tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84061878964743196092024-03-12T23:28:55.953-05:00Easy for me to say...A little of this, a little of that, a blessing here and thereKathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.comBlogger384125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-17840282439293707112016-12-29T15:02:00.002-06:002016-12-29T15:02:19.132-06:00I beg to differ<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="s1">Really?<br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1">After watching this video this morning, I have to say that I find Mr. Sinek's generalizations specious.<br /><br />Here's why:</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s2"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Myth-busting</span></b><br />First, it reminds me of the once-conventional wisdom that teens, as a rule, were over-programmed. One really interesting study (before cell phones) gave teens beepers. Whenever they got beeped, they were to write down what they were doing and describe their mood. Turns out most kids didn't have enough to do and were bored: They were way more idle than busy. The investigators concluded that the "myth" of the over-programmed kiddo was perpetuated by highly affluent parents.</span></div>
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<span class="s2">Granted, it's my own world, but my on-the-ground experience differs so much with Mr. Simek's I just can't keep quiet. I've worked with quite a few Millennials in professional publishing, nonprofit, public health, and academic settings, and their actions and attitudes have consistently busted the generalizations Simon Sinek asserts:</span></div>
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<span class="s2">Millennials I've seen in action:</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b>A. Value a meaningful life over a climb-the-ladder existence</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1">They are much more communitarian and team-oriented than the Boomers with whom I've worked. Seems to be less jockeying for position and prestige and more of a sense of fairness and equity. This desire for impact he mentions seems to be maturing nicely among them. They translate it into creating a collegial workplace setting where they share about the many activities they participate in outside of work, things that add meaning to the their lives, expose them to a variety of people (including being mentors, taking steps in politics, and serving on boards of nonprofit organizations). They also move into graduate programs with apparent ease, seeking information and knowledge they believe will improve how they think or prepare them for more difficult assignments.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s2"><b>B. Demonstrate discipline</b></span></div>
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<span class="s2">Are extremely prompt and usually well-prepared for meetings. They insist on goals for the meetings and clear agendas. They're eager to use the meetings for efficient communication and camaraderie but are quickly ready to get back to work to move projects forward. They hold the rest of us (Boomers) accountable for making progress and keeping our mission front and center.</span></div>
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<span class="s2"><b>C. Use the technology to make things better</b></span></div>
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<span class="s2">Make excellent use of mobile devices on behalf of work efforts. In one project, we were trying to build awareness of a Public Health Web site that was a repository of vetted practices. With no funds for promotion, we had to look closely at social media. I worried at the time that public health professionals in state agencies were stuck with firewalls that hindered their Web searches. One astute Millennial reminded our team that most people were carrying handheld devices and were likely to use the cellular networks to access what the silly firewalls prevented them from seeing. Watching how she and other Millennials did the same -- used the cells to access information for work -- it became clear that we could use social media to promote the Web site. And we were very successful. Additionally, whenever we gathered for fun social events, phones were indeed at the ready, but they were available for all ages. There was a hunger for one-on-one conversations that kept the phones from being a distraction or they may have been pulled out to show pictures of family members or of trips. Once work is over, YES, everyone's got them out, with noses buried in them while on the buses and trains. But I have not observed the delayed social skills Mr. Simek mentions so glibly. If anything, I've seen Millennials further along the personal development timeline than Boomers at their age. Just look how many have had to delay home-buying and starting families, owing to the immoral level of student loan debt that TRULY is no fault of their own.</span><span class="s1"> </span></div>
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<span class="s2"><b>Why I'm skeptical</b></span></div>
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<span class="s2">Mr. Sinek cites numerous studies that I have not spent time tracking down, but am interested in examining. I spent 8 years in the field of adolescent development research, so this cohort of the population is near and dear to my head and heart. I don't mean to be flip about the studies Mr. Sinek cites, but he allowed no time for discussion or counterpositions. So, I guess that's why I feel strongly about offering a defense of this oft-maligned group of people. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s2">Sweeping generalizations, ostensibly grounded in strong studies, always make me skeptical. And I really get my back up when I hear parents cited as part of the problem.</span></div>
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<span class="s2">Let's see, Freud put a few unfortunate notions into the ethos about poor mothering; Benjamin Spock had a few less-thank-perfect ideas; and if you dig back ages past about our irascible "younger generations," you often hear echoes of the same things that Mr. Sinek mentions: lack of maturity, problematic indecisiveness or impetuousness, inability to delay gratification.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Well guess what? All that comes with age and the accumulation of wisdom over tough, often heart-breaking times. From what I've observed, the heartbreaks that Millennials have seem to be far less about not making partner in the corporate environment and more about the terrible schism in politics and society. I'm rather happy those topics weigh so heavily on them, because I believe their resourcefulness and desire to "have an impact" just might be what we need to get out our current fix.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s2"><b>Ask a different question</b></span></div>
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<span class="s2">How about we focus on the amazing strengths the Millennials bring to their effort to make a living, maybe even learn from them and adapt our own strategies based on their feedback? How about we see them as splendid individuals who are unfolding before our eyes, rather than affixing expectations of their behaviors into our mindsets? How about we change the question to what is RIGHT about Millennials and then go back through all the studies he's cited and look at the study designs, data, and discussions from a different lens. The late Peter Benson did exactly that when he tired of hearing how bad teens were and how poorly they were doing. His willingness to take the time to do that led to a ground-breaking concept in adolescent development: The Developmental Assets. It takes a truly great and inspired mind to change the paradigm in that way.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1"><b>Dopamine</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I have no quibbles (at this point) with Mr. Sinek’s assertion that social media pings dopamine in our brains. But I'll also note that television was considered the great zombifier and addiction of generations past. So if there's any social development delays among our populations, the causes go much farther back than the availability of social media.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">My .02.</span></div>
Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-55412053485545215212016-01-24T08:49:00.000-06:002016-01-24T08:49:54.626-06:00Get Beckie to BeargreaseI've been having a blast lately learning about using sites like GoFundMe, KickStarter, and IndieGo.<br />
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And I'm most excited about helping a fantastic and inspiring woman make her dream come true with one of these sites.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHvJATJm7ltEHl52Cvv-gXHBnxFKEWXo9aYKLX2moTfr6MWaws6tOc-DU416Fm4h3UceLOVxdh3rqrmq0enmQ1q8p2X0K9eHxn4by-voCnG05OuarMC5S7YbS93dUSfT5jZ1j7qrzRD_rq/s1600/BH+-+Nace+profile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHvJATJm7ltEHl52Cvv-gXHBnxFKEWXo9aYKLX2moTfr6MWaws6tOc-DU416Fm4h3UceLOVxdh3rqrmq0enmQ1q8p2X0K9eHxn4by-voCnG05OuarMC5S7YbS93dUSfT5jZ1j7qrzRD_rq/s320/BH+-+Nace+profile.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When she worked as a vet tech at a sled dog race I attended, I observed <b>Beckie Hacker </b>tenderly caring for a sweet pup who had a kidney problem. I was mesmerized watching how she curled up around this sick pup, gave him IV fluids, and administered her special kind of therapeutic massage. I think we all were. We just sat there, eyes glued to her as she worked her magic for hours. Eventually, the pup responded and recovered. And we all exhaled one huge sign of relief.<br />
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Not long after this event, Beckie decided she wanted to be on the other side of sled dog races; she wanted to become a musher herself.<br />
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It's been breathtaking watching this woman completely change up her life for the love of these dogs. As a vet tech, she was highly respected for her knowledge, dedication, and abilities.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9tPYNuOnVZ85EaP4TU_quiNuP1HlMkNTd2UXML5A8pF7z94sRZUL2BokiZKq4a1lRJymdv7MvI6ms0NWpKnBQnwnN2mU0pFUe5dct10AprHI-gpaATlNtNa64UWTgkYhJ84M148DFAaWY/s1600/2-15-15+UP+166+s-2863.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/AVvXsEj9tPYNuOnVZ85EaP4TU_quiNuP1HlMkNTd2UXML5A8pF7z94sRZUL2BokiZKq4a1lRJymdv7MvI6ms0NWpKnBQnwnN2mU0pFUe5dct10AprHI-gpaATlNtNa64UWTgkYhJ84M148DFAaWY/s200/2-15-15+UP+166+s-2863.jpg" width="132" /></a><br />But she took a big risk! She left that career behind, left the comforts of a home in the suburbs, built a dog trailer with her own two hands, and moved to Alaska for the summer to train and educate others about dog sledding. During the winters now, she lives in a very remote cabin along gorgeous forest trails up the Michigan's Upper Peninsula where she and her Dream Big Kennel teammates run for miles and miles.<br />
<br />It's not an easy life at all. There are constant breakdowns of mechanical things, tangles of dog lines to fix, wood to haul, buckets of stew to feed the dogs in sub-zero temperatures, poo to scoop, snow to shovel, you name it. But Beckie is undaunted. Not only that, her sense of humor is brilliant. You will not hear this woman whine, but you're very likely to hear some pretty awesome wisecracks.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6aK1qT2WlYBtqJvoz0jJJZ-AgI8X_vZg9T8JJewpRQ_0HcN3NjIn5GOe5EgGRlWb599tSkwpaaZQS57-fgwLFzmRwzHz_luDmGyzDUdHn3Ao8vj9KuB0-q9QQ8y7uKgUNYKB2RbG9Xvg/s1600/2-15-15+UP+183+F-3588+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6aK1qT2WlYBtqJvoz0jJJZ-AgI8X_vZg9T8JJewpRQ_0HcN3NjIn5GOe5EgGRlWb599tSkwpaaZQS57-fgwLFzmRwzHz_luDmGyzDUdHn3Ao8vj9KuB0-q9QQ8y7uKgUNYKB2RbG9Xvg/s320/2-15-15+UP+183+F-3588+-+Copy.jpg" width="213" /></a>Beckie dreams of running the famed and grueling Iditarod race across Alaska. To qualify, a musher must run several lonnnnnng races. Last year, Beckie finished the UP 200 in some the worst weather the race has ever seen. Look at her smile!!!!!<br />
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At the end of this week, she's going to run the John Beargrease Marathon, which is nearly 400 miles long. It's one of the toughest sled dog races in the Lower 50, up and down the hilly terrain of the NorthShore Trail in Minnesota.<br />
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It's hard work to train for these events-and it drains the savings account fast. So, if you find you have an extra $5, $10, or $25 and you'd like to help someone's dream come true, boy, do I have an opportunity for you!<br />
<ul>
<li><b>Check out Dream Big Kennel's <a href="https://www.gofundme.com/GetBeckieToBG">GoFundMe site </a></b></li>
<li><b>Read a few of Beckie's excellent <a href="http://www.dreambigkennel.com/#!blog/yao25">blog posts</a> to get a sense of the amazing spirit of this woman.</b></li>
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I hope we can make Beckie's dream come true. We're soooooo close! We just need one last push to get to finish line now.</div>
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And thank you!</div>
<br />Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-14725167050298548152015-09-01T21:33:00.000-05:002015-09-01T21:35:55.551-05:00Clare's Well moment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<b>Greetings</b><br />
<i>by Kathleen Kimball-Baker</i><br />
<br />
Pulling into the gravel driveway,<br />
dust plume in my wake,<br />
my heart bursts<br />
as if barn doors have been flung open<br />
and all the creatures freed<br />
and only love is left<br />
<br />
Lacy greets me first--<br />
fur, burrs, and chiding a<br />
lazy yellow cat on the stoop<br />
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And then I say<br />
"I'm home!" -- as if it's true<br />
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From a place within the farm house<br />
where lunch is simmering,<br />
a lithe figure, wooden spoon<br />
in her hand, rushes forward<br />
and plants a kiss on my cheek.<br />
(Sister) Aggie!<br />
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There is no welcome like<br />
one inspired by a saint.Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-8549330366321458532015-06-27T08:56:00.000-05:002015-06-27T08:56:35.536-05:003 Big Things<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZs5_lFrgxLKd_zfF4gh1BlF7zCkKAaii8OSSNOE7tkHnDpr6yK1cZ3l0gebIcvUQX2sYbQVxdNxfTFomZGEnKMG6kfPJ-pEx3NnXe9fmHAzi3tFT_T13avEXe7fAVRn61IprktmzCIVh/s1600/8079933584_828d0dc482_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="552" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZs5_lFrgxLKd_zfF4gh1BlF7zCkKAaii8OSSNOE7tkHnDpr6yK1cZ3l0gebIcvUQX2sYbQVxdNxfTFomZGEnKMG6kfPJ-pEx3NnXe9fmHAzi3tFT_T13avEXe7fAVRn61IprktmzCIVh/s640/8079933584_828d0dc482_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I cried twice yesterday, and did my best not to cry a third time. Here's why:</div>
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<b>Evidence that love prevails</b></div>
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I sure didn't expect to see in my lifetime what happened yesterday. Marriage became at last simply <i>marriage</i>. Not same-sex marriage or traditional marriage. <i>Marriage</i>. When I read the news about the Supreme Court's decision, it was as if the Berlin Wall was coming down again. Like a part of one's body that is always in pain, some region of my heart had learned to live with hurt for a long time. That hurt came from the very idea that this country, built on principles of inalienable rights, could withhold so fundamental a privilege from a segment of its people.</div>
