tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67526940938387152622024-02-24T04:16:57.624-05:00Strength & VulnerabilityA female, feminine, feminist experience.
Thoughts and observations related to work, parenting, relationships and daily living. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.comBlogger159125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-69901522899639158082014-07-28T11:24:00.000-04:002014-07-28T12:04:16.277-04:00Radicalization of Equality: We Have Met the Enemy and She is Us<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve never been one to ignore the gorilla in the room. Or at least that is what I believed about myself with a great and passionate conviction for a very long time. Zeal, even. Life…growing older, marriage, children, divorce, work, etcetera and so on, have this way of eating away at your passions, your conviction and zeal, your very sense of reality and your ability to recognize gorillas, let alone demand them to come clean or get the hell out. I think it is fair to say during the past decade I might have attempted to groom and dress a few gorillas and pass them off as temporary and ordinary unpleasantries, blips in the primate road toward ever evolving growth. I believed them to be the type of blips we need to grin and bear to get through. I did not ignore them, as much as I avoided them or found paths around. Eventually, however, gorillas can become aggressive, they need to be fed and attended to. They can no longer be ignored or avoided and suddenly you are face to face with a gorilla in the middle of your living room and you are forced to look around and notice what a mess a gorilla can make. So you leave, or get eaten alive. Or you become Jane Goodall and convince others why it is perfectly normal to shack up with a gorilla.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I have been noticing that I am ignoring gorillas again. I can’t say exactly why, but I have some thoughts. I’m older. I have less fight or conviction, OK maybe not. Sadly, I have had a hard time staying committed to, or focused on a great many gorilla-sized issues. I feel smaller somehow, less able to fight them off and too comfortable, or perhaps complacent to leave, again. It has taken me a very long time to recover from my last gorilla abstraction. Occasionally I get riled enough to growl down a gorilla or two, but I have been finding it simpler? easier? (sigh) less draining to slip into my off-road vehicle and drive quietly around the gorillas again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My off-road vehicle might have run out of fuel, or the gorillas have multiplied. I have been hearing too many gorillas. Maybe you have too. Five of them recently ruled women can’t choose how to personally and privately protect their rights, their bodies, their livelihood, and ultimately their futures without the religious viewpoints of a few limiting their choices. The very same religious viewpoints that allow for enhanced, prolonged penis erectile medications and/or vasectomies. I can only imagine the idolatry worshipped at that altar. <i>WWJD</i>? I can’t imagine what Jesus would do under these circumstances. His mother was unmarried and pregnant, but she had a few entitlements most of us don’t have ready access to. Religious ideals too often have this detrimental way of being spit out by a few narrow minded, but loud gorillas, and in spite of the fact that the typical U.S. congregation is represented by 61% female attendants and 39% male attendants (with or without erectably functioning penises, peni, well you know what I mean) those viewpoints are typically male centric. It makes it difficult for some women, to find sanctity and refuge in the very places that might provide comfort, solitude and community. And now it makes it difficult for women to make private medical decisions about their bodies through their insurance providers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A few FOX employed gorillas believe women are doing swell, what with all those laws that are already in place. You know like those laws against discrimination, and harassment and domestic violence. The ones that are so easy to bring forward and that much easier to prove. One such gorilla, Laura Trueman, (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can’t make this up…True man?</i>) Anywho, Ms. Trueman believes the proponents of the Paycheck Fairness Act are "stuck in the 70’s, or are looking for political advantages in attempting to present themselves as champions fighting against the War Against Women". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I consider myself a bit of a soldier in this war, so just when will my damn uniform get here? My golden cummerbund, stars and stripes bustier and blazing hot bikini briefs were do in 1975, and if I had my Shazam ring or Elvira bangles or whatever those big strong women were clanking together back when it was time to fight the real fight, well maybe I would be permitted to worship in the temple that understands my uterus never had any custom fitted safety mechanisms to naturally abort any old rape baby. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Psssst Ms. Trueman? The Violence Against Women Act was written and signed into place in 1994, in response to the OJ Simpson case. 15 years after those wild and crazy 70’s ended. Good thing for some of us women that OJ Simpson was just that side of crazy to not quietly kill his estranged wife and leave it at that. He had to go and make it all public, and well it became that much harder to ignore just how many women ‘stuck in the 70’s’ or not, were being beat to death, choked, or shot each year. If only we could have stayed in the 50s, put on our pearls, and served up a sweet little cocktail or two, wouldn’t life be better for everyone?</i>)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A few gorillas have been making decisions about the rights and safety of women on college campuses. Numerous rape cases over the past few years have come out in public view. Some of these cases were tried and proven in campus courts, (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kangaroo courts?)</i> which resulted in unbelievably light convictions to the rapists. In one case, the rapist was not allowed back on campus <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">after</i> graduation. In another case the rapist was expelled and when he sued, the college decided that was too harsh. This case went to the Supreme Court and it was upheld, in spite of the fact the rapist admitted to the rape. Student rapists are often protected in the name of sporting events and sporting attendance, and well why can’t some of us women just be good sports anyway? We make it harder for everyone when we get raped and then complain about it, or point to those gorillas in our living rooms, campuses, workplaces, and courtrooms.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sadly, and for reasons I can’t fathom, many of the gorillas that are hurting women <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> women. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ape has killed Ape</i>, was a dramatic turning point in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Battle for the Planet of the Apes (1973) </i>this was the scene that revealed one of the once peaceful, nonviolent apes had turned against the system, the moral code was violated and it changed the course of all Apes. Maybe a few women felt threatened by all those disgruntled feminist women. When the term radical was attached to the word feminist there went the whole fight. Women can’t be radicals. It is against the moral code. It would mean we were no longer, peaceful, agreeable, compliant, caregivers, wives of the house, the home, the small and tender children. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And so, we have met the enemy and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she</i> is us. The fear surrounding being considered a radical feminist practically stopped the Women’s Movement in it’s tracks. It was the actions of a single woman and her grassroots movement that derailed the Equal Rights Amendment, and set us back some. Single as in one, not single as in unmarried. Phyllis Schlafly was married. So very married and traditional. So very traditional that her husband and his salary nicely supported her ability to stay home to raise her six children. And that alone isn’t so unusual given the time, or any of my business. But she went on to become a celebrated lawyer, advocate, and politician. Well damn, that sounds like a pretty traditional girly role to me! I wonder why all those other women that don’t have supportive sugar-daddy bank-rolling good strong husbands, can’t just pipe on down and take care of their kids happily and for the sake of someone’s gonads, quietly!?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">According to her very own website, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Phyllis Schlafly is America’s best-known advocate of the dignity and honor that we as a society owe to the role of fulltime homemaker. </i>Now isn’t that just the cats pajamas? Boy howdy, how in fact could more of us little women get to have our cake and eat it all too, and then tell other women they can’t have the same cake we have? I’m just wondering, because somehow I didn’t get in the same line when they were giving out aprons or husbands, or law degrees. I’m all for ensuring children get taken care of by both parents. I didn’t get on that line either. But not for a minute do I imagine, that a child is not being well-cared for because his/her mother is working outside of the home, or that it causes the break down of the family.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Take a minute to study these two words:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Radical:</b> very new and different from what is traditional or ordinary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Feminist</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> of the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Many younger women have been taught the gorilla is the feminist, radical or not. Or perhaps they were raised by mothers that struggled to balance work and family. Many younger women were lead to believe the gorillas no longer exist because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i>, we have laws that protect us from being raped and beat and harassed. In much the same way we have laws against drinking and driving, and laws against going into a school and opening fire with unregistered guns. The laws alone don’t change attitudes and behaviors or keep us safe. Girls today are raised to believe they can do anything they want, and they don’t have the social context to know that was not always the case. There has been a rash of pretty young celebrities that have been speaking out against feminism. These pyt’s don’t seem to realize they have the opportunities they have because feminists believed they were entitled to those opportunities. They don’t seem to understand being a feminist does not offer one outcome, it offers choice. Unfortunately without laws supporting the rights of women, these choices would not be available to women. We came a long way, baby, but we’re not there yet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The Equal Rights Amendment has three sections. Section 1.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex.<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> Section 2.</span> The Congress shall have the power to enforce, by appropriate legislation, the provisions of this article.<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> Section 3.</span> This amendment shall take effect two years after the date of ratification. It is important to point out Ms. Shlafly fought vehemently against it because she feared that her daughters would become eligible for the draft. Perhaps her fight was misdirected, in fighting against the evil of war, she creating the framework for the way many view the current War Against Women, from both sides. How can we as a nation, 51% of us women, believe the opposite, that it is OK to deny the equality of rights on account of gender?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I recently heard another complaint about how the feminists of the 70s are responsible for the plight of….well just about everything wrong with society today. Phylis Schlafly and her niece, Suzanne Venker co-wrote the book <i>The Flipside of Feminism</i>. And I do believe it is important to remind you, <i>thoughtful readers</i>, feminism is once again, or still, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities. </i>What you choose to do with those rights is up to you. I feel, radically strong in my belief that I should <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> those rights and opportunities. So if we just slip that in, the title would be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flipside of Believing Women and Men should have Equal Rights and Opportunities</i>….it would be cumbersome as a title but it would redirect those that believe feminism means something else. Something menacing, or evil or wrong. Read the following quote from Ms. Venker and just twirl that around your pretty little tendrils for awhile: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"The problem is that the majority of women in this country don't have the power—feminists do. And feminists influence liberals as well as conservatives to confirm to the feminist message."</i> Isn’t the point of feminism to empower all women? To ensure we have power? I know, power is a powerful word. It’s nearly manly. But let’s take a closer look at that word too, shall we? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Power</span><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> ability to act or produce an effect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Do non-feminists really imagine that if women didn’t have the ability to act or produce an effect, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> would be a good thing? If so, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ape is killing </i>the spirit and potential of<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Ape.</i></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">According to the book there are five specific ways that </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Believing Women and Men should have Equal Rights and Opportunities,</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> or Feminism has ruined America: </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">1. It hurt marriage. Women want to wait so that they can keep their identities longer and men are finding easy sex, taking away a big reason for marriage. <span style="color: red;">Well c’mon sisters if that doesn’t motivate you to give up your identity quicker I don’t know what would. And is that why we get married, to have easy sex? Man oh man…I’m thinking that’s not working out for a good many couples. </span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">2. Undermines child rearing. More kids are in childcare where discipline is lax resulting in an "epidemic" of bad kids, childhood obesity, and bullies. <span style="color: red;">There seems an easy fix here, give discipline back to the schools and childcare centers. Maybe reinstate Corporal Punishmen? Mandatory outdoor physical activities… oh heck, when I was a young-un we played outside for hours on end, parents had no idea what we were doing and we came home when we were hungry. Close down the childcare centers and throw the kids back to the streets!</span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">3. Two-income trap. With both husband and wife working it's hard to live without life's luxuries. <span style="color: red;">Yes luxuries like food and</span> <span style="color: red;">rent and</span> <span style="color: red;">childcare. The vast majority of dual income homes are simply making ends meet and their voices are not involved in much of the rhetoric. </span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">4. Undermines college sports. Title IX has ended many male-only sports at some colleges. <span style="color: red;">Ummmm and…..now women can play sports too? It doesn’t say it has ended male sports, but has ended many male-only sports. Maybe there are fewer cheerleaders available?</span> </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">5. Emasculates men. It's better to be a wuss than speak up or mouth off and face charges of harassment or chauvinism<span style="color: red;">. Okey dokes so men are not emasculated when they mouth off? Is that how it works? I kinda imagine if a man needs to resort to mouthing off to women he’s already deeply entrenched in the emasculation tank. And speaking up that will result in charges of harassment? What is he speaking up about the size of her tatas? </span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I won’t go through all of this but lets just look at number 1 again…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">women want to wait…..and men are finding easy sex which takes away a big reason for marriage.</i> Whoo boy. I have to sit down a minute. I’m parched and a little weak, I sure wish a big old strong man could see me now and help me back on my feet…and maybe even marry me up and offer up some good hard sex. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Phylis Shlafly is perhaps like Jane Goodall in that she wants to convince us of the benefit of shacking up with gorillas, or supporting the limitations and restrictive beliefs of some of those gorillas. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Please note, I intend no ill will towards Jane Goodall and her important and loving work with her gorillas. And Ms Shlafly is entitled to her beliefs.) </i>Ms. Schafly believes strongly in gender roles. So does E.L. James, the author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">50 Shades Of Grey</i>, for that matter. No easy sex there, at least not for the women. There is a sense that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">50 Shades of Grey</i> was such a sensation because we are all missing those hot, erotic, and sexy pleasures afforded to us through the traditional gender roles that we have moved so far away from. Ummm, I don’t know…I can’t really imagine that things worked out so well for Ward and June Cleaver because she was waiting for the duct tape and chains to come out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Believing in gender roles, is not quite like believing in Santa, or God. Or maybe it is exactly that way. But to me, it is by now more like believing the world is flat and maybe extremely narrow. Gender roles, unlike gender differences are based on societal values that in many cases no longer fit or make sense. Sure, perhaps a larger percentage of the male gender may like to barbecue and play with fire to prepare the meat that they weren’t able to hunt down themselves. And a larger percentage of the female gender may be found with a child or three climbing atop them, but how this amounts to not providing measures to ensure equal pay or equal rights is lost on me. Believing in gender roles, or preferring traditional gender roles in ones family has no place in limiting equal rights and protections from our government. Especially a government that was formed on the platform of equal rights. It took a hundred and forty three years for women to be granted some equalities, if we continue to collectively ignore the gorillas in our living rooms, board rooms and Supreme Court, we may reverse those fragile, tenuous, equalities that were hard fought and won.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If we give women the same rights that men already have, to be entitled to their own bodies, their sexuality and their ability to make their own decisions how can we not improve the quality of life for all? There are gender differences, no doubt, but banning laws to guarantee salaries are not based on these differences will not turn back time. Not supporting the Equal Rights Amendment or the Paycheck Fairness Act will not “fix” the ills of our nation or lure women back to their kitchens, barefoot and pregnant. Gender roles in the kitchens, living rooms, bedrooms, and dens of subtropic forests and beyond, where gorillas may graze can continue in any way the involved gorillas see fit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I don’t imagine all men to be gorillas. I know all women that wish to, and have the support to stay home and raise their children are not gorillas. I am certain, however, all women must be granted the same human rights provided to men. Simply because the distinction of gender is not relevant to the protection of rights. Human Rights were not intended to be separated and watered down and doled out or withheld based on gender. Believing in gender roles as the basis for the argument to fight against equality for women is similar to the argument that was once voiced for (or really, <i>against</i>) African Americans. It was continued to be believed by many that slavery was better for African Americans, it provided a roof over the heads of slaves, a steady job and food. It took close to a hundred years following the end of slavery before the Civil Rights Act was passed. We've come a long way baby. We are not there yet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Women's Rights Amendment was ratified in 1920, perhaps we can pass the Equal Rights Amendment before 2020. To believe that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities does not seem a radical idea, not granting equalities is archaic and gravely detrimental.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-75368236482363369712014-07-24T19:16:00.000-04:002014-07-25T10:49:54.537-04:00Read This: Random Thoughts While Hiking<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
decided to bring things up a notch and try a night of wilderness camping along
with my high peak hiking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overnight
camping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have done this in the
Adirondacks only two other times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once
with my son because don't boys need those big manly bonding times? OK so I’m not so
manly and it wasn’t all manly like, but well, how else was he going to have the
opportunity?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He got to help out a little
spitfire of a girly/woman and what could be more manly than that? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went one other time alone in the Adirondacks
and survived it with a sore back and a rash of mosquito bites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Otherwise it was somewhat inconsequential. My
last overnight camping expedition was last summer in Oklahoma, more of a stop
over to catch some sleep as I was returning to the east coast from a wild and
crazy, restorative cross country adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was no hiking involved, I was parked about 250 feet from the rust
colored shoreline of Foss State Park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
didn’t bother setting up a tent, the weather didn’t warrant it, and I was
hoping to just sleep off a few hours of steady driving, not stay the
night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That stop cost me a trip to the
Emergency Room in Mytrle Beach two days later, with a growing welt that was
nearing the size of Delaware, resulting from a warning shot delivered by a
rather generous and gentle-hearted Brown Recluse Spider. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
might consider putting together a journal of adventures with a focus on hiking;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hiking Your
Way Through A Mountainous Mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hike And
Purge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hike To Purge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nature’s Bounty For The Faint Of Heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hike Your Psyche Clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mindless Mountain Meanderings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Maybe not. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJsRfU5uIrP9dOwzqz2nNNdmiLSClq9v0ZWtxTuRn1cZRTmCRQGUnIu6fpm09EKmTeYRS6pdZBxu0OJkR49u1bNUdR371hGgJu_aRRsjT1tZ5Qjwm-VOu9JTD59_RpDUlmq5HARvh1q0/s1600/DSCF9251.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJsRfU5uIrP9dOwzqz2nNNdmiLSClq9v0ZWtxTuRn1cZRTmCRQGUnIu6fpm09EKmTeYRS6pdZBxu0OJkR49u1bNUdR371hGgJu_aRRsjT1tZ5Qjwm-VOu9JTD59_RpDUlmq5HARvh1q0/s1600/DSCF9251.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;">The
thing about hiking is, it’s so serene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Solitude all around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meditative
Silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deafening screaming silence so
that all you have to do is watch your footing with extreme caution for a ½ hour
or so between an hour or two here and there left to think all the weird,
strange, and random things one might be thinking at any given time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes the formula is reversed, and in
between the hour long treacherous, high concentration and focused attention
needed for jockeying upwards, or downward, you are briefly walking through
beautiful green verdant paths (<i>you just have to say <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">green verdant</span> <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">paths</span> like
that whenever you can</i>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here in the Adirondacks,
these are the very paths traversed by James Fennimore Cooper, Ralph Waldo Emerson,
and Henry David Thoreau.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my God, did
they capture the meditative solitude of these places, or what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We can never have enough of nature…….</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">the wilderness with
it’s living and decaying trees…. </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We need to witness our own limits
transgressed, and some life pasturing freely where we never wander.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <i> - Henry
David Thoreau.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I’ll
put these great writings in historical perspective for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were at that time a young country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All that green, expansive “free”, not yet
forever wild landscape was just there for the exploring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Incredible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Well if you were a man, with time on your hands and either a trust fund
or a penchant for poverty. In the 1800’s, the cities that bore, or housed, or
educated, even temporarily, such great writers, and presented opportunities for
them to form and share their cultured and revered viewpoints, were toxic, filthy
landscapes resulting from an industrial revolution, frenetic commerce and the
contamination of overcrowded immigrant ghettos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Finding nature and spending time in it was quite daring, and quite
unheard of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was also an
adventurous
leisure activity afforded to very few. And so they wrote about it as
though they were touching the hand of God. And so it is when you hike
in the serene and green forests of this world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61GoPGRB5G3VWY2SNb0aqNQ2MSeb86N-jlrqJsrXH88N7EY6Nxkr5i78nUrWxedYesciTKlpJx2mWI0F_rFzasT9ZFSezLqNR1j-XYRkQaB8QsOv45u2Uc-A1pPuD3jn5N8V3_ceKq0Q/s1600/DSCF9281.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61GoPGRB5G3VWY2SNb0aqNQ2MSeb86N-jlrqJsrXH88N7EY6Nxkr5i78nUrWxedYesciTKlpJx2mWI0F_rFzasT9ZFSezLqNR1j-XYRkQaB8QsOv45u2Uc-A1pPuD3jn5N8V3_ceKq0Q/s1600/DSCF9281.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Thoreau
might consider me a foolish woman, if he were to read what follows, but he
wouldn’t be the only one that considers me so. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are times when the mountains provide
opportunity for me to consider thoughts deep and troubling, or to simply
appreciate the surrounding grandeur, and there are times when nature is simply
a backdrop to consider random, small thoughts and follow them on their short,
trailless paths to places that unfold before me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">In
deciding to go wilderness camping as part of my most recent hike, I must pack
for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I attempt not to overpack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But of course I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Contents
of pack:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Sleeping bag,
lightweight <i>(and not very warm)</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Fresh undies </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Extra socks</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Flashlight(s) 1 headlight,
1 clamp-on, and 1 mini high beam <i>(yes 3, because last time I didn’t pack 1)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Assorted and
random first aid supplies; band-aids, bacitracin ointment, 2 ace bandages, 3 soft ankle braces, alcohol wipes, tweezers</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">(2) Long sleeve
shirts, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(1) tank top, string bikini <i>(yes,
that should scare you, but it has life saving qualities, string, and it packs
much lighter than the tankini with maximum coverage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m alone in the woods for heavens sake?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who’s going to see me? and in a pinch it can serve as a sling shot!)</i></span></div>
<i>
</i><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Portable single
burner stove with gas assembly</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Tin </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">cup </span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><i>(or whatever
other California safety standard approved material is now used) </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">fork</span></div>
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</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Swiss army knife
(<i>that I can’t open because my fingernails start out broken, or break while
trying to pull out the assorted knives, scissors, back-scratcher, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>crochet needles, corkscrew, zipper-pull or
whittling tool)</i></span></div>
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</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Kindle Fire
(<i>yes, I know)</i></span></div>
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</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">2 Maps </span></div>
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</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Compass <i>(that I
don’t really know how to use to be able to walk from one peak to another but I can
tell you which way is southeast or northwest)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Altimeter <i>(that
I forgot to set at the start of the trailhead, so it is now useless, except for
the barometer, which I don’t remember how to read the numbers that warn of rain)</i></span></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Extra sneakers
(an indulgence I allow this time)</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Camel-pack
filled with water</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Extra water </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Gatorade</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Food <i>(suffice to
say it’s a diverse assortment)</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Wipes</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Camera </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Water proof case
</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Cell phone</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Extra batteries</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: 115%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">6 Pages from a
hiking book <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>(which leads to my first
random thoughts)</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">For
reasons I can’t quite pin down, my hikes of late are not greatly planned
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is sort of OK, I think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I use to plan ad nauseum, and end up just as
unprepared, or over-prepared for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wrong</i>
set of events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One theme that has not
changed, however, resonates in Thoreau’s words; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We need to witness our own limits transgressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Hiking continues to be a place that I
challenge my self-imposed limits and push myself further.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as a result, I often figure out something
that is troubling my soul, or learn how to let go of the weight of some such other
trouble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a place to visit and let
go of life’s trivialities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a place
I get to pull up fond memories and smile gently recalling where and with whom I
have journeyed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a place that I am
able to push myself physically without measuring myself up against anyone
else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The conflict of my story is ever
present: woman against self, woman against nature, woman against others…..or
more so, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>woman with self, in nature,
supported by others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
notice after parking, I have developed, or by now really honed this touching
quirk I have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not touching, as in
tender, or moving, but touching as in feeling, moving, rifling through, and
fidgeting with materials I may carry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
do this with my purse before I leave my car, while in a restaurant, or at the
grocery store, usually to find my debit card with the growing fear of not being
able to pay for whatever provisions are needed. I always find it. I always pay
my way but I seem to need or enjoy building up this tense, sweat-filled angst that I can
create instantly by frantically searching. I find myself doing it with my pack before
heading to the trailhead to sign in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
functions as a way to stall, perhaps, in the hopes that I come to my senses and
head home, or to a sauna for a massage, or to a lovely restaurant serving local
seasonal foods and home brewed beers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
also functions as a way to worry out or in, all my fears, in the event this is
the time I misstep and fall to my death, or trip on a twisted root and fall
onto a jagged rock and bleed to death, alone<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But happy</i>, I always imagine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She died in the woods on a hike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was happiest there.” I picture someone saying,
and others nodding knowingly, comforted by this thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But today I think, well, I will be happy to
have been hiking, but I don’t think I will feel happy enduring such unimagined pain
knowing if I hadn’t wasted all that time fidgeting around, I would have been
better equipped and much more alert to avoid the dangers that lead to my
imagined death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time, as I’m
touching everything around my car, and making sure I have everything I need, I
decide to rip 6 pages out of the hiking book and leave the 8 pound book
behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Progress, I tell myself, and a
slightly lighter pack. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It might even
save my life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sign in and begin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">As
much as I question of late, why I continue to put my aging knees and ankles
through this, each hike offers different views, and different experiences, and
a great sense of achievement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hike I
have planned loosely for today includes four more high peaks; Seymour, Seward,
Donaldson and Emmons and starts in Franklin County. It is my first High Peak hike
outside of Essex County. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have not
spent much time in and around Saranac Lake and I enjoy the ride through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The economy seems to be booming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>New shopping plazas, road construction, and
crowded roads surprise me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The views of
the mountains from my car window are beautiful and they reassure me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Since
I decided to spend the night, I treat myself to a later start. As I am touching
everything earlier, I decide to forego the tent and just take the hammock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will be my first time using a hammock on a
wilderness trek and my back is happy in knowing I won’t be sleeping on a rocky,
unmoving patch of ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My pack is
heavy but not unbearably so. Off I go, my back now feeling a bit stronger, a
little cocky even, and straighter in spite of the weight of the pack. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLz5aduYyB8bZAptvjr1KM1lRRu5L8Uc2-OTyw0Peb9ufcXXyN-EDdjK4MZskjKMhfdYY8gmoGvZvZtvvw25Rk3eOXZ1HP9AeF014F44N8cJuLvAxDkCgAtZ2qK0cI_p4BDR_GQU6-IE/s1600/DSCF9304.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLz5aduYyB8bZAptvjr1KM1lRRu5L8Uc2-OTyw0Peb9ufcXXyN-EDdjK4MZskjKMhfdYY8gmoGvZvZtvvw25Rk3eOXZ1HP9AeF014F44N8cJuLvAxDkCgAtZ2qK0cI_p4BDR_GQU6-IE/s1600/DSCF9304.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;">The
trail for the first 5 or 6 miles is fairly moderate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leafy, soft paths, some mud, a few rocks
jutting through. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pass a pond, and a
lean-to site before reaching the cairn that marks the way up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These mountain peaks are reached by what is known as “trailless
peaks”, the term reminds me of another expression, but I can’t quite remember
it just now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I start hiking, with
very little challenge, I start to think about the sacrilege that transpired earlier
at my car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ripped</i> pages from a book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is not an act I do often.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ever</i>? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I have ripped a recipe from a magazine in a
waiting room once, maybe even twice.) Stranger still, I am one of those
crackpots that buy books from yard sales, book fairs, and library book sales,
with the intent that I will use the pages for some art project or another and then
can’t bring myself to destroy the contents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Books I purchase to read, are done so because I have a very tenuous
relationship with libraries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus begins
the limits revealed in today’s contemplative reflection and my journey toward
transgressive healing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Why
do I have such a devout and righteous relationship with books I wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember the beginnings of my deep
veneration toward books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a
time, not very long ago when most people did not buy so many books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They frequented the library. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course many still do, but many more
frequent Amazon, or Barnes and Noble, or the few and far between local
bookstores to purchase books which eventually get donated, and/or resold in a
variety of venues to those of us that don’t go to libraries or have big dreams
of repurposing pages from books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Growing
up with modest means, did not allow for the frivolities of book purchasing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if I had to decide on buying a book as a
young one, or some sweet gooey confection from Walter’s Bakery, or Rainbow Bakery,
or any other shop or supermarket with gooey confections, that’s where I could
be found supporting the local economy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had
I known my metabolism was secretly building up a tolerance before aggressively unleashing
it’s disturbing menopausal midriff redistribution plans, perfect for supporting
a book or two, I might have bought books instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, I went to the library for books, not
the bookstore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You may not rip pages
from library books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You may not fold
down the edges, drool chocolate on the pages of, or otherwise damage library
books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or you are fined and must pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is one of your first lessons in
responsibility, if you go to the library as a child and get a library
card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i> name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a wonderful
thing to have! (A name, as well as a library card.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
was an early reader but I had a relationship with books that ran hot and
cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved children’s books consistently
however, and into my middle school years for the comfort, the illustrations and
occasionally, the stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the illustrations
that I pored over across many summer nights. I examined or delighted in every
detail of picture book illustrations. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I might
have also used them to serve as an attempt to slow down the passage of time, or
come to terms with growing up, and older. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recall walking to the library in my once
hometown of Copiague, Long Island and moving between the children’s room, the
YA section and the music collection, leaving with Stephen Bishop’s Greatest
Hits, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Friend is Someone Who Likes You </i>by Joan Walsh Anglund and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Catcher in the Rye by </i>JD Salinger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next
time, perhaps, Neil Diamond or Boz Scaggs, Babar and Father Christmas, or maybe
any and all things Sendak, how I loved Maurice Sendak!, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Darling, My Hamburger by Paul
Zindel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried Walden at this time too, but I was not
ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The passage of time would be
necessary to attempt such a literary masterpiece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had started to accumulate poetry books
from sales or the discard piles at school or library sale tables.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Edna, Emily, Robert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Classics. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would pretend the children’s books were for
someone I was babysitting for…if asked… ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I hoped my sister, my roommate, would not
notice or remark on my still being “such a baby”…she did not….ever. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in life, as in hiking, it is best to be
prepared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
go on walking and thinking, and finding my way around, or over, or knee deep in
the mud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally, I can let out a
solitary, “Fuck!” in the middle of the woods, where I see no one for hours or
sometimes a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I imagine, between
contemplative, admirable and reflective thoughts, Emerson and Thoreau might
have come unexpectantly across a briar patch, an angry yellowjacket or a well
disguised sinkhole and needed to release some such expletive that in no way
minimized or broke their love of nature. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What with all that reflective thought making
and dreamy observations being had… It is best in hiking, as well in life, not
to keep <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">un</i>pleasantries inside to
fester and cloud your vision or spoil your afternoon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a rookie move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Footprints on the top of the mud could have
been made in much cooler and drier days, and preserved perfectly for weeks or
months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is best to step lightly to
ensure the ground beneath is firm enough to hold you, to avoid entering a mud
pit that might be knee, or two or three feet deep, the same for mossy patches
at the edges of shady ridges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rot has a
way of leaving behind only the top most layer that might appear quite solid but
is actually waiting for a snails sneeze to reveal erosion before a spider can
say “Gesundheit!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn’t that the way it
works in life at times?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All that outward
seeming perfection might be delicately and feebly covering all types of
instability and uncertainty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah,
thoughts for another time, or to simply let go of.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My sporty
little trail shoes manage quite nicely, surprisingly, through the mud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All that breathable, brightly colored mesh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A quick and purposeful splashing around the
next brook washes off the mud and muck and my socks and shoes are sure to be dry
within an hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continue, revisiting my
act of destruction with my hiking book this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or really my great trepidation, and guilt
surrounding it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
currently live next door to a library.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
gem of a place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two of the all time best
librarian’s are employed here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are
the ambassadors of welcome for those of us fortunate enough to land in this
little gem of a hamlet on the Hudson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I use the term “land” with great serendipitous spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many a wonderful person has landed here,
perplexed and shell shocked only to find this is the very place they always
belonged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the
stork drops you off at birth, Winkin, Blinkin and some dude named Nod carries
you in some transitory cloud of puffy white comfort and offers you all swaddled
in comfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When that same stork picks you up
at some other turning point in your life and drops you off somewhere for your
second, or third, <i>next</i> act, it’s up to you to create some level of comfort, to see the magic and welcome the
smiles and enjoy the well-placed snark and spirited aplomb of these very library muses
or some such folk put in your path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One such library sprite, is well aware of my
deeply felt unsavory library past. I think she loves me anyway, or kindly tolerates me at least.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">It
started like this:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The Copiague Memorial
Library lent me many a book, for a summer or two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And one or two or maybe in total 4 or 5 of
these books failed to accompany me on my way back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were not lost, as much as
treasured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then suddenly they were unforgivably “late”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this point in
my story, the path comes to a fork and you can get to the summit either way but
the view is different and the demands of the trails vary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will offer both. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7u2n_nLg8-RyNMkZBZAXjod2nbBrKCot87A6k3WlDPAWlajxFDL5qvJe17DNVOnBnbDwAcy0GzlkKfKmCaRHgP1Nrhps0erdCGl77sT_H7VChs9b_2BpnY8yNmcAdN7nq3PDRzjOFWYA/s1600/DSCF9298.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7u2n_nLg8-RyNMkZBZAXjod2nbBrKCot87A6k3WlDPAWlajxFDL5qvJe17DNVOnBnbDwAcy0GzlkKfKmCaRHgP1Nrhps0erdCGl77sT_H7VChs9b_2BpnY8yNmcAdN7nq3PDRzjOFWYA/s1600/DSCF9298.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;">I
start to consider, after recalling my sense of the “unforgiveable” lateness of
library membership responsibility and my path changes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now my thoughts are traveling through the sinful
acts of children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think how odd to
have felt the weight of this or any “sin” at such an early age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I know, this might seem a little
dramatic, but I was a child at the time these thoughts were formed and so a
child-like weight was attached to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Here’s the thing, ready?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know
this is not considered one of the 7 deadly sins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I don’t imagine a photo of me at nine or
ten imprinted, or stamped, with the words <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Library
Sinner</i> exists in the archives in the damp and dusty backrooms or inner
sanctum of the Copiague Memorial Library or Our Lady of Annunciation Church for
that matter, which has no direct affiliation with the library, but that they
are both places to worship one book or many in the seaside town of Copiague.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then I start wondering about sins and
children and the Sacrament of Penance, or confession, because well, I have the
time, and the path is pretty easy still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sinning
and childhood typically consists of very few options.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most little ones are not doing much killing at
seven or eight when we first go to confession before receiving our first
communion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We aren’t too interested in
interacting physically with anyone else unless it involves a hug from our
parents or hitting someone and yelling, “You’re It” before running fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So the long, detailed list of anything related
to sins of the skin, or anything sexually associated is fairly irrelevant at seven
or eight when we begin to go to confession.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Sabbath day observation is still part of our weekly routine and we
aren’t yet aware that we may one day become separate, independent thinkers that
can choose to test the validity of whether we will have a time share in
purgatory that we sell AND profit from, or if the market might crash and we are
stuck with that condo in the second coming of Detroit for the long haul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(<i>Sorry, did I explain this is a 28 mile trek
and I’m only now at 1. 4 miles in?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go
get a handful of goop and relax…what else is there to do in the middle of all
this green verdant vibrancy?</i>)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we go
to church, do we love every moment of it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Is it something we sin about? I think I did love every minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But not so much for pious and saintly
reasons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I liked counting the hats, and
the bald men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I liked poking
or nudging either one of my brothers or gently but annoyingly pushing my bony
knee into my sister, knowing they couldn’t yell out or tell on me so I would be
feeling pretty darn getting away with murderish….Oh I guess that probably was a
sin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was a tacit understanding,
and we all bothered each other just enough to not illicit great bolts of
lightening and thunder from an angry God, parent, or parishioner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On second thought, I don’t<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>think that was much of a sin after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a focused use of our time, and we
couldn’t see the priest from over the heads of those in front of us, or make
much sense of the words we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">could</i>
understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blessed are the children for
being inventive and productive users of time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I confessed
of lying about eating the last cookie, maybe half a cake, once, or being mean
to my two brothers and my sister, and to my mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father, had that penetrating look, and he
also came bearing Hershey bars on occasion, but mostly he was at work and not
within proximity to bother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went on
about my week cleansed with a few Hail Mary’s and the attention span of a gnat
fueled with Coca-Cola, gooey sweet confections and all things sugar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sins did not much change or otherwise
deepen in darkness or intent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so I
journeyed until I reached the beginning stages of autonomy and
responsibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Library.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All That. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Suddenly,
I was a coveting, gluttonous, sloth over night. Three deadly sins in one fell swoop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at those picture books and couldn’t
get enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gluttony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would lie in my bed, many a summer night,
falling asleep with the rhyming cadence of Joan Walsh Anglund or just before
reaching the lyrical punch of Maurice Sendak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Unmoving, sleeping, sloth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
could not part with these books at times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Coveting my libraries limited resources.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By now I was anywhere between 10 and 13.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I am quite
certain these books and this library kept me from having to deny my not yet
sexual blooming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My late blooming self and that library saved
me from potential for all manner of sins that would otherwise be
manifesting in my suddenly developing hips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It turns out reading <i>Catcher in the Rye, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, My
Darling My Hamburger, </i>or<i> Zooey and Franny</i> does not, in itself, lead to sin of a sexual
nature.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So
now, let’s try the other path of this thought process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I start to wonder what if sins and sinning
were not introduced as something to refrain from at such an early age?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the Catholic Church spent more
time teaching about sexual education from an educational perspective I think it
could inform and direct behavior more so than the belief that worrying that the teaching of
sex will open the flood gates of sexual sin making.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this very early age I was taught about
sinning and expected to confess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
taught to believe I was a sinner and I possessed some very fertile grounds for
sinning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If children believed instead,
that their burgeoning autonomy could be the fertile grounds for world peace, or
humanistic service, and understood that their bodies were sacred and needed to
be respected and cared for I just kinda think it might create a world less bent
on assuring pain and suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
know, it just seems like a better approach, that’s all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The
paths join together here, and I recall trying to determine how to remedy the sins
associated with botching up my library card responsibility and how I was to
avoid facing the wrath of some vengeful God or pursed-lipped librarian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I do what most of us do when faced with
turmoil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I kept the books safe at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
probably stop enjoying them because they are “wrong” to have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Weeks turn into months, maybe reaching just
beyond the year mark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day I am
riding my bike and a sign at the library catches my attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Library Amnesty Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I circle the block.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go back, ride passed slowly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What could this mean for me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am convinced by now, I will have to be an
indentured servant at the library to pay my growing fees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This doesn’t actually bother me I am heartily
sorry to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will permit me access
to inner sanctums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The adult
section.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The children’s room without
shame or my prepared story of feigned altruism to help the young children I may
babysit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Amnesty?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This
was big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Monumental.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was after all 1972 or 1973.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amnesty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That was something you heard about on the news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To grant pardons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amnesty was being greatly debated regarding
pardoning draft dodgers, conscientious objectors to a war that was by then
unsupported and hard to justify.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps
one of the librarians or a board member decided to apply the term to those
library members that were book return dodgers in an effort to safely welcome
home those books that did not otherwise know how to make their way back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t really object to returning the books
conscientiously, I just didn’t know how to face my irresponsible behavior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After being entirely certain, even asking in
that third person way, “So if someone had books that were late….. they could
return them without fees?” I asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
went on to ask, “Does it matter how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">late</i>?”
