu_5dAXLsHjGO86LbTf5B2WQjRjm46mri1JBM9nV3d35iBy8UenPVtM/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="440" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrCnnf3Kgyk_RfVBzYdhyphenhyphenHsAaJgWoDxafnPodDMty3g-k-VWx-TMhkTich0YDrp1CQVhidqemOyb0a2dXYcHLAQu_5dAXLsHjGO86LbTf5B2WQjRjm46mri1JBM9nV3d35iBy8UenPVtM/w418-h314/440px-Bucht_am_Golf_von_Neapel.jpg" width="418" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In Part 2 of In-Breaking, I spoke of the “O” Antiphon “—O, Oriens” (the Morning Light from the East). The in-breaking of that light comes as gift to each of us in unexpected moments—leaves blazing autumn; smile dawning on a face awed by kindness; gnarled hands soothing a sobbing child. These can be moments of great enlightenment and wonder. They are always moments when, to paraphrase the English poet Wordsworth, our “heart leaps up.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">As we move through the seasons of our life, the gift of light—insight—grace blesses us. Each moment of utter awareness becomes a treasured bead. From these beads, we make our life’s rosary of gratitude—gratefulness. The beads slip through the fingers of our mind whenever we need to recall the quiet, the peace, of blessedness. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">That startling moment of in-breaking for me last Tuesday brought questions . . . answers . . . and recall. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In years past, I crocheted; worked jigsaw puzzles; walked four miles each day; macraméd; peddled a bike 10 miles before work; volunteered; protested; got out the vote with MoveOn.org; served as an election judge; painted watercolors; used a piano keyboard; practiced yoga; worked in my vegetable, perennial, and rock gardens; baked; tried countless new vegetarian recipes; threw dinner parties; studied classical Greek; memorized a stanza of a poem each day, . . .<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">When light broke in; I realized I’d left it all beyond. All the joy of it. The feeling of accomplishment. The delight. My life had narrowed to five items a day; I’d pinned my entire attention on writing a memoir.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">That in-breaking also helped me realize why this had happened.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In October 2019, I published <b><i>The Reluctant Spy</i></b><i>,</i> an historical novel. The novel reflected my own search for who Yeshua was and is, my struggle with a personal God, my dreams of Wholeness, and my dawning belief in Oneness. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">The Reluctant Spy</span></i></b><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> represented 20 years of living, reflecting, researching, and writing. And . . . it was . . . it is . . . a dismal flop. Only a few—maybe 15—copies have sold. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Six weeks after its publication, I had my second knee replacement. The recuperation from that, unlike the first replacement, was long. Difficult. Problematic.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Possibly because of the stress from those two incidents or from the changes wrought by climate change or because I’ve been diagnosed with Meniere’s that is “progressive and intractable,” the disease kicked in and for the past two years has been—it sometimes seems to me—ever present. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">What now? What after the gift of grace? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">First, gratitude abounds. Second, I’m taking baby-steps to redefine my life and put back into it those activities and thoughts that bless me: Puzzle pieces litter the dining-room table; the keyboard on the card-table beckons my fingers; yarn lies ready to be crocheted into an afghan. The yoga DVD is in the player. Two textbooks—one Greek, one Latin—await my inquiring mind. All invite me to create a new life as I move toward the Beyond.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Then, wonder of wonders, that in-breaking brought to me the first paragraphs of the memoir with which I’ve struggled for two years. It is, I believe, the perfect entryway to the telling of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">This sudden and welcomed in-breaking then is the gift of Advent and Christmas. Life truly is good.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">NOTE: The writings of Richard Rohr, whom I mentioned yesterday, explore a theology I no longer embrace. But often, his daily meditation provides food for thought about Oneness. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I also read Cameron Trimble who writes for “Convergence.” His down-to-earth stories always bring new spiritual realizations to me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 21px;">Photo from Wikipedia.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-54574216141240965982021-12-22T17:40:00.001-06:002021-12-22T17:40:41.940-06:00"O Oriens"--An Inbreaking: Part 2<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ79hQJFNx7qGG9z66FL6tJZpqHGX9KEuxPBioISAyDb6MIdHjdp0yzXnA3EKe_GqGVgUgtanYa8ZPl4SbQ2qB2CfdtMDjbt774Qb3R1SXNdE8U5ZgE3retE6bOxNzt53aGVtL5IExgFo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="440" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ79hQJFNx7qGG9z66FL6tJZpqHGX9KEuxPBioISAyDb6MIdHjdp0yzXnA3EKe_GqGVgUgtanYa8ZPl4SbQ2qB2CfdtMDjbt774Qb3R1SXNdE8U5ZgE3retE6bOxNzt53aGVtL5IExgFo/w442-h332/440px-Little_Gasparilla_sunrise.jpg" width="442" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Part 1 of “The In-Breaking of Light” provided the background for today’s posting about an in-breaking that lifted my spirits out of a malaise that began in November 2019. In future postings, I hope to explain what happened two years ago that brought me to what felt like an impasse. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Let us begin:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">As I explained yesterday, my rereading of my December 7<sup>th</sup> posting left me befuddled. Last Tuesday, I went to bed somewhat disgruntled about myself. For a few minutes I played spider solitaire on my iPad. Then, wearied by my own loss of hope, I leaned back into the headrest. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Closing my eyes, I went to the deep center of myself where Oneness dwells—has always dwelt no matter how I’ve tried to flee or ignore or remonstrate. Always there. At the deep center of my being. Always.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I let myself sink into the River of Oneness flowing through that center. Always and ever, I, a diminutive drop of life-giving water for humankind, enter the stream that moves inexorably toward Wholeness—toward the vast Ocean of Oneness that absorbs us so that all touches all and we unite in the great Alleluia of Life and Light, Love and Being. We become One.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">This is the way I now meditate. It’s not the way of my thirties and forties. That served me well . . . then. The meditation of myself in Oneness has served me now for some forty years. I never read anything about what I’d come to believe and hold blest. I simply experienced living and reflected on it. Slowly the realization of Oneness came to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Yet just this past year, I discovered a writer who has published several books on Oneness. I am now on Richard Rohr’s daily meditation mailing list. For now, at least, he and I seem to be on the same path in our spiritual journey. He’s traveled farther than I; I stumble along trusting Oneness.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">So, I’m meditating last Tuesday, flowing within the River of Oneness, and suddenly, light breaks in. Some would say, “an insight.” Raised as a Roman Catholic, I’d say I experienced a lovely grace—the Presence of all those who, throughout my life, have raised me, taught and educated me, befriended me, mourned with me, rejoiced with me, cherished me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In that grace-filled moment, a sudden, and to me, surprising, thought came: “Why has my life narrowed down so?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">With great certitude, I realized that it had nothing to do with the pandemic. No. I, myself, have allowed my life to narrow down to five activities: meditating, struggling to write a memoir, puzzling over spider solitaire, listening to mystery novels, and watching BritBox. Five!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Then another thought: “When and why did writing become the thumbtack that nailed me to only one definition of success: a published book read by many?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">It was then that the light promised by Advent dawned within me. The “O” Antiphon</span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 18.66666603088379px;">—</span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt;">O Oriens</span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 18.66666603088379px;">—</span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt;">said at Vespers on December 21 each year beseeches Oneness to send us light—the light we all need if we are to grow into wholeness.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">O Morning Star,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">splendor of eternal light and sun of justice,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">come and shine on those who dwell in darkness<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">and the shadow of death.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">For Christians, that Morning Star is Yeshua. For myself, Yeshua is one human—a beloved one—among many. Among all. So that Morning Star is the Oneness of all humans who—however and whenever and wherever I have met them—have shed light into the darkness of my own doubt. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Tomorrow, I hope to share with you how that River of Light that streamed through my bemusement brought change. You will, I trust, rejoice with me when you read the next installment. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Peace. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-32289182591414420782021-12-21T17:36:00.000-06:002021-12-21T17:37:10.479-06:00The In-Breaking of Light--Part 1<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcuMDUwaCxjfYSV3_PAY-M6QC2vQcHHzBRRxj7zEL4S_MkMQB8dY82L8YkCbOcLCgDnF8sg-MnIWnT46mwCMfJ4G6x3oCnd76U9GAHw_EXNoT-24ehYAgjONfHvkpU_954UkMfT0KtdEE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcuMDUwaCxjfYSV3_PAY-M6QC2vQcHHzBRRxj7zEL4S_MkMQB8dY82L8YkCbOcLCgDnF8sg-MnIWnT46mwCMfJ4G6x3oCnd76U9GAHw_EXNoT-24ehYAgjONfHvkpU_954UkMfT0KtdEE/w453-h340/StWendelKrippeMissionshaus.jpg" width="453" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Two weeks ago, in my first posting since July, I shared with you the despondency that had come upon and over me due to an inability to find an entryway into a second memoir. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">That posting was, perhaps, too personal, too revealing. It reveals the “inner skin” of my thoughts, not just the outer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">However, I always tend to write the words that come to me in the flow of inspiration that passes from head to heart as I sit here at the computer. For several days, the words for this posting have been bounding forth like a river bursting its dam. Today will be background for one or two more postings. (Such is the baptism of graciousness that has been given to me in the past two weeks.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">So let us begin.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I’ve reread the December 7<sup>th</sup> posting several times and been somewhat dismayed. Why? Because the temperament of the Dee Ready displayed in much of that post was from the first ten years after I left the convent. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In the depths of that Dee was an insecure, somewhat narcissistic, self-absorbed, self-centered, immature young woman—a consummate actor—who fled the life she’d been living as a Benedictine and continued to flee—from Missouri to Ohio to New Hampshire to Minnesota—for ten years. Never looking back, seldom keeping in touch with those she met, she fled like an immigrant from the rubble of the war waging within her troubled mind and bewildered heart. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In the months that I’ve struggled to write another memoir, I’ve come to cherish and, yes, understand that young woman. Within that deep center of myself where Oneness dwells, I’ve sobbed for her pain and her despair as she fled the three presences/entities/hallucinations that accompanied her from the convent. I’ve come to admire her strength and her bravery.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">When I reread that last posting, I wondered if that strength had deserted me. In the ten years of my flight, I'd found my strength in meditating—in the Jesuit style—on the four faith testaments of the early Christian churches in and around the Mediterranean. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I did not see those four “Gospels,” or proclamations of good news, as exact accounts of the life of Yeshua. They were not memoirs, biographies, or autobiographies. Yeshua never read those words written about himself. He planned no Church; he dictated no unambiguous letters to be left to posterity. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I suspected then, as I do now, that were he to read the faith testaments, he’d be somewhat surprised by them. Surprised by the stories, the beautiful myths, that the authors used to convey the wonder of his birth and childhood.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">The four faith testaments, written by four early Christians, represent the beliefs of four communities—for instance, the Church at Antioch. These communities (first of Jews and then of Gentiles) found in the man they called Yeshua the answer to their questions about the meaning and purpose of living and dying. Of loving and forgiving. Of embracing and accepting. Of letting go and holding on. Of reaching out to others and even loving those who might act as enemies.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">These four, plus others, both men and women, wrote down what they had seen for themselves or heard from others about an itinerant Jew who had assiduously and prayerfully studied the Hebrew Scriptures and found there a God who called on all humans to seek out the poor, the outcast, the homeless, the sick, the refugee, “the other.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">To seek with the belief that in the Holy Oneness of All Creation we find the answers to our deepest heart-wishes and we embrace kindness, mercy, and generosity with open hearts made lovingly compassionate by an acceptance of our own weakness and vulnerability.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">That’s all for today. I’ll continue this tomorrow with a quotation and the great grace—the inbreaking of light—given to me this past week.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">Photo from Wikipedia</span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p></div><p><br /></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-40744149411854276972021-12-07T15:36:00.004-06:002021-12-07T16:20:28.980-06:00To Thine Own Self Be True<p><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Six months have passed since this blog had its last posting—six hundred words on two quotations that summed up what I’d learned in eighty-five years of responding to the question found in the Book of Micah in the Hebrew Testament: </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">"What does Hashem require of you?” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">The prophet offers the following unadorned but profound response to that question: “</span><span style="color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">To do justice, to love kindness and to walk humbly with your God.<span style="background-color: white;">" (Tanach translation of 6:8)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">To illustrate his response, I used—in that July posting—what I’d gleaned from my journey with Meniere’s Disease. A quotation from Maya Angelou and one from Philo of Alexandria encapsulated the gift of gratitude that had grown within me as I’d stumbled and stuttered my way through life. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">However, that posting, in and of itself, stopped me in my tracks. I admitted to myself that I was talking the talk, but not walking the walk. How so?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsMdjeGSQSJRBywEHlo5gkylxEGqIOIqJQXfADOp0AStjY8alLSFMKE4pmWA05-KdGeSQ0J6SvH_Q2FsPUluoT8V84-qt6uVw9x1jXX8tKrRd9xS7J7YOoAn91g7HvBsIpj0VrrsOWwY/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsMdjeGSQSJRBywEHlo5gkylxEGqIOIqJQXfADOp0AStjY8alLSFMKE4pmWA05-KdGeSQ0J6SvH_Q2FsPUluoT8V84-qt6uVw9x1jXX8tKrRd9xS7J7YOoAn91g7HvBsIpj0VrrsOWwY/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">For eighteen months, I’d been working on a memoir. I started with the ten years following my departure from a Benedictine convent, but I could not find the warp of those years<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">So I began again, this time with the twenty-two years before entering the convent. Once again, the tapestry of that period eluded me. I found myself entwined in the weft of the events that had resulted in my experiencing—even now—the diagnosed symptoms of PTSD. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Writing a memoir is a humbling exercise. I had hoped to find healing; instead, I found how often my actions had hurt others. Night after night, since July, I’ve tried to find sleep. It’s ignored me, insisting that I sort through the events of the past, making culpa again and yet again each night for my many mistakes and misunderstandings. Guilt and shame ensnared me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">In truth, I’ve spent months beating up on myself for not being that person Micah encourages us to be. For those of you who have read my memoir about the convent, this probably is not surprising. Always I am haunted by the need to be perfect—a need breed and born in the traumatic years of my childhood.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Repeatedly in the past six months, I’ve given up writing; I’ve let go of my love of the cadenced sentence that evolves into story. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">A friend of many years recently observed that I’m a concrete thinker, not an abstract one. To me that meant that I wasn’t a deep thinker. So how could I write anything worthwhile if I didn’t have the intellect to find its meaning? Only one answer presented itself to me: throw in the towel.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">But there’s more to this story then my depression, reluctance to let go, and, yes, despair. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">And this is the more: As I listened to a Fannie Flagg book in audio last weekend, a sudden peace settled within and about me. A peace born of the acceptance that I may not be a deep thinker, but I <i>am</i> a storyteller. That is my identity. I’m not mother, wife; baker, cook; photographer, sculptor. No. I am a storyteller. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Then let me embrace that. Let me tell the story just as it meanders through the labyrinth of my mind. Let me let go of seeking the metaphor, the smooth transition, the telling word, the ah-ah moment. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Let me simply tell the story of my life so as to follow my mother’s legacy. Many more times than once, she said to me as I grew up, “If you look for good, Dolores, you will find it. And if you look for bad, you will surely find that too.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">This weekend, I realized that I do look for good in others, but I fail to look for it in myself. I’m oblivious to it. Looking within, I find only the worse in myself. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I tell you now that in this month of December 2021, I have committed myself to looking for the good in what I have done and said. In the way I have touched the lives of others. The memoir will be the whole of who I am—failure as well as triumph. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">I will be kind to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Peace. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Photograph from Wikipedia.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;">Note: I have no idea why so much of this appears as if it's printed on ticker-tape! Technology continues to baffle me. Peace. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></p>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195629195750583833.post-8744580806914766202021-07-13T15:41:00.001-05:002021-07-13T15:41:49.086-05:00From Whence Comes Gratitude<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Hello All. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Today, I want to share with you two quotations I recently discovered. They pretty well sum up my attitude toward life as I’m headed down the home stretch toward the finish line and what lies beyond. But before the quotations, I want to share with you the experience that has led me to an understanding and appreciation of these quotations. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Since Meniere’s Disease entered my life in early 2006, I’ve never been able to plan for the morrow. One day goes well: no imbalance, foggy brain, stuttering when speaking, migraine-like headache, or vertigo/dizziness/lightheadedness. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">The next day, Meniere’s forces me to “go with the flow,” to experience one or more of the symptoms.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">The following day, depending on the severity of the previous day’s symptoms, I’m depleted and can do little but listen to books on CDs.