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Yesterday, I cried. The tears were of joy. But they were tears of deep relief that the pain was gone. I didn't even realize it had hurt so much until that moment.</div>
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I am a woman who loves a man, so I will never know the depth of the pain that discrimination has inflicted on women who love women and men who love men. But if the pain I felt <i>for</i> them and <i>for</i> my country was any indication, I think it would have flattened me.</div>
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Now it is behind us, but we must never forget the wrongness of the many years before. Love will always prevail.</div>
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<b>Amazing grace</b></div>
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Who knew? I sure didn't. He paused to summon his courage, and then the first stanzas of heart-breaking beauty were lifted up in song before a congregation of mourners.</div>
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I never doubted the gifts of this man, not even when so many detractors would have me believe otherwise. But Barack Obama's voice yesterday was truly a surprise, a deep, resonant, confident surprise. Where has this voice been for so many years?</div>
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I was driving on the freeway when I heard our nation's president boldly and without accompaniment begin to sing Amazing Grace as part of his eulogy for another man who had been gunned down during a violent act of racial hatred. The emotions were so overwhelming, I had to pull off the road, because I could no longer see through the tears. Obama's voice pierced through something yesterday, and it was healing. </div>
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That moment is behind us now, but I'm pretty sure it will remain unforgettable. I would like to think that someday, again love will prevail.</div>
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<b>Min-nesota nice </b></div>
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My hubby picked up the first clue. The parking space kept exclusively for patrons of this tiny Chinese restaurant was gone. Ever the optimist, I suggested that maybe it was part of a new leasing agreement. But when we walked in the door, the air had altered. Min was nowhere to be found. Nor was her husband.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQzfGLS5_wgX3DNgMtyPhG2VpXa3iMRG6ZL6ZETLa0K18kr7mTLvTUa8r0UXvM4kucKAkcEKBHScRd6pyFjhvaW0TnalVYBCZs6xmxQKp2BIwx83PzAEWYLy1GQcfNTD-hVaxKfloTkNMP/s1600/Kwans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQzfGLS5_wgX3DNgMtyPhG2VpXa3iMRG6ZL6ZETLa0K18kr7mTLvTUa8r0UXvM4kucKAkcEKBHScRd6pyFjhvaW0TnalVYBCZs6xmxQKp2BIwx83PzAEWYLy1GQcfNTD-hVaxKfloTkNMP/s200/Kwans.jpg" width="200" /></a>I can't begin to tell you the dread I felt. We've gone to Kwan's Chinese Cuisine for years. It's been one of those incredible little secrets -- constants, really -- that you share only with people for whom you have great affection. Kwan's is where you find red red pleather booths, plastic replicas of jade sculpture, daily specials at $6.99 that come in raised stainless steel dishes with domed tops, and best of all, two of the most reliably cheerful people I've ever known.</div>
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Min and her husband came to Minnesota from China one day before the biggest snow storm I've ever experienced in nearly 30 years in this state. And somehow they stuck it out for years. Min knows her regulars' first names and what they're going to order before they say the words. She's pretty much the only one who takes orders, and she moves around the place like a surgeon. Her husband, when he isn't cooking, can be seen hunched over the table closest to the kitchen practicing calligraphy or preparing green beans.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghBbIPGjEFmXFgaw3lxYUTLVEcWfa9w9WrfHpobUmQBJmnGUmpUQC28HvP8HqVRgkG2fs8WlJBmhWtXSp_zhfn59HDpUi8w-gruMbNtmb1W5kl9GqZbpTtF6TUa62oZ06WxyKxxhDL6iiV/s1600/kwan%2527s+cook.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/AVvXsEghBbIPGjEFmXFgaw3lxYUTLVEcWfa9w9WrfHpobUmQBJmnGUmpUQC28HvP8HqVRgkG2fs8WlJBmhWtXSp_zhfn59HDpUi8w-gruMbNtmb1W5kl9GqZbpTtF6TUa62oZ06WxyKxxhDL6iiV/s320/kwan%2527s+cook.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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They and their restaurant have been comfort people, place, and food to my husband and I. But we managed to suss out with discreet questions here and there that they'd sold the restaurant, were taking a "vacation" in China, and their return to the US was uncertain.</div>
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Whoa. It was like taking a blow to the belly. But I managed not to cry this time. Maybe I was tapped out.</div>
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I don't know if I'll ever see Min and her husband again. It's hard to think those days are behind us. But to be sure, I will never forget them, and love will prevail.</div>
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<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/gazeronly/8079933584/in/photolist-diZLKJ-e6NPh2-mhP4PB-e6gM6v-nsh8a4-7mPXEi-dVCZZG-cGzWoE-rq1eeq-sn1wZg-uWCDTp-vc2nCp-7eXQ86-hMEBoY-mhP54e-smoKqF-cGzU4y-mj2XcC-smR37w-aU5kL8-bV7vxv-ccYnJE-e8sPmm-s5rdx3-5BXLJr-dfuZtk-f2Siaq-ebT8tx-fNmWsx-o1ssJD-rq18sf-8nAeq7-fkyQ6z-eaSwEN-a6Fwu5-e6nqnj-eWP9Jz-e6ns2C-s3Fakn-vdLTRi-uWHHWf-e6gNbP-uhhYdd-vdMTQb-5C91t5-e6gMrP-s3Fcrg-e6gNE6-uhhW6C-uWRrBz">Image</a> 1 by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/gazeronly/">orbakhopper</a></div>
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-14391424307283579312015-03-31T14:00:00.000-05:002015-03-31T14:02:52.411-05:00There's a new girl in town<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm so excited to introduce to you the newest member of of my mushing team: Agate.</div>
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Or Aggie. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Aggie has a "parti" eye - that's when part of the eye has other colors. So pretty! Like a pinwheel!</i></td></tr>
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Aggie came into our lives from the Ohio kennel of the amazing Amanda Povraznik. Aggie is 1/2 Seppala Siberian, 1/2 Alaskan Husky and she's absolutely perfect - all 42 pounds of her, which is mostly legs!</div>
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Aggie is roughly the same age as Ginsberg (who's being a complete poop about our new team mate) and a girl with a TON of drive! That's exactly what've we've needed to get us down the trail. While Ginsberg has been a wonderful wheel dog (the dog that helps steer the sled and is closest to the sled), he's just not ever been focused enough to run solo lead. Aggie on the other hand will ONLY run lead. So they're a perfect match.</div>
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She's an adorable "talker" who woo-woo-woos up a storm. She's crate-trained, house-broken, and rides in a car like a dream. </div>
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I've taken her to the dog park a couple times, and she's an excellent judge of doggie character. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Aggie is completely fascinated with airplanes and migrating geese!</i></td></tr>
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I've seen her charm the heck out of a little Bichon with two front legs that work and two back lacks attached to wheels. He rolled as fast as he could to keep up with her. She works her magic especially well with shy dogs and will speak her mind when she thinks other dogs are being too rough or ganging up on a smaller pup.</div>