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes and No was answered, in that order and
confirmed it for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That same afternoon
I proudly returned those books as though I was clearing the conscience of all
book lovers that stay too long at the book borrowing party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I was redeemed, but not reformed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">I
spent many more days in other communities awaiting amnesty days that never
came.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have paid a couple of fees that
were more expensive than the value of the price of a first edition signed
copy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I began avoiding libraries
for the most part the way a recovering alcoholic avoids bars and liquor stores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I buy a book I don’t fold down the pages
or mistreat it, but I don’t worry about it either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Invariably a favorite book might have signs
of use that make me feel the weight of all sins, occasional chocolate drool,
maybe a coffee ring on the cover…but pages are not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> torn out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So there
I was heading out and attempting to pack lightly and there was that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Adirondack Journal</i> in my trunk that is
well worn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been on several hikes,
regretfully, because now the edges of the pages are stained from a campsite
coffee spill in an attempt to cook an ambitious meal of Caribbean Jerk Chicken
on a single burner stove balanced on a small stone near a freshly brewed cup of
coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was a trip that
was greatly
and successfully planned out, and so I had no reason to bring that book
all
that way, through the trails of the Great Range, except I imagined after
walking 16 miles with a pack, setting up camp, finding water to filter
through my filter gizmo, and cooking, I would need something to read to
help me fall asleep, ha-ha-hummmmmm..zzzzzzz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next day an unexpected rain storm caused flash
flooding and we found ourselves walking chin deep through the
brook that was barely ankle deep the morning before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The book was soaked through and dried out
over several days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pages are indeed
warped, and coffee stained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There
it sat in my car, still warped and coffee stained 4 years and 18 peaks later and
it was difficult to rip out the pages I needed, only six of them, to make my pack
less cumbersome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But rip them out I
did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I brought my kindle, thinking it
was light weight and could meet a few needs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could write down my thoughts and even read one of my books that
evening in my hammock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had planned
better, I could have downloaded a GPS app, and the entire book that now sat in
my trunk six pages fewer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It felt a sin
to rip those pages out just the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This hike will redeem me, but I’m not sure if I will be reformed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
signed up for a card at the Essex Library last November. I thought I could
start over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Library
Grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took out a few books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I was injured and temporarily
immobilized and my trips North stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A call from the librarian reminding me of the terms of borrowing,
highlighted this new wisdom: in life, and in libraries, you can’t always be
prepared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The librarian then asked,
sweetly without judgment or indignation, “Would you like to renew?”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Wow, </span>that’s even better than Amnesty! It has been offered as well by my neighbors, the best librarians in the world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Hiking
is like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Renewal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An offering of varied viewpoints throughout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No late fees or fines for staying an extra
day or two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And like that rare favorite
book, you can sometimes come across something
that you have seen before and suddenly see it new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will repurchase a copy of the hiking journal, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Exploring the 46
Adirondack High Peaks</i> by James R. Burnside and grant myself amnesty for
ripping out the pages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will
hike more
and read when I have the time. I will visit the library, and enjoy the
possibility of grace, redemption and renewal. So please, support your
local library and enjoy the adventures of a good book, and get outside
and create some adventures of your own in nature.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<i>- Ralph Waldo Emerson </i></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">(You don't suppose he would think I was a nut, do you?)</span> </i></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-47516888949955398722014-07-16T12:04:00.003-04:002014-07-16T12:04:56.263-04:00Songs of Dedication<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I’m
listening to De-Li’-ful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well let’s just
call her that for the sake of this story...<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And
De-Li’-ful reminds me, on the off chance that I went into a sappy love song
induced coma, by announcing to me and
all of her listeners right before a commercial break, “You’re listening to De-Li’-ful. And let me just tell you, if you have ever
heard De-Li’-ful, you already know you’re listening to De-Li’-ful. <i>C’mon does a heroin addict know they just
shot up heroin?</i><i> </i> De-Li’-ful gets into
your bloodstream that way. You listen,
for the numbing effect. But you have to
seek it out. You start listening to her
stories, her callers stories, and suddenly you aren’t sure if your eyes are
welling up because you can relate to the beautiful man that is so embarrassed
because he, wait… he….can’t say…he has a problem with in…. in….well, he wets his pants …but before De-Li’-ful and
the rest of us can allow him to finish his sentence, De-Li’-ful says in that
voice, with that delivery the way only De-Li’-ful, (or your mother-in-law if
she had a nice voice) can<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">…”So are you saying
you have to wear Depends?”</i> Yes, De-Li’-ful
can say that in a nice voice, that seems to be covered up in Crisco-frosting
care and kindness… He gets choked up and says, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes</i>” fighting back tears and adds he wants to dedicate a song to
the hostess,..ummm, he means, waitress, in the hotel, ummm….. diner he
frequents because she makes him feel like the sexiest man alive in his Depends. De-Li’-ful plays <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let the River Run</i>, reminds us we”re listening to her and puts on a
commercial.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Listening
to De-Li’-ful is a big part of vacation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>An indulgence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cocktail hour
every afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Double scooped ice
cream cones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s also like playing
Yahtzee, or miniature golf, or going to the same ice cream shop and the same
place for burgers, barbecue, or crab legs every time you go on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> vacation…depending on where you go
and if you’ve been to the same place at least a few times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
on vacation, most of us tend to seek out familiarity and comfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A little bit of home but with extra calories
and more value added fun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">When
my kids were young we would have the funniest conversations about De-Li’-ful
and her lovesick, love-jilted, or loveless callers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was at the time, long ago and faraway, before
multiple CD playing stereos, iPods, and satellite radio were available in cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only Faces you saw were each other’s not
on a tiny little screen in the palm of your hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>De-Li’-ful was on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one</i> station we could receive through the dark and desolate mountains
of the North Country, throughout our 5 or 6 hour drive from the suburbs of
Rochester to the Adirondacks and then later from the Hudson Valley to the
Adirondacks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">De-Li’-ful
plays about 6-10 songs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She recycles
them for her callers based on their stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A husband calling about his saintly wife that raised 10 of his 15
children while he was in jail? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wind
Beneath My Wings</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wife calling about
mystical husband that replaces the toilet paper roll? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You Are My Special Angel</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Boyfriend that dumped his girlfriend but wants her back? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Heart Will Go On</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The southern man calling about the one that
got away but he hopes that she might be listening? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reunited. </i>(There are a lot of southern callers, and they all like
Georgia peaches so Peaches and Herb makes some sense…..) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>The jilted girlfriend who
knows her boyfriend cheated throughout their romance? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wind Beneath My Wings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>She also
favors, Journey and Air Supply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>French
Canadians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carly Simon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her choices of music, might otherwise
promote suicide for the lovelorn, but somehow she has made this into a one
world love fest of genuine, unapologetic life-giving schmaltz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is more than a DJ, she is a spinner of
hope, the B-side of her 45’s might be full of despair, but you paid your 99c
for the 45 and you don’t have to care much for what’s on the B-side, at least
not with De-Li’-ful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last night that DJ
saved some serious lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A
few times between rounds of 20 questions, license plate bingo and my oldest
son’s favorite game of Guess What Shape I’m Thinking Of?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(The winning answer?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever Mommy guesses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone else? Sorry you lose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are perks that go with motherhood, and
they are best not questioned or made to mean anyone else is unworthy or
undervalued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they could mean that,
why question it, leave it to the B-side and drive on) Anyway, between those
games we would listen super attentively to the caller’s tales of love and
perfection or love gone wrong and we would try to guess which song was played
to commemorate the callers love interests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
imagine this must be as close to replicating a happy family all gathered around
the radio as we ever came close to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thinking of having <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one </i>source of
entertainment before TV, internet, heroin, iPads, and vans with surround sound
and popcorn makers and toaster ovens in the glove box makes me sort of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>happy to be alive, now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I say heroin? But those <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were</i> fond memories.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Tonight,
I am, as De-Li’-ful just reminded me, listening to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time the caller does not call, instead
he wrote a letter that she reads aloud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dear De-Li’-ful,
I have a beautiful daughter, but her mother and I never married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want so badly to provide a normal family
for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem is, I am ugly and
poor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And no one will even look at
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no friends and I don’t have a
job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She goes on to share,…He hasn’t had a date in
eight years and he often thinks of Janet Jackson’s song, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What Have You Done For Me Lately?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And because of that song he believes he will never get a date because he
can’t do much for anyone else lately, seeing as he’s so darn ugly and doesn’t
have a job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there! I’m hooked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But before I can guess the song, she throws a
curve ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">She
starts telling all her listeners, even me, that she could not even read what he
wrote and instead changed it because he said how ugly he was too often.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She tells him, no one is too ugly when they
have a good heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But maybe, she goes
on to say, he might need a haircut, or he might need to lose weight, or clean
his face…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Damn, you still can’t rewind the radio!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does he tell her he has long hair in his
letter, maybe a mullet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK she might
have a point… Did he say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I have a dirty
face</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wouldn’t he already know that a
dirty face is not the best way to attract someone? It could get in the way…but
I don’t think it would have to be a deal breaker, some sweet loving lonely
woman could gently wipe the eight years of decay off his cute chubby cheeks….and
then she played…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Escapade</i>, but I
couldn’t get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nasty</i> out of my head for
a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Best Things in Life are Free</i> would have really nailed that one!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All great Janet Jackson tunes, and a better
way to mix things up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a little
thrown by this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But
wait the story of the tired single Mom is coming on…Shhhhh listen:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s got four kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she’s been dating a man with three
kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wants to dedicate this song to
him because he’s her whole world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
wants De-Li’-ful to thank him for celebrating Mother’s Day with her and making
it the most beautiful Mother’s Day she has ever had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>De-Li’-ful gets all gushy and asks a few
questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a very long <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">drawn out “Awwwwwwww.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s so sweet he must really love being a
Dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you thinking of bringing this
family together into a big blended family?</i>” The caller responds, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Oh we would love to but my boyfriend hasn’t
seen his children in 4 years.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>De-Li’-ful
is a little perplexed, but promises to pray for their union.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she does that thing again, totally out
of character, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I hope he can find a way
to fit his own children into his life.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>she
oozes.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I wonder how happy their mother is?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>She snarks out. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh but, she might actually be thrilled to have him out of her life, he
sounds like a deadbeat….”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What? Is De-Li’-ful
having a breakdown on nationally syndicated radio? Then she catches herself, I
think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“How long have you known this magic man?”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The caller replies, in a voice growing more
tired, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Oh about six months, as soon as his
restraining order was lifted….” </i>It<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>turns
out the caller was his parole officer but now that his ex-wife agreed to drop
the charges in order to get him to finally agree to a divorce settlement he is
no longer on parole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The magic of love
and romance as portrayed on the De-Li’-ful show is so real you almost feel you
lived through these stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or your
just plain pickled to be happily at home faraway from the madness that exists
right there beyond your doorway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Anyway
I just love all this love and hope and romance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m thinking about seeing if I can find that man with the bad hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could request a song by Haircut 100.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Personally I think De-Li’-ful was a little
hard on him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all he wanted to
provide a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">normal</i> life for his
daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he probably can’t work
because he’s so darn worried about his little daughter, who probably suffers
from chronic conjunctivitis and acne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
think <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wind Beneath My Wings</i> would
have gone nicely for his story… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">That’s
all for now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to go jump in the
lake and get ready for a big hike in the morning and remember that De-Li’-ful
is like heroin and I’m not sure that I want to get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Addicted to Love</i>…anytime soon…but wait she’s playing the Titantic
Song by that French Canadian schmaltz developer again and I missed that story…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">OOOhhhhh
weeee!!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cutest man stopped me on
the way to the lake and just wiped off that third scoop of mint chocolate chip
off my cheeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was wondering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">where</i> that dropped, and I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">knew</i> I sat on something!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sweet
De-Li’-ful, this might turn out to be the best summer yet! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-24281141032945200352014-07-10T07:09:00.000-04:002014-07-10T07:09:02.762-04:00Go Big, or Go Tell it on a Mountain<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">I really like to hike. Well sometimes I <i>love</i> to hike. And there are times when hiking and I wrestle our way toward some possible understanding of a beautiful symbiotic bond, which is really just a choke-hold, in an effort to avoid figuring out if I really have more of a love-hate relationship with hiking. And I realized <i>just</i> after writing that statement there are a great many connections that we form with one another that might be choke-holds or loose, limp handshakes. And at any given moment any one of us is puffing up and decorating and proclaiming symbiosis as we toast triumphantly at the suggestion, until we believe it to be true. Ah yes, symbiotic relationships, something to strive for! We ignore the fact that symbiotic relationships can be colored with the vibrant shades of mutualism, the paler shades of commensalism, and the muddy, dark shades of parasitism. Hiking. And me.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLh4WfEkQwiQ138Yws9d30y823lyxTLiSTexkDOmjwtoucGB8xYCwf2NodpwMRb24f11j_mpRLPifKKru5VBOgXmcu0cu17eoPQ0ccUmT5rk3xuOu7vPcsjtn8XFr1C_IrvfWMK7qQYzM/s1600/IMG_0468+-+Version+2.jpg"><span style="color: blue; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px; text-decoration: none;"></span></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZ2bD51ic20CdjYsWkqjSz78tY6FkSvjkxR76TeN4PQfIQFJLru1MJW6h829QRlvFx1eBtxk5lacSxk6_a53fRL3SKTUL0p7WWPpCPRygDc8CYvZbFgGmhkZVyuUj85MF7qcaRrf9s9E/s1600/IMG_0468+-+Version+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZ2bD51ic20CdjYsWkqjSz78tY6FkSvjkxR76TeN4PQfIQFJLru1MJW6h829QRlvFx1eBtxk5lacSxk6_a53fRL3SKTUL0p7WWPpCPRygDc8CYvZbFgGmhkZVyuUj85MF7qcaRrf9s9E/s1600/IMG_0468+-+Version+2.jpg" height="161" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">I decided to go for a hike on the 4<sup>th</sup> of July. This was at one time a family tradition, when I was part of a family intact. Continuing traditions is tricky business when you de-tact a family. Several years out, it surprises me that I am still faced with trying to figure out which traditions to observe and honor. Some get released with ease and nary an after thought. Others get held tightly to, the ones you carried in large brightly colored packages to share, the ones the children brought with wanderlust or humor, or the ones you offered from the fragile feathered wings of your own childhood memories; the making of silly turkey apples for Thanksgiving, opening the stockings first on Christmas morning, getting a new Easter outfit, no matter what, celebrating happiness, passing a hug through hands held at the dinner table…and honoring nature through hiking.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><br />The 4<sup>th</sup> of July family hike tradition began after relocating to the Hudson Valley. Not yet establishing barbecue buddies or having built that ever longed for tribe, the second family, the help-yourself-to anything best friends and neighbors, we needed to do something to celebrate July 4th. It was evident there was a great deal to discover in the beautiful region known as “upstate” New York, where state and county parks are in abundance. There was a great variety of hiking adventures easily available for a young family to explore, and so we did. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">Over the years more time was spent in the Adirondacks, and hiking took on a different role in my life. It became a personal quest for me, and a saving grace. I started hiking the High Peaks after finding myself fearful and anxious about a great many things. I knew I needed to come to terms with my growing fears or boldly conquer them and quick. I was surrounded by beautiful trails in the largest National Park system in the United States, but did not have the confidence or the stamina needed to hike worth a hill of beans, let alone attempt a hike that scaled 4000 plus feet. In spite of my fears, or because of them, when I put my mind to something, I tend to live by the mantra “Go Big, or Go Home”. I decided to take on the High Peaks and work towards becoming a 46er. And so it is that I now have 23 High Peaks under my belt, and across my back, and on my shoulders…</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqtOoqavp3KQWXQvKLE7RZKLhCcmVAde4nTBQZOo1X6mc-wVV20RLpKLh0e4pHQsgM37eYKLBUjB_06w9KUXSQwV0-K_3zf40br9k6i04WoqCg7HadYOLziNhyCx1digC2YAic7iaz5lE/s1600/DSCF8838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqtOoqavp3KQWXQvKLE7RZKLhCcmVAde4nTBQZOo1X6mc-wVV20RLpKLh0e4pHQsgM37eYKLBUjB_06w9KUXSQwV0-K_3zf40br9k6i04WoqCg7HadYOLziNhyCx1digC2YAic7iaz5lE/s1600/DSCF8838.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">Hiking these mountains has brought great pain and insurmountable amounts of giddy pride and pleasure. I have gone to the mountains to enjoy the quiet solitude of nature. I have gone other times with a heaviness of spirit and I have often come off the mountains with a lightened load. There have been times the mountains have reminded me that sometimes we choose what breaks us, and sometimes we are powerless to what gets in our way, but we need to continue on, one step at a time. I have gone to the mountains to learn we can be made whole again. I have talked to these mountains and begged for answers that would not come. And I have been surprised to find out I had the answers all along, I simply needed to listen to the sound of quiet and hear the sound of my own strength. At times I have retreated from the mountains after a successful climb, feeling beat and broken and lucky to be alive. Success is not always easily recognized, or measured, or celebrated. But slowly after those hikes, as the mountain retreated from my sore muscles, my sweat soaked skin, my fatigued and hungry center, it left behind the reward of knowing I achieved something once thought too large for me to face. My fears. My worries. Gone. Or carefully contained to guide, not stifle.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRuicNF9ds70-VRgalWRGk048Z0snhj6JHfdr1azOpwGjStOFf0D0YeI8CMBKoyHe0g5eYnKlM3dYXOpIO4JcxIpmfdMhsg3V9CteNw_dG4OyaJPP3-d3q4SKwgIx1RHM2Lfc5crsinI/s1600/DSCF8847.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRuicNF9ds70-VRgalWRGk048Z0snhj6JHfdr1azOpwGjStOFf0D0YeI8CMBKoyHe0g5eYnKlM3dYXOpIO4JcxIpmfdMhsg3V9CteNw_dG4OyaJPP3-d3q4SKwgIx1RHM2Lfc5crsinI/s1600/DSCF8847.JPG" height="101" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">This July 4</span><sup style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 15.333333015441895px;">th</sup><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"> hike almost did not occur for the very reason I started hiking. I was feeling afraid, again, for reasons real and reasons recently built up in the at-times too fertile grounds of anxiety or uncertainty. I broke my ankle and fibula at the end of December. A do it yourself mix of physical therapy, grit and determination and the most beautiful chuckle of my orthopedic surgeon got me up and walking and mobile much faster than the prescribed 6 months that I was initially given to begin a modified exercise routine. Considering a High Peak at that 6 month mark was, shall we say </span><i style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">Going BIG</i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">. Going Home, or, </span><i style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">staying</i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"> home was the fear that I was facing more each day. I was not only going home a lot these days, I was staying home and ill at ease there. I have been spending too much time building up a sadness and loss that had suddenly revealed itself to be inevitable, that could not be altered easily, and that had no hope of landing me anywhere else but in a state of ill at ease. It was time for acceptance and healing and moving on. (And for you dedicated readers, it was, in great bounds of reality, time for sharpening back up my spurs and kicking up my heels and rounding up the next part of my journey with my lasso and a light hearted twirl, but you know, sometimes us cowgirls get a liking to someone and bunker down a little too easily on the ranch.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">I have decided to stay in the Adirondacks this summer. The beauty of this land and the business of renovating my sweet little vacation home does not mask the reality of the often burgeoning isolation that comes with being here. Though I have been coming to this area for a week or two here and there, and a great many more weekends over the past 20 years, I have always brought my own small community of family and friends with me and not established a local tribe. I am starting to make efforts towards being a part of “place” wherever that place may be. Slowly. Which made going on a hike alone seem counterproductive. And so I started adding a few more reasons why I shouldn’t go. And then suddenly I could smell the familiar fragrance of that great big fear stew that I was slow cooking over the course of five or so pre-divorce years. And that’s when I knew I absolutely needed to hit the trail, BIG. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzh9jDxJgt38N2vEdGNX_mzmOHwlomEZ7-Q7tTUPwByjRbRcKLqnonmgpiFuM2jWZVgZnI4uZcu5VN7q2sfT5vsLskjAMsokE08G9t2c8M7TY0Y2oEND1pzvs1X6XAXxBlVtyRxyn5gpc/s1600/DSCF8861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzh9jDxJgt38N2vEdGNX_mzmOHwlomEZ7-Q7tTUPwByjRbRcKLqnonmgpiFuM2jWZVgZnI4uZcu5VN7q2sfT5vsLskjAMsokE08G9t2c8M7TY0Y2oEND1pzvs1X6XAXxBlVtyRxyn5gpc/s1600/DSCF8861.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">I packed lightly, which is not at all my style. A few bottles of water. Adirondack Extra Sharp cheese, <i>naturally</i>, salted pita chips, granola, dried fruit, a small journal, and my camera. I typically carry a pack filled with enough water to survive an apocalypse, at least until the zombies find me. I tend to carry at least one strangely ethnic and exotic dehydrated pouch of food, Katmandu Curry, Caribbean Rice and beans, my mini-stove, flashlights, back-up flashlights, altimeter, mylar poncho, an extra shirt, assorted first aid items, a lightweight tent, sleeping bag and always regrettably, some 500 page book about hiking adventures and trails, or another that I have not once read on the trail, on the peak, or in a tent. Yet somehow I never come down from the mountain lighter and fitter with my over-weighted bag. Instead I come out with a shoulder strap burn lanced onto my neck, and muscle aches for a day or two following on muscle groups that I did not know existed prior to the hike. I’m not even sure if those body parts with those new muscle pains do exist, or if the mountains aren’t choke holding parts of themselves onto me. On this particular July 4<sup>th</sup> hike, as I set out, I flippantly decide to pack for a day trip, not as a survival hoarder prepping for Armageddon. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcfrG3EqdozyYSVvyZqKof6uwPi2UBh05B1xj-JbCAzwygNcys66EvOqN9ixIOqLsN5h3Ko3ZaqjKoJg8N0KSLJdbqb-UDAjYSUY94ftfogoU6cbwx3PNh8BqjxHJU1nlHa1uMRGraIk/s1600/DSCF8861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcfrG3EqdozyYSVvyZqKof6uwPi2UBh05B1xj-JbCAzwygNcys66EvOqN9ixIOqLsN5h3Ko3ZaqjKoJg8N0KSLJdbqb-UDAjYSUY94ftfogoU6cbwx3PNh8BqjxHJU1nlHa1uMRGraIk/s1600/DSCF8861.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="color: blue; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">According to one or two of the 500 page hiking books, Rocky Peak Ridge is the 20<sup>th</sup> highest mountain in New York State. The route I took from US 9 is 13.4 miles round trip. I added another mile just for kicks, or maybe, just maybe it was because I started back and got a little mixed up and found myself heading halfway up another peak before turning back. I started with such joy as soon as I signed in at the trailhead. Immediately, I remembered that other feeling related to being alone. Solitude. I breathed it in deeply. And I started exhaling, loss and doubt, fear and why me all over that mountain. And the two other peaks and paths along the way. When I made it to the top of Blueberry Cobbles…(<i>I know doesn’t that sound ducky? Charming and bucolic? Don't let it fool you, it's a tough climb, that’s how the mountains draw you in and smack you down.</i>) I stopped and smiled widely. The views were incredible. I was excited and motivated to get to the top of Rocky Peak Ridge. I wrote a message on a small flat rock and added it to a cairn. I was marking off a year and releasing the pain and sadness associated with it, while also honoring the joy and truth of it. I walked on. If not lighter, more at ease.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTC0GA8WlxvpA-h0SwAshrNjZ6OHYjHWlpDhyLL_0c4wHrIiv23nQNKeslDS_zvChoqcDRGojOH2mh9F_8Sngj9h1nmjny2FtEDd20qqM0eygPUHWk7BTttnlBegX4kGYf4ah-PQimNg/s1600/DSCF8836.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTC0GA8WlxvpA-h0SwAshrNjZ6OHYjHWlpDhyLL_0c4wHrIiv23nQNKeslDS_zvChoqcDRGojOH2mh9F_8Sngj9h1nmjny2FtEDd20qqM0eygPUHWk7BTttnlBegX4kGYf4ah-PQimNg/s1600/DSCF8836.