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">This pattern can repeat itself week after week, especially during spring and fall. . . . OR . . . There can be a string of carefree days stretching into a week or so. Everything depends on the precipitous fall or rise of barometric pressure. (Climate change seems to have exacerbated the symptoms. I conclude this because the last two years have been more difficult than any since 2006 when the daily experience of “acute rotational vertigo” made life terrifying.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Since 2006, Meniere’s has put boundaries around my days, yet I’ve grown accustomed to its presence in my life. While I’d never want to relive that initial year, I am grateful for the disease. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Why?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Because from it, I’ve learned the following: (1) I have control only over how I respond to life’s vicissitudes. (2) Gratitude for all that is and has been and will be banishes discontent and brings peace. (3) Living in the sacredness of each moment leads to an awareness of just how blessed my life is. (4) I live with Meniere’s and everyone I meet is living with some sorrow, problem, or fear, that is stressing and changing her or his life. This awareness makes me more generous in my thoughts about others. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Given what I just shared, you will understand why the following two quotations speak to me and sum up what Meniere’s has taught me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhwhFThLlZptNZPQpCQzdckcRLk3xHlZH5tmN4U8BHCgXlNE63V-K1RdZz6o70Pb3FlcW32Uu9USgSqOedNg45zgHu7gWMX0kp4_aB5aYlgVLEMJqjFn5AjI2dOwdn0vaHPy-x8hskbqU/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="340" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhwhFThLlZptNZPQpCQzdckcRLk3xHlZH5tmN4U8BHCgXlNE63V-K1RdZz6o70Pb3FlcW32Uu9USgSqOedNg45zgHu7gWMX0kp4_aB5aYlgVLEMJqjFn5AjI2dOwdn0vaHPy-x8hskbqU/" width="192" /></a></div><br />The first quotation is by Maya Angelou, who wrote <i>I Know Why the Caged Bird Sing </i>when she was forty. Here’s something she said later that reflects the lessons I’ve learned from Meniere’s:<div><br /><h1 align="center" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24pt; line-height: 48px; margin: 0in 0in 11.25pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 24px;">If you must look back, do so forgivingly.<o:p></o:p></span></h1><h1 align="center" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24pt; line-height: 48px; margin: 0in 0in 11.25pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 24px;">If you will look forward, do so prayerfully.<o:p></o:p></span></h1><h1 align="center" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24pt; line-height: 48px; margin: 0in 0in 11.25pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 24px;">But the wisest course would be </span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 24px;">to be present in the present gratefully.</span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></h1><h1 style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24pt; line-height: 48px; margin: 0in 0in 11.25pt;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 24px;">Because of a foggy mind, I’ve shortened the quote to the following, which is easier for me to remember. “In thinking about the past, be forgiving. In thinking about the future, be hopeful. In thinking about the present, be present and be grateful.” </span></h1><div><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 24px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr1jzBvoYsZbIQSNMyH3zl-BWyu1pKdaILYCfsPNfDs29Vtbm_kuVag4JvFXrvF6l9UxLp2ao2XDr_stcq6TQ5Fsb_Oi6Tvy8jbCJruN3I8-IUBAjuxPWv-4q4OQRwJxAg27DTepq8nZE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr1jzBvoYsZbIQSNMyH3zl-BWyu1pKdaILYCfsPNfDs29Vtbm_kuVag4JvFXrvF6l9UxLp2ao2XDr_stcq6TQ5Fsb_Oi6Tvy8jbCJruN3I8-IUBAjuxPWv-4q4OQRwJxAg27DTepq8nZE/" width="198" /></a></div><br /></span></div><h1 style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24pt; line-height: 48px; margin: 0in 0in 11.25pt;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 24px;">The second quotation I want to share with you is from Philo of Alexandria, a Jewish philosopher who lived during the last century BCE and the first century CE. All those years ago, he said: “Be kind, for everyone we meet is engaged in a great battle.” <o:p></o:p></span></h1><h1 style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24pt; line-height: 48px; margin: 0in 0in 11.25pt;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 24px;">Meniere’s has taught me to stand as if before the burning bush that Moses encountered and kneel down before the humanity of others—even those whose actions befuddle and confuse me. All of us—all of us—are simply fellow sojourners here on Earth. We never know truly the life that others have and are experiencing. So, yes, kindness. I’m working on this as Meniere’s and Philo ask me to see with new eyes the pain and fear of others. <o:p></o:p></span></h1><h1 style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24pt; line-height: 48px; margin: 0in 0in 11.25pt;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 24px;">Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></h1><div><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 24px;"><i>Pictures from Wikipedia.</i></span></div></div>Deehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612299013780771262noreply@blogger.com45