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We're completely smitten, and can't wait to get out for some spring training with our scooter.</div>
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So far, I've had people tell me she looks wolfie, like a fox, and like a coyote! So silly. She's just a gorgeous little sled dog who has made our world a lot sillier and much more delightful!</div>
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Now, if I can just get Ginsberg to stop being such a grump!</div>
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<br />Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-36156420820226426862015-02-02T23:44:00.000-06:002015-02-03T18:49:45.531-06:00A friend and I kind of RAN into each other on Sunday<br />
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So I have this pal who works at the University of Minnesota, one building away from where I work. I hardly ever see him on campus. </div>
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But we kinda <b><i>ran</i></b> into each other Sunday at the Subaru Sled Dog Race at the City of Lakes Loppet. His name is Ricq and he races Samoyeds. </div>
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The story behind the shot is that I was on my belly on the frozen ground, elbows firmly planted to steady the camera so I could get some good action shots as the teams flew by seconds after the start. The very icy and fast trail was not especially well marked, and Ricq's team (not Ricq, of course) figured going "haw" (left) looked like a great fun. </div>
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I just kept snapping and thinking to myself, "Hmmm . . . I wonder if this is one of those times when the object in the mirror (or viewfinder) is closer that it appears?" Until I heard Ricq shout:<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"LOOK OUT!"</span></b><br />
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And here are two amazing things that followed:<br />
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<li>He missed me by millimeters, if that much, <i>and</i></li>
<li>Nary a swear word left this man's mouth. </li>
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Frankly, I thought I was toast, which, oddly enough, is one of the reasons I like this sport so much: the THRILL! By the time I opened my eyes, another musher friend had grabbed his leaders and redirected them back on the trail.</div>
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He finished the rest of race unscathed. So did I.</div>
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But still . . . I just didn't know there was such a thing as a musher who refrains from swearing when he or she is about to collide with a tree -- or an amateur photographer. Until Sunday.</div>
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I lived to tell the tale, and I'm here to tell you, there really are gentleman mushers!</div>
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<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D8406187896474319609%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D3615642082022642686&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F3.bp.blogspot.com%252F-ECyqTCEiVdA%252FVNBfko04III%252FAAAAAAAAEyE%252FF3goLv55YQs%252Fs1600%252FRicq%25252B%252526%25252BKKB%25252Brun%25252Binto%25252Beach%25252Bother.jpg%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 47px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 36px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D8406187896474319609%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D3615642082022642686&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F3.bp.blogspot.com%252F-ECyqTCEiVdA%252FVNBfko04III%252FAAAAAAAAEyE%252FF3goLv55YQs%252Fs1600%252FRicq%25252B%252526%25252BKKB%25252Brun%25252Binto%25252Beach%25252Bother.jpg%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 47px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 36px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-44237984692560155592014-12-26T00:31:00.000-06:002015-09-02T16:11:09.116-05:00Tender and mild<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN41t8yg9EEWVZkSmxuVDJU7qRdC7yZDqTrkT6DdIGUQT4gmNyt7R8jEr6QycLsISyfacpioDOIC4jqWMjJGG491vRbnvsLe7b_D8mBF10mvpGGOHBl0OXuEJ5O2mlRH8cbc24bGycUFO1/s1600/nativity-stained+glass-wild+animals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN41t8yg9EEWVZkSmxuVDJU7qRdC7yZDqTrkT6DdIGUQT4gmNyt7R8jEr6QycLsISyfacpioDOIC4jqWMjJGG491vRbnvsLe7b_D8mBF10mvpGGOHBl0OXuEJ5O2mlRH8cbc24bGycUFO1/s1600/nativity-stained+glass-wild+animals.jpg" width="516" /></a></div>
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<b><i>So, about the Christmas story . . . I've had a strange relationship with it, and I think it just got stranger. You be the judge.</i></b><br />
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For years, the Christmas story saddened me. The image of Mary traveling in the cold, bouncing along atop a donkey while she labored, and the poor confused guy, who wasn't the father of her baby but loved her just same, trying his best to find shelter for her, then being flat-out rejected and winding up in a barn -- all this seemed terribly brutal. No midwife, no creature comforts, no community surrounding her. Just hay, critters, and knowledge that she bore something amazing and bright and beautiful and soon would bring this child forth into the world.<br />
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Having birthed 3 babies myself, it was Mary's pain I could not shake in this account of the birth of the Christian savior. That, and the lack of kindness the community showed them, which pained me in a different way.<br />
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In the 1990s, some dear friends of mine who were trying to rejuvenate the Women's Guild at the parish we attended asked me to join a Bible study group. Maybe it's changed, but when I grew up, Catholic kids didn't spend much time actually reading sacred texts. It was interpreted for us, which at the time was AOK by me. But as an adult, I began to feel illiterate when it came to this book. So I was intrigued by the idea of reading the Bible and I signed up. Around Christmas time, I agreed to host the group in my home, and we decided to read the birth stories in the New Testament for our discussion.<br />
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I'm SO glad I did that, The stories were not nearly as grim as I had built them up in my mind. In fact, they were quite beautiful, inspiring, and yes, full of grace. So thank you ladies of the Women's Guild for that!<br />
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Also about this time that I begin to feel a lifting of the sadness that had draped me each year since the death of a beloved uncle 4 days after Christmas in 1984. For the first time in a decade, I began to see the colors, smell the scents, hear the music, and feel the joy of the holidays.<br />
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Since then, my love for this holiday has grown bigger and rounder every year, and because our family does not exchange gifts in the traditional way, I am not troubled by the crowds at malls and the traffic jams. Instead, I look forward to the annual Christmas party we attend, complete with carols, dancing (in an area about 6 ft X 6 ft) to "I don't wanna be a duck," polkas, and "Hava Nagila", little paper cups of some power spirits that whatCarl the tree farmer calls "elixir,"and then on Christmas Eve ordering takeout for dinner and playing the "dice game" as our present exchange, which is filled with plenty of merriment and silliness.<br />