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">I got to the summit of Bald Peak amazed that the views continued to astonish. Lake Champlain, The Green Mountains of Vermont, Whiteface, The Dix Range…Onward. Determined. I was going to get this mountain before going home. My pace up to this point was steady and on par with what I had read. I stopped, more frequently than I typically do because the views were spectacular and I wanted to take them in with purpose, as opposed to checking them off as mere guideposts along the way. The climb following Bald Peak was steep and offered continuous stretches of <span style="background: white;">vertical open rock. A rock scramble can often be a very liberal way of saying you will need to stick your hand in a small gash or jutted rock and pull your entire weight and that of your pack upwards, while praying hard, or believing wholeheartedly that your foot will fit into the other precariously positioned jutted rock or gashes on the side of the mountain that you are suddenly faced vertically with. And you will need to do that a few more times, to ensure you don't fall off the side of that rambling old mountain. Scoot, scramble, plop.</span></span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9FDNv4kdhTpyFCKIvlaQ5dO2XXIPUdU6Cuyb6p9_eHc_GO9YckyE2sTtA5PencForXIvlls2H3DNFFp7Q1B_lws8qORK7K1_otUGaNCF2-Xb01wDeiW7afl8jQYUJHefzM1AQCdLTdrs/s1600/DSCF8817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9FDNv4kdhTpyFCKIvlaQ5dO2XXIPUdU6Cuyb6p9_eHc_GO9YckyE2sTtA5PencForXIvlls2H3DNFFp7Q1B_lws8qORK7K1_otUGaNCF2-Xb01wDeiW7afl8jQYUJHefzM1AQCdLTdrs/s1600/DSCF8817.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">I went forward believing I must be getting close. <span style="background: white;"> I was glad to finally see a couple ahead. The first people I have seen in 5 hours. They are panting down the trail slowly. I say hello and ask, “<i>How close?” </i>Before they could answer, I had a smug knowing smile that it must be minutes away. They ask where I am headed, which is not the reply I expect. </span>Only to find I was now on the peak of Mason Mountain and I had at least another hour or two ahead of me. I was sure they were delirious. Daytrippers. My topo map didn’t list Mason Mountain. Probably suffering from altitude sickness, I thought as I went on. I have wanted this peak for close to five years now. I was not going home without it. I continued and came to the realization that those tired, seasoned experts I had passed earlier, were giving me the facts straight up. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDdHIpYTLVr0WtpKaIGnHyMWQAkbLoYiOxy-4JH7NI09-fkVT7rImYUdDDEzWRCy2uWKnmkWJ3LJ9s1yVo4f7mdDXI2lWStOFSH3CD3M0KvlFfxLdzMsk9McQfoqxg66tSiKkTu2JF-4/s1600/DSCF8829.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDdHIpYTLVr0WtpKaIGnHyMWQAkbLoYiOxy-4JH7NI09-fkVT7rImYUdDDEzWRCy2uWKnmkWJ3LJ9s1yVo4f7mdDXI2lWStOFSH3CD3M0KvlFfxLdzMsk9McQfoqxg66tSiKkTu2JF-4/s1600/DSCF8829.JPG" height="121" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">When I finally reached the peak I had realized my solitude enlightened self-talk had changed from sheer joy and determination to gritty expletives and a full-on telling it to the mountain. I realized I had also been using a little bitty supply of anger to deal with the long drawn out inevitable ending of the brief and poorly devised relationship. Sometimes anger can be a working methodology toward moving forward, but it can also slow us down and make us stuck. On this peak, I could <i>not</i> get <i>stuck</i>. I did not pack for <i>stuck</i>, I packed for big and home. And as well, in my quest for joy and occasional stints of solitude with the right amount of abundant loving kisses and twirls in the moonlight, <i>stuck</i> is not going to get me very far on the trail of life that lies before me.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">When I hike my goal is to Go Big, get the peaks, and go home accomplished and proud, if not stiff and immobile. In spite of the grumbles I make coming down the path, the vows to be satisfied with the peaks I have already seen, and a certain amount of resolve to accept that I might in fact be finished. I always leave happy, if not beat to heck by those solid masses of sheer hell wrapped up in beautiful. I remind myself the cheering cries that the last runner in a marathon gets are often louder than the cheers the first runner receives. I don’t mind crawling out of those blazed trails, I am always filled with self-satisfaction that I made it. This time I am also filled with the right amount of self-recrimination for taking this trip a bit too lightly. Two young men helped me find my way after missing a path and later on their way down, passing me at my snails pace they stopped to find out if I had enough food and water and a flashlight. I had water and plenty of granola, but I did not have a light. They left me one of theirs and reassured me that I still had 2 more hours of daylight. I used up 1.59 hours of that daylight and crawled into my waiting car at 9:00pm. Two hours over the expected time, but still not bad based on my decision to stop and leisurely enjoy the views, my still healing ankle and the amount of life shifting letting go and moving forward that had transpired. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhomF-l0sIELfOpeyW0qp-qNhsVaCiIXfJn00x_0VP07xUU1JVTk79dhAhyphenhyphendYnnOZ7MA6Mca24W9X_qztYLgR1q5YhKWmnWWl00Z9LE7VvSbG1KMjEhGe2WSnpuMf_3xwufxoQGziG_aTI/s1600/DSCF8776.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhomF-l0sIELfOpeyW0qp-qNhsVaCiIXfJn00x_0VP07xUU1JVTk79dhAhyphenhyphendYnnOZ7MA6Mca24W9X_qztYLgR1q5YhKWmnWWl00Z9LE7VvSbG1KMjEhGe2WSnpuMf_3xwufxoQGziG_aTI/s1600/DSCF8776.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><br />That night I wasn’t sure of my relationship with the mountain. It was not until the next morning, when I realized, I was in fact still alive, and my legs were stiff but still functioning that I decided I love those mountains. They don’t give a hoot about my carrying on. They continue to offer me the chance to struggle and push myself to achieve great heights. More than anything, they help me to remember my fears can be quieted. The safety of finding my way home is the best part of the climb.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;">I've always hated the danger part of climbing, and it's great to come down again because it's safe.</span></i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 20.69999885559082px;"> - Edmund Hillary</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I went to the river to catch
my breath and breathe in deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
inhale the briny scent, this cologne of life churning forth, in peace and
gratitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pulling tightly those currents against, as I anticipate currents
flowing with ease ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I exhale them
all fully accepting this day and all that it offered and all that it did
not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt lighter in my step
approaching the trestle, a feeling I have not had of late, or perhaps one that
has started to reemerge with the coming of spring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am flip-flopped and chapeau adorned…<i>or</i>
hipster sun-hatted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> My cancer repellant. </span>Weighted with a kit
bag of sorts, a glaring hunter orange and camouflaged backpack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some back country drug store purchase to
remedy the need for a daypack on one trip or another. It is at least functional if not a
fashion statement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside is a small assortment
of pencils, a journal, an iPad, earbuds, and a book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Safety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Something to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something to
rest my restless mind on, or weigh me to the earth, so that I might not be
caught in the swell of the river currents. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The early evening is
beautiful. Sunny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Warm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I approach the river lightly, with a quick
step and a growing calm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am happily
surprised to see on the edge of the narrow strip of green parkland near the
boat landing, a slight and familiar figure. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Emma, who is 9. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Small. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Thoughtful and occasionally,
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">or more often when comforted, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">of great spirit </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">and always </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">delight-filled wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Beautiful, she is, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">and unaware<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">of that not yet known </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">power
in her allure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">She is that perfect age when
a girl, <i>some</i>, can still be </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">simply</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">a </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">child, bold in all her potential.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Innocent.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Open to moments unfolding.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">All
things possible.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Not yet fully formed, and
finding her way.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">That age of softness
and feather lightness, of scrappy and stalwart both, of bursts into giggling
and still, as easily, tears. At times perhaps, terrified of the largeness of the
world.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Emma who is 9 and small.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">She is tying delicate pieces
of driftwood together with a grass reed lace preparing to set sail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her older sister is supervising from a safe
distance away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wave and Emma's smile widens gently, safely, in seeing me in this unexpected place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She continues working her small fingers around
her makeshift boat as she says hello.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have the pleasure of learning from her, and also being one of her teachers. We
are both surprised to see each other here, close to my home, far from our
school. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Her sister is perhaps 14,
beautiful, refined, delicate.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">I imagine she was always sure of her feminine self, even as a very young child and yet, as I approach, she
sits upright and ready, protective.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Strength
emanating from this small framed child woman, evidence of a fierce,</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> great love between these girls.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I leave them to their time,
by this river that I love and find my place on the nearby floating dock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inhaling deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am comforted by witnessing this continuity
of life, of sisters, of family and daylight stretching into night, of the freedom
of summer approaching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of childhood and
innocence and brief moments, memories of setting sail my own driftwood boats
and pre-girlhood angst that has accompanied finding my own way in a world at
times too large, or worse even, too small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
world that demands from girls and women, expectations that don’t meet or
provide the fairy tale endings sold on the premise of feminine conjecture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sold still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Held out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Voiced, loudly and veiled,
masked or transparently presented with little choice for rightful command of
all things possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">This week’s events in the
news provided dinner conversation from my son, 18, beautiful of spirit, handsome, fierceness deep within and mostly quieted. Strong and growing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Open to moments unfolding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finding his way in a world at times too large,
and worse, at times too small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> As we eat, h</span>e asks
if I have watched the news and heard about the most recent shooting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been away in the mountains free from
news. I have heard only small parts of this latest story of senseless killing. The
media frenzied launching of disturbed and diabolically despairing teen men
toward god-like status that follows is much more senseless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Distressing and harmful. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I have chosen to not look closer for as long
as I can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is some information I
can’t allow in. It comes in always, anyway, in spite of my desire to shield and
protect or simply avoid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He asks, next in
this same conversation if I have heard the lyrics to a song by Beyonce, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flawless</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is offering a kindness in bringing this
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is attempting to reassure, his
feminist mother, small and at times terrified in this world when squarely
confronted by the reality of what it still means to be a girl and a woman.
Knowing that it means unequal, less than and even unworthy is not easily
ignored or avoided.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell him I think
I have heard the song, but not closely. I am moved to listen carefully at his
kind offering. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I am pleased to hear the
words of </span><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; padding: 0in;">Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie inside the song, woven
through the lyrics of <i>Flawless</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>
We teach girls to shrink themselves<br />
To make themselves smaller<br />
We say to girls,<br />
"You can have ambition<br />
But not too much<br />
You should aim to be successful<br />
But not too successful<br />
Otherwise you will threaten the man."<br />
Because I am female<br />
I am expected to aspire to marriage<br />
I am expected to make my life choices<br />
Always keeping in mind that<br />
Marriage is the most important<br />
Now marriage can be a source of<br />
Joy and love and mutual support<br />
But why do we teach girls to aspire to marriage<br />
And we don't teach boys the same?<br />
We raise girls to see each other as competitors<br />
Not for jobs or for accomplishments<br />
Which I think can be a good thing<br />
But for the attention of men<br />
We teach girls that they cannot be sexual beings<br />
In the way that boys are<br />
Feminist: the person who believes in the social<br />
Political, and economic equality of the sexes</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Over the past few years I have been becoming more
aware of my place among women. Maybe this is the place I have been most
afraid of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This, a place I have always
felt less safe in than among men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
those reasons perfectly captured in </span><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; padding: 0in;">Chimamanda
Ngozi Adichie speech, and so many more, my place among women has been too large
and undefined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has felt
threatening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have held myself up
against a standard of what it means to be a woman and feminine that was
impossible for <i>me</i> to ever attain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A standard that I can no longer afford to ignore or pretend is possible,
or even desirable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stayed too long in
that place of childhood, of all things possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or at least I had tried against the harsh
realities to protect, or deny a childhood lost. I breathe in gratitude for where I am now.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAx0JcbqLCcsUuImqVkWf4RsqhO-4Y8uJJixv1QUgi_mfuS6xJvDCFqnCINybRYWLRQkyZKpWVpwfiLYHrWuTYh-FWfUtHqi17ZID447a0qHdKz9Qh5gfJmhiQvlqDCkwL5b9YoR0SAXPN/s1600/redsail1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAx0JcbqLCcsUuImqVkWf4RsqhO-4Y8uJJixv1QUgi_mfuS6xJvDCFqnCINybRYWLRQkyZKpWVpwfiLYHrWuTYh-FWfUtHqi17ZID447a0qHdKz9Qh5gfJmhiQvlqDCkwL5b9YoR0SAXPN/s1600/redsail1.jpeg" height="320" title="Ginger Long" width="225" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">The river provides a light
show of glimmering waves and reflections, of movement. My kit bag acts as
comfort, a prop to set purpose, it allows for flexibility and the option to leave it
untouched. I need these security items less and less.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am able to sit for longer moments,
still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Less terrified. </span>I meditate on the dock and
breathe in the briny scent of life churning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I turn, hearing the gleeful yells of Emma alerting her sister of the red
sailed boat approaching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her mother, now
beside her, catches my eye and waves in this place among women, churning with
life and many things possible. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">They walk off and I stay a while longer. I take out my journal, and begin again to write, inspired. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">As I am walking home I wave to Emma's parents, enjoying dinner on the patio of a local restaurant. My smile widens at the close of a day filled with softness and feather lightness. Hope, for all things possible.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-43196290493458518882014-04-13T13:57:00.001-04:002014-04-13T14:10:15.139-04:00The Sound of Somewhere Else<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I am lying in my bed at dawn listening to the
sound of the train. Thinking of travel. That sound of
somewhere else. And returning. The Rhinecliff station, only steps
away from my porch, is the center of the quirky 17th century hamlet, I happily
call home. Summer is lurking, in spite of the snow-filled winter that
finally ended. The gray, and dirt mottled mounds, that seemed would
never go away in parking lots and suddenly narrow streets in our towns, and
villages and hamlets throughout the Hudson Valley and most of the surrounding
Northeast, stretching through the Midwest, and the Northwest, and most
destinations south, made it difficult to imagine summer could ever
return. The polar vortex that kept us all somewhat frozen in a
winter that overlapped into our spring, has finally ceased. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The predawn train whistle beckons me to my
upcoming summer. I have travelled vastly the past two summers. In
almost constant motion miles away from a life, a marriage, and a growing
anxiety, I have travelled instead toward freedom, peace and a growing
calm. As summer hesitantly approaches with great reluctance, I am
beginning to feel some level of unease. And I am uncertain if it
feels related to staying, as opposed to going, or if I am in need to go out,
far away, and back onto the road to places not yet seen. And even
places I wish to see again, deeper, with closer attention to detail. Cities
and states, friends and relatives, diverse landscape. New
Orleans. Denver. Charleston. Kentucky, Kansas,
Nebraska. Maybe Montana, North Dakota, Washington, and Oregon? The
past two years I had eeked out the funding and stretched a dollar far beyond
the elasticity of the linen fibers that keep the floating Eye of Providence
afloat by packing a tent, staying with friends and family, and
hotel.com-ing or hotwire-ing it across this vast and beautiful continent.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have been blessed and restored. I
have new stories and adventures that warm me and make me smile. Dancers
in Zuni Pueblo, bikers in Sturgis, campers in Grand Teton, a warm and generous
mother in Idaho, a new friend in New Orleans, they have all shared parts of their
stories with me and by doing so, have become part of mine. The call to go
back out on the road is strong. "<span style="background: white;">Annuis
Coeptis", the</span> latin message on my out stretched dollars<span style="background: white;"> might help me decide, whether to stay or travel.
The translation: <i>Favors the things having been begun</i>. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There is also the clearer, and at times, welcome
reality that it is time to stay. That I am safe, that I no
longer need to run or be in constant motion to avoid or deny. That
if I stop I will not fall to my knees, broken, but will stand, poised and ready
for what’s to come. Knowing, finally, I am ready to transport my
strength and courage, my love and forgiveness forward. I can begin
in earnestness unpacking and releasing baggage and trappings that have weighed
me down. Or remind me of a time and life in need of mercy and grace
and a one way ticket to never again and no more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The hissing screech of forged steel wheels on a
steel trajectory follows the low mournful whistle, calling sleepy commuters to
the station. A few tourists, travelers, vagabonds mixed
in, I am certain. They are called by the sound of somewhere else, of
adventure and something not yet known. Of more and of less than they
have seen and felt before. Godspeed my friends. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I rise to get ready for work, I notice my
topography map is in need of unfolding. I think of my hiking
gear, in the trunk of my car, almost ready. It will need to be
inventoried, carefully repacked and a few items replaced or repaired. This
summer I will stay closer. Trekking through those faraway peaks that line the
Adirondacks. I will stand poised and ready. Forever wild, at tree
line, awaiting my next adventure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And there’s always the Amtrak station in
Westport, the Adirondack line carrying passengers to Canada, all stations
north, and then Northwest if one cares to go. All aboard for beginning what
has begun once more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-62808214043485792332014-03-27T21:02:00.000-04:002014-03-29T07:18:51.858-04:00 A Couple of Consciously Crafted Alternative Endings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’ve recently been struggling
through another bout of post-divorce shock, or maybe aftershock would be a more
accurate descriptor. The prolonged impact
of this (un)natural disaster has continued long past necessary. In much the same way, nine years post Hurricane
Katrina, sections of New Orleans remain in disrepair. I can’t quite imagine when the fury of the storm
that has continued to circle my path will meet it’s maximum destructive
potential, diminish and decease. I wonder what might appease the storm maker. I wonder how divorce could be less destructive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And then without warning, a
torrential storm of media input comes by way of Gwyneth Paltrow and her husband
Chris Martin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They recently announced
their separation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wrote about
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She coined a beautiful term, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Conscious Uncoupling</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read and reread the phrase, turning it over
in my mouth like it is manna from the heavens. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to feel each syllable with my tongue,
carefully and joyously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like saying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">juxtaposition</i> for the first time, or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">snicker-doodle</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">piccalilli</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Conscious Uncoupling,</i> it sounds so much
sweeter than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Divorce</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are criticisms and commentary about the
Gwynethness of it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As though she
twirled and whistled atop the corpse at a funeral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, she is deciding to twirl and whistle
her way toward something personal and private and possible and perhaps loving
and respectful of her children and her partner, husband, friend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Do the critics and most
others prefer <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unconscionable Uncoupling</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The accepted form of devastation and
destruction that comes far too frequently from divorce leads me to believe so.
From my own experience and those close to me, from the scores of memoirs, articles,
self-help books, manuals, DVDs and post divorce reconstructivist retreats, I
can safely venture to say….<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yep it seems
some of us take great pleasure in inflicting pain and prolonging the nightmare
of divorce</i>. It would seem in our culture, we do have a need to make divorce
some form of hellish punishment because the marriages that we are in need of
ending weren’t quite sad, or dangerous, or unhealthy, or simply just,
incompatible enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why would anyone
want to be able to leave a marriage peacefully when instead you could destroy
the lives of your former spouse, your children, and anyone else closely related,
or unfortunately in your path? <i>While</i> paying great heaps of cash for the
pleasure?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> With my h</span>ead tilted sideways and
through a perplexed expression, I just don’t get it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I don’t know why Ms. Paltrow
and Mr. Martin are separating or divorcing or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Consciously Uncoupling</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
only know why I needed to. I once wished to shake hands and say good luck, good
day, be well, go in peace, may the force be with you, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> t</span>hank you very much, gracias de nada,
kisses, hugs and good onya.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took a
great long time to get to that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
years preceding most divorces are long and difficult, inconsistent, intermittently hopeful, sad and
lonely, despairing and tense.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Divorce is not viewed as a positive life choice. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The barbaric battles to create terms of divorce are easily supported, if not orchestrated by lawyers that profit on prolonged contention.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Results are far removed from divorce law and often compromise legal rights in the name of a "fair settlement" that can be anything but. Too many divorce battles would make watching the gladiator fights seem like watching grass grow.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The unchecked tactics that many attorneys allow, promote and engage in with ease, furthers the damage of divorce. Threats, unfounded allegations, fabricated tales of abuses abound without ever seeing the light of your big day in court. These tactics help set the course for one party to submit and retreat. </span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Someone once close to me
suffered greatly in his marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
like watching a train wreck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He drank to
get through personal problems and issues related to his hidden sexuality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He drank more to mask a growing depression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went missing, finding escape in gambling
and feeding his poorly hidden drinking habit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It became harder and harder to face his
demons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He couldn’t face his wife, and he
was more and more vacant from his children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Finally after he was arrested for a DWI following a gambling binge his
wife moved out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had been discussing
a separation for some time prior but weren’t sure how to proceed. Instead of
feeling relieved, he became enraged and retaliated for being left. He neglected
to see how he had left them all long ago. He neglected to see they all would have supported any attempts for him to get healthy and heal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Watching as he abandoned his
children, I could only guess he was afraid of being exposed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I don't think he</span> could face being the man he imagined
they saw him as.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead he accused his
wife of being emotionally unstable and abusive, he tried to deflect and dodge
any perceived harm he imagined might come his way. He believed his very public
job as a school administrator might be threatened. While he wasn’t able to convince the courts of
abuse, he was able to lead his wife into a settlement far from equitable to end a painful and devastating relationship and an unfathomable divorce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> If he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Consciously Uncoupled</i>
rather than attempting to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unconscionably
Unhinge </i>he could have learned how much and how long he was missed and still cared for, and how ending his marriage could have been carried out with compassion, how a
peaceful divorce or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Conscious Uncoupling</i>
would have been possible for him and helped him to heal, as well as, and more importantly his children. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">To what end do divorces need
to be so damaging?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For what purpose? Must we embark on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Competitive Uncoupling</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone loses in divorce this way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes even the champions that get to give up
less and gain more on paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the
champions of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Competitive Uncoupling’s</i>
lose most of all. They seem to remain dedicated to staying involved in a
marriage long ago ended. With the mantra, why be difficult when you can be impossible (and also destructively create suffering while also remaining stuck).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I know of a lawyer that represented someone under the false premise of being an abuse victim. The lawyer fought hard against the spouse, as a self-proclaimed advocate for domestic abuse victims. Did this lawyer fail to see the spouse she attacked had left the home without financial resources, without a car and without most of her clothing and other worldly possessions? How could a domestic violence expert fail to spot the obvious? In this case, her client, the purported victim, was a male, 8 inches taller and over 80 pounds heavier, with a Domestic Incident Report and additional police reports written against him. And still the lawyer fought ruthlessly on his behalf. Why? What needed to be fought or won? Split the assets, set up an account for the children, shake hands, see ya bye-bye. Why churn up the underbelly of a couples darkest moments? In the end, they still get divorced. Why can't marriage end without added scars and missing limbs?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And still I have this way of being hopeful and wanting things to work
efficiently, kindly, without pain or malice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So here goes my big idea: What if lawyers got involved with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Conscious Uncoupling</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Say maybe, helped plan the after party,
reviewed the real-estate deeds and assets, equitably distributed resources
toward on-going costs of childrearing including college contributions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Better yet, what if a divorce had to be
determined and presented to the courts by one single lawyer?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the same way only one Justice of the Peace
or clergyperson marries a couple?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Wow!