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I shipped one gift this year -- via overnight delivery. The workers at the US Post Office were incredibly cheerful on December 23, after dealing with thousands of dorks like me shipping things at the last minute. I overheard one of them bemoaning the fact that she had to come to work on Christmas Eve at 4:30 am. So since I tend to rise early anyway, on the morning of Christmas Eve I took a basket of baked goods, fruit, and nuts to the postal workers to show them how much they are appreciated. I didn't get to see them, but I spied a janitor working, and he responded to my knocking and took the goodies inside to set on the counter for the hard-working clerks.<br />
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Driving away, I reflected on how much I loved training my sled dog team on cold crisp mornings like this, mornings when the stars were burning bright but the sunrise was nigh.<br />
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<b><i>And that's when I had the strangest epiphany about the birth of Christ, something I believe will forever make nativity scenes hauntingly beautiful to me. It has to do with food.</i></b><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZyX987G5Q4fEZw-8Msoe2V7Ri9_kkL6IYuvs_Um6lsq0MVeCbkZUX2W7OxY2GAnWsTwoOG8e1V2WjqszeilfvRwnKqlJ6C7F-GaO62i945IWbpF92r7gGRVnnZGg_zgHvKIhI_LasyxgI/s1600/9474882066_acf305a998_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZyX987G5Q4fEZw-8Msoe2V7Ri9_kkL6IYuvs_Um6lsq0MVeCbkZUX2W7OxY2GAnWsTwoOG8e1V2WjqszeilfvRwnKqlJ6C7F-GaO62i945IWbpF92r7gGRVnnZGg_zgHvKIhI_LasyxgI/s1600/9474882066_acf305a998_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/thelightningman/9474882066">Image</a> by James Insogna</td></tr>
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<b><i>So let me back up a minute.</i></b><br />
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About a year after I had to give up my 6-dog team, I read 2 books that altered how I eat. One was by a man named Marc Beckoff who in his book, <i>The Emotional Lives of Animals, </i>asked readers when they ate meat to ask themselves this simple question: W<b>ould you do this to your dog?</b> He was referencing what is done to the livestock that <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr-yevXKc40ljmLK-fJQoMqfkBnBv62mkdj15Xhrz3sKQT-gWz52SzfvpY2-IXAO5gaaV5rnzYEVso0QEVBXVdyAU_ShKN1sfaL6y5bxEb2ZLyijtCiMKxO-5m2u6uZz6FxzdriyJk5zOa/s1600/exultantark_elk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr-yevXKc40ljmLK-fJQoMqfkBnBv62mkdj15Xhrz3sKQT-gWz52SzfvpY2-IXAO5gaaV5rnzYEVso0QEVBXVdyAU_ShKN1sfaL6y5bxEb2ZLyijtCiMKxO-5m2u6uZz6FxzdriyJk5zOa/s1600/exultantark_elk.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.brainpickings.org/2011/06/24/exultant-ark/">Image </a>by Mark Peters via Wired</td></tr>
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through the magic of modern agriculture techniques end up tidily on Styrofoam plates covered in plastic wrap in the meat section of the grocery store. (Ever noticed the welling up pink liquid in those packages?)<br />
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<b><i>The answer for me, of course, was no, I could not.</i></b></div>
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For some time, I had begun detecting a vile taste in meat. The only way I could describe it was it tasted like fear. And that begin to make sense, because, undoubtedly, animals on their way to slaughter must feel absolute terror. Maybe I was tasting the biological byproduct of fear -- adrenaline. Who knows? All I can say is the taste was incredibly unpleasant, and I never knew when I was going to encounter it. Little by little, meat started disappearing from diet for one reason alone: it tasted rank.<br />
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I won't regale you with the details of slaughterhouses; far better writers than me have done that plenty well. But suffice it to say that even humane techniques just give me the willies. And apparently, I can taste the result.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAUKf-OsIAsk6z9binajUImDL7lXsl45HTpu3ITq7YXQb8EeWaC4IG8mHr-tPmwa0t3Yaxkw9HfoT7lyPaeH8OcoXWdA1E-eCxKutOFAypM0V2mWgqbC6gcHwYqqL6nqwU1WiiMONKhd-a/s1600/The+Sparrow.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/AVvXsEhAUKf-OsIAsk6z9binajUImDL7lXsl45HTpu3ITq7YXQb8EeWaC4IG8mHr-tPmwa0t3Yaxkw9HfoT7lyPaeH8OcoXWdA1E-eCxKutOFAypM0V2mWgqbC6gcHwYqqL6nqwU1WiiMONKhd-a/s1600/The+Sparrow.jpg" width="214" /></a>In one of my favorite novels, a brilliant piece of speculative fiction, a group of Jesuit priests embark upon the first interstellar voyage to discover the source of music that has been picked up from an array of telescopes on earth. Upon finding the planet, they encounter a species of inhabitants who are sweet and gentle and simple. They are great companions, not the horrific images of aliens that have filled our screens. Members of this species have expressive tails and soulful eyes and they experience the full range of emotions that humans do. Living in hunter/gatherer communities (actually, more gatherer than hunter), they make their dwellings in caves.<br />
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The human explorers help them find ways to build their food supplies, and before long the new species is procreating far faster than before, which, as we come to find out, greatly upsets the natural order of things on the planet. See, it turns out that the species was, in fact, livestock for a more sophisticated and carnivorous species which enslaved them to serve as a food source. The humans are shocked to learn this, because the gentle species seems to live so happily and peacefully. The predator species is none-to-happy about the what the earthlings have done, and things go south pretty fast, and the rest is history, in a futuristic sort of way. One Jesuit survives and returns to earth, eventually to tell the story.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJE19nJfgJAFQRut54hMEdC05VisCex9VlQ21jFxV1wepekerlylhSZ3GJpJ-nRcGsI0RVdDPVZhN5hyphenhyphenerdcvLKiCWHS9v64JA9m5HlD3aWubwjJ1x_8Iwg5x0YYwIQ1iRBrRHgOqkcKNs/s1600/Terror_simmons.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/AVvXsEiJE19nJfgJAFQRut54hMEdC05VisCex9VlQ21jFxV1wepekerlylhSZ3GJpJ-nRcGsI0RVdDPVZhN5hyphenhyphenerdcvLKiCWHS9v64JA9m5HlD3aWubwjJ1x_8Iwg5x0YYwIQ1iRBrRHgOqkcKNs/s1600/Terror_simmons.jpg" width="204" /></a>As a former anthropology major, I found this novel both beautiful and cautionary. But I didn't quite understand how personal it would become one day. And that was when I read another novel by a quite famous science fiction writer, Dan Simmons, who penned an incredible story about the doomed fate of bold 19th Century explorers who were trying to find the mythical "Northwest Passage" through the Arctic Sea. (It actually becoming not so mythical nowadays). Two ships eventually become trapped in the sea ice. Again, things go poorly for our adventurers, and only one makes it. That man owes his life to a mute Eskimo woman who teaches him to hunt for seal, and nourished by the meat of the sea creature, he survives. But readers learn quickly in this novel that hunting for seal is no easy task. In fact, our survivor comes to find out that the Eskimo woman's people believe that no seal can be caught unless it <i>chooses</i> to be caught, choosing, as it were, to sacrifice its life to preserve another's There is a spiritual exchange between the hunter and the hunted in this novel that can only happen in a setting of free choice.<br />
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Reading that book snapped together some powerful thoughts that irrevocably changed me. I realized that I could no longer eat the flesh of animals enslaved for the purposes of feeding the mindless masses. I also realized that I <i>could</i> eat meat that had been fairly hunted. So long as the hunting ground was "level." When one creature's wits are pitted against another and both are able to flee the scene as needed, such consumption seems part of the natural order of things. No fences, no industrial killing machines, just a fair fight.<br />
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We are such a predatory species - to the point that I often think we are a plague on this planet. We lost our way at some point in our evolution. We've managed to engineer so many things in a way that has brought the natural order terribly out of whack in our world, particularly with our food system.<br />
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Most mammals, humans included, have a built-in system for scaling back baby-making during lean times. Females stop ovulating and develop what is called amenorrhea when they get too skinny. Today, we associate the phenomena with gymnasts who work out so hard that their first menstrual periods are delayed or with young women who develop anorexia nervosa and starve themselves. But amenorrhea actually can serve the species well -- when everything is in balance. Not enough food to feed everyone, slow down the reproduction until the food supplies rebuild. Wolf packs for example, will split up and individuals will go their separate ways when food is in short supply. When the number of critters they can eat increases, wolf packs are know to reassemble.<br />
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I wonder at what point we humans tipped that balance so radically that rather than slow down our reproduction we just came up with new, increasingly radical ways to boost our supply of livestock to keep up with the exploding populations. How did we ever get to the place where we found it necessary to enslave animals to fill our bellies. When did we get so cocky as to believe that we have dominion over the world, to the point that we have changed the climate of our planet, shipped so much waste into the oceans that whole drifting islands of trash have formed, and made ourselves sick?<br />
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As far as I can tell, this belief that we have a God-given right to whatever we want on this planet, comes from certain creation stories. (I'm intentionally using the term God here, but you can substitute what makes sense for you - Higher Power, The Universe, the Source.) The one I know best is from the Judeo/Christian tradition whose sacred texts speak of the original man and woman created in God's form. As it happens, the first man and woman arrived on the scene <i>after</i> all the other lovely animals in Eden did. Made in God's likeness, this couple is given permission to hold dominion over other creations. And the rest is history.<br />
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Although I was raised in the Christian tradition, and will most likely always feel a little bit Catholic, you might say that I've come to reject a more than a few central tenants of Christianity, while holding on to certain others.<br />
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<b><i>I absolutely no longer believe humans are superior to anything on this planet. </i></b><br />
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Yes, we've figured out a lot of amazing things, though precious few of those things have been in praise of a creator. More so, we have put ourselves in the role of creator and we've forgotten all together just how humble our beginnings were.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinXFwR3l061EiBhoxmRLWxo0AX1St_9otYZ7G5JvlDzCwk0jtIiGL3t_Pqh3P-InOxUU5A9i_fFK0sgWbts9s8DXmeWuuu1YGlt7UuN2NjGjpo0Sx0dSbsMKaXN_7aaaAh3_anVKlQ-rDS/s1600/animals+from+song+of+the+stars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinXFwR3l061EiBhoxmRLWxo0AX1St_9otYZ7G5JvlDzCwk0jtIiGL3t_Pqh3P-InOxUU5A9i_fFK0sgWbts9s8DXmeWuuu1YGlt7UuN2NjGjpo0Sx0dSbsMKaXN_7aaaAh3_anVKlQ-rDS/s1600/animals+from+song+of+the+stars.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Song of the Stars</i> illustration by Allison Jay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<b><i>But the Christmas story brings us full circle. </i></b><br />
<br />
It is a brilliant reminder of our lowly beginnings, a perennial example of how the holiest of one major faith on this planet began life in the humblest of ways.<br />
<br />
<b><i>So consider this: </i></b>What if God sent his only son to remind us of just this fact, that we, too, are animals: beautiful, two-legged, scruffy, and often unbathed.<br />
<br />
This baby was born in a stable, a place where beasts of burden are housed, often for the purpose of slaughter. But what if one of the born-in-a-manger messages is a reminder to us that what we enslave so enslaves us?<br />
<br />
I believe that our salvation and our freedom may come from centering our lives around what is most beautiful in our species -- our language, our music, our dance (so far things plenty of other animals are also capable of doing), our ability to conceive of a creator and to praise this creator and our ability to feel compassion for all of creation.<br />
<br />
If there is any hope for our species it will be in reminding ourselves that we are part and parcel of creation, that though we may believe that we have been made in the image of God, we are not God, even though we have been bestowed with the most remarkable ability to create.<br />
<br />
This man called Christ went on the provide examples of living humbling, of forgiving the sins of the most scorned of peoples, calling attention to hypocrisy, and reminding anyone who would listen to love one another.<br />
<br />
I choose to believe his birth in the stable was our creator's elegantly simple reminder that we are born together with the beasts to love together and to be kind to one another, animals included. I like to think that none of these animals nearby where this babe was born ever saw the tools of the butcher, that each was liberated as surely as each of us who have received grace as a result of this humble birth.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RJtpseRQtWZhVNdU5Ohfrq0PEO7kSF03arWTkM1CWX2xHQdQEAmxLWGlR_qaGBi-SblphcONu2r6X0TqhRVDGdQMMibNdJyXGbTrmbtBR2O1Oz0DwKOrDwPWrQV5X0GCJBCs5oGpEGRi/s1600/Nativty-stone-Greek-sheep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RJtpseRQtWZhVNdU5Ohfrq0PEO7kSF03arWTkM1CWX2xHQdQEAmxLWGlR_qaGBi-SblphcONu2r6X0TqhRVDGdQMMibNdJyXGbTrmbtBR2O1Oz0DwKOrDwPWrQV5X0GCJBCs5oGpEGRi/s1600/Nativty-stone-Greek-sheep.jpg" width="640" /></a>I applaud those people who humanely raise animals. The lives of these creatures are so much better than the lives of any animal raised in commercial operations. But these animals are still enslaved. And no matter how humanely, they've lived, I'd wager that the vast majority of them are not choosing the time of their death, not dying of their free will, not offering themselves up in sacrifice. Happy chickens headed for slaughter do not have the option of a fair fight. And that reduces our humanity. We are enslaved by what we enslave.<br />
<br />
Am I tempted by the smell of burgers on the grill? Yes, at times. But seriously, it's one of those weird deals where one's body and mind resolve to overthrow the spirit. I simply can't bring myself to eat flesh. I get nauseated thinking about putting it into my mouth. I fully realize how extreme this point of view may sound, especially when I say I do not want to eat slave meat. But the truth is I simply cannot. I will eat some seafood (Lake Superior herring comes to mind), but only if it's wild caught. And even commercial fishing operations trouble me, so who knows if seafood will come off my diet at some point, too.<br />
<br />
I must say how grateful that that I've never been forced into a state of starvation. (Sadly, there was a brief period when I starved myself, enslaved by the conventional wisdom of what beauty is.) I'm grateful for incredible abundance in my life, with access to all the beans, rice, kale, and quinoa I can stand. A shockingly small percentage of the people on this planet are so blessed.<br />
<br />