Just think of how that alone would change the outcomes of so many divorces.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There are in fact, divorce laws that could be
adhered to without need or desire for combat and destruction yielded in every
direction.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Nah</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">….that’s
just silly.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">If divorce were kind and
consciously determined that would alter the negative impact and support
positive family life in America…but we still haven’t embraced healthcare….maybe one crazy idea at a time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I didn’t have the
opportunity to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Consciously Uncouple</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did suggest the hand-shake, it went over as
well as Gwyneth’s post. But Gwyneth still makes me all twirly with positive joy
and possibility. I have endured all types of weather, what’s one more
storm?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Country Strong</i> and I have an <i>Apple</i> in my eye…. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">OK I’ll stop… </span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-27579345195260336482014-02-20T14:10:00.000-05:002014-02-21T06:37:43.281-05:00A Winter's Journey Far and Away from the Frozen Uncertainty<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="s3">This morning </span><span class="s3">I awoke</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> early, 6:05 am. </span><span class="s3">Not early, as much as m</span><span class="s3">y routine time to awake. I love the morning. The quiet. The potential, all </span><span class="s3">sinuous</span><span class="s3"> and pulsing with possibility. What will be discovered? What will be ex</span><span class="s3">posed in the light of </span><span class="s3">daybreak, </span><span class="s3">that</span><span class="s3"> will be hidden in shadow later in the day? I arise, shed the warmth and comfort of bla</span><span class="s3">nkets and afghans piled high, </span><span class="s3">and head to the bathroom releasing the evening’s dreams and nightmares, </span><span class="s3">releasing the toxins </span><span class="s3">of my angst and that </span><span class="s3">of my bladder. I w</span><span class="s3">ash-up, brush my teeth and head downstairs to boil water for my coffee, French-pressed. </span><span class="s3">A </span><span class="s3">small </span><span class="s3">luxury in my quiet cottage</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> footsteps from Lake Champlain, now frozen.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="s3">I dress, </span><span class="s3">then</span><span class="s3"> pour my coffee, tidying the papers, and books, and left-over artifacts from a night spent in analysis of case-work</span><span class="s3">, law briefs, policy… </span><span class="s3">and personal tumult of one kind or another, journals, articles, pens, papers, a wine glass, not emptied. Drinking my coffee as I set my life and my cottage back in order. </span><span class="s3">One a much easier task than the other.</span><span class="s3"> I drape on my coat, add a scarf, look absent-mindedly for a hat to face the cold.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="s3">The sky changing colors, reflections dancing on the frozen lake, where to go, what to find? My cameras, several, almost buzzing with</span><span class="s3"> anticipation await my commands and a destination.</span><span class="s3"> I drive, north, and then south again, westward</span><span class="s3"> into the High P</span><span class="s3">eaks region. Elizabethtown</span><span class="s3">, Keene, Jay, back roads, lazy highways not well traveled, not well plowed. <i>Lake Placid</i>? Not today. It is solitude I love in my mornings, quiet, </span><span class="s3">and </span><span class="s3">peace.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksLMGhjpnkpP64Dd9A5AYZBryMQw5kITLRVKaWgDaS63G8v3gzYKrYd8UUqdsWMqqd_tba-hcgcSaLiS92I7f9F6TvgDE0ecXIOB_i1p6r5LSTcKaD2vJs9E9qTMZblJy0MSyUE0Pek5s/s1600/snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksLMGhjpnkpP64Dd9A5AYZBryMQw5kITLRVKaWgDaS63G8v3gzYKrYd8UUqdsWMqqd_tba-hcgcSaLiS92I7f9F6TvgDE0ecXIOB_i1p6r5LSTcKaD2vJs9E9qTMZblJy0MSyUE0Pek5s/s1600/snow.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">I drive and soon am joined by my son, my father, a friend. G</span><span class="s3">hosts and g</span><span class="s3">uides</span><span class="s3">, </span><span class="s3">uncharacteristically garrulous companions </span><span class="s3">fill my thoughts and </span></span><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">share my journey</span><span class="s3">. </span><span class="s3">I drive. </span><span class="s3">Through snow, and slush and morning light.</span><span class="s3"> Outside of my comfort zone, alone in a car on roads not plowed clean. <i>Why?</i> I hear my son first. He has recently coined a term, </span><span class="s3">“</span><span class="s3">Black Ice Generation.</span><span class="s3">”</span><span class="s3"> It makes me smile. He thinks my generation is afraid of foolish trifles. There is truth to it. I fear the roads in winter, the black ice, lurking, undetected and deadly. Like using your car phone near a gas pump. Deadly. I lived for some time in and around Rochester, NY. Snow, and squalls, white-outs, black ice, nothing stops or slows down in these conditions. And cars line the expressways, turned the wrong way, over-turned in embankm</span><span class="s3">ents, stuck in snow banks, loud and mostly</span><span class="s3"> ignored reminders of the treacherou</span><span class="s3">s conditions. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="s3">Yes, it is </span><span class="s3">true,</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">I am from the black ice generation. I think of my own mother, from the </span><span class="s3">ptomaine</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">poisoning</span><span class="s3"> generation. Everything boiled flavorless to ensure we didn’t get </span><span class="s3">ptomaine</span><span class="s3">, or polio, or </span><span class="s3">maybe </span><span class="s3">she was fighting </span><span class="s3">the fear that we might </span><span class="s3">develop sophisticated taste buds and venture on, away…we did anyway. With conservative epicurean interest and suspect distrust for meat with redness or any slight pinkness revealed. Maybe I followed her lead, if my children feared the dangers of black ice, perhaps they would stay close by</span><span class="s3"> where I could warn and protect them</span><span class="s3">? Instead of going to Maine and facing the fear</span><span class="s3">s</span><span class="s3"> of his mother straight on, like a winter warrior? And my older two, going south, as far as the R or 7 or </span><span class="s3">Q will take them? No worry of black ice on the subway.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="s3">I drive on, and th</span><span class="s3">rough</span><span class="s3"> the snow, </span><span class="s3">is that black ice up ahead? Do</span><span class="s3"> I stop or slow, or pump the breaks calmly? Do I </span><span class="s3">squelch</span><span class="s3"> the fear and smile? I do. Next my father joins me. He was </span><span class="s3">born in Queens, as was his wife, my mother,</span><span class="s3"> his </span><span class="s3">children, </span><span class="s3">all</span><span class="s3"> four. He worked his way up the </span><span class="s3">ranks as an </span><span class="s3">immigrant</span><span class="s3">’s son must</span><span class="s3">. </span><span class="s3">D</span><span class="s3">idn’t finish high school, helping instead</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> his single mother pay bills.</span><span class="s3"> He </span><span class="s3">joined </span><span class="s3">the </span><span class="s3">Marine’s</span><span class="s3">, fought the good fight, returned broken,</span><span class="s3"> but determined to carry on. </span><span class="s3">That’s what they did</span><span class="s3"> then</span><span class="s3">, following the steps of that</span><span class="s3"> Greatest </span><span class="s3">Generation</span><span class="s3">, that</span><span class="s3"> came before them</span><span class="s3">. </span><span class="s3">He m</span><span class="s3">arried</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> raised children, worked, </span><span class="s3">paid bills, </span><span class="s3">made</span><span class="s3"> it </span><span class="s3">in</span><span class="s3">to middle management, a career. He </span><span class="s3">relocated us to the far reaching rural landscape of Southern Jersey. “God’s Country” he would boast, half-joking, but only half. He was proud and glad to have achieved more than was expected. </span><span class="s4" style="font-style: italic;">God’s Country</span><span class="s3"> I think</span><span class="s3"> with warmth</span><span class="s3">. He must not have seen these Adirondack Mountains. I wish I could show him, drive him through, in my early morning journey. I am glad he is with me now. He loved the mornings,</span><span class="s3"> to drive to discover new places, or visit old haunts.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">I recall m</span><span class="s3">ore than several early mornings, shared in appreciation for God, who is good, </span><span class="s3">and a new day ahead.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I stop, between Keene and Lake Placid. A trail head that I especially love. </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Ice climbers making their way </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">passing by</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> along the road, in clusters</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">.</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The wind is blowing, my car is jostled slightly. </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Vibrating, or shivering from the cold, the wind. I conjure a friend who joins me now. Bringing him </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">in </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">towards the quiet and the safety amidst tumu</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">lt and ice. </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Climbers now embarking</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> the icy slides of mountains </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">that are frozen and immovable.</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> T</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">hat is how they present themselves today. My friend is working his way through </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">mid</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">dle </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">age malaise. Through <i>whats next</i>, <i>is there more</i>, <i>can there be</i>, and <i>how</i>? Collective q</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">uestions of a marriage</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> grown</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> more </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">stagnant than prescribed</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">, </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">of love and desire</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> and what lies ahead play over in his mind.</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">M</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">aybe </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">he is </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">staring </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">straight ahead </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">at what appears to be a stop point. That place in a marriage that presents the paradox of hope</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> and desperation</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">. </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A way in or a way out?</span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span class="s3" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">How can you know whether to leave or get it back? How do you breathe life back in? How did you let so much go?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="s3">I think of the climbers, the ice and the mountain. Today they are able to scale the side of this mountain straight up to the top, not so much with grace and speed, but determination and exacting sight on the crux of the climb, </span><span class="s3">like </span><span class="s3">the frozen grip of that place in our lives when we know we can’t go backwards but we aren’t sure which direction going forward will take us. We only know we must continue. Sometimes something gives just slightly and it is destructive. Sometimes something gives slightly and it is life-saving and transformative. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="s3">I think of my own marriage, the <i>crux</i></span><span class="s3">, the </span><span class="s3"><i>zipper fall</i>, the crash</span><span class="s3">. I have questioned whether I might have stopped too long in one place or another</span><span class="s3">, lost my footing</span><span class="s3">. </span><span class="s3">I </span><span class="s3"><i>gronked</i></span><span class="s3"> for certain.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">B</span><span class="s3">ecame lost</span><span class="s3"> in it</span><span class="s3">, making it more difficult than the climb I had desired, or ever imagined. </span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">I am starting to see it as </span><span class="s3">a <i>first free ascent</i> of sorts, </span><span class="s3">preparing me to </span><span class="s3">successfully begin my <i>free solo</i>, going it alone and </span><span class="s3">enjoying </span><span class="s3">each</span><span class="s3"> part of the climb</span><span class="s3">. My friend has attempted a <i>dynamic belay</i>, in an effort to avoid </span><span class="s3">the </span><span class="s3"><i>gronk</i></span><span class="s3">. He is making his way toward the </span><span class="s3">burgeoning </span><span class="s3"><i>berg</i></span><span class="s3"><i>schrund</i>, that crevasse deepening, as it melts or breaks </span><span class="s3">free from </span><span class="s3">the frozen glacial plateau </span><span class="s3">of the dully contented or mundane</span><span class="s3">. He will reach the summit gaining perspective from the view. He will survive and be joyous. </span><span class="s3">He will know which direction to take a</span><span class="s3">t that point, but not until the '</span><span class="s3">shrund</span><span class="s3"> splits</span><span class="s3">, wit</span><span class="s3">hout aid, his brief <i>free solo</i>, will determine his path.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="s3">I look up at these mountains, before leaving this friend. I will climb again in the late </span><span class="s3">spring,</span><span class="s3"> a longer traverse is my speed. The mountain will be green and bursting with hope. It will be dappled in sunlight and hidden in shadow, awaiti</span><span class="s3">ng discovery. I think of the generations </span><span class="s3">of </span><span class="s3">my </span><span class="s3">visitors on my cold winter morning. I think of marriage and love and family. So much protected in fear</span><span class="s3">, stifled, stagnated, </span><span class="s3">sadly </span><span class="s3">resented</span><span class="s3">. I want for my own children not to attempt to avoid my pitfalls and stumbles, because they might </span><span class="s3">close the</span><span class="s3">mselves off from unknown joys, but to find their own way knowing they have different choices to make. </span><span class="s3">They do not have to boil away the flavors and sacrifice pleasure for mere sustenance. They do not have to choose between the fear of black ice and spinning out of control. </span><span class="s3">There are places in between, and outside of, beyond my purview</span><span class="s3">.</span><span class="s3"> They can be cautiously prepared for the greatest of adventures. </span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">And know </span><span class="s3">a good spin and twirl never hurt anyone. They can reach a summit and be glad in it, knowing there are more ahead or they can stop and relish in the perfection and comfort found in the one. They can find great satisfaction when they reach the frozen unknown, that spring comes every year</span><span class="s3">. </span><span class="s3">R</span><span class="s3">ebirth and renewal.</span><span class="s3"> Life. Bursting. </span><span class="s3">More.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Next.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="s3">I start up my car</span><span class="s3">, stuck, briefly, two climbers approach and push me out on my way. I smile </span><span class="s3">in </span><span class="s3">gratitude and wave to their thumbs up farewell. A generation of millennial proportions. Filled with optimism and adventure. Free, unencumbered, hopeful even in the grip of this frozen winter. I go home, alone, glad for my morning, my visitors, ghosts and guardians. How beautiful not to have to be stuck in the winter of frozen uncertainty. I smile, filled up with gratitude and the kn</span><span class="s3">owledge that spring is coming. Spirits </span><span class="s3">risen</span><span class="s3">.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">From Wikipedia </span></span><span style="line-height: 1.2em;">Glossary of climbing terms: </span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span id="bergschrund" style="font-weight: bold; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">Bergschrund</span><span style="font-weight: bold; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">(or</span><span style="font-weight: bold; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> </span><b style="line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">schrund</b><span style="font-weight: bold; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">)- </span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">A </span>crevasse<span style="line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">that forms on the upper portion of a</span><span style="line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> </span>glacier<span style="line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">where the moving section pulls away from the</span><span style="line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> </span>headwall<span style="line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">. Also called a 'shrund.</span></span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span id="crux" style="font-weight: bold;">Crux</span><b> -</b> <span style="font-weight: normal;">The most difficult portion of a climb.</span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span id="zipper_fall">Zipper fall</span> - </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">A <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_climbing_terms#fall" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none;">fall</a> in which each piece of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_climbing_terms#protection" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none;">protection</a> fails in turn. In some cases when the rope comes taut during a fall, the protection can fail from the bottom up, especially if the first piece was not placed to account for outward and/or upward force.</span></span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span id="dynamic_belay" style="font-weight: bold; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">Dynamic belay</span><span style="font-weight: bold; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> - </span><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">Technique of stopping a long fall using smooth braking to reduce stress on the protection points and avoid unnecessary trauma from an abrupt stop</span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span id="first_free_ascent" style="font-weight: bold; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">First free ascent (FFA)</span><span style="font-weight: bold; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> - </span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">First ascent without</span><span style="line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> </span>aid</span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span id="free_solo">Free solo</span> - </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Climbing without aid or protection. This typically means climbing without a rope.</span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span id="gronked" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gronked</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> - </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">Accidentally going off-route while leading and becoming lost on a rock face in an area much more difficult than the climb being attempted. The word arises from the climb "Gronk" in</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"> Avon Gorge which is notorious for this.</span></span></h3>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-19131213191073954272014-01-26T08:26:00.000-05:002014-01-26T08:30:21.196-05:00Miss Sugar Hips: A Victim of Her Gender<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dear Uncle Sugar Daddy Huckabee, </span></i></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was reading this quote from you, and I hope you won't mind if I share it with my friends. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From the
big, warm heart of Mike Huckabee (R)- “I think it’s time for Republicans to no
longer accept listening to Democrats talk about a war on women. Because the
fact is, the Republicans don’t have a war on women. They have a war FOR women.
For them to be empowered; to be something other than victims of their gender.
Women I know are outraged that Democrats think that women are nothing more than
helpless and hopeless creatures whose only goal in life is to have a government
provide for them birth control medication. Women I know are smart, educated,
intelligent, capable of doing anything anyone else can do. Our party stands for
the recognition of the equality of women and the capacity of women. That’s not
a war ON them, it’s a war FOR them. And if the Democrats want to insult the
women of America by making them believe that they are helpless without Uncle
Sugar coming in and providing for them a prescription each month for birth
control because they cannot control their libido or their reproductive system without
the help of the government, then so be it, let’s take that discussion all
across America because women are far more than Democrats have made them to be.
And women across America have to stand up and say, Enough of that nonsense.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Am
I a victim of my gender?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or is my
collective gender victim of a government governed predominantly by men in a
nation that refuses to give women equal rights? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t really want to bother ourselves with
all <i>that</i> negative energy do we?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
winter, in the year of the polar vortex, isn’t life hard enough? Why focus on
real issues when we can talk about sugary sweet delights.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Maybe
a better question for me is, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How</i>
attractive is this Uncle Sugar?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because
if he is appealing I might need to get myself dolled up and set my goals a
little higher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I probably won’t be able
to control my wild libido, and lordy lordy Uncle Sugar won’t be able to stop me
once that out of control libido gets going, because we all know how us mighty
empowered women can be. Must be all those women that are victims of domestic
violence, rape, and abuse, were tricking those men into thinking they are physically
bigger, and stronger and threatening. We women folk just do that to make
them feel good, so as not to emasculate them. Because well, men don’t have a chance against
us sugar hipped women, we have to make them feel a little significant don’t we? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Everyone
knows birth control medication is only wanted by women. <i>Right?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><i> </i> </span>We all know those members of that other
gender are sitting around, passively wishing every time their libido was
actively functioning they could produce some babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Loads and loads of babies.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
only wish, like Mike, let’s just call him; Sugar Daddy Huckabee, I could say the
men I know are outraged that Republicans and Democrats alike think <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they</i> are so hopeless and helpless that they need to keep blaming women for the ills of the nation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
think if some of those men, the imaginary ones that I have not ever known or
heard about, if they could have babies they would just keep having them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would work hard and take care of all
those babies and love them to pieces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They would give those babies sugar and love them up, morning, noon and night. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because it just isn’t right that all those
victims of my gender should be able to have access to and use birth control to try
not having all those babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We
all know the current poverty level in America is made up predominantly of women
and children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We also know these very
children have some sugar-lovin’ Daddies somewhere, but most likely those
daddies don’t even know they have children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those unbeknownst Daddies were probably just minding their very own business
when some crazed woman, some outrageous victim of her gender, some sexed up
wild cat just snuck in and had her way with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if those daddies only knew they had
babies, well they would be knocking down doors to care for all those babies
already out there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But
wait, let me try to understand this; Uncle Sugar doesn’t mind providing
pharmaceuticals for erectile dysfunction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That is a little perplexing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wonder if it is some conspiracy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you
think maybe those wild out of control women are really running the
government?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why else would Viagra be
available but to feed the needs of those empowered, sex-hungry women?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the Republican party <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> trying to fight a war for the victims
of my gender, after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That must be
why they want my gender to wait 72 hours before we can decide whether or not we
want an abortion, surely it’s not related to controlling the reproductive
systems of women. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Last
year Sen. Rick Santorum (R-PA) discussed his concerns about providing birth control to women. He claimed it was “a
license to do things in the sexual realm that is counter to how things are
supposed to be.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm not sure what I was supposed to be doing during all those fertile years when I was popping birth control pills, expensive ones, that I paid for back in the day when Uncle Sugar Daddy wasn't paying. Earlier in Mr.
Santorum’s career, he also said, “What we have is moms raising children in
single-parent households simply breeding more criminals.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>An of course we also were informed, By Todd Akin (R) after we are
raped our bodies have some gizmo that self-aborts some other criminal’s baby,
no doubt those rapists were products of single mothers and what else should us women expect? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
all of this political rhetoric regarding demonic women yielding their powers to
destroy these great United States of America, seldom is there conversation
about the discrepancies in pay between men and women. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>We don't need to worry ourselves about domestic violence or rape. Surely we don't need to consider that marriage alone does not cure poverty, nor does divorce always lead to it. We don’t need to get ourselves bogged down
with those details now do we? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
must admit, I am a little confused about whether single mothers are ruining the
nation because they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> babies, or
if providing women with access to birth control so they don’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">keep having</i> babies is the problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just last week I noticed a whole gaggle of
women sitting around, eating all that milk and honey fed directly to them from
the loins of Uncle Sugar<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If only I could wrap my
pretty little head around the real issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All that sweet saccharin lovin’ has made it nearly impossible for me to
figure out a thing, especially after providing for my three children with
minimal support and not a lick of sugar offered up by any old uncle. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Signed, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Miss Sugar Hips </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-2365416014781268412014-01-07T12:33:00.000-05:002014-01-10T11:15:53.844-05:00Simply Being<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">On that perfect 60 degree December day,
the morning after Solstice, I decided to walk over to the river to see if I
could capture the beauty of the fog rising up from the steel gray water with my
camera. I climb the stairs to cross the railroad trestle to get to the waterfront
as I do several times each week. I happen to love the trestle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has that old world mystique, covered in
rust and the daily deliberations of the many commuters that utilize this line
to get to work, or back to daily lives that afford them the chance to visit
this beautiful Hudson Valley river town that I am fortunate enough to call
home. I usually run up and down those stairs as part of a work out, when the
spirit moves me, or shoves me into too tight jeans beckoning me to those stairs
more rigorously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On that particular
December morning it was 60 uncharacteristic degrees and I was just all twirly
in happiness, the beauty of the fog, the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>school break, my son being home safely in bed, the upcoming Christmas
spent with with my kids ... yes, twirly with happiness and me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> A joyous combination.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">In that twirly carefree happiness, I was smiling widely. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">A</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">nd believe me, when I say twirly, it was a state of mind, it was not physical action I was attempting to gracefully alight the world with.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> I was walking, slowly, and calmly. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">Just at that ½ way spot where a platform separates the two sets of
stairs, I reached down, my foot believing it would hit the plank tread, buckled. Instead
turning under it suddenly attempted to cushion me from the blow.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">I heard it.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">I felt it. I knew.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">As I sat
composed and pulled together, in spite of the ankle that I could not yet face,
I tried to determine what happens next.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">I could practically see my house up the hill. I watched that hill for
some time between several composed, pleading, and even frantic attempts to
awaken my newly returned son.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">I’m not
sure what I was expecting, but I was actually attempting to will myself
home.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">After a few more unsuccessful
attempts awakening said son, via house phone, texting, calling of the cell
phone, I started weighing options.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">I got
close to the thought of calling that dreaded 3 digit code that brings sirens,
and loads of unbecoming attention, and neighbors.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">I know, it is somewhat ludicrous to consider
the neighbors at this point, but really it wasn’t life or death, </span><i style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">yet</i><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">I’m not sure if you can die from a broken leg, I wasn’t bleeding out,
and I don’t believe I was bleeding in either.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">I would possibly die from starvation, or maybe water rat attacks, if
water rats indeed climb those stairs and I remained sitting there long
enough.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">Just as I was deciding to weigh
out the options of calling 911, my son called.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">He sounded pretty groggy.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">It was
his first morning back home from his first semester in college.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">And from what I can gather, sleeping is
something he has learned how to do very well.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">But on this first morning when he calls, to see why on Earth I am
bothering him, I feel badly that he wasn’t permitted the luxury to sleep
late, alone in his very own room, safe and loved.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">By now, it’s almost 11 am.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">Apparently since he has left, I have learned
how to sleep much later myself.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">It was
not long ago that I would have been on that walk at 7 am, rising and shining
and giving God my glory glory and the neighbors something to wonder about.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">When he calls, he’s still unclear why he needs to pick me up, but
he can gather from my shortened, clipped whimper, he should come quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he comes, he shares, he didn’t know what
was happening, he thought I wanted help to gather driftwood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to laugh at this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not so out of the question that once,
OK <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still</i>….I would have called with
the elation of a treasure hunter that just found gold bullions to have a child
of mine come quickly to help me get a piece of driftwood, or a rock, or maybe a
few dozen rocks home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can understand why he
didn’t answer the first 23 attempts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">After a speedy trip to the local ER, it’s determined I have broken
my ankle, and my fibula and just for good measure tore my ligament as
well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It turns out I will be out of
commission for a good 8 weeks and slowly back to walking with an added limp for
some time after that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unless of course
my leg heals as quickly as my cancer riddled nose did six short months ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">The Universe seems to be sending me a message and I am having a
hard time determining what it is I need to learn or accept or maybe even
avoid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It could be the outdoors, but I
have had a great many outdoor adventures that were much more strenuous and the
Universe smiled brightly upon these feats, completing the Warrior Dash, several
additional High Peak adventures were checked off the list, driving cross
country and back, camping in the Grand Tetons, and in a few other spots along
the way, well there was that Brown Recluse spider bite in Oklahoma, and the
swollen red layered bulls eye rash that formed across three or four states covering my thigh, waist and abdomen until I was in the company of friends and an emergency room with a strong dose
of antibiotics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was lucky, the sweet
little brown recluse was just firing a warning shot, and not it’s renowned flesh
eating venom that can remove appendages and organs over a few days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Maybe therein lies my message from the Universe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have had a bad patch, some might say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everyone</i>
would, and has said it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Out loud. Some
people can barely make eye-contact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There have been offers of blessings, prayer groups, novenas and candle
lighting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the reality is, things
happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Accidents, ailments, unexpected
aggravations small and large, happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And, sure, I have had a few more than most in a fairly concentrated
period of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I have gotten
through with humor and the company of very good friends, the support of family,
even if some are armed with quarters to light the candles and share a few Hail Mary’s
when I would much rather prefer chocolate and a new pair of cowboy boots, or
hiking boots or motorcycle boots for my next set of adventures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It appears to me the big tragedies have
been occurring when I am taking the smallest of risks, so I might as well just
continue feeding my lust for life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">I’ve been thinking of this in relation to New Year’s
resolutions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve got some time on my
hands, so thinking of resolutions as opposed to starting them outright seems to
be a good way to begin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been
thinking of becoming more resolved in general. Being more accepting of myself
is one area that I’m certain would benefit many aspects of my life and those
around me. Sitting on the steps with great composure as I weighed out my
options ended up working out for me. Like I said, it wasn’t a life or death
situation, and my powers to will myself up that hill are not yet advanced
enough to do a whole lot of anything. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">The reasoning behind sitting with composure as the turkey vultures started circling, however, is maybe the single most behavior that I am
ready to change or let go of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only
ready, but resolute in the need for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was concerned about making a scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>About gaining attention, about you know, letting the neighbors know I
needed help, that I don’t have it all going on and under control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other side of that is being overly
concerned with the perception of others, or more to the point the
misperceptions of those same few.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I work
too hard attempting to convince people what I am all about, or what I am not
all about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of simply being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">And maybe the resolution to simply be who I already am will help
direct me toward the next set of adventures.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">My son meanwhile snickers as I walk by with one bright red cowboy boot
on and a cast up to my knee, on my newly acquired crutchless crutches.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">What this means is my fractured leg is bent
and attached to a “peg-leg” type mechanism so that I might walk and function
somewhat freely without impeding healing.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">Simply being me might not appear that simple, but it works for me.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%;">And maybe later today on this coldest day of
January I can limp down to the river and collect some broken pottery, or rusted
railroad nails, or maybe I’ll collect moments of gratitude for all the
beautiful things I have experienced this year and leave my twirling to the
safety of my warm, cozy bed, the one I have been spending a great deal of time
recovering in and dreaming of the year ahead.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-59820101302049769212013-12-20T18:16:00.001-05:002013-12-20T23:21:07.113-05:00How 'Bout This Cowgirl!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I have developed this somewhat new fascination with
cowgirls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, maybe not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cowgirls</i> as much as what it means to be
one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This has been on my mind since the
summer when I packed up my saddlebag, tightened up my spurs and rode out of
town at daybreak, on a hot summer morning, that now seems long, long ago.
The shiny black stallion, my dependable steed, a 2010 Corolla, OK maybe not
exactly a cowgirl's preferred transportation, but let's not get tied down with
details and semantics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s fast, shiny, black,
and it never bucks or kicks, which is more than I can say for myself…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">It all started in Wall Drug, that notorious tourist
Mecca in Wall, South Dakota.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The street outside
of Wall Drug was lined with Harley's 4 deep and 100 or so long, as far as you
could see lining every paved surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
drove out west at exactly the same time that many motorcycle enthusiasts were heading
west as well. And while this may not exactly exude <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cowgirl</i>, it was definitely unconventional and screamed independent
spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Once inside Wall Drug, I came upon this small leather
wallet adorned with a cowgirl motif, almost hidden and crowded out by the abundance of Sturgis memorabilia. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
made me smile. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was adorned with a cowgirl pin up </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">illustrated </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">by </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Gil Elvgren. At the time I had no idea who Gil
Elvgren was, but I had definitely seen some of his classic pin-up illustrations.
It reminded me of a song that had been shared with me before my trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last spring for my birthday, the big old fiftieth, a
friend had put together an eclectically quirky, soundtrack of dance music and
tunes that somehow embodied feminism, me and my 50<sup>th</sup> birthday celebration.
This event just happened to coincide with an art opening dealing indirectly with divorce, domestic
violence and…..<i>well</i>, desire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What can I say? I
like to make statements, and I’m perhaps a bit unconventional.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And after a long hard journey I was looking
to regain some of my very own bad ass, my inner cowgirl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one I hadn’t realized was kicking and
bucking all along deep within, the one that I had stuffed down and made still.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7oq_8DXm63-acuSjIrA8m3b6ZP0tY7xZuFU4YN852OpOJRTPVHADZOiPW3Vwo4qGfSisTsnOPg3xYjudom4rWuLSRrdGzyV06L7nC7fTkBXJ7_tsx6gB_Q8LvEQO8WTpyUbWsGIDEwrHq/s1600/gil+elvgren+cowgirl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7oq_8DXm63-acuSjIrA8m3b6ZP0tY7xZuFU4YN852OpOJRTPVHADZOiPW3Vwo4qGfSisTsnOPg3xYjudom4rWuLSRrdGzyV06L7nC7fTkBXJ7_tsx6gB_Q8LvEQO8WTpyUbWsGIDEwrHq/s1600/gil+elvgren+cowgirl.jpg" height="320" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gil Elvgren</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span id="goog_934629126"></span>When I first
heard Imani Cuppola singing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Legend of a
Cowgirl</i>, I was quickly transformed to my preteen self, listening to a 45
over and over again until I knew every lyric.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And here, the cowgirl fascination came alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time, I hadn’t yet committed to my
cross country trek, I hadn’t imagined myself a cowgirl, but I recognized a part
of myself that had been too long quieted and suppressed. Imani Cuppola’s
cowgirl had a bold, sexy, in your face, no apologies attitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'm gonna
drink my whiskey, gonna have my man….</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I'm gonna steal their hearts<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And save them for another day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ain't gonna hang my hat, ain't gonna take off
my boots</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Ain't nothing gonna stop me in my
pursuit.</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Pack my bags and mount my horse<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm gonna ride on into the next town….</span></i></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Like the cowgirl legend, and the Gil Elvgren illustration, I was starting to experience pleasure and enjoying a transformation. I was finding the balance between strength and vulnerability, feminine and fighter, victim and survivor. I was embracing the concept of submitting to desire without being suppressed and silenced. I was learning how to trust and learning how to stand tall on my own. </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">And that’s how it began, the
theme song of me, and my summer, the cross-country drive....<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sudden and intense connection with all
things west elevated my spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boots,
spurs, silver and turquoise, copper ridged plateaus and low, muted, pink coral
sunsets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All this setting the course for
my arrival at the horizon between a dark and narrow life to leave behind me,
and all things as far as the eye can see. Riding my dependable steed into towns
far and near, I was finally showing up and taking a good look around with no
need to ask permission. Possibility, joy, seizing of moments and calm quiet lie
ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wide open spaces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I had stood by my man until
I found myself standing all alone in a glaring isolation, choking back someone
else’s despair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been participating
in a life controlled by the displeasure and despondency of someone else’s
dejection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worse, I had not realized just
how much it had taken a toll on me, and worse still, my children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
still imagined myself this fierce independent, strong, wily cowpoke of a
thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there was no amount of
ostrich skin, or snakeskin, or hand-stamped leather inserted boots that could
have prepared me for the stark reality of how much I had given up and given in.
Finding out there was barely a trace of that woman I once had been was
surprising, startling and certainly devastating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Learning that in her place
was an isolated, codependent, anxious mess was difficult to incorporate into my
sense of self.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shaking off some of the
fears and uncertainties long maintained at the great risk of tipping the
balance of a stilted, inflexible and rigid attachment has been a long
process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Domestic abuse is not always so easily identified when it is hidden in ailments, and addictive activities disguised as over-worked obsessive obeisance. And sometimes it's not easily identified when denial and deprivation have dressed your daily routine.</span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Post divorce, post complicit
silence to hide too many secrets that were not mine to hide, I am ready once more to
ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have started to size up and
mount a few buck-wild, good times of my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have been working on my aim, slow and steady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roping and twirling and throwing my lasso out
into the world to see what I can gather up, what I should not slow down for,
and what is best to try out, or release will come with time and practice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And now there are the
boots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few different pairs, new,
vintage, red, gray with contrast stitching, black, pointed toes, round toed, buckles,
solid wood heels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stand out and
statement making.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It might seem silly,
over the top, a bit too far, frivolous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
sometimes feels like a costume, because I dress for the boots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s a costume I don’t mind getting all
gussied up in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m connecting with the
freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The independence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The confidence that I’m now heading out in
pursuit of spirited joy without too many worries holding me back is surely jingle, jangle, cowgirl justice. </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">'Cause I got spurs that jingle, jangle, jingle<br />
(Jingle, jangle)<br />
As I go ridin' merrily along<br />
(Jingle, jangle)<br />
And they sing, "Oh, ain't you glad you're single"<br />
(Jingle, jangle)<br />
And that song ain't so very far from wrong<br />
(Jingle, jangle) </span></i></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>written by Joseph Lilley and
Frank Loesser</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-20969514219156673812013-12-06T20:49:00.000-05:002013-12-06T20:49:01.068-05:00Kick Ass and Classy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It’s 4:20, gray, rainy, dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stop at Davenport’s, on my way home. My all
time favorite local farm market in Stone Ridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am immediately comforted whenever I stop here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It could be the lingering smells of flowers,
now gone, on this December afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
might be the sugary, sweet cider donuts and coffee that await me on those
mornings that I make my way to work early, now rare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It might be the staff, friendly, but not overly
so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is probably, for me a very
telling joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They honor my quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not expected to perform, or smile, or
make meaningless small talk, but I am welcomed where I am, which this afternoon
happens to be relaxed and at ease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I am late heading home today, awaiting for me is a house
full of deadlines and evaluations, and program plans for a degree that I am
confident will lead me along the path that I am somehow meant to be on, even if
it’s not entirely clear and wouldn’t be easily explained or understood by
others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is, however, the path I travel
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Years of angst and questioning have
somehow transformed into the strong foundation of assurance and confidence in
the belief that somehow, it’s all falling into place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all works out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Regrets, I’ve had a few…OK, regrets, at one
point held me hostage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I second guessed
a great deal of my decisions and choices, rather than honoring that I made
decisions carefully and with whatever resources and knowledge I had attained or
was presented with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can look back now,
with kindness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This warmth has only just
recently cloaked me in a growing calm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And as the cold of a winter that is warned to be harsh approaches, the
warmth of my growing calm will be comforting.</div>
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I walk into the market, aimed first for the coffee. I am
clear out of convenient pods for my one cup on the go coffee maker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been taking in a load of coffee
lately, with all those deadlines for papers and plans always just due, one
moment away from past due.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stop in
front of the beans, roasted and glistening in an oily shine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Zanzibar</i>,
has alerted me softly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Espresso</i>, has
put hair on the chests of anyone within a city block, or maybe since this is
part of the Rondout Growers Association, the back 40.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Woodstock</i>,
well, I fear it’s too mellow, so I steer away from this, and then I see <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kick</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ass</i>,
hand written on a card scrap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not
typically one for small talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
don’t generally talk to my self, not out loud anyway, it would be nearly
impossible to get the constant din of gear shifts and analysis and evaluative
feedback and random meaningless thought, unless I apply X<sub>2 </sub><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>statistical feedback results from my head and
out of my mouth with much chaos…. But seeing that sign and being in my calmly
cloaked comfort and needing the coffee….</div>
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I stop and step back, admiring the sentiment, the in your face boldness. Just the way I like it, mostly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I say to the sales clerk, busily stocking
shelves, or I say out loud and she is within hearing distance after all, “Kick
Ass.....everything should be offered this way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It just exudes confidence and assuredness.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She smiles, at first weakly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is a student in the local school, where I
teach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our paths are not intended to
cross after hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then she tilts
her long, silky haired head askance and considers it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She adds “Maybe adding classy as a choice for
the older set.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Classy and Kick Ass would
meet the needs of everyone.” We both go about our business, I shopping, she
checking out another customer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I turn
down the narrow aisle to the checkout table, she is heading back towards the
shelves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did say earlier that I had recently acquired a growing
calm, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only my legs have not yet
been informed, my gait continues at its typical fast and furious speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a place the size of 4, maybe 5 office
cubicles, this speed can create tornado winds, and the heaviness of my heels
hitting the cement floors, deafening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Miss Honey Sweety-pants, with long shimmering hair, skin moist with the dewy
wetness of the promise of a life full of purpose and constant joy and wonder
responds to my determined march.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
feigns being blown back a foot, at 5 foot 8 inches and 82 pounds, she may not
have feigned a thing, really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She says
lightly, now that we are fast and furious friends I suppose, “You might want to
slow <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll take someone out with that walk.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And something happens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or more remarkably, nothing happens.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I remain calm and I can still feel a smile throughout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And who knows I might have stirred up her
willfulness with all that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kick</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ass</i> coffee grinding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I enjoyed her gentle moxy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I check out, and pause, but don’t have
anywhere to go with it except home to make coffee and continue on my path
toward purpose and constant joy, and oh, so much wonder….No harrumphs, no
snarky come backs, no offended feelings, simply truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there are some places that could use my
tornado like force, aren’t there? Sometimes? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Maybe, perhaps, if Kick Ass and Classy came together, there would be me? I can dream....</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-80238921812088224982013-09-24T19:02:00.000-04:002013-09-24T19:53:05.656-04:00Biker Boy and Hot Dog Girls: Sturgis Part 3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Returning from my cross country road trip has been a difficult transition. I can't help imagining myself back on the open roads. It helps to know my daughter is out there, living her life largely and brightly and having great fun. I can’t help but smile about
Sturgis. As though it is some sort of
trophy, a feather in my cap, a notch in my belt… And in so many ways it was. It
will be immortalized as this time and place that I felt such freedom and
lightness, following a long spell of heaviness and restrictiveness. Prior to my trip cross country I spent three
hellish years struggling through a divorce that was orchestrated in madness and
tied up in combative one-sided vengeance, as opposed to my fairy princess unicorn
sparkled vision of being able to part with mutual respect and some level of reciprocal appreciation that the end was
about five years beyond its lease terms. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I embarked on my road trip 3 months post facial reconstruction surgery
resulting from 2 forms of invasive skin cancer.