As liberated as I like to think I am, I'm know I am very much an animal. But maybe that's a good thing?<br />
<br />
So, that's my story, and I'm sticking with it.<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Blessed Kwanzaa, Gentle Solstice, Peace on Earth, Goodwill to men and women, creation and Creator.<br />
<br />
I close with the amazing script on a tattoo of a barista I encountered as I was composing my thoughts on this topics:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;">"<i>I wanted to hurt you,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;"><i>but I found I couldn't</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;"><i>stomach it.</i>"</span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyCyX7CrRiDprHng9jhgtapT12p73JMB62Ub6P8pzuSV7VUa1F_RaLS_TmvhalpnNnVZ02YbGhgl5Z9dRh6S5Cxs445nk-qkBeg_wG0vTsqspxqyGP9XR2wVb916La_Bk8B_64Tggt0Wkt/s1600/3130313591_0077eaf5a7_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyCyX7CrRiDprHng9jhgtapT12p73JMB62Ub6P8pzuSV7VUa1F_RaLS_TmvhalpnNnVZ02YbGhgl5Z9dRh6S5Cxs445nk-qkBeg_wG0vTsqspxqyGP9XR2wVb916La_Bk8B_64Tggt0Wkt/s1600/3130313591_0077eaf5a7_z.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/seiffert/3130313591/in/photolist-qv8j8K-5LBFaZ-qeLUYz-aZLC12-92eSyE-aUiA5p-iqWsXJ-iruYLN-4fESXD-pvNqPo-ix28W3-7oTsru-7qcREM-qdkiH2-5Lnb2F-5LeJ41-dE4D2d-b1tyz2-pxuRAF-dDBTRD-dCVNma-b1zbiD-pyzP2s-94GHYr-7pMhc9-3mt4sK-5LU1TV-4fryBV-4gRWt2-7pNCMF-qds7GQ-4gSRzH-5LUZqo-pzsKp5-quguZ4-dEdGur-94Kozm-4gSHzk-izz6qH-b1xMUr-qeiwES-93SjXu-qwdzJQ-5L8xhW-pxfHD7-aZE3Ce-939Wkr-94haaL-aYrqNH-7qhP8Q">Image </a>by Florian Seiffert</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
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<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fdraft.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D8406187896474319609%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-HvyEdeNOspI%252FVJ0NfXJ79II%252FAAAAAAAAEww%252FJBJK1IczUSc%252Fs1600%252F3130313591_0077eaf5a7_z.jpg%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 140px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 5741px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fdraft.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D8406187896474319609%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-HvyEdeNOspI%252FVJ0NfXJ79II%252FAAAAAAAAEww%252FJBJK1IczUSc%252Fs1600%252F3130313591_0077eaf5a7_z.jpg%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 140px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 5741px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fdraft.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D8406187896474319609%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-HvyEdeNOspI%252FVJ0NfXJ79II%252FAAAAAAAAEww%252FJBJK1IczUSc%252Fs1600%252F3130313591_0077eaf5a7_z.jpg%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 140px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 5741px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fdraft.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D8406187896474319609%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-HvyEdeNOspI%252FVJ0NfXJ79II%252FAAAAAAAAEww%252FJBJK1IczUSc%252Fs1600%252F3130313591_0077eaf5a7_z.jpg%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 140px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 5741px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fdraft.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D8406187896474319609%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-HvyEdeNOspI%252FVJ0NfXJ79II%252FAAAAAAAAEww%252FJBJK1IczUSc%252Fs1600%252F3130313591_0077eaf5a7_z.jpg%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 140px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 5741px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fdraft.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D8406187896474319609%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-HvyEdeNOspI%252FVJ0NfXJ79II%252FAAAAAAAAEww%252FJBJK1IczUSc%252Fs1600%252F3130313591_0077eaf5a7_z.jpg%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 140px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 5741px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><br />
<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D8406187896474319609%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D4423798469256015559&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-HvyEdeNOspI%252FVJ0NfXJ79II%252FAAAAAAAAEww%252FJBJK1IczUSc%252Fs1600%252F3130313591_0077eaf5a7_z.jpg%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 140px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 6191px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D8406187896474319609%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D4423798469256015559&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-HvyEdeNOspI%252FVJ0NfXJ79II%252FAAAAAAAAEww%252FJBJK1IczUSc%252Fs1600%252F3130313591_0077eaf5a7_z.jpg%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 140px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 6191px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-2818706691626969332014-07-04T12:00:00.002-05:002014-07-04T13:31:06.651-05:00What do peacetime, Netflix, and Prince have in common?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje9wcJLEWDywD6D-cwFQwR_3n8Wfr6HQmRrmIGvRSk_Hb9mC7QBVIbs8u5AD302Vt70qIkm-bK72sG2r5zd4BkiwS79J0rnCKkgdbHTAD3FhLN0SQHrMN5X-xiSopXE36dkkLsGduPOZnq/s1600/384014521_fcba1ea91d_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje9wcJLEWDywD6D-cwFQwR_3n8Wfr6HQmRrmIGvRSk_Hb9mC7QBVIbs8u5AD302Vt70qIkm-bK72sG2r5zd4BkiwS79J0rnCKkgdbHTAD3FhLN0SQHrMN5X-xiSopXE36dkkLsGduPOZnq/s1600/384014521_fcba1ea91d_o.jpg" height="510" width="640" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">And on this fine 4th of July . . . </span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I spent some </span></span><span style="font-size: 15px;">time this</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> morning looking at
amendments to the US constitution.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Yes, I know the day is about the
Declaration of Independence, but it still felt patriotic to do this.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><b>Couple
fun facts I missed during civics classes:</b></span></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">Thanks to the 3rd amendment, in peacetime, you
don't ever have to "quarter" soldiers in your private home. </span></li>
</ul>
<i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> So, are
we in peacetime? If not, I do have a nice peaceful guest room.</i><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">The 13th amendment abolished slavery -- except
as punishment for a crime. Jeepers.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"><i> I am so beginning to understand Orange is the New
Black now.</i></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">Whew! You can still accept a title of nobility
from another country and retain your US citizenship. Since 1810, only 15 states
have voted yay or nay on stripping citizenship from folks who've gotten too big
for their britches -- but the case isn't closed yet! </span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"><i> I suppose
this shouldn't worry Prince, but maybe it explains why he changed his name to a
symbol</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"><i> at one time.</i></span><br />
<br />
<b>Couple ways to be a good citizen today:</b><br />
<ol>
<li>Be kind to each other</li>
<li>Welcome a newcomer to the country (cuz truth is most of us have family or friends who were newcomers at some point)</li>
<li>Pray (because you're allowed)</li>
<li>Read some US history (I'd recommend <i>The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks</i>)</li>
<li>Make sure your firearms are locked away (so no little kiddies get hurt)</li>
<li>Drink in moderation, if you're going to drink (cuz you're allowed)</li>