Conscientious of my face, my not quite familiar self, and the reality
of being scarred and feeling unattractive did not exactly lead me to believe anything special was going to occur. It was also two months passed my
50<sup>th</sup> birthday. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> And if that wasn't enough, </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">I was less than one month away from becoming the solo inhabitant of an empty
nest. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">It was to be a marking of time and a releasing of circumstances beyond my control. It was to be an opportunity to be alone and free. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I have no need to go into
all of the details of my night in Sturgis. The last words I heard were incredibly sweet and certainly helped my ego and made me smile. I regretted not staying longer, in and out of three days after. The first day
out of Sturgis I considered turning back…and even still it is sweet to wonder
about. We did not exchange numbers, or
even last names, but we laughed and talked and walked through Sturgis in
comfort and companionship, a spirited, playful, comradery, and well, after that, I’ll just say, what
happened in Sturgis…..<i>happened</i> and I am a better woman for it, happier, and a bit freer and suddenly open to risk taking and more trusting of myself, so that I might trust others. It seems being alone has
it’s perks from time to time and a few more times at that. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">As I pulled onto US 16
making my way towards Mount Rushmore I began reconsidering the tattoo idea, the
third marriage, the need for plans, and timelines and expectations. What if’s.
Why not’s? How? When? If onlys… I
decided I don’t need to wait until I’m married to get a tattoo. I don’t even need a third husband. I guess I hadn’t needed a tattoo married or
otherwise and I might at some point want a third husband, or meet someone that
I want to share <i>my</i> tent with, or home,
or maybe an afternoon here or there. </span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The poignancy about Sturgis was, it revealed to me that I had quite a few leashes
and chains and self-imposed protective coverings of my own, at least
figuratively speaking. Prior to Sturgis, I was in fact practically
expecting or hoping for, and waiting for some grim faced man to show up and lead
me around, or show me off, or let me know when I could go out and when I could
howl at the moon, even though I was quite capable of walking and howling and I'm pretty certain I would be adept at twirling a lasso if I put my mind to it. I am quite able to confidently lead
all by my big girl self, but I sometimes lose sight of this.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZfDTXDu8hjOaxj-3De2hCoGJB-01WkMTsdULdpXfeBPp-J23FBpbSqIcyntYOSu2tezTxqvZkdFHcfAnXE7xRjLVvv7zUCS8hIW4pJQMECw8IP-BXezbup5HgP9y8JtuCIm4gTBNhLLCx/s1600/IMG_6703.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZfDTXDu8hjOaxj-3De2hCoGJB-01WkMTsdULdpXfeBPp-J23FBpbSqIcyntYOSu2tezTxqvZkdFHcfAnXE7xRjLVvv7zUCS8hIW4pJQMECw8IP-BXezbup5HgP9y8JtuCIm4gTBNhLLCx/s320/IMG_6703.jpg" width="212" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">During that night I
met two young women. They were sweet and playful and enjoying the festivities.
As I was walking around town, with my newly acquired
tattooed biker boy, we stopped for hot dogs.
One of the young women was working on adorning her dog with such
remarkable attention to detail. Ketchup and mustard
emblazoned in carefully spaced ribbons of brightness. I had to laugh. I had to know. So, I asked, because suddenly I do, I can,
let it all flow with laughter and lightness. “That is one spectacular display of detail and
care …you must really enjoy hot dogs.”
Snicker snicker wink wink I push..."Wait,
No, don’t tell me…you have experience in the food industry….Ice cream? Am I right?”
She smiles widely, she </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">playfully </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">denotes great pride. Through laughter she states, “Well as a
matter of fact, Yes! and I am very proud of my work." We all laugh.
Biker boy and I move on through the night as a crowd has gathered to
watch the hot dog being well, I won’t go as far as devoured but it is certainly
enjoyed. There is this mood in
Sturgis. We are all there for fun and independent spiritedness and freedom. Sparkle and Roar. It is palpable. And it is freeing to be a part of, so my
demeanor is lighter, and the barbed wire encased personal bubble I have
fashioned over the past few years between and amidst some attempts
at making connections has all but dissolved.
And so people are able to get closer and they do. I welcome it in fact.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">There is innuendo and all
out in your face bold sexuality. Body
painted babes, tight jeaned muscle baring men, pasties, chaps, chains, spikes, hot
metallic shine. Vibrating torqued up
engines. And there are the questions that come later. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;">You? Sturgis?
How? Why? </span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;">I can’t believe you would go there. </span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;">I can’t believe you left so soon. </span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;">I never thought you had it in you. </span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;">I always saw you as a biker chick. </span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;">A feminist, weren’t you outraged? </span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I was not, <i>exactly</i>. I was initially stunned a bit. But it was hard to stay this way with that shit eating grin I had pasted on me. I did question why a couple of the women would want to
be treated in such a repressive way….I still don’t quite understand how I allowed myself to be
treated worse.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnzx__Vfe2g-IVnfRdzdrLV70Xo3m1FGQ3HelpLN4Bx_Y3hcHTRcwX8i7M7K6ChgJ5VplXl8h06ktYgqPpxe5WvN2jGklN5oxmtHEBZ0140W1mV_IcSZNnY79VM9SDeAONdhSwmXR1K0ZZ/s1600/sturgis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnzx__Vfe2g-IVnfRdzdrLV70Xo3m1FGQ3HelpLN4Bx_Y3hcHTRcwX8i7M7K6ChgJ5VplXl8h06ktYgqPpxe5WvN2jGklN5oxmtHEBZ0140W1mV_IcSZNnY79VM9SDeAONdhSwmXR1K0ZZ/s320/sturgis.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Who would have expected a
night in Sturgis at the 73<sup>rd </sup>Motorcycle Rally might force me to face
some of my own self imposed gender based beliefs and restrictions? Who knew I had a few that were keeping a
strong hold on me? Chains and leashes come
in many different forms, and I would have been better off to have seen mine in
plain sight so that I could come to terms with them a bit sooner, and decide
whether or not I wished to partake in the use of them. I would not have. I had to believe some of the
women that I saw at Sturgis were at least knowing participants and maybe had a
firm understanding and were getting something they enjoyed and agreed upon from the
otherwise oppressive seeming relationships.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Earlier in the summer as I was
hiking solo, closer to home, I overheard an interesting conversation about submission and domination, romance, and modern day ease with right out there sexuality. As I was
making my descent, I met up with two young couples deep in conversation about
that very same book, <i>50 Shades of Grey</i>. As I got closer they apologized for the
discussion and laughed. They did not realize I had been able to hear quite a bit of the conversation as I was
approaching. It did not phase me in the
least. I laughed, and shared, “Oh, no
apologies needed, I have actually made several friends as a result of
discussing that book,” I paused and smiled at this reality. “Several very good friends in fact, and I
didn’t even read the book.” Well not all
of it anyway. Their conversation was
rich and they had, between them a depth of knowledge about romantic literature. They were talking about books that were
written a century or two ago that offered more intriguing and believable romance and
titillation. I smiled, happy to hear
this discussion. I was mostly happy
because the conversation was thoughtful and probing.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Being in Sturgis from the outside might be like <i>50 Shades of Grey,</i> all in your face and
not open to much interpretation. But
being in Sturgis for me meant, I was free to explore within my own comfort
zone. It meant I could be light and
playful and determine </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">how much to partake, </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">how far to go, and when to
leave. It meant I was able to step back
and observe without judgment, or apply some over the top amount of righteous
indignation. It freed me up in a few
other ways as well. It certainly made me feel absolutely hot and sexy, and it certainly changed the course of my trip. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And so what if I am looking into getting my motorcycle permit, and think Jade at Evol Street Ink in Poughkeepsie is an amazing artist? I'm free to have those thoughts and a few more at least. </span></span>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-23882830670652884912013-09-16T17:08:00.003-04:002013-09-17T17:30:39.385-04:00This Girl's Guide to Sturgis Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I found myself driving
up Interstate 90 toward Sturgis. The drive was spectacular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rows
of cycles, calmly, courteously heading forward. No jockeying for position or
cutting each other off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No showboating
or grandstanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All shine and muscle and
revved up pride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There seemed to be this
communal respect that one doesn’t generally feel in ordinary traffic or the queuing
up of any sort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It made me feel more
certain that this was a good decision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Continuing into the center of Sturgis, I started worrying briefly about
how far out of town I may need to drive to find a place to stay should this
plan not work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I let it go, offering it
up to the gods or the saints, patronly and watching. I am certain. I provide
a great deal of entertainment for the otherworldly, which I have come to
believe is perhaps one of my more defined purposes in life. So offer it up, I do. Continuing on
slowly, I was able to gaze around and notice hand painted parking signs in miscellaneous
yards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I noticed tents propped on random
lawns. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t ready to commit, I
hadn’t seen the center of town yet, or had a clear sense of how far it might be.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I
continued past the heart of Sturgis and notice a sign for parking within
walking distance. $10 SEE THE PARKING ATTENDANT TO PAY<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Where</i>, I wondered, <i>and how formal, a parking
attendant?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><i> </i> </span>Across the field, I noticed a
modest home with a deck adorned with lanterns, and the sound of quiet music playing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I
approached, I saw a young girl heading into the yard and inquired about
parking, and what the hell? I asked if they had any room on their lawn for my
tent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is, I might say, a minor
production, a kite style one woman light-weight deal, utilized for my occasional
wilderness treks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would hardly know
I was there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young girl left to find out,
older woman appeared, sized me up, asked how many were in my party, was
surprised and pleased when I told her I was alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She smiled, briefly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She then sternly informed me there would be no
drugs or drinking, when I agreed to the terms she said, “OK $20, for parking
and camping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What are you driving?” When
I told her, she looked like she wanted to dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She showed me where to pull up right on her
lawn as opposed to the field, that may or may not have been hers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pulling
my car onto her lawn opened up another spot, I could almost see the dollar
signs forming in her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I parked, grabbed
some things from my duffel bag, and changed on her lawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that way you learn to change at a beach,
under a towel or sundress, pulling things off and under and on and over until
you have changed your clothes without exposing a thing. I am getting good at
this quick costume change technique.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
throw my small camera around my neck and grab my camera bag loaded with the
larger camera and assorted lenses and head into town like I own this night,
this rally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or at least with a wide smile and a skip in my
step.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I
follow the road back into town about a quarter of a mile into the center of
action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where to begin? What to focus
on?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are tents and vendors. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frog legs, chicken wings, onion rings… <i>Frog
legs?</i> Interesting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Music, pulsing from many directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And motorcycles all abuzz, streaming into
town in a never ending line of hot metal and chrome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Girls, glisten and shine, not so many, but
those you notice, are lets just say, quite noticeable. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shiny. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thonged, Chapped, Pastied, seemingly chained, or leashed,
a few at least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The seemingly chained
are ogled, observed, gawked upon and drooled over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where am I? How did I end up here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why am I not outraged and disgusted and
running the other way?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am instead somehow
amused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honestly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unbelievably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Open to the otherness of it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Amazed even.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bewildered for
sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s Sturgis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not the Mormon Tabernacle or the Church
of Divine Restriction and Uptightness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those that come, that plan their visits with purpose and direction are
here to bask in the freedom, albeit pastied, as opposed to total freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A law, new, and I’ve heard enforced, the
pastyless, must pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Otherwise this is
the place to hang loose, let it all hang out, sparkle and shine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And those like me, are their others here like
me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t tell, but I am trying to
blend and slip through almost unnoticed. I don’t have chaps. Or bedazzled,
grommeted, spiked, or fringed garments or accessories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t have a bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t have a biker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have my cameras.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have found, having cameras sets
purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Provides a disguise of
sorts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Allows me in and keeps me
separate, safely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also allows me to
observe and capture a view that is otherwise out of reach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My lens allows me to get up close and personal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It often provides an opportunity for
interaction, the start of dialogue, an invitation to worlds that are not my
own, or at the very least a quiet respect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I
enter the first venue I approach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Balconies surround the makeshift courtyard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Temporary bars are scattered around, manned?
Wo-manned, definitely womanned by barely clad women, girls, the young, fresh
eye candy types.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Displayed motorcycles
are cordoned off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bandstand with
musicians is front and center.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crowds
are gathered throughout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After attaining
a Corona at the bar, I climb the stairs to the balcony and find a stool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One side faces the street, the other side
faces the crowds and the music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
smiling widely, still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I prepare my
camera with the appropriate lens and before taking any pictures, I dial my
aunt’s number, you may recall, the biker babe from way back and even not so
long ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The music is blaring, the
bikes are roaring past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t have a
conversation, it is way too loud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
answers the phone, and my smile is now as large as is physically possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without attempting to speak, I hold the phone
out above the brazen bustle that is Sturgis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I hear her and laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So, I
guess you made it to Sturgis.” She laughs deeply and heartily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am laughing too and can barely speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I manage “Yup”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As though I am five again and she is 15 or
16.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goofy for certain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then hear her talking to her husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She’s in Sturgis, I hope she isn’t calling
in need of help, I’m not sure if that’s screaming or music”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laugh louder and hang up happy in the
absurdity of me in Sturgis, and the sharing of this news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I
send a quick message to my loving friend, to let him know I have made it to
Sturgis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have not yet found a
boyfriend but I am happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, well, the
night is young.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tells me to have fun, enjoy, et cetera</span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">,</span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> and so on,</span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> good bye</span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
is bittersweet and much more, but I find myself suddenly less weighted with
sadness than I had been earlier regarding our timing, mismatched and otherwise occupied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My smile, wide, is now
growing, assured of possibility and joy and the new freedom of no expectations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am suddenly experiencing a lightness and a
joy that I have not fully felt in a very long time. I owe no one an
explanation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no obligations, no
commitments, no responsibilities, at least for the time being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I am in Sturgis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This combination fuels my laughter and my
spirited sense of adventure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I
notice a text from the man that prods me to let my hair down, to relax, to
breathe deeply and stop worrying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
believes me to be a neurotic ball of angst and episodic, frenetic, fear
mongering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knows not that I have
driven far away from that intense, desperate, and fearful woman that had just
left the false safety of a nightmarish and barely lived life when first we
crossed paths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is perplexed and
intrigued to hear, or read, it is texting, that I am now standing on a bar stool
and photographing a small slice of Sturgis with a shit-eating grin and the
bravado of a cowgirl with her lasso loosely hanging at her side, and her spurs,
jingle jangling at the ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he
prompts me to have fun, he fails to pay attention and misses that I am by now
deep in fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t know what to
make of the already relaxed tone, of the laughter coupled with me in
Sturgis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He jokes and prompts and teases
and encourages me to go for a ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now
it is safe to say, this man has been the recipient of all sorts of angst and
post divorce projection, transference and all around screaming desperation,
that I truly believed, at the time, was hope and maybe even some girlish sense
of love and absolute attraction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may have believed him to be the antidote
for loneliness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I treated him like the second coming of you-know-who, Almighty, on occasion and at other times like my biggest nightmare.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I
just recently realized how fine the line between hope and desperation was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like very recently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As in this morning recently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But at the time I met this guy, it felt much
more like hope even if it smelled like, and sounded like, and even looked like that other side of the coin. Heads it's hope, tails it's desperation. There was a time when girls once had hope chests filled with quilts,
and maybe silver, or china, and an eyelet lace covered ball and chain. We were reared to hunt out men and use our hooks baited with purity and white-lace
promises of chastity and virginity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
wait, enough of that I am in Sturgis, and the man that I once convinced myself
was magic and joy has just told me in so many ways to go get…..well, let’s just
say lucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And because there is some
magic occurring for me in Sturgis, this does not break my spirit or feel
devastating, it actually frees me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
like this guy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> I have been crazy over the top
hopeful, ummm maybe nearly desperate for his attention. What can I say,
really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do “hope” like some women do
their nails, or their hair, or their wardrobes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Big. Sparkly. Rainbows and unicorns, twirls of hope, because up until Sturgis,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought that is what girls were supposed to
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he tells me to go have fun, I
hear, calmly, all that hope or desperation was not meant to amount to anything,
and I am finally available to hear it, and well I still have my lasso and spurs
and he is far afield and well, I’m in Sturgis and from where I was sitting, and
even standing on the stool, there are more than a few cowboys that seem rearing
to go and open to the slightest suggestion. Giddy up!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">So
let’s recap for a moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fashion Week
is supposed to enhance a woman’s life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Dancing at her son’s weddings, ok,
fine, maybe being introduced to their partners first, and then dancing. Being sought out by her
daughter for advice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lunch with
girlfriends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure there is a list
available of the top 10 most enhancing moments in a girl’s life, a woman’s
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am also certain Sturgis does not
make the cut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, somehow, Sturgis
becomes this turning point in mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> A definite enhancement.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I
order a whiskey, straight… neat even, what the hell, I’m not driving and I have
secured sleeping arrangements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The men
surrounding me on the balcony are visited by the barely clad bar maid, a few
times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I witness this, again, I wave
over this very same bar maid and order myself that whiskey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it’s a regional thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She doesn’t understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People don’t order whiskey, alone, as in
straight up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I repeat it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is thrown, but obliges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she returns, she laughs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She tells me the bartender wants to know if
she is off duty, why was she ordering whiskey straight up? The cups are
labeled, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Two Ginger’s Whiskey</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>C’mon?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How often are cups labeled with YOUR name?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to indulge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I
drink up, chat up my black leathered neighbor and jump down off the barstool to
find my way back into the crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find
a spot near the stage and take some photos of the band.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continue around the perimeter and take more
photos of the crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am watching as
another pastied smiling specimen walks by, leashed to the trailing grim faced owner?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s certainly what it appears from the
outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I notice the men watching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laugh lightly and snap photos, the
expressions priceless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are two men
sitting on a bench, their eyes are lit up and their gazes are, I guess I’ll say
<i>appreciative</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t help but take this
photo, the look, the moment, priceless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As my flash
goes off their eyes meet the lens, and my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They look, caught, hands in the cookie jar, but happier for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We connect and share the moment across the
courtyard, laughing and smiling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I
can’t help but feel amused by this odd connection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I readjust my camera, someone approaches
from the side and is laughing at what just transpired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I size him up, big and not quite burly but light and
smiling, I address him, knowing he will partake, “OK, what the hell is
that?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looks slightly puzzled as he
anticipates my brazenness, his smile getting wider, shit-eating in it’s own
right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What is it with the girls on
leashes, how the hell is that Ok? And why are their owners so grim faced and
angry?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I implore. </span>He sizes me up and laughs out
loud, “Yep, that’s about it, and you? What are you doing with all the cameras?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why aren’t you taking my picture?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Without skipping a beat I respond. </span>“Oh, you want your picture taken, OK smile”…I
take one and start up again….<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Wait a
minute, no, no, no, if you want me to take a photo of you, you’re going to have
to show me a little Sturgis”… I laugh at my spirit, my audacity, and boldness
and his willingness to indulge and play along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He pulls up his shirt, no pasties, but I’m not here to conduct a
citizens arrest, I take the photo and we continue talking, easily,
lightly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He shares some strange and
funny propositions he has been approached with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I laugh and share a tale of my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He does that once over thing, again, so now it’s a twice or three times
over thing at best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He smiles and blurts
out, "How old are you?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I groan, and tell
him, "50, but <i>that’s</i> a bit of a buzzkill, we were just having fun".<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He smiles bigger, all dimples and sparkle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How old am I?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More laughter, I am somehow, suddenly in the playground
with a fellow eight year old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I say, "Oh
damn…I don’t like this game" He proclaims, "51!" as though he scored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I start laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He presses, before I can react, “How old did
you think I was? Older?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">" </span> “No,
actually, I thought you were too young for me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’s charmed, and he can see it was an honest reply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I am not so good at this game of guessing ages, in his favor it is a good thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> At 50 it seems everyone is potentially younger if not obviously
so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We go on talking and laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "</span>Where are you from, What’s your name?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait here a minute, I was on line for the
bathroom when I noticed you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What are
you doing next?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is excited and I am
enthralled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe because that has been
my role, that excitement, I find it humorous, and sweet, and I can’t help giggling and talking
and trying to keep up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere along
these exchanges, he decides I am a wild chick from New York, and well, I’m OK
with that assessment. He seems enraptured. I haven’t felt like that “wild
chick from New York”, in around about 30 or so years, I welcome it, as a
compliment, as any wild chick from New York would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Damn straight, unnnhumm, that’s right.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I walk a little taller, maybe there is
a little swagger…well no, probably not, I am all bubbling over and bantering
with this man, this big, almost burly, biker from Scottsdale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We fall into this playfulness with ease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He
shows me his bandages, he just got a tattoo and needs a place to clean it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell him I know where there are bathrooms and he asks
me to take him there. Of course, I will, no problem. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Suddenly I am able to help care for bikers with tattoos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t even question it, I fall into place,
as though this is a place well known to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I lead him into the inner sanctum of Sturgis, or at least the clean
and private bathrooms of the lounge, he suddenly stops and looks a bit more
intensely, as he asks me if I’ll wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
smile and reassure him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he gets
closer to the men’s room he turns and looks for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am still there, and it occurs to me that he
is afraid I will leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> How sweet is that? </span>He is genuinely concerned I will not
be there when he returns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK, I know, I
am in Sturgis, in a biker bar, helping a stranger clean up his tattoo, and
suddenly it strikes me that that is one of the sweetest, compliments I’ve had
in a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone is looking at me, like he won a
prize, concerned that I will not be there when he returns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he returns, he is practically pinching
himself, he has a great big smile and asks if I want to head out into Sturgis
to see the sights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He asks who I am here
with. When I say, calmly and confidently, “No one.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He determines from that, I am not with a man, but he wants to know who I
came with, where are my girlfriends? When I tell him again, “No one, as in
alone.” and smile, he shakes his head and sizes me up again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i>What</i>? Women don’t come to Sturgis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Women definitely don’t come to Sturgis
alone.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He laughs again saying, “Wow,
you really are a wild chick from New York”, happier each time he says it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We share some pertinent facts, children, marriages, divorces, OK my pertinent facts. He has a son, grown, he was never married... Tattoos, his, now 4. He tries to convince me to get one. I laugh and tell him my plan, or at least the plan I have been sharing as a joke when asked first by my mother, recently, when I was going to get a tattoo. I told her when I meet my third husband. Her face fell. I thought to myself, why push or tease? I am pretty good occasionally at dishing it right back. Of course my son's face dropped too, but he regained his composure when he saw I was joking. Anyway, I have by now actually considered it, although, I don't have a prospect for my third husband. For reasons I can't explain, in the past year, prior to Sturgis, I have been asked by several people about getting a tattoo. And I think, by now, the more I have answered this question, with a slight edge, the less I think it preposterous. So I have considered getting a tattoo, when I find my third and final installment. I will get a trinity tattoo to commemorate the affair I imagine. And why the hell not? Three is an important number in my life, even without the third husband, so it will be a bonus all around. There are some really cool trinity motifs to choose from, well, sure I have looked. I am leaning towards the cross of Brigid, that fiery, spirited Celtic Goddess, in a trinity design. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We move through the town, easily. Talking and laughing and acting like we have known each other for awhile. We sit down to talk, and a woman approaches and sits down. He strikes up a conversation and she assumes we are married, we don't correct, falling into conversation regarding our long and beautiful life. Later he asks where I'm staying, how long. He tries to convince me to stay longer. Another night at least. I assure him I can't, saying, "It's probably for the best. I'm a little clingy, and if you push, well, there's no telling what will happen, but I'm pretty certain we would have to get married, and I would need to get the tattoo, and why ruin a good thing?" We both laugh and continue into the center of Sturgis, uncertain of how this night will unfold. Just like that, I am here in Sturgis practically planning my third marriage and my tattoo.....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">More to come.... </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-87073984389950236362013-09-09T21:54:00.000-04:002013-09-09T21:56:12.493-04:00The Rush and Roar of Sturgis Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">There are moments in our
lives that present themselves, unbidden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And there are moments that we sit waiting for, pleading, hoping,
dreaming that one day they may come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> This is a story of grabbing that unbidden moment and swallowing it whole. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I went across country this
summer to gather moments or fill them and even, perhaps to release some of them
into the wild.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to see some of this
world, this country that I had not earlier had the time, the opportunity or the
belief that I could simply pack a bag or two, fill my car with gas a few dozen
or more times and ride out into the sunset or over the mountains and through
the woods as the case may have been, depending on the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I travelled from the Hudson
Valley to Chicago in one fast and furious day of driving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not stopping in Pennsylvania or Ohio, save
for a quick fill-up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gary, Indiana
provided food, gas, and brief respite from a storm. It was here that I
contacted a friend of a friend who helped guide my itinerary for Chicago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t imagine how sorry I would have been
without her enthusiastic guidance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
will be back in Chicago for certain, I loved it, each and every shining
moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">How can I explain where I
ended up a few days later?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe there
isn’t any particular explanation that would make a great deal of sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it was kismet or the strong pull of
freedom and curiosity and a strong desire to just throw caution to the
wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it was the idea of living
life largely in contrast to the too small life I had been only barely living
not so long ago for quite some time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">About a week before I left
on my big and daunting journey cross country I decided to start panicking, or
preparing for what I hadn’t yet spent a great deal of time planning for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is important to note.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the past, I have studied every nearby,
neighboring, nook and cranny and trail surrounding, leading to or from a
destination that was painstakingly determined for the purpose of a little r and
r.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I enjoyed this pursuit of happiness
and action packed discovery of regions yet unknown to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would pour over books and catalogues and
then eventually websites and web engines to find the best of, what not to miss,
what was best for families, what might enhance coupledom or at least not cause
further angst in the couplehood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
yet, here I was venturing off solo for the biggest adventure of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heading cross country in a state of
unplanned, disbelief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a tent in my
trunk, a suitcase, a backpack, wilderness camping gear, several journals and
sketchpads and a few cameras and assorted lenses to capture any and every
moment I so desired. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My GPS system, a
road atlas, a pocket knife and a corkscrew, you know, the essentials, I began.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I was planning on
Chicago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That much was certain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where I was staying was not firmed up until a
week prior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few misguided attempts at
searches, requests from friends and playing a bit of truth or dare with
Hotwire, hotels.com, and Priceline had me more perplexed than ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I started the search for accommodations
in Chicago, it became clearer to me I had no BIG plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I need a plan?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would a theme help?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>National Parks?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quirky roadside attractions? Music?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Food?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn’t want to focus on any one of these themes, but a combination
would be appealing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How to begin? I decided
to take a little look-see at events across the country that might happen to be taking
place in early August.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Music venues, art,
what have you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fell upon a few oddities
that did not actually take place in August, a few that were not on my path and
then I stumbled upon, this land called <i>Sturgis</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">As it turns out a great many
of you already know what this means.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
turns out that yes, I was living, barely, that small confined life and had no
idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also turns out that after seeing
Sturgis on my laptop, and digging deeper,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I discovered that Sturgis means bikes, big, bold, beautiful, beaming motorcycles.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">All<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Heading<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Straight to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sturgis. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><i>Yes, Sturgis, </i></span><i>the</i> home of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sturgis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That otherwise quiet little slice of the Midwest. Sturgis is a small
city, and I use the term loosely, in South Dakota around about 50 minutes from
Mount Rushmore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sturgis is also the home of
the largest motorcycle rally in the whole honkin’ world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So imagine, there is a lot of roar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot of leather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot of studded, or otherwise bedazzled or
grommeted vests, chaps, bags, sidesaddles and what-nots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are a lot of bikers and biker buddies
and biker babes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are over a
million choppers in one place at one time, or so says a tagline from some such
Sturgis locale.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Hmmmmm. So where do I fit
into this mix you wonder?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, pre-Sturgis,
I was fitting pretty quietly approximately 1775 miles east of Sturgis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I can’t help but smile, again, that same
devilish grin that appeared when I was looking at the big flashy Sturgis webpage
that came up while I was looking for fun little venues across this great wide
country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Devilish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shit-eating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Me? Sturgis?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Giddy in fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It lasted a little while, I even looked into
camping, since, well, it’s fairly close to Mount Rushmore, and I <i>would</i> need a
place to stay. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There are concerts in
Sturgis, I learned, that occur, free of charge, at various campsites, in
addition to the middle of town and in local bars and restaurants. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ZZ Top, Kid Rock, Joe Santana, to name a very few. I went so far as to fill out a
camping request form, but I did not submit the reservation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went on with my day, avoiding making
reservations for Chicago, and wondering what the hell was I thinking,
attempting a cross country trip alone?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A day passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I called a friend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">sort of </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">biker friend. “Hey biker friend (name
withheld to protect the not so innocent), <i>What can you tell me about
Sturgis</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Am I crazy? Don’t answer
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK I know I don’t have a
bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t even been on one since
high school. Boy that was sweet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure
maybe that was the year of the 41<sup>st</sup> Annual Sturgis Rally, but who’s
counting?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes. Camping and a multitude
of concerts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it is right close to
Mount Rushmore and I’m heading there anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So…..?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Basically what I found out
was Sturgis, like Times Square has cleaned up a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t likely I would have to fear for my
life if that was a concern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cyclists
these days are a bit more diverse, even if the standard issue costume is the
same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In summary, it’s not quite the
hard core death defying cycle venue it once was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
lost a little interest, but not all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
that I needed hard-core, I just wasn’t really sure how this venue would work
into my trip, my sense of self, or my desire to see so many things in a fairly brief
time.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">As I drove to Chicago,
however, I started noticing…. One cycle, two, sometimes packs of bikes and
bikers. Each rest stop along the way, I would notice more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I smiled knowingly to myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sturgis
bound.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could feel it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I envied the chrome, the pulsing, roaring
engines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The weaving in and out of
traffic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sense of being
unencumbered, uncontained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was gloooooooorious
to watch. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drove on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I enjoyed every moment of Chicago, and when I
hit the road again, I was calmly enthralled to catch sight of new cycles, more
bikers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow it made me feel like a
part of something larger, even just in the knowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I can’t say exactly at what
moment or intersection I decided to actually go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will say the parking garage, after a good
nights sleep at the Hilton in Sioux City might have had something to do with it. I asked the man sitting on the ground
maintaining his bike parked dangerously close to my nonbike-like Toyota Corolla, “<i>Are you
heading to Sturgis?</i>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly I’m all friendly and
personable and approaching motorcycle thugs armed with big wrenches in a dark
parking garage, all the things your mother, and the world at large tells you
<i>NOT</i> to do, when you are a woman travelling alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, wait, women are told <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> to travel alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I am
already living on the edge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He smiles, happy for the attention, and tells
me he is in fact going there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask if
it would be worthwhile for me to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
sizes me up and smiles sweetly, not hungrily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, he says
yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like asking an artist if you
should stop at the Louvre, or an exhibitionist if you should stop at
Burning Man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We talk briefly, he is
from Chicago and has made a few side trips on his way, Memphis, Kansas City... I decide not to tell him I know a much easier route…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We say goodbye and wish each other safe
travels. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This interaction pleases me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes me smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My interaction with him, with others throughout
this journey have been almost entirely positive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It restores faith in me. These personal interactions
with strangers became incredibly validating and instantly valued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are somehow easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this is somewhat, miraculous seeming. I
have not been at ease in the world at large in my barely lived life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am only recently at ease around and amongst
those beyond my tight circle of close friends and loved ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I generally prefer the safety of loved ones and friends
before even attempting to utter, awkwardly, words, that are
often confused or tongue-tied before I communicate effectively.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yet here I was alone in the world, open and available and filled with
gratitude and twirls of appreciation for the landscape, the diversity of place
and people, as well as a gathering calm in the recognition of a common sense of
sameness among others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why did it take
me so long to travel such a short and vast distance, I wonder, briefly…no
matter, I am here, now. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Where
am I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh yes Sturgis. I could not but wonder at the
time, Who the hell was I to drive right into Sturgis? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Hearing
about Sturgis was fairly unlikely for me, heading toward Sturgis was pretty improbable,
somehow being in Sturgis was incredibly perfect for me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this is how it happened….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I continued my drive cross
country, stopping at the Corn Palace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Biker’s
all around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stop at Wall Drug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, bikers everywhere, it’s practically a
mini-Sturgis, but I have no frame of reference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">6:00 PM</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> the street is lined with parked cycles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shops are lined with Sturgis
memorabilia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>T-shirts, caps, bags,
skull-caps, shot glasses, bandanna’s, wallets, you name it, Wall Drug has it
covered for bikers, biker chicks, biker fans, anyone and everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By now, I am planning on going, so I indulge
in a t-shirt and a cap emblazoned with Sturgis 73<sup>rd</sup> Rally, 2013. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Prior to making the decision
to head directly into Sturgis with a confident sparkle in my eyes and Bob
Seeger grinding through my speakers, I have three separate interactions with
friends and loved ones via text, email, and Facebook messenger… anyway, three
very timely conversations take place before I land in Sturgis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conversation 1:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Honestly?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You want to know if you should go to Sturgis
or Mount Rushmore? There is no choice between Mount Rushmore and Sturgis, but
the fact that you have to ask….”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>followed by <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“OK I need to say this, if you can’t find a man in Sturgis, then we
need to talk about this, because something is seriously wrong…”</i> Or
something to that effect. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes me
laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is somewhat true, my sea legs
in this dating process are much more wobbly than I would like and my aunt, a
verified biker chick from way back comes at the conversation, direct and in my
face, the way I like it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conversation
2:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I
hope you find a boyfriend!”</i> This causes me to stop and consider carefully
and process around in my noggin. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How does he think I might find a boyfriend?</i>
I wonder and maybe hrrrumph. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, maybe there’s one hiding under my bed? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Nope<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.