<li>Jot down a few lines to an elected official about something you want to see change (cuz it's a right and a privilege)</li>
</ol>
<div>
Pip, pip, cheerio!</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/flickrchickr/384014521/in/photolist-zWb92-JG5bX-dY7s49-9Zu5P2-MUiCe-fjr2CN-4RwzMq-6CKXtD-35bJqd-xUBBE-4m3y4J-4HGW8w-5JxSxC-dvr74Q-f3gFgq-ef39CQ-jMyEkJ-9T15PE-357btc-5tQDDJ-82LSpz-bYVaZ-3Vyqq9-P8GAR-JG2dN-9Jzzyc-8yeooT-6ptqnp-9JkXEU-8TYDGa-5x7RcB-7qXeuf-JG58D-cw69jy-9Ji8Mk-9Ji8Wk-9Ji8vt-9Ji8zZ-9Ji8HX-9Ji8qM-b9MSG8-4gGD9L-qMAyp-3kj3S-6CQNFh-JG283-8iva41-6whScX-cfX38C-8xaGZT/">Image</a> by Loreen72</i></span></div>
Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-3041668274689378022014-05-11T12:00:00.002-05:002014-05-11T12:00:34.012-05:00Happy Mudder's Day<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0jn5hWjhODBG92HQUMk2YAW06gtWxhef2WSqo63TKZAgwBYhbOSUZ5cFwya9iyxmHe9DUHBBuLaJc5zW-CVjw8EYS3FvZF-i6L8SjBACc_gpV9iP0DN33kbFEc1N0izDll7DOd6H30RgR/s1600/10352778_10202004218406382_5862784328749380353_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0jn5hWjhODBG92HQUMk2YAW06gtWxhef2WSqo63TKZAgwBYhbOSUZ5cFwya9iyxmHe9DUHBBuLaJc5zW-CVjw8EYS3FvZF-i6L8SjBACc_gpV9iP0DN33kbFEc1N0izDll7DOd6H30RgR/s1600/10352778_10202004218406382_5862784328749380353_n.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mrs. Kimball, aka The Big Mudder</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
My little sister, Lisa, used to scold my middle sister, Erin, when she was trying to boss her around: "Shut up, Erin. You're not the Big Mudder."<br />
<br />
Well, we three sisters are all Big Mudders now. And one of us is even a Big GrandMudder. Not me yet, but maybe someday.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I'm a lucky woman to be a Big Mudder. Very very lucky indeed.<br />
<br />
May you each enjoy Mudder's Day blessings today.Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-87507703621119007592014-05-10T10:26:00.001-05:002014-05-10T10:36:47.187-05:00A little heresy indulged<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Humans have enormous power to affect</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">the world </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">any way we choose."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~ Marc Bekoff, <i>The Emotional Lives of Animals</i></div>
<br />
<br />
Once upon a time I was an anthropology major. A quirky little field of study that to this day shapes the way I think. The most profound discovery early on in my studies was this simple statement from one of my professors: The study of humans makes clear that there is no <i>one right way </i>to solve the "problem of living."<br />
<br />
There are, in fact, so many it's mind boggling.<br />
<br />
His point continues to be the framework from which I see most everything. It was liberating to hold such a view, to be able to look at behavior and beliefs with as little judgement as possible, especially as a freshman college student! I could observe so much more without jumping to a right-or-wrong point of view. Instead, I saw "different," "original," "interesting" and maybe even"shocking, but fascinating."<br />
<br />
I didn't end up opting for a profession in anthropology. Although a wonderful professor took me under his wing my freshman year to groom me for a future graduate student, I couldn't see myself narrowing my focus of study the way one must to get advanced degrees. Frankly, anthropology expanded my worldview so largely, I knew that breadth of knowledge would be my pursuit -- not the depth of it.<br />
<br />
And that's why I became a journalist and, for all intents and purpose, a Generalist with the capital G.<br />
<br />
The long and winding road of my career has taken me through the fields of news reporting, mental health, higher education, medicine (primary care, sports, orthopedics, obstetrics and gynecology, and geriatric), youth development, disaster preparedness and response, and emerging infectious diseases.<br />
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A year ago, I came across Marc Bekoff's thought-provoking book, <i><a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/153950947/The-Emotional-Lives-of-Animals-A-Leading-Scientist-Explores-Animal-Joy-Sorrow-and-Empathy-and-Why-They-Matter?Account=Scribdbooks&AdID=34705067827&Campaign=NewWorldLibrary&Distribution=Search&Keyword=the+emotional+lives+of+animals&MatchType=e&Placement=&Position=1t1&SearchEngine=Google&adgroup=The+Emotional+Lives+of+Animals%3A+A+Leading+Scientist+Explores+Animal+Joy%2C+Sorrow%2C+and+Empathy+%E2%80%94+and+Why+They+Matter&gclid=CNbW2sPQob4CFaFDMgod8kUAkA">The Emotional Lives of Animals</a></i>, and it yanked into place threads from many fields I've dabbled in and studied, including my passion for dogs and mushing.<br />
<br />
As I pondered Bekoff's point about the power of humans to affect the world any way we choose, I had to wonder how we got to this point, which is so far beyond the days when we had to worry about mastodons and being gobbled up by big hulking carnivores.<br />
<br />
It's interesting to think that while humans are now at the top of the food chain in the grander scheme of things, having killed off or safely removed ourselves from environments with predators that can hurt us -- the large ones like bears, tigers, lions and such-- we have increasingly made ourselves vulnerable to the tiniest of predators.<br />
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I'm talking about viruses, bacteria, and insects like mosquitos and bedbugs. If we keep at our present pace of development and environmental destruction, we put our species at greater and greater risk of being preyed upon by the tiny predators.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTanaQrbXldWIEVbQQCUpcuxdBmk3R3Sg7Xk7CVfaQSBfMebenf7pDqQJUti1h2ujB9kdTMiusMkkGSiSt4H7mJXNfYiXLETu_smo5Jjc3lpLxPnZQIWQP07AJsZMA-nHdIwRAl4m9cnQI/s1600/Wicked+Bugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTanaQrbXldWIEVbQQCUpcuxdBmk3R3Sg7Xk7CVfaQSBfMebenf7pDqQJUti1h2ujB9kdTMiusMkkGSiSt4H7mJXNfYiXLETu_smo5Jjc3lpLxPnZQIWQP07AJsZMA-nHdIwRAl4m9cnQI/s1600/Wicked+Bugs.jpg" height="320" width="242" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><i>Haven't read it but I plan to!</i></td></tr>
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The human approach always seems to be first to wipe out our predators, rather than learning to live in balance with them. Why is that?<br />
<br />
When you look at the natural world, it seems like nature finds a way to achieve balance and homeostasis. It's not as if plants and animals ponder how to reach this balance. It just happens. Or does it?<br />
<br />
I know some of you will see this as heretical, but I've come to believe that humans are no more God-like than any other animal, and yet we, by virtue of our brain development over time, seem to have removed ourselves by and large from the natural order of things. In doing so, we've created damage. A LOT of it.<br />
<br />
So, falling back on my original biological sciences/anthropological world view, I find myself with so many questions.<br />
<br />
I have to ask whether this destruction is, in fact, the "natural order of things."<br />
<br />
Is what we as a species choose to do simply part of the inevitable evolution of our planet?<br />
<br />
How have we managed to drift so far away from our connectedness to all of creation, to the point of thinking we are the master creators.<br />
<br />
How do we move ahead as a species?<br />
<br />
Do we simply allow nature to take its course as we wreak havoc on our planet and ultimately on ourselves?<br />
<br />
Is it arrogant to think any of us can stop this "progress" of humanity?<br />
<br />
Is it really just incumbent on individuals to live their lives morally and hope we each regain connectedness to the natural world and make peace with it rather than trying