Do I make little kissy sounds as though I am finding a dog?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here kissy, kissy, boyfriend, come out, come
out wherever you are</i>…I visualize myself with a large magnifying glass
looking throughout Sturgis, and then I sigh resolutely,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know this is said with the most sincere and
loving support by a close and loving friend, but I wonder if he has paid any attention
to me throughout our long and loving history to know how difficult this seems
to be for me, this finding of a boyfriend thing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decide to focus on the love that he is
genuinely offering and not on the let down of the relationship that cannot be,
that we have bumped into throughout our lives and have not managed yet to be in the
same time or place at the same time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Conversation
3:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Relax,
let your hair down. Go get lucky and then I want all the details.</i>” Wink wink nod
nod, I laugh, What? He can’t really mean that? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nah</i>….not him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well maybe… It
should please me to know we never got anything off the ground. Is he serious? How did I miss that? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I wasn’t heading to Sturgis to bag a
biker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was heading to Sturgis to get
out of my comfort zone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To listen to
music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To take photos and observe life
beyond that barely lived life of mine. The conversations, however, got me
thinking<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and helped me consider it was
maybe time for me to get back on that horse, iron, or otherwise and go for a
ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And away I went, straight into the
rush and roar of Sturgis. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">.......to be continued. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-64039023499894693102013-08-10T12:39:00.000-04:002013-08-11T07:49:26.407-04:00Pioneering Spirit: Adam's Handprint<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Wisconsin is cheese. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all know this, we learn it in our
youth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If we miss it then, there are
cheese hats for football games made famous by super bowl champs, Wisconsin’s
finest, the Green Bay Packer’s. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But just
as I drive across the border from Illinois, I notice a large billboard that
says, Wisconsin Home of the…and then a truck blocks my vision so I have to hold
tight the wheel, stop laughing for a moment from silly thoughts and mind
wanderings and turn quickly while maintaining my speed of 80 mph or so to find
out what else resides in Wisconsin, besides cheese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Butter
Burgers?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does that really say Butter
Burgers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is a Butter Burger?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it’s related to the cheese, the dairy…the
butter…Butter Burger? I don’t know, and I will not find out today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What ever floats your boat, or curds your
whey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wisconsin is so much more than cheese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s rolling landscape, and flat landscape
and sod landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s home of great
spiritual mounds of earth created or mounded, if you will, by Native Americans,
a great long time ago. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These “Mound
People” took mounds of earth and carried them, by the handful, step over step,
and deposited the mounds of earth to form symbols and animals and messages to
the heavens. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drive through one
section, and get absolutely joyous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After a long drive through tall, abundant fields of corn bursting with
pride, I am surprised to see the land suddenly change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little rolling hills, but unlike any I’ve
ever seen before, it honestly looks like mother earth was tickled by father sun
in these great wide fields that suddenly turn to dimpled, little hills and
dales, yes, dales.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know, I am taking
great liberties here telling my tale of going cross country on this solo
expedition of delight and freedom and a great wide opening of a heart closed
for too long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stop and visit that little Switzerland town, you know, New
Glarius (see previous post for more information). I see the artwork and lifelong dedication of an immigrant farmer
thankful for what he has in this country of ours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I make it to the Mississippi River, to Pikes
Peak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drive across another border into
Iowa and the river town McGregor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Population <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>869 give or take.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is dark by now and I am tired from my
journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am welcomed into the home of
Ramaona and Dorrance, innkeepers of The Lamp Post Inn. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made reservations to stay in their beautiful
bed and breakfast, just days before leaving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As soon as I enter, Ramona greets me and shows me my room, upgraded,
because she is certain I will feel more comfortable in a larger room with a
private bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course she is
right, and I don’t balk or refuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
brings me upstairs and walks me through the process of breakfast and keys and
coming and going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is early enough but
I let her know I am in for the night, exhausted from driving and happy for the
comfort of a bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ramona asks about my journey,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wants to know what lead me to this great
adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a moment I can’t answer,
and then offer something clumsily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh,
because I finally can, and I never have.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What exactly did lead me to her home so far away from my own?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not as simple as turning 50, or raising
my children and now having some freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is no longer <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the after affects
of “the divorce” but maybe a little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
is all of that and more, and how can I tell this woman with heart and soul and
genuine care alighting her every movement what I am not completely certain
of?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I have lived too small a life
and I want a chance at bigger now? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
fall into conversation and in this brief time I find out one of her daughters
is an artist, the house adorned with paintings and apparent love of a place so
far away from my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learn one of her
son’s, who had special needs, died recently of cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned how she was told when he was so
very young what very little potential he had already, from a professional at
the school he attended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She learned
also, that I am a special ed teacher, recovering from cancer and journeying
because I never before had the opportunity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In brief moments we learned a great deal about each other without prodding
or feeling a sense of intrusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this
time in my life, at 50, I am learning so much, or maybe I am finally, accepting
what I have already known; That the world is full of love and giving hearts and
opportunities for nourishment and kindness and giving as well as
receiving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned so much in this
brief moment in the home and from the heart of Ramona, a beautiful woman with a
giving heart in the heartland of this country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A pioneer spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A survivor, not
unlike myself.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I sleep well and dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am blessed and joyous in my journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I awake early, thrown by the time change, momentarily confused whether I
am going backwards in time or forward?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is 7:30 in New York,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but 5:30
here in Iowa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get thrown for a minute
when I notice the time on my laptop differs from the time on my cell phone,
which differs from the time in this bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I worry that I missed the early morning breakfast that I requested and
feel slightly foolish, and imposing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
am relieved when I find out I have another hour, and maybe slightly concerned
that this time travel will catch up with me later in the day as I make my way
towards Effigy Mounds and eventually Mount Rushmore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I take advantage of the extra time to get my
words onto paper describing Chicago and other joyous observations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am beginning to feel a stronger sense of
my journey and maybe the path I am taking is getting clearer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a stronger theme emerging anyway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am realizing the great amount of work and play that is
done through the handiwork of men and women across this country, the world at
large, is evident everywhere. So large how can it flow from the hands of humans,
mere mortals, without a larger meaning? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hand-made art work,
the hand-made mounds, the hand-crafted baroque embellishments in the hand-built
basilicas of Chicago, the hand-dug lands of the sod-covered fields.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So much, emerges from the hands of people,
much like you and I. What capabilities, what gifts, what potential.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thread the tapestry of my journey thus far,
realizing the art of southern self-made artists, of Chicago’s finest
architects, many that came from all corners of the earth for the opportunity to
leave their hand-stamped legacies is hand-made and heart-felt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>The
carefully constructed sculptures in Grandview, Wisconsin, the pastries, and
meals prepared, the farmland and mounds and so much more all made by the hands of each of
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Touched by God, or a god, or the
desire and will to leave our hand-print on something larger, more than
ourselves is awe inspiring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
After breakfast, I pack up, well fed and humbled by the
brief but heartfelt connection shared between this hostess and myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am ready to journey on, but I first wish to
purchase a painting of the heartland, to remember and to support the hand that
creates such art, the daughter of a woman, that has surely touched the hearts
of many.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I go, Ramona tells me
more of her story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of the loss of her
son, Adam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But not really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She speaks only of gains and life and love
and how her son, who had such little expected potential, touched the lives of so
many.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She brings me closer to her life
and her heart, she shows me the handprint her son made shortly before he
passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was in the hospital on
Mother’s Day, dying of cancer that came hard and fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He needed a gift for his mother for Mother’s
Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Ramona arrived at the
hospital, tired, but eager to see her son, her beautiful boy that touched so many,
a man now in his late thirties, she couldn’t understand why the staff was
behaving so happy to see her, sharing with her how happy Adam, her son, would
be to see her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was there everyday,
what was this about, she wondered but briefly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And there she understood, when she received her gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She smiled widely in sharing this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You will appreciate this gift, Ginger, since
you are a special ed teacher.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
showed me, his handprint, in plaster, with his name signed, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love Adam</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Happy Mother’s Day. </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DeBMwWTR_Zf7jNwkUWVqBQEO7sv25CZJMXUKpAoQ43c6N3D_W2KawcE6PeBrpORYxX5JAkbSVxhWypLrdF5WiO6_6rXjdTUKX5jwt3UCnet4HvX3FErWkmfZcrTKcl7n0r2FiXByh3rs/s1600/IMG_0982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DeBMwWTR_Zf7jNwkUWVqBQEO7sv25CZJMXUKpAoQ43c6N3D_W2KawcE6PeBrpORYxX5JAkbSVxhWypLrdF5WiO6_6rXjdTUKX5jwt3UCnet4HvX3FErWkmfZcrTKcl7n0r2FiXByh3rs/s320/IMG_0982.jpg" width="240" /></a></i></div>
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
This theme emerges throughout my journey, this being touched
by the hand of God or something, larger than me, holding me safely and leading
me on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I go out into the town of McGregor, in Iowa,
on the Mississippi River. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-69467637040604795502013-08-08T10:55:00.001-04:002013-08-08T10:55:13.768-04:00Merciful Travel and Patty Pans Possessed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I left Chicago on Sunday after attending
church, at the Basilica of Saint Hyacynth’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was no other way to get inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To see for myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The church
that <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>brought<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pope John II several times before he reached
popedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is not significant or meaningful
to me, except that it must be a place of grandeur and beauty if you like that
sort of baroque pomposity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also go
because mass will help settle me and seat me, outside of my car and outside of
my head that has more of a Jean-Michel Basquiat- MoseT-Andrew Wyeth-Artists in
Contemporary American Art mind set.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
baroque thing generally throws me over the top, a place I don’t like to
go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So much to attend to all at once,
curves and curlicues and porticoes and retablos and oculuses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even baroque terms have twirls and spins and
extra ornamental hoo-hah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Give me a
wattle and daub and send me on my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But at church, baroque might be the saving grace for many.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as you need to shut down the sermon,
or more so, the sins of your own world you can travel around the cornices and
visit the ignudis and cherubs and settle your soul for the next coming of urges
and temptations and send out a prayer or two for the taking, and the giving. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I like the routine of mass, the tradition, the reliability
and predictability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am on a
journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am on a pilgrimage of sorts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am religio-curious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have to say all of the above.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
dear gentle readers, religion and spiritualism and universal pulls greet us all
in one serendipitous way or another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Take what you wish from my journey, glaze over any references if you
must, sit back and enjoy the ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
will not be a double collection today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nor a single plate or basket passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do however, find it a little
disconcerting that many have outrageous and discomforting reactions to the
mention of God or religion but words such as poverty and rape and war do not
stir nary a sigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Artwork is the
language of all things. And I am paying close attention on this journey.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On my way out of town I was planning on visiting two other
churches to photograph and explore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
structure, and the ornate, towering reminder, of God, of community of service
and selflessness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mass I attended
speaks of laboring and lamenting, of possession and obsession.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There aren’t many issues to cover in a
Catholic Mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, the seven
deadly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seven isn’t such a large number
and several of those I have no fear of, or interest in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well maybe 3 but we don’t have to get
technical or sooooo personal here. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe part of my pilgrimage and journey is to stop worrying
about when and what if and Oh, God please if you, then I’ll…deals,
negotiations, promises, broken, forgiven, so on and so forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is time to lighten my load on this wagon
train headed west, and shame, and guilt, lamenting and laboring, must be
dropped off somewhere before winter settles in and there is no other human
around…is cannibalism a deadly sin?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
can’t recall.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe the trip to Saint Hyacinth’s was unnecessary, but boy
was it beautiful! And just for the record and snide commentary….it is a little
peculiar for the priest to be discussing possession and obsession in a basilica
painted in gold with baroque flourishes on the baroque flourishes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I head out of Chicago and decide to stop at
Niles Polish Deli.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because when in Rome,
or Warzsawa for that matter… do as the Romans, or the Poles, for this
matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think maybe, just maybe there
will be pottery, those beautiful, dancing daisy adorned dishes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plates I would like to possess!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I enter and cannot believe the wall of snacks
and candies and cakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh I like it here
already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see the wall of
pickled…. everything….no…look…what?....patty pan squash?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to have those.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I might easily become obsessed with patty pan
squash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s not to love here? </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I will slow down my journey to stop and tell this tale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One summer early in my new life in the Hudson
Valley when my children were young and still had that sweet smell of childhood,
you know before that smell of teen age rebellion moved in and then the labor
intensive scent of adulthood and near grimness…anyway they were young and sweet
smelling and we played and worked in the community garden at Bard College in
Annandale-on-the-Hudson, and later joined a CSA and picked up our vegetables at
the local health store because we had time and the goddess Ceres to guide
us…There were patty pan squashes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
made me happy in there golden yellow, robust and round little crown
shapes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They look like the little garden
fairies came around and pinched the little dough crust into a perfect beaded
crown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How on earth does a vegetable
grow like that?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the name!</div>
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Another story comes to mind, join me, it will connect…When I
was six or seven, The Charlie Brown Christmas Story was playing at Radio City
Music Hall, but when we got there, all excited and wiggly, we learned it was
sold out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother, and my aunt knew we
had our hearts set on a movie, so they improvised quick on their toes and maybe
afraid of the anarchy that could rise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Four small children that may or may not have smelled sweet would have
all started crying or waling or kicking and hollering, maybe just pouting and
grim faced, we would have been an unpleasant mob just the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We ended up at some strange and bizarre
Beatrix Potter film.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the late
sixties or very early seventies, and I was little, but this movie was one drug
trip away from promoting LSD for toddler consumption.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The animals were talking and acting and Peter
Rabbit and Jeremy-whoja-call-it was looking rather dapper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I have been a fan of Beatrix Potter
little cute books since the beginning of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These little bitty books are like finger sandwiches for literary
aficionados.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the titles?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Story of the Fierce Bad Rabbit</i>. I love that!! I think I might be a fierce
bad rabbit, I am sure I know others!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ginger Pickles</i>!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>C’mon who doesn’t like that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Pie
and the</i> …..yup……<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Patty Pan</i>!!!!
Bingo!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I am in this polish shop and I
can’t leave without buying pickled patty pans and yes my name is Ginger and it
just all gets me in the right frame of mind as I head onto Wisconsin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me, Ginger Pickle with The Tale of the Pie
and the Patty Pan guiding my way toward lightness and more Heartland.</div>
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I am thinking of just keeping this jar as a trophy on my
shelf in my kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I am a little
smug at my newest possession.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
somewhere just across the border a memory comes to mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I start laughing, that loud crazy kind of
laugh that just comes up from the toes and I am again happy to be in my car and
not around anyone that would look at me with consternation and hold their own
smelly children tighter in my presence because I am still <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> happy and presently laughing near hysteria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Good thing I have a firm grip on the wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A while back, out with friends, somehow or
other we started talking about baby teeth or children or both. We were maybe
talking about cleaning our homes, and when can you start letting go of all
those things you save that belong to the children? Or are connected
somehow?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I moved a few years ago
and brought those big overflowing boxes of each child’s childhoods, papers and
drawings and what not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My now mostly grown
children laughed right at me, when we pulled out the once fruit-loop glued masterpiece
to find it was ravaged by a hungry varmint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What did you think would happen?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One child implored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stunned, I responded, buh, whah, huh???….It
was their artwork…how could I throw it away?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A friend has kept the baby teeth on their way to the tooth fairy via a
bedroom closet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I start laughing at
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My patty pan squash look a bit
like some organs in a jar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The baby’s
tonsils?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We keep these momentos of our
children’s lives like historians preserving the past, holding that smell of
innocence and perfection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when my
friend tells of these baby teeth, I envision them all falling out of the closet
getting stuck in floorboards, or rolling into corners awaiting some house guest
or another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well I don’t take it that
far…but the idea of these teeth and the patty pan make me laugh at what we preserve
and what we cast away and why fruit-loop art cannot be saved in a big old box. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Wisconsin has only begun and again I am laughing and
happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am excited about making this
trip a journey into heartfelt and handmade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The first stop on my outsider art tour is rather silly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I uploaded an app that takes me to those
quirky little homes and gardens where some crazed, discontented spouse toils
away fifty years making a mini replica of the Battle of Gettysburg <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with matchsticks or hairballs or rewrites the
bible on grains of rice or in the case of my first stop, takes all their broken
dishes and sticks it onto a birdhouse and a garage. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Were they broken in passion filled fights of
love and desire?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Were they broken
because the owner needed glasses and missed the shelf each time she attempted
to tidy? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Impressive, but not worth the
detour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It does get me deep into The
Little Switzerland of the USA, New Glarius.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I am transformed to, a small movie set?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It just doesn’t feel like the Swiss Alps,
although it is trying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could have had
my choice of faux lederhosen inspired t-shirts or embroidered stiff-waisted
aprons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pass on each.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t pass on the bakery stop and love the
handmade, heart felt cheesecake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried
to ask the local, native, probably not even of Swiss-descent shop keep for a
recommendation and she can’t give one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wanted her to say the names of the apple, lemon or ginger pastries in her Swiss
tongue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it wasn’t even Swiss, her
tongue, so I get the cheesecake because it looks fabulous, and it absolutely
was, and I yodel along my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Belly-filled, and content.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly, I realize I am off the path I was going to be on
in the internet and wireless neutral zone of Little Switzerland and I’m not
sure which way to head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been
getting reliant on Siri, even if she isn’t the most personable passenger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now she’s sulking and ignoring my
requests and won’t even mutter, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What can
I help you with </i>in that flat, affective tone of hers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to pull out and plug in Simon. The
Tom-Tom travel companion that once seemed so sexy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I feel I have to bang out each letter and
wait lifetimes for him to string together Sioux Falls, or Praire du Chien.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least Siri knows what I’m thinking and
gets some passive pleasure in telling me before I finish. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Simon Tom Tom, that wily Australian keeps
taking me into some public works parking lot and expects me to drive through
the corrugated steel building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe
this is the inner sanctum of heaven and my willfulness and frustration just
blew the chance of a lifetime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decide
to override Simon and do what I like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hmmm, could use a sermon for that issue, but I’m not sure if there’s
enough baroque in Rome to help <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> out
of willfulness and frustration, in between toothy hysterical grins.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFg0ygIYQklSJ3A-odIPd6kZnWynF7qqsfCK7ZvtiN3xUr8aNIj2TQxv67V-8fCWRhD-i64mVHzCFZdFMV9q68fvpNRTklUjZ7KoLmmLzpF7b4dbsDgh-PWkxv3I8Jq8iSVX9DN5b_54i/s1600/IMG_6401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFg0ygIYQklSJ3A-odIPd6kZnWynF7qqsfCK7ZvtiN3xUr8aNIj2TQxv67V-8fCWRhD-i64mVHzCFZdFMV9q68fvpNRTklUjZ7KoLmmLzpF7b4dbsDgh-PWkxv3I8Jq8iSVX9DN5b_54i/s320/IMG_6401.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjktVXYObzvTWUQhizVQ7Lu46U94Pxd209UqJOQ2_UYUb4QqbBKXRuPkLrww95pH-6tlGE8v7QR-soWoVSFVtNtmP21WntgmxsBAtJYIijixwhGIR4ak1DKsOXDOhRfl2Z6AXXcvL9mcKsb/s1600/IMG_6418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjktVXYObzvTWUQhizVQ7Lu46U94Pxd209UqJOQ2_UYUb4QqbBKXRuPkLrww95pH-6tlGE8v7QR-soWoVSFVtNtmP21WntgmxsBAtJYIijixwhGIR4ak1DKsOXDOhRfl2Z6AXXcvL9mcKsb/s320/IMG_6418.JPG" width="320" /></a>And <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>then I barely
catch on the side of the road the sign that says blah blah Engelbert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drive on, whistle, hum, hope for internet
zone soon….WHAT? HOW THE HECK? Engelbert as in Nick Engelbert????<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Screech, turn, gravel kicked up to the
Universe in an offering of love and great, grinding gratitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grandview!!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am in Grandview!!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nick
Engelbert did not simply stick broken dishes on the side of his garage,
although he did do that too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nick
Engelbert built a shrine to America, and pride, and the gratitude of an
immigrant at home in the Heartland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“If
a man can’t be happy on a little farm in Wisconsin, he hasn’t the makings of
happiness in his soul.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Said he.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is that not perfect?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to pick Simon up and twirl him and
kiss his whole…oh, yeah, I know, he’s just a little GPS mechanism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Smiles, joy, happiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I am not sure, but are those baby teeth
in the concrete sculpture of the stork holding the baby?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nah…..well, maybe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look and see for yourself. </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lG1QiPdrEq0"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lG1QiPdrEq0</span></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-35518665906925078812013-08-05T10:10:00.000-04:002013-08-06T00:26:04.536-04:00Hand Made and Heart Felt in the Heart Land<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Last summer I dipped my feet in the cool refreshing waters
of adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I traveled south, with
safety points and visits with friends plotted along the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This summer, I have jumped off the high
dive!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have embarked on a solo trip
cross country and I highly recommend it for everyone!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a New Yorker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Raised by New Yorkers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We like our delis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our hard rolls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our bagels with a little <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">schmear</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK I like it with a
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">little</i> schmear, just a little,
because I like to taste the bagel, and otherwise all that schmear, makes me
light headed, and lead bellied from that slightly chemical, metallic wrapped,
cream cheese schmeary taste.</div>
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I was admittedly afraid to go south last summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have seen movies and read books, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deliverance</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sling Blade</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To Kill a Mockingbird</i>,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bastard out of Carolina, The Prince of
Tides, well OK that one is a bit closer to home…</i>…You get the message.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right? I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Darkness lurking in every small-minded, ethno-centric, bible-bumping,
right wing, Christian zealot corner of every southern town and city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cannot begin to tell you how much I loved
that trip, the south, the culture, the people, I did however stay out of the
backwoods, and mostly hugged the coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>From Washington DC to Savannah, Georgia, Tallahassee, Florida through Perdido
Keys, Florida, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mobile, Alabama to New Orleans, Louisiana, I
loved the south!</div>
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I am a New Yorker, we like the coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are slightly afraid of going in-land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are not many subways beyond, say
Brooklyn, or Queens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there is that
train route to New Jersey and Hoboken, but <i>feh</i>, now you are talking state
lines, and it’s almost like crossing borders and what not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of us, of a certain age, have ethnic
ties to immigrants, we may believe that one day, if some need occurs, we may
need to go back to our homelands, and we will not want to rough the plains and
prairies, of the Midwest to get there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We will stay closely rooted to the coast in case we need to make an
exodus to our mother countries, the home land, or our great-great-great grand mother
countries for that matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The trip last summer primed me, and I have started my
journey west. Following a <i>Fast and Furious</i> jaunt through a few states,
Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, I landed in Chicago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sweated over this stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first stop <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a city</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to broaden my
horizons, not keep them familiar and safe, I work and worry and discuss, but
plan loosely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am venturing off
independently, so I must carry a great load of angst and a little cooler full
of despair, amidst the art supplies, the backpack and camping gear, the thumping,
rousing, thrill-seeking, warrior that is me, and the multitude of cameras and
gear in my solo wagon train better known as the black Corolla. </div>
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So, for the record? Chicago, it turns out, is nothing like
New York except for the tall buildings, wait, I mean the fact that they each
have buildings that are tall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember,
fellow history buffs, and everyone else, wipe off your 5<sup>th</sup> grade
History of the United States acumen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mrs. O’Leary, the damn cow, the lantern…Chicago had the, twist of the
word, shine of the light, fabulous opportunity to rebuild, Phoenix from the
ashes, and it is an rchitectural delight of style and design and wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, it’s true I took the Chicago<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Architecture Foundation River Cruise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Magnificent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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I was fortunate enough to contact a friend of a friend
living in Chicago prior to getting into the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
called the friend of the friend with reluctance and obligation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Friend insisted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I would stay at their home? I would
never impose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am after-all a New
Yorker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father, would barely feel
comfortable staying with his own siblings as they all grew older.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t like to “put people out.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am starting to learn, us New Yorkers of a
certain age and ilk, aren’t so concerned about putting anyone out, we are more
frightened of the luncheon meats in place of the cold cuts, and why can’t
anyone else make a good slice of pizza?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I know, in Chicago this is blasphemy, it is like speaking of the Yankees
in Boston without a loaded weapon or an escape route. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I contacted said friend of friend, and it
turns out I would have spent a week in her care and taken every spectacular gem
she offered of things to do and see from her hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow or other we started talking about my
journey post Chicago and she mentioned outsider art, in passing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Huh? What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cow-a-Bunga and Bongo Bongo!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did
she just not just say outsider art tour?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am overjoyed, and happy, and I can’t pretend to keep my no eye
contact, don’t let the neighbors know your serial number, your place of origin,
how you vote or what you ate for dinner poise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why do we hang all our dirty laundry on the lines, and scream and fight
in our paper thin walk-ups if we are such secret-keepers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, I am all beamy excited at the mention
of outsider art.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She promises to send me
a link or two, I am thankful and I say good bye. </div>
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Somewhere around Gary, Indiana, the orange glow of the toxic
sky, darkens and the rains fall, heavily from the heavens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stop quickly for gas and throw my phone in
the pocketbook, yes New Yorkese, it’s like a purse, only, well, yeah it’s a
purse, or a handbag, and I travel on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I arrive, 30 minutes north of Chicago, in a <i>Hotwire</i> bargain mystery
hotel, that seems a bit closer to the city than it is. I am looking forward to
sleep and the next days adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
missed the message from friend of friend of the spouse variety, who I enjoyed
charming and open conversation with a couple of months earlier, in the safe
hamlet on the river with a train line ready in a heartbeat for quick and timely
escapes, in New York.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He leaves a
message, inviting me to stay with them, and jokes about the depressive impact
this faraway suburb will have should I refuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I appreciate the humor, the invite, but without a frame of reference for
how faraway I am, the inviting hotel suite quickly comforts me into sleep. </div>
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I start my first day in Chicago on a photography quest to
find a small piece of myself in the outlying ethnic neighborhoods and I am not
let down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel “home” here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The buildings, and homes, and churches are familiar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That sense of community and shared communal
struggle with making ends meet, getting ahead, providing for family, is evident
throughout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The great American dream is
alive and well in these urban immigrant enclaves and it fills me with calm to
witness as an “outsider” with the inside scoop. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The knowledge of simple beginnings and
immigrant struggles to provide a better life for your children and your
children’s children is deeply engrained in my heart and soul. </div>
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Next I make it to Millennium Park and get up close to the
steel and silver shine emanating from the sculpted masses that were created
from the hearts and hands of Frank Gehry and Anish Kapoor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is whimsy and light heartedness and a
calling out for interaction and connection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You cannot get close to these two diverse sculptures without entering
into a relationship with each artist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
think back to a comment made by a friend just a few days earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Touching the hand of God…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a new perspective of this quote, the idea, I think of the artwork of Michelangelo, the great artists, through the ages. Connections larger than life. The electricity is everywhere here in
Chicago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And of course it is where
electricity was first showcased to the masses at the 1893 World’s Fair. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surely that spark is from coming into contact
with something so much larger than ourselves, even larger than Frank Gehry, or
Frank Lloyd Wright, or Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. Mies, known as one of the pioneering masters of modern architecture, surely was on to
something when he said, “God is in the details.” The details of Chicago cannot be captured in a small personal essay.</div>
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A visit to the Art Museum makes me tingly with joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This does not happen frequently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or ever, well maybe on some occasions....<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am walking around this city with the biggest goofiest smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Like some simpleton. Honestly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
anyone from New York saw me, I would be banished from the borders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surely I look like I just had a big piece of
clown pie and what is the joke?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
elated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it doesn’t end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time I am finished tripping over the
joy and brightness of the city, and finally safely on the River Tour, I call
friend of friend thanking her for the links and the advice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She recommended seeing the exhibit,
<i>Impressionism, Fashion and Modernity</i> at the Art Institute of Chicago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t say enough about this show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The size and scope, stellar!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is an unfinished piece with two panels, one that reaches
close to the heavens or so it seems, by Monet, and costumes throughout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly I am transformed to Paris in the
late 1800s, pure magic! And even as I stumble through the crowds, giddy with joy, I can barely get close to some of the art. I buy the book, to have this collection, and can't wait to look deeply at the works, and the history. It is truly amazing and even more so because I have been immersed in research regarding a Russian mystic and <span class="st">her salon on the Rue Saint Dominique</span> at this precise time. I am enthralled with the serendipitous nature of this exhibit and I half expect to see the name of Madame Swetchine, appear in the descriptions. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdltt2rjpqPJcgUwp8UDDsDwDa8KFWU-ci9BkfemKmBKCcVpUKZSrQLym2mtQo97xRc-RZyl1uaVJ3kmfPEZBAxG-a04ondezHHYjFIOrtpzF7Ik0RwPteWAPvnXAxlJU3YD6hJRCbm0W4/s1600/IMG_0880.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdltt2rjpqPJcgUwp8UDDsDwDa8KFWU-ci9BkfemKmBKCcVpUKZSrQLym2mtQo97xRc-RZyl1uaVJ3kmfPEZBAxG-a04ondezHHYjFIOrtpzF7Ik0RwPteWAPvnXAxlJU3YD6hJRCbm0W4/s320/IMG_0880.jpg" width="240" /></a>As I am thanking friend of friend, I ask
for a dinner recommendation, she offers two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One is for a Blues restaurant in Marina City, known as the the corn cob buildings, or that's how they were described to me, and well, absolutely! The corn cob buildings!. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She explains the lobby is filled with
outsider art and it might be a great place to start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I approach, I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>notice it is <i>The House of Blues</i>, and I am slightly
discouraged, as I think of this as a chain, like going to The Hard Rock Café,
or maybe even Applebees…silly, foolish me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I walk in and want to start screaming like a love sick Paul McCartney
fan circa 1967 or so…but that’s ahem, well before my time…The lobby doesn’t
just have outsider art.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is some
crazy, wild, earlier unknown at least to me, mecca.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A shrine!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hanging on these hallowed walls is the art, a massive collection of
originals from MoseT, Annie Tolliver, Dr. Imagination and so on and so forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not a screamer, squealer, look at me in
public type a gal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am able to maintain
my NYC stance somewhere, thank you very much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But it will take several states and a whole lot of trouble to wipe this
grin off my face soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And oh, by the
way…troubles?….I got the Blues CD collection to carry me right on through to the
other side of any troubles….</div>
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Southern outsider, self-taught artists…..you cannot but see
the hand of some god or another at work here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is truly spiritual, and electrically charged. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I have that dumb-founded smile to prove
it.</div>
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Next stop….Wisconsin….</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-12350676880813416812013-07-19T09:47:00.000-04:002013-07-19T16:43:39.122-04:00Stone Quiet <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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</style><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Gravel
under tire, Prrer, grrrrerr trrrer,
crrrrrrr.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Engine
cut, Hisssss.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Door
SLAM, door open, rifle through: papers, bags, car seat pockets…</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Move
stuff, find stuff, touch stuff, look around, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Grab
stuff, unstuff, shove stuff in</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Door
SLAM, backpack hoisted.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Rock,
pebble, dust, kicked up.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Step,
step, step.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Tinkle,
clink, tinkle, click, tinkle, click. Medalions bouncing on my neck, saints alive.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> Water
spigots on the green, whizza-shhhoooosh, whizza shhhoooosh, whizza-shhhoooosh. shhhoooosh.
shhhoooosh.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Clomp,
clomp, step, clomp, step.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Tweet,
chirp, whistle, tweet.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Rustle,
rustle, blow…</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Stop. Sign in.
Write name, address, number in party, hiking destination, time in: pshhhhs psshhhhh pssssh psssh clap click</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Clomp,
clomp, step, clomp, step.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Tweet,
chirp, whistle, tweet.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Rustle,
rustle, blow…</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Brrrr
Brrrrggggglllleee Bubble Brrrrggggglllleee Bubble</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I
notice the sounds as I seek to find my quiet. My energy makes a frightening sound. I pull into the parking place in St. Huberts, amidst trail heads for some of the most incredible hiking in New York State, and begin my journey. I am in this great wide space, amongst trees,
and green, and stone and rocks, some of the oldest on the planet, </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">known to be close to one billion years old. The Adirondack bedrock is made up of minerals
and sediment built upon what was once the bottom of an ancient sea. Anorthosite is the rock that makes up most of
the High Peaks region. It is most commonly found on the moon. I am certain it is quiet there as well. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I
have been filling my days with sound, in between the constant buzzing of my
restless mind. Or the sound and music
might be another attempt to quiet my thoughts.
Music, is a new constant. Recently, I
shared over dinner with friends that this is fairly new, finding my taste, just
for me, a luxury. I am enjoying building
my very own library and playlists and pulling up songs from my past and adding new sounds, and artists. It
might also be serving the purpose of altering the constant buzz of the upcoming
quiet of a soon empty nest. That loud piercing screeching uncertainty of what’s
to come?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">But
I am hiking, and I typically hike unencumbered by sounds. It’s worth noting I don’t
run or go to the gym with out music to push me forward, faster, harder, keep on
going. Hiking, however is more than
physical, it is emotional and spiritual and I want the full experience of the
woods.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">
Henry David Thoreau’s quote resonates
with me, </span><span style="color: #004000; font-family: Arial;"> "<i>I
went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the
essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and
not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived"</i>. I started hiking the high peaks five years
ago. There are 46 designated as such by
their height, 4000 plus feet above sea level. I recall many years earlier
colleagues spoke of becoming 46er’s. I
was enthralled.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Age
and angst and apprehensive living made it seem nearly impossible to hike these
majestic mountains. As time went on,
however, I did not want to discover that I had not lived. I took to these mountains, and attempted to
reach a summit, here and there. I made
it. I loved it. I felt I was living, again, at least
here. As time passed and more summits
were reached, I began to notice I was determined to live more fully in other
directions. It has been a process, and
at times a fight, and sometimes I have come out on top, with a grander view,
and there have been times that I have been beaten down by the stone of a
thousand moons, or the tiniest of pebbles.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I
have been all abuzz of late, and longer still. Processing.
Reflecting. Thinking through and over and painfully questioning choices and
missed chances and spending too much time determining next steps, and old steps
and missed steps. So I go to the
mountains to hike and kick up some dust and dirt and gravel and beat my struggles
down into the dirt and moss and mud under my feet. I go to the mountains to challenge my small
body up to the summit 4057 feet above and the next, another 4020 feet, nearly
15 miles round-trip.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I
have immersed myself in an intense writing project. Coming to terms with a life stage reckoning
and health issues and parenting and work and ordinary everyday circumstances to
contend with keep me in a constant state of angst. Romance and risk taking in the very name of love or hope or faith has dulled and
charged and opened my senses to vulnerabilities that at times felt warm and promising,
frenetically charged, over the moon and back again. Leading to more angst and questioning. I go to
the mountains to calm the constant buzz that is me. I go to the mountains to challenge my body
into carrying the weight of me and my struggles until I can carry them no
longer and release them to the rock face and tree line pillars, the pines and
cedars and birch that make up the Adirondack High Peaks. </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHcW-UKzpDcLVOHbdbZlLlAMy6qOCtajggXRIpIU6TR1RvVS5rIZLO4t4-tEfSSXaSekK5dV9-_coQBRppP0JSTmgy1ZwyRDCum4DyFPa45IzUU6lZRaTq-TLmv1rds2TZ5QOKw0IZkwq/s1600/IMG_0697.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHcW-UKzpDcLVOHbdbZlLlAMy6qOCtajggXRIpIU6TR1RvVS5rIZLO4t4-tEfSSXaSekK5dV9-_coQBRppP0JSTmgy1ZwyRDCum4DyFPa45IzUU6lZRaTq-TLmv1rds2TZ5QOKw0IZkwq/s200/IMG_0697.JPG" width="186" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgp3lI-RNLwXKACkFFcBGhStjJWg2VbGnIqHtHiecT8-TQRCFGdfnK-tHIrfIkiAv7glSP1KlDrTnmsVQAnOWjNXewZETINmiebe2oXst1_q_bg2rnn7SCLxIix1h1CBxbeE6Q-DHNywvU/s1600/IMG_0698.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgp3lI-RNLwXKACkFFcBGhStjJWg2VbGnIqHtHiecT8-TQRCFGdfnK-tHIrfIkiAv7glSP1KlDrTnmsVQAnOWjNXewZETINmiebe2oXst1_q_bg2rnn7SCLxIix1h1CBxbeE6Q-DHNywvU/s200/IMG_0698.jpg" width="188" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The
trails provide for me. Challenges,
distractions, risks that must be determined immediately. Rock faces, and ledges and rustic ladders or
cables that must be scaled to rise higher and descend. Risks that I am prepared to take. No time for thinking, and rethinking, and
turning in my mind. I can go forward
strategically and carefully, or turn back.
Sometimes I can go forward with lightness and confidence and joy. At times I go with will and determination and
blind faith against my deafening apprehension.
At tree line I can see beyond myself.
At the summit I can see what seems like forever. I make it, each time, quieted in the
magnificence and height. I am for a
moment king of this hill? master of the universe? Woman on the moon, or at the
very least this very moon-stone, </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Anorthosite</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">! </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I
make my way down before nightfall tired and nearly beaten. Quieted in exhaustion. My descent knocks me down, each time. Differently.
Physically. Knowing I will be
restored by daybreak, after food and rest and a hot shower, a jump in the
frozen black waters of Lake Champlain. I
am starting to discover it is maybe this easy to find quiet. Or perhaps easier still. Food, rest, the company of good friends,
conversations, physical activity.
Knowing that the nest I created with tenderness, and perhaps too much angst,
but much more love has nourished and fed and provided for others, will help me
remember that I am ready to softly hear my own song, but only if I listen in
quiet. </span></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-7140930846170338442013-06-28T13:53:00.001-04:002013-06-29T08:36:09.062-04:00Measuring Time in the Year of the Cicada<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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</style><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In
this year of the Cicada, 2013, I am marking time of great significance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waves of moments flood my vision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Events, celebrations, beginnings, ends,
milestones and tender remembrances aroused through similar familiarities, the
scent of lavender and sage, the curl of a tendril, on a small child holding
fast to her father’s hand. The energy and electric charged glow in the beaming
smiles of my three now grown children when they are together even briefly in
the same space fill my eyes with gladness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The constant flow of the river just beyond my porch, the sunrise and sunset of each new day.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">When
the cicadas emerged and first made their sound heard, I was recovering from
cancer and several rounds of surgery to remove it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Limited to rest and restrictive movement,
time passed slowly in a protected state of reclamation, obscure and measured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was surrounded by support and love and
nurturance, time-keepers, friends, blanketed from the stress of hours spent in
constant motion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tympanic lull of
the cicada song beat softly in the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My youngest son was rapidly marking time of his own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned 18, emerging as an adult after a
lumbering stumble through the awkward push and pull and tug of infancy,
toddlerhood, adolescence to begin, a man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Seventeen and one year has passed for him in my constant care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is ready to go, now.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We
celebrated this event and passage of time one year passed the last cicada
emergence, by going out to dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
restaurant, a twenty minute drive was my first outing beyond mandatory doctors
visits and travel by foot to the nearby Hudson River.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been sequestered in a city-block square
of time and place, unchanging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we
ventured out, I felt free and a bit unsteady at the rush of sound, and color
and life, after my first two weeks held captive in healing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was my first experience of the cicadas in
this green and verdant valley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In spite
of the fact that I am old enough to have experienced 2.94 cicada periods, I
have not lived in the midst of this festival of life and death and rebirth of
the Magicicada </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">septendecim, the 17 year cicada</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">As we drove through the wooded landscape that
lines the Hudson it was my first time hearing the roar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cicadas, barely audible from the safety
of my porch, screamed of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I smiled widely, my son
taken aback, surprised, and then realizing I had been restrained and wrapped in
the silence of renewal and repair, smiled in response.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were sharing these cicadas equally, newly;
I had no prior experience or parental leverage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We had our first shared experience, in innocence, as two adults separated by 32
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We spoke of cicadas, and life,
and his day, turning 18.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We thought back
to where we were 17 years ago, far away and long ago where ordinary cicadas come without
such significance, pomp and circumstance, or drumming reverberation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We
have come far in this time of the cicadas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And crossed many miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
family structure has changed, broken and rebuilt, his siblings have grown and
gone on before him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His turn is coming,
in this year of the cicadas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we
drive, the roar screams and calms and refrains again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I smile at the song, the calling out, the
demand for more, for Now!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time, short
for these cicadas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time, fast, for my
son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I
turned 50 in this year of the cicadas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How could that be?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only just
grew my own new skin, an adult, emerging from too long a sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My body, hiding cancer, fighting it,
recovering from it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My body changing,
ending cycles of time, and cycles of life-giving potential.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Becoming more fragile and stronger, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With menopause marking time, roaring and
calming, and quieting the hormonal chaos that leads me into the next phase of
time.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In
this brief moment of time, I have learned to love deeply in many
directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been cared for and
loved in ways never before imagined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have shed my old skin, and am growing a new layer that fits, smoothly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this year of the cicada I have heard the tympanic
rhythm of life and death, of love and friendship, of healing and forgiveness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have watched the emergence of my three
small children, newly born adults set free in the world adrift and apart but
held tight by the roar of my heart and the threads of my love, tightly woven
into lace, strong as the branches of the oak, light as the wings of the
cicada.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Time
measured by healing, and growth, and the roar of life calling from beyond my
safe front porch, in this year of the cicada, we will all journey ahead. Safely and loved deeply.</span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-75840096648514126542013-06-14T08:03:00.001-04:002013-06-14T13:00:40.049-04:00That Great Big Joker In The Sky: Thanking God<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">There is the belief about
God having a sense of humor....And it makes me certain that this God is Irish,
because this sense of humor of his shall we say, is dark, perhaps teetering
just at sadistic. Much like Frank
McCourt’s humor, these God-given moments can provide tear jerking laughs, the
laughs that come so hard you cry in the depth of the darkest times. Anyone familiar with <i>Angela’s Ashes</i> knows it was
not a comedy, but there were times throughout reading that I never laughed so
hard at the careful turning of words, and frozen moments in time that were
otherwise tragic, except for the glint
and devil in the eye of the storyteller and his gift to seize the comedy of
life, and death, and all that comes between through careful manipulation of words and tricks of the light that shines upon them.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">This was the year I was
going to pull it all together. Stand up
after a divorce fashioned not by God, but some much darker being. This was the year I was going to take stock
in what I had, give gratitude, leave a few kind gestures at the altar of
survival, perhaps a lamb chop or two, a few sprigs of black cohosh, maybe a few family photos, from a family I
barely recognize anymore, or the fender of my minivan. Maybe I’ll leave a joke from a friend who
hails from Mexico, all in the timing, delivery, thank you Mr. Garcia!.... Gracias........<i>DeNada</i>! Each time he says
this he laughs heartily. “Thanks” (ever so sweetly stated, followed by a long
pause) “For Nothing” (loudly
growled). Delivered any other way, “Thanks, It was
nothing."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I was going to look
forward, only. I had spent way too long
in a place I never wanted to see again.
I was running like those long ago, forever engraved last images of
children and families running from Cambodia as the last U.S. servicemen and
civilians left, long ago on the news channels of my youth. Did they look back? I imagine not for a very long time. Survival is like that. Looking back may cause you to perish, misstep,
lose your space on that helicopter toward freedom. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I ran until I could slow
my step, catch my breath, take a few long strides and start to walk. I had to correct a
few stumbles and stops, in calm and comfort, and look around, you know, smell
the roses, breathe in the fresh air, and take stock in where I am, who I am
spending time with, and where I want to be headed. Deep full cleansing breaths. Smiles.
First one or two, now many, often, frequently. Get my footing...SLAM! Smack! POW! Right into the brick wall of....What? How???
psssst...cancer...psst don’t look now but you’ve been growing yourself a
well nourished batch of it right there smack dab in the middle of your
face! Two different types of patches as a matter of fact. Seems my internal being, neglected
to get the message across loudly and swiftly.
What with all that new breathing and smiling and oodles of warm friends
that were growing all around me. And
thank God for warm friends!</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">This slam to the
schnozola reminds me that God is a regular old joker. That I can pretend to think I have some
control over my life, over what I wish to see and not see, but he’s got the
last say, or the first say, or some long list of obstacles and hurdles with my
name stamped in big </span><span style="font-family: "Bernard MT Condensed";">BOLD</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> writing waiting to unfold and reveal themselves
to me. It reminds me of those catchy
little phrases that we hold on to, to push us through these times, “God only
gives you what you can handle”. UNCLE! I give!
I’m not really that tough, it’s an act, an Irish thing I have going with
stoic aplomb. It’s all Blarney! Do I start honing my hidden damsel in
distress? Do I even have one? Is it near my inner child? It couldn’t be, my inner child is taking up a
great deal of space skipping and leaping and twirling myself right out of
cancer, and all the other struggles that have presented themselves of
late. “When one door closes, a window
opens”, or something like that. I always
mutter to my smart ass self, don’t let the screen door hit you in the center of
your big, smart ass....so I can’t always see the window that opened and I don’t
know why I now need to crawl out of it or into it, I much prefer the front door
with a big brass knocker, alerting you to my arrival. Pour me a tall one! I’m going to sit for a spell!</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Fortunately, and I say
that with a shit eating grin, because only I and my Irish forebears, (and
everyone else that rallies themselves out of these very larger than life-sized
struggles), can see them somehow as fortunate manifestations of a God with a
sadistic sense of humor. I remember
watching the footage post Katrina when some survivors in New Orleans, lost
everything and said earnestly, Thank God we’re alive! No one thanked God for Katrina, or cancer, or
other dark disturbances that abound. It
may sound as though my faith and my fury are somehow ready to duke it out, but,
fortunately, ahem, my faith is bigger than my fury. It is a faith made from
eclectic gatherings of twigs and strings and spiritual flotsam collected in and
out of traditional religious teachings, universal energy, the transformative
power of love, good friends, a sunset, or a hot bowl of chicken soup. It is strong nonetheless.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">So fortunately, my skin
cancer was extensive enough to remove the tip of my nose. And I don’t mean the tip, like an itty bitty
felt tip marker sized tip, but the tip, like the entire front end. And the fortunate part is, I was able to have
my forehead repurposed into a nose. In a
three part surgery that took place over 5 weeks, start to finish. My nose was removed or at least the front end,
a 1 x 3 inch wide slice of my forehead was partially removed and made into a
trunk, while the remaining parts were stretched and stitched back together,
providing another fortunate bonus, forehead wrinkle removal. The flap was gently rolled like a nice piece
of ham at a family luncheon, and one end was sewn on to the remaining parts of
my nose at the flaring nostrils. So,
fortunately, my nose was removed, but was refashioned and regrown anew. And well fortunately, the cancer was stopped
from spreading any further, for now.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">During the recovery
stage, and after Googling every bit of forehead flap reconstruction video and
article, I learned a great deal. I can’t
say I tried to tap the truncated stalk which I learned would be felt on my
forehead since the tissue was still alive and nourishing my new nose tip, but I
had a rather odd experience of my own.
Because, well, God and I both have a twisted sense of humor and so here
goes: it seemed, well.... rather, phallic.
I know, it’s odd, but it was made with fore (head) skin and it was stalk
like, ending in a bulbous tip. And the bulbous tip, well, was a little loose
fitting at first...I know, the inner child, the ridiculousness of it all. I suppose God only gives you what you can
manage and then he helps you manage it in ways that are bizarre and
unlikely. It’s definitely odd, but you
have to laugh, right? And well it was
rather funny, or just plain old twisted.</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I’m in the final stage
of recovery. My stalk has been removed,
my nose is starting to nicely resemble <i>my</i>
nose. I don’t think I will be stopped
for indecent exposure any time soon. My
forehead has been cleared of all wrinkles, and my stitches will be removed next
week. My restrictions post surgery are a
bit funny too. God just has his hand in
everything doesn’t he! That great big joker in the sky!</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">These are my
restrictions: </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Do Not Drive a car or operate machinery such as
sewing machines, lawn mowers, snow blowers, chain saws, stoves, bicycles,
snowmobiles, motorcycles, and all terrain vehicles.</span></i><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">OK lets go through this
shall we? Sewing Machines? Really?
Who was on this committee meeting to determine these restrictions at the
medical board? The fashion police and
representatives of the Duck Dynasty clan?
Sewing machines? Why not? Am I going to sew myself an ugly dress? The likelihood of my nose getting caught in
the threader seems impossible, even with the temporary swelling. Stoves? What does that mean? Is a stove considered operational machinery?
Like turning the knobs? I’m allowed to
use my blender, and my washing machine has no restrictions. Snow blowers and Snowmobiles? There’s no
mention of the SkiDoo, but I don’t have one, <i>yet</i>. There must be a restriction list for the
spring or summer, or all destinations south.
I can apparently skateboard and operate the Tilt-o-Whirl, but I will be
healed by the time the carnival rides come to town, another fortunate result of
God scheduling in the skin cancer at this time I suppose. So I won’t be carving a grizzly bear in any
stumps in my front yard, I can’t collect the 8 pt. deer with my ATV, I suppose
using firearms was not restricted, the NRA seems to have more power then
God..., my Evel Knievel jumps will have
to wait a week or two, the weather does not hold out any hopes of snow and I
won’t be able to mow my lawn for a bit.
Ah, I might as well sit back use my blender for some frozen daiquiris
and toast to God Almighty and pray to the fashion police for saving me from
sewing a dress or a nose covering snood.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I could further count my blessings that my post surgery medicine wasn't going to give me any 6 hour erections or cause small children to grow body hair and breasts if they came into contact with it, </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">one commercial of late warns of a mystery product for men that can cause symptoms
of male features in a woman or child who comes into contact with the medication. Pleading with you to call your doctor if <i>your female partner has male-pattern
baldness, excessive body hair growth, increased acne, irregular
menstrual periods, or any other signs of male characteristics. </i> I for one didn't realize men had irregular menstrual cycles, I always believed they didn't have any at all...go figure! And how unfortunate and ungodly!</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I have one more week
before I start training for the Warrior Dash.
A 5k run with obstacles aplenty to aim any bits of fury I have left in
me and garner enough faith to carry me through.
Thank God for fire pits and Viking helmets! And grace and speed in recovery. Oh and Thank God for sunblock too. Put it on,
frequently! Take Care and Godspeed.</span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-34910408668446158252013-06-09T20:20:00.002-04:002013-06-14T08:22:13.980-04:00The Things We Do For Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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</style><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Last night I was out with a
group of friends. Great, loving,
supportive friends. Strong, powerful,
women, group of friends. Mothers
all. We enjoyed dinner, and drinks, and
ease of conversation. And we
laughed. Hard and long. We discussed current challenges, highlights,
travel adventures and toasted to hopes and dreams.</span>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We are all at this point in
our lives when our children are all launched, or two months shy of complete
acceleration, 10, 9, 8, 7.....3, 2, 1, Blast off! Undoubtedly our kids come up
in conversations, the struggles, conflicts, celebrations, achievements, and
everything in between. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Somehow we started
discussing Chuck E. Cheese and early birthday mayhem. A communal experience of our time as parents
in the trenches, of our children’s ages, of life in the suburban sprawl of
ordinariness and shared childhood experience.
We, on the other hand all had transistor radios, Click-clacks, Barbie
and banana seats on our bikes. Our
birthday parties meant a few friends came over and had cake and maybe pizza or
tacos. If we were going for upscale, it
might have meant fondue, or finger foods.
Frozen egg rolls, piggy’s in the blanket, maybe ordering Chinese food. Long before strip mall plazas featured
structured environments of chaos or birthday events that began to set up the
expectation of second mortgaged bar mitzvahs, or sweet sixteen events that rivaled
reality shows that produced Hilton’s and Kardashian’s, and Osbourne’s. How did this happen and why did we all go
along with it? Maybe the same reason we
all had mood rings or pet rocks, or crushes on Donny Osmond, David Cassidy,
Davey Jones, Bobby Sherman or Rex Smith.
That collective generational experience and need for belonging.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I admitted one of my
children's first birthday was celebrated at Chuck E. Cheese. The invitation promised small children a good
time, and parents were promised beer.
That wellspring of birthday joy. Needless
to say my one year old had no need of a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese, or
anywhere outside the purview of our home.
I, on the other hand, was recently divorced, forging my way forward, in
need of some semblance of family, or stand-in’s that could fill the void
created by the recent divorce. It
worked, for me. It worked for her older
brother, 3 ½. It worked for the parents
who liked the free beer and tolerated the bad pizza, it worked for their
children. My one year old laughed and
smiled and was adored by all. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I haven’t second mortgaged
any parties along the way. I have gotten
close for college payments, car insurance, tux rentals, and gas expenses in a
mini-van made especially for emphasizing drudgery and domestic disdain. I have however, suffered a few serious
unpleasantries at Discovery Zone. That
was the place with the room full of balls and chutes and ladders that children
drowned in, cried in, were stepped on in, and got lost in. For reasons I can’t fathom, or forgive, on
the two occasions I went because my children were invited to someone else’s
birthday parties, disaster struck. These were the kind of parties that 40 other
children are invited to. The precursor
to Facebook friend lists of 598 and counting.
Honestly, who has 40 close friends at 5 or 6 or 7? I don’t have that many now, or at 35, or 40, or
45. And let me tell you something else,
on those two occasions that my children were part of some en masse birthday
devastation, they didn’t have 40 close friends either. This is where the
bubonic plague game was being developed, like some Jurassic Park sequel. The place had to be shut down, while a small
child caused the clearing of the ball pit due to terrorist germ warfare tactics
or loose bowels. Who was that kid? Were they the 41<sup>st</sup> child that
didn’t make the cut? A junior rendition
of Carrie? </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">These are the times that we
can now, en masse, look back on, raise our drinks and laugh loudly knowing we
made it through. How many of us haven’t
been forced up the chute to retrieve one of our children, screaming in terror,
willfully blocking other children from entering, or staring us down and
refusing to leave? I have a few
unpleasant memories of wanting to go a wee bit postal in these communal pits of disaster and diarrhea enhancing ditches. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I wish now I was a bit more
grounded in myself back then to simply look at my children when they approached me with
these invites and smiled through my white lying teeth, saying <i>“Ooooohhhhh, sorry
Momma’s little sugar, we have plans that night to test drive the van into the
lake and see which one of you plums is the very best swimmer in the family”</i>. Maybe I could have said, “<i>Oh Momma’s got a
migraine that will last through your 25<sup>th</sup> birthdays. Let’s see that puts us well into 2020, when
did you say the party was? Oooh sugars,
go pull the shades, I feel the migraine aura coming on.</i>” I didn’t always say no when I knew better, I
thought I could somehow remain calm and grounded in the feeding grounds of
pandemic reaching disease sharing. Or
numerous other events that left me frazzled and foul feeling and even acting. These precious children of mine didn’t always
understand that I was somehow attempting, albeit misguidedly, to offer them
opportunities for fun and friendship and overall happiness. Instead I may have left them a little scarred
and road wary and confused. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I suppose, I didn’t
appreciate or understand a great many things my parents did on my behalf or in
seeming direct opposition to. We try our
best. Sometimes we make the mark. The lavender sugared pansy cupcakes are still
talked about. I hand dipped each pansy,
while humming happily. There were
probably 24 cupcakes in all. Enough for
seconds, and for a brother or two. At
that sleepover no one had to be showered by HAZMAT officials. And I didn’t scream once. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I’m not alone in this. I have several, strong, powerful, beautiful
friends that are laughing themselves off their bar stools as we look back at the
things we’ve done for love, when we were much better off doing them for sanity
and self-preservation or out right selfishness.
I have a few stories from sporting events, and nightmare prom
photo-shoots that rival the red carpet on Oscar night. But honestly, it’s all behind me, and at some
point my children will have children and realize I was perhaps really crazy,
but not anymore so then they will be as they rescue their own precious loves
from some diarrhea pit of parenting.
And by then I will be able to hug my very own grandbabies and give them
handfuls of sugar. And wave bye-bye as
their bowels start to loosen from a days worth of cookies and fruit juice and
maybe a couple of bowls of guilt free spoiling and anxiety free loving. </span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-35529885332013453542013-05-23T11:03:00.000-04:002013-05-23T11:08:02.251-04:00Life, Death, Man, Woman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Countless articles, books, seminars, retreats, pow-wows and treatises
have delved into the subject of gender differences and relationships, or
specifically working relationships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More
to the point, and if I may, the issue of keeping the fire hot with burning love in a
relationship with the two opposing, or at least contrasting genders in effect,
or ineffectual, unaffectionate, inefficient, inundated, and inept is in real need of revelation and renewal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The ethereal, somewhat obscure, stream of consciousness, out of both
gender body experiences that Terrence Malick conveys in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To The Wonder,</i> as well as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Tree of Life</i> are perhaps, or at least in my twisted little mind, the new
blueprint for gender disparities and maybe holds the key to relationship
building, or keeping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK, I know, it’s
art house drivel, ethereal who-hah, whispering winds, and let’s get the hell
out of the theater before my goiter acts up, or my veins throb, or my
indigestion becomes unbearable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But hold
on, pay careful attention, Malick creates these caricatures of American Men and
American Women that are not quite so far fetched from the reality of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a gender based role call<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that was created by early Neanderthal beings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Man hunts, Woman does the rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK, fine, hunting was really hard, and the threat
of velociraptors interrupting the card games was stress producing, while the
girls stayed home and picked fleas, or mites, or ringworm from their blessed
babies heads, and trunks, and scabied ankles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You know, doing all that girlish primping and such. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The menfolk go to WORK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
carry the weight of the toxically polluted world on their shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can they find words when faced with the
life and death realities of everyday living in sprawling suburban Tru-Green
enhanced yards?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The women, left to care
for the children and twirl around in dresses as light as the toxic fumes that
dull their wits, crave the words that men can’t bare to mutter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life. Death. Man. Woman.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Terrence Malick takes a bold risk by introducing a modern, new concept
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To The Wonder</i>, a woman that goes
to WORK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She twirls. And breathes in the
same light toxic fumes that make her crave the words that man won’t speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even while she manhandles the feed, in gasps
and sighs as she cares for her cattle, and horses, and buffalo on her manly
ranch, where men won’t stay, or speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">So I don’t know Terry Malick, or what goes on in his curious little
mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Oh, sorry, Mr. Malick, I’m sure
it’s a verrrrry big mind.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anywho….I
think he’s onto something huge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or at
least he’s laying the groundwork here and it’s high time us girls either
embrace the twirling or balance the twirling or put a new spin on our
expectations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For reasons I can’t even
begin to fathom, but I am altogether giddy about, I have recently, over the
past year or two, embraced my twirl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve always liked a twirl in a
particularly twirly skirt, but that was generally between hurling feed, and
digging trenches and working and picking tics off the backs of my babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it might have something to do with aging,
all twirly and gracefully, and with more time and less trenches in need of
digging and babies that have grown far and wide and can do their own picking
should they be inclined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">My mind wanders, as it does, so lightly and twirly like the toxic fumes
of a polluted world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will add, I did
my little part in keeping the world safe by limiting or refusing the use of
most toxins so that I could feel all good and twirly as I raised up my babies
to raise up their babies and so on and so forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Read that sentence again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the kicker, the secret, the difference
between Man and Woman in the world at large, the world of cinema and the world
of differences that still, always, infinitely exist, unless we heed Terrence
Malick’s certain message and change our way of being. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">A few months back I saw another deep and thoughtful non-art house
flick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Warm Bodies.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A zombie love
story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It made me cry. Really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friends laughed at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They seem to imagine me an art house flick
bon vivant. (snicker snicker). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
everyone knows zombies are for boys, and Men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Warm Bodies</i> was a love
story of boy meets girl, a modern spin on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Romeo
and Juliet</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After my friends are
finished laughing at me, we start to talk about the zombie genre and well, the
gender difference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Girls like vampire
romances, beauty and the beast, bad boy, hungry man,
ggggggrrrrrrrrrlllllllll<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>sexy love and
romance movies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those hopeful tales of
true love conquering all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The biggest
problem in these flicks?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What will the
babies be like?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Monsters like their Dads?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter, we’ll love them anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The zombie movies that the boys like are
entirely different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Post apocalyptic
plagues, lead pollutants in your water supply, one surviving antidote, all of
man kind perishing, save you (him) and his family that he stoically loves
without smiling or revealing as much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
must save the world. Now. Within his lifetime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those damn silly women are always out there procreating like rabbits
filling up houses and suburbs with babies that have more babies and so on and
so forth that all need to be saved, by Man, One Special MAN.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">After watching<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To the Wonder</i>, I start a thinkin’ like I
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m uncharacteristically unoffended
by the portrayal of women, and men in this movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact I can relate to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bright twirling dresses, the faith bound
hope of church membership, the desire for children, the joy of a new washing
machine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can I not?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was raised on it, spoon fed like the grass
fed cattle on the ranch of hope and desperation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I mean that in the most twirly of
ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think of movies that evoke
something familiar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK sit tight, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sound of Music.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know it might seem silly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there are meadows and spinning and
twirling, and THE DARK BROODING MAN that gets the sweet pretty little nun to
stop serving God and sing all day with 8 or 9 of his cherubic, corn fed
children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know, was little Lisl
the 9<sup>th</sup> child, or the 8<sup>th</sup>, let’s see, Greta, Sprilinka,
Hans, Dunkoff, Ninkumpoop, Heindrich, and Sleepy or Dopey…No matter, they will
all grow up and have children and ride a bus through the alps singing for their
supper, and having more babies and life will go on and on and on, in spite of
the DARK BROODING MEN that start wars to ensure the self-fulfilling prophecy of
apocalyptic doom and gloom and Gosh darn it someone has to take these things
seriously, how the hell can women expect men to come home and talk when the
world is ending?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can they take us
seriously when we are spinning ourselves into little tizzies of joy and elation
because the socks are all matched up and balled and placed in individual
laundry baskets that line the laundry room floor? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">But for the life of me, and maybe it has something to do with the
serotonin rush and euphoric daze caused by spinning, I have permanently slowed
down the neurotransmission connectors with all that turbulence, but how on
Earth do women today, and even last week and back a decade or three, how is it
that we keep raising up our boys to be stress mongering apocalyptic doomsayers,
and our girls to be planning a big fancy dress twirling wedding from the time
they are old enough to stand up and carry a bouquet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">But enough about the kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here’s
the bigger question, or the question I know many of my peers, colleagues,
confidantes, a couple or so narcissistic bon vivants, friends, and lovers are
facing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do we do when we reach this
age of say 40, or 50, or 60 and the kids are already screwed, or like that
other flick, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Kids Are Alright</i>, and
we aren’t dead yet, and 50 years into it the men are starting to see they were
fed a lot of toxic feed and the world isn’t really ending, and even if it does,
well they are not in the same tip top shape to help slay the zombies and they
might put up a little fight for old time sake, but that’s what the young turks
are here for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the women, we are wanting
to be all twirly and have our flaming embers stoked as we ride into the sunset
naked without children seeing us or pointing to our privates and asking us
annoying questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Somehow along the way, we stopped understanding these big vital
differences, or the pact that we embraced, and lifted, and placed on the altar
of dreams and desires. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We let the men
believe they were big and strong and everything we needed to make our lives complete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They let us believe a lilting laugh and
little twirl could get them to save us from the big bad world filled with all
those other twirly women and non-talking men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And now what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard to keep
up this version of the pact and well, our children aren’t around so we tend
toward not putting on our game faces and promoting the dream that our children
will also aspire to but not quite figure out how to see through, because it’s a
bit impossible and we are sick little f’ers for continuing to promote it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(It may not sound it, but I am truly, twirly
and happy even in my honest and direct approach at getting to the heart and
soul of something, even if I may be caught eating the heart out of it in the
process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Suffice it to say, I’m
tactile, I need to experience things full on, hungry like the wolf, or the wolf
man, all full of determination and grit and twirl. Or maybe the Terrence Malick
thing is offending on some subconscious level of a biologically gendered,
inclination toward denial and festering up and through.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Aha, my subconscious streaming of thoughts and ideas just revealed this
to me: we are biologically inclined toward denial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How else do we continue to raise babies and
make mountains of hope in a world filled with war, and poverty, and pollution,
and poisons?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Damn if the men know, they
are busy working on new weapons of mass destruction and wondering why you need
them to mow the lawn, can’t you see they are slowly dying a thousand deaths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it too late to keep pumping that toxically
magic fantasy into our tired veins?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can
we make up a new pact or reexamine what was in the original? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think Terrence Malick, has come upon
something big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe not as big as the
Book of Mormon, or the Burning Bush, but something big nonetheless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We need to change things up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life is different, waaaaaaaayyyyyyyyy
different and we need to acknowledge that and embrace it and lift it toward our
newly fashioned altars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">When I was a young’un, people didn’t actually live as long as they do
now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People died of heart attacks and
cancer, most of the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t
get second and third and maybe fourth chances with the modern scope of medical
advances available today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t
get new hips and knees and hearts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
didn’t hike high peaks and run marathons at 50 and 60 and 70 with new knees and
hearts and reworked feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Women didn’t
work in the same way we work now, full time, with necessary wages that also
provide for the family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We aren’t as
dependent on men as we once were, but we still have an innate or ingrained
lingering sense that we can’t live without them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe, just maybe, we don’t need to, but we
still want to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Men still carry the burden of stress, real or imagined, it’s still there
and it still impacts their health, their outlook on life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They feel under appreciated and maybe even
unnecessary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They reach this point when
they face the reality that the apocalypse was safely held at bay at least for
the next generation and find themselves living with someone that seemed to be
twirling and breathing in toxic fumes and wiping snotty noses, but suddenly has
a financial portfolio and a 501K that can support them into a couple of wild
romps with a few newly hipped models, and how the hell did that happen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Jon Baskin, writes of the film, in the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Los Angeles Review of Books “ </i></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Salvation,
if there is any, resides in the kinds of commitments that the characters fail
over and over to make — to one another, to God, to themselves.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think another change worth noting, in
society, across the genders, is our concept of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything is so fast and instant and
gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Commitment is a term that has
changed in etymology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marriage was a
lifelong commitment, back when life was not as long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Adherence to religion and God, is also fluid
with fewer palpable consequences for any lack of adherence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A world with pharmaceutical potions and
plastic surgery packages to reverse time and aging, make commitments to health
and well being a pill or appointment away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But meaningful relationships and deep compassionate connections are not
easily borne or sustained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They only
work as well as the time and effort given to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no pill or procedure that can change
that.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I don’t have all the answers, and I, myself am in the market for an
originally hipped, or newly hipped model of my very own, but I do still believe
this concept of marriage or gender-blending, or gender identical relationships
can work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Call me crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a true believer, in spite of needing a
few test models to see it through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Love
deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be twirly around the big strong
protective arms of your man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reinvent, or
brush off the old charm, add a few new tricks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Reveal some deep hidden wanderlust, or get out and make a go of it with
a wide open heart on the road to new beginnings. Try really hard to imagine
that we don’t have to keep these roles in lock-step concordance for a bright or
bleak tomorrow that may or may not belong to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Live today, fully with love and joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twirl in the not so toxic meadow of marital
bliss or the newly found meadow of another chance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if that doesn’t work, go all out and
introduce wild, erotic, zombie fantasy extravaganzas to rekindle the fires of
earlier twirls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For heavens sake, the
kids are all gone, loosen up and laugh widely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Remember and Rebuild.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Personally, I am letting go of a lot of old conformities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m challenging the system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My flames may or may not be stoked but I’m
risking it, and ready for direct and honest let’s meet head on sparks to
fly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Winner takes all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll be out twirling and laughing and looking
over my shoulders for men and zombies and life giving kisses because I did my
laundry and balled up all my socks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
Go Time! </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-76767799234774151862013-05-21T12:43:00.001-04:002013-05-22T23:19:07.840-04:00The Potential Magic of Pie on the Time and Space Continuum<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A friend recommended I read the book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Anatomy of an Illness</i> by Norman Cousins recently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The illness that I’m currently dealing with is skin cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The biopsy, diagnosis, scheduled surgery, extensive follow up reconstructive surgery that came on it's tail, occurred across 3 weeks time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hardly enough time to read a book dealing with an illness in an effort to prepare, cope, come to terms with, and land squarely on my feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But hey, that’s the time-frame I’m working with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the months preceding as I wondered, checked, taunted my doctor by showing up with my nose and the tiny, little mark on it, and viewing all of the videos and images that deal with skin cancer and treatments and reconstructive surgeries, well, those months are long gone, and I wasn’t reading any books, but ‘cept those I needed for my current college course load, Policy, Public Administration and other romantic comedy sketches of that nature. Additional surgery is scheduled and so I have some more time and this new book to read.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Waiting until the mark was good and raging before approaching my doctor and saying, “hey, dr. buddy, not for nothing, but what the hell is that thing and why won’t it go away?” was maybe not the best use of my time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still haven’t exactly mastered the best use of my time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strategies and schedules not withstanding, I fill up every ounce of my time and even borrow some into the wee late hours of the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Living to the fullest, maybe to make up for some other long stretches of time I did not use so well, or toward the best possible outcome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have wasted a vast chunk of time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My daughter spent the first four years of her life in a constant state of wakefulness, for similar reasons, most of which are genetic and biologically inherent of nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is “her mother’s daughter” as they say. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She did not want to miss a moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a single one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was unable to convey, the moments that were going on, had she taken a nap, were not moments that amounted to much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would have been quiet and calming and restorative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead they were moments of struggle and determination until ultimate collapse and exhaustion as I attempted to get her to take a nap because she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">needed</i> one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had I stepped back and let her refuse her naps, she probably would have learned this on her own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she wasn’t inclined at 14 months old, to hoist herself out of her crib onto her 3 year old brother that she had already trained to become her safety mat for high performing stunts and hi-jinx, maybe I would have stepped back in calm and assurance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He broke her fall enthusiastically awaiting an adventure to fill those otherwise mundane moments of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those two, loose at her command?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t ready to find out where that train was headed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twenty plus years later, she has filled up her moments with joy and color and life, her safety mat lives far away but continues to be entertained and enamored of her charms and adventure seeking zest for life and filling up of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I have this memory from long ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was maybe 5 or 6.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My family packed into a car heading “upstate” late in the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We traveled at night, a good use of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beating the traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Following my father’s work schedule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When three of four children would be sleeping as opposed to talking and bickering and asking are we there yet and needing to go to the bathroom or wanting to sit near the window or crying because she touched me or he looked at me or she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i> gets the window, and he won’t give me back my doll, my pretzel, my blanket….<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This may be the one time that I made the best use of my time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stayed awake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quietly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taking it all in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thinning of traffic, the stars alight in a vast and open sky, the sounds of crickets, or cicadas, or frogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sound of my parents speaking gently and friendly, amiably, maybe even affectionately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sound not often heard around a railroad flat in Queens with four sprightly, frenzied, teetering children and all the charms that go along with that particular continuum of time and space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Late into the night we drove, and then my mother suggested we stop, so that my father could eat, he must be hungry from a long day or at least get coffee for the continued drive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By then they knew I was still awake, as they checked on my siblings, all deep asleep, safe. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I joined them in a diner for coffee and pie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coconut Custard pie, just because, it was exotic, and I could read the words, and I could ask for it, in a diner late in the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also a rare and magical occurrence, we did not tend toward diners or restaurants or luxurious expenses such as these.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have never experienced pie quite that magically again, but I continue to enjoy late hours with a glint and optimism and a readiness to say yes to pie and drives late into the unknown star filled evenings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve just marked a big birthday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>50 years. Beautiful, amazing, challenging and happy, give or take a month or two, years of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was planning my time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I s</span>cheduled an art opening commemorating what it has meant to be this woman, in this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have planned a party to mark these years and look forward to spending more time in peace and happy and hopeful for all of the pie seeking adventures to come. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as much as I like to fill my time and use up every moment, my time was being a little unruly and had thoughts of it’s own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It scheduled in an unpredictable amount of illness, in the anatomical region of my nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went and got skin cancer, so I needed to go and get rid of it, and a large portion of my nose right smack in the middle of some timed events and an otherwise complete face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The procedure to rid oneself of skin cancer that was performed on me is called Moh’s Surgery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In stages, small, specific amounts of skin is removed and biopsied until the cancer is removed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hope is one stage will get it, but it usually needs a couple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed three, each one leaving me sinking further into a place unknown and unwanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thought about skin cancer these days is that it is not really a big deal, and it is easily dealt with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the scheme of things, this is correct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the scheme is around cancer, and long term illness, and fear of death or permanent disfigurement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my mind, I was not comforted by the ease and ordinariness of skin cancer and it’s removal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a big sinking feeling it would be bad, and it would need big, reconstructive surgery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When this was confirmed I had a choice between a skin graft that would not match my skin, would not adequately conceal the surgery or conform to my sense of self, but could happen immediately, and reconstructive surgery that will take several weeks to complete and have amazing results over the course of a year, I did momentarily think of time, and plans, and my party and art show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And well, giving in to time and space, and the reality that I don’t have to spend every waking moment seeking out the pie chasing potential is a lesson whose time has come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m enjoying the book a great deal and appreciate the recommendation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Norman Cousins, the author recounts an illness he had in 1964.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, a great long time ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back when people couldn’t say illness, or cancer, out loud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t discuss fears and fatalities and the psychological manifestations of physiological ailments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This book speaks to the power of the human spirit, hope and faith and laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also speaks to the “subconscious fear of never being able to function normally again”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We speak about things more these days, 49 years later, but not exactly openly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More in context with an Oprah approval rating, information that is shared on live or taped television segments with applause and timed close-ups helping us to know how to react and respond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This book, is helping me to focus in on this particular time of my life, and reading it slowly through my recovery stage has been a gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My fears are not so large.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m gaining permission to feel them and not push them aside or hurry them through for fear of losing time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve been in a mad rush the past few years to overcome a divorce, a marriage that supported a lifetime of suppressing my desire to live fully in each moment, within some socially acceptable time constraints, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In retrospect and within the cliché of being forced to put things in perspective, I feel quite differently about time today. </span><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There was this vivid moment in time between surgery when I understood how much time I have wasted on foolish possibilities and out of control fears and what ifs when I could have been simply enjoying pie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chasing down dreams with intensity and near bouts of despair have not served me. I won’t spend another moment thinking that through, and over, and wrestling down regrets. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was talking to the doctor and assisting nurse, lightly discussing life, parenting, being single, being me, basically. Open and approachable and grounded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It suddenly struck me how surreal everything was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was talking and at ease and laughing, without a nose on my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With cancer doing it’s thing and a warrior doctor removing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>There have been times that a pimple, or a few extra pounds would make me debilitatingly self-conscious. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Decades of social anxiety have left me mumbling and awkward and staggering with hives to find my place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then cancer arrives and provides this opportunity to gently remind, life is short but pulsating and thrilling with equal amounts of mundane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Naps are restorative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kissing is pleasurable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talking to your children with love and compassion in between bouts of what the hell is happening is necessary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sunblock is non-negotiable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laughter is infectious. Worry is wasted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dancing is exhilarating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being open to encounters with other humans is life giving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pie has the potential to be magic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Norman Cousins sums it up best, the question to be asked of doctors, of hospitals, and for me, of myself, is whether or not I am of the belief and expectation that good things will happen .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe just not on a schedule written in pen that I want to have control over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">In the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Anatomy of an Illness</i>, Mr. Cousins weaves a great deal of Albert Schweitzer’s zest for life into his story of overcoming disease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He talks about his propensity toward life and laughter and how it helped him overcome illness and pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Music and humor and keeping company with caring compassionate friends seem timeless antidotes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been enjoying encounters and the opportunity to have my flame burst open and rekindled of late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course all the flaming bursts of inner fires rekindled could be the comorbidity of menopause and cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It could also be the euphoric effect of pain killers, but I don’t think so, I stopped those a day or two ago. </span><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> - Albert Schweitzer</span><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The party is on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There will be dancing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And laughter and maybe I will wear a scarf or an obnoxious pair of Groucho Marx glasses with a disguised nose, or maybe I will trust that good things will happen and time is of the essence but it is not mine to mold. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My scars, and stitched up nose are suddenly insignificant <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>minor flaws in the scheme of things on this particular stage of my place on the time and space continuum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Come and dance with me for this brief and fluid time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897525367330827194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6752694093838715262.post-83235538722540369812013-05-07T14:17:00.000-04:002013-05-07T14:17:28.932-04:00Extreme Wishes and Abundant Satisfaction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In less than a week I am going in for surgery to remove a
small bit of cancer.<span> </span>This news was
discovered rather quickly and I scheduled the surgery as soon as possible after
hearing.<span> </span>It’s skin cancer, which could
mean very little, in the scheme of cancers and concern and the ratio of worry
that I should expend on it.<span> </span>It’s still
scary.<span> </span>There is still a process to go
through and it will still have an impact on my life that will alter the way I
do business from here on out.<span> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For starters, I will never leave the house again without
sunblock.<span> </span>Which might actually be a
little too little, a little to late.<span> </span>But
it will impact my children and my children’s children.<span> </span>It will impact my friends.<span> </span>It has already, I am happy to say.<span> </span>They will be much more sun sensible.<span> </span>Today was sunny and clear and
beautiful.<span> </span>It was the first day in two
weeks that I have actually gone outside under the sun.<span> </span>I had a most incredible day.<span> </span><span> </span>I was
lathered up in sunblock and so I only worried a great deal as opposed to
completely catastrophising and hiding indoors or starting work on building my underground
bunker.<span> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve started to consider what I might want from the
Make-A-Wish foundation as well.<span> </span>But I
don’t think they will deliver him.<span> </span>And
I’ve even begun to explore the idea of doing something over the top in a thrill
seeking capacity like maybe riding REALLY fast through Walmart on one of their <span></span>motorized scooters, or maybe inviting a friend
or three to play bumper scooters or capture the flag.<span> </span>Maybe I’ll just rent a very large RV and park
it at Walmart, put up a sign that says “if the van’s a rockin’ don’t come
knockin’ and buy a few mini-trampolines for my friends to jump on.<span> </span>You know wild and crazy stuff like that-
Extreme.<span> </span>I think the high school social
studies teacher from my high school on Long Island had that on his van come to
think of it, way back when, high school teacher’s could be pedophiles and no
one raised an eyebrow.<span> </span>Way back when we
didn’t need sunblock and the students had a smoking lounge. <span> </span>There was probably a lounge for that
long-haired hippie-like teacher too. <span> </span>Jeez,
now if you want a smoke you actually have to walk off school property and the
schools are mostly closed campuses.<span> </span>No
wonder kids take to extremes and scream and threaten.<span> </span>I suppose it’s not all the violent video
games, after all.<span> </span>It’s probably
thrombosis from the walking or a nicotine withdrawal, God knows it’s not linked
to twinkies ‘cause they took those away too.<span>
</span>The kids these days need something to suffer on.<span> </span>They don’t have to wear Jane Fonda inspired
leotards or Pat Benatar headbands. Now that was <i>extreme</i>.<span> </span><span> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I found myself looking at a cute little BMW convertible a
nanosecond longer than I typically might.<span>
</span>Wistfully, more than longingly.<span>
</span>No one has loved a Toyota Corolla quite like I have.<span> </span>A few days ago, a green jaguar pulled into
the parking lot at school, two cars beyond mine, as I spoke with wild-haired
Fred, a colleague, about my generous parking job. <span> </span>The forest green jaguar pulled right in
without a sound, making my parking job boast fall with a loud clunking thud.<span> </span>Now there’s a car I could enjoy, say on my
way to some "extreme" event, or maybe not.<span>
</span>Don’t know why that particular car thrills me, except for all the
obvious reasons. <span></span>I’m not much of a car
person, but I do like me a nice little forest green jag.<span> </span>Classy.<span>
</span>It wasn’t the ‘66 XJ13, or the ’74 XKE, but it was a looker just the
same.<span> </span>But I’m just not interested in
that as my EXTREME.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So I played softball this weekend.<span> </span>Y’know, with the guys.<span> </span>And some girls.<span> </span>And a dozen or so young-uns with loving, encouraging
Dad’s that guided them into the game and let the little guys bat and run and
play the outfield.<span> </span>(They have pretty
decent Mom’s too but quite a few of them are competitive beasts and game night
rivals, and while I would like to keep it clean and polite…competitive and
beasts… are you hearing me?) <span> </span>It was a
beautiful day.<span> </span>I realize it might be
strange to say, but I think it was up there with the all time top 20 days of my
life, give or take.<span> </span>From start to finish
this was a spectacular day of the most calming and joyful proportions. And filled with all this love and support and encouragement. Nectar of the extremes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Before the game, I got an offer for breakfast that I
declined, because, well, I shared, <span> </span>“I
have a game.”<span> </span>I stood a little
taller.<span> </span>“Oh sorry I’m playing softball
this afternoon.”<span> </span>I tried it on, saying
it as though it was just an ordinary Sunday and I was playing softball.<span> </span>Because well, it could be just ordinary for that
to happen, somewhere, to someone that isn't me, prior to now.<span> </span>I reveal that I am trying it
on, because I have never played softball.<span>
</span>And it feels pretty darn, maybe even, <i>extremely</i> nice to say.<span> </span>The softball game is actually an “extreme” for
me.<span> </span>It becomes really extreme because
not only am I putting myself out of my comfort zone, but I am entirely relaxed
about it and not having more than a few, contained fears of ruining it for the
team, striking out, not hitting quite hard enough and otherwise hoping there
are some rocks on the field to crawl under.<span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Aside from the predictable, somewhat linear, course of
aging, throwing in cancer, even a still thought to be not very serious form or
two, puts things in perspective.<span> </span>Not
being able to hit the ball hard seems like a very small worry.<span> </span>It is, however, the very type of worry so
many of us suffer, like those poor thrombotic children that have to walk off
campus for a smoke to relieve the stress of 3<sup>rd</sup> period phys ed, or
seeing him with her near the locker, or not being invited to the party with the
kids that you don’t really even like to begin with.<span> </span>All those wasted worries that keep us from
trying, or joining, or doing something for fear of some extreme failure, that we won't recover from, or
some extreme joy that we somehow imagine we don’t deserve or won’t get.<span> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I hit the ball.<span> </span>Five
whole times!!!<span> </span>I ran maybe not <i>sooo</i> fast but made it home 4 out of the
5 times.<span> </span>That aging thing is slowing down
my reflexes a tad.<span> </span>I think I could have
started my running a bit sooner after hitting, but I might have needed to let
it all in each time <i>I</i> hit it.<span> </span>I understand now, after all of those little
league and softball games when I sat and watched my children, why they should
not look back after hitting it, but just run like a jaguar, or dance like
Jagger toward first base.<span> </span><span> </span>It was extremely fun.<span> </span>I didn’t squawk or whine or complain when
they put me in the outfield, somewhere sort of toward right field.<span> </span>I got it.<span>
</span>I’m a rookie.<span> </span>And there is that
pleasure of being outside, with enough sunscreen to only slightly panic, on the
field where balls never come, so you don’t ever have to pay full
attention.<span> </span>The best part of playing
quasi right field?<span> </span>We were in Gardiner,
NY at Majestic Park.<span> </span>Ohhhh, about two
minutes from the <i>Skydive the Ranch</i>
headquarters or drop off point.<span> </span>Low
flying planes, sky full of parachutes in a rainbow of brightness falling from
the heavens all day.<span> </span>Extremely
cool.<span> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Photo" class="img" height="420" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-f-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/p480x480/179138_10201389182315478_1235274658_n.jpg" style="left: -33px;" width="640" /> </span></div>
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<span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">photo credit Thuy Bonagura </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was taking it in.<span> </span>I
was thinking.<span> </span>It’s definitely still a
thought.<span> </span>Maybe not between now and my
surgery date, but maybe after my clearance date.<span> </span>Me and brightness falling from the heavens???<span> </span>I’m definitely considering it.<span> </span>So it turns out I don’t really have a burning
desire to do some extreme activity between now and next week.<span> </span>The reality is, I’m extremely happy right
now.<span> </span>I am satisfied, and surrounded with
the knowledge that I have done a great many things that I am proud of.<span> </span>That I have enjoyed and that I have seen
through to the other side.<span> </span>I have
incredible people in my life right now, more than a few.<span> </span>And sure, if someone pulled up and revved his
engine and was ready, willing <i>and</i> available to knock my socks off, I would
certainly have some more extreme fun, but being able to look back and smile, a
bit sheepishly and wide open is pretty nice too.<span> </span></span></span></div>
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</span>As I have been doing openly with the abundance of friends that seem to
not mind my humor, or twisted perspective.<span>
</span>I have been considering what I will miss most during recovery and what I
would like to get in before I lose the opportunity.<span> </span>If the Make-A-Wish folk are listening, I
would like very much to be kissed before next week.<span> </span>In that way that we kiss when we are young,
or newly in love, and passionate about our kisses.<span> </span>When we grab each others faces to pull them
closer to ours to really bring that wet kisser in.<span> </span>As though we are still afraid they might not
return, we may not ever see them again.<span>
</span>Or as though we were blinded by the last kiss and now we have to feel
each others faces for identification.<span>
</span>In visualizing this kiss I can’t help but imagine some awkward attempt
that puts an eye out, or wipes the snot off someone, and so if the kiss doesn’t
come I have others to look back on.<span> </span>I
think I want my face to be seen and touched and grabbed before next week when
there is the potential, post surgery for my remaining intact nostril to be sewn
back on to the remaining cheek skin too tightly.<span> </span>When I might end up with a permanent
stink-eyed snarl as opposed to the chronic snarl I often wear by choice, or
deep and serious distraction. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Godspeed and quick recovery to me, I have to go to the
batting cage, game on, gamine that I am. And then the kissing booth....I might as well throw in a pedicure, I've never done that either.</span></span></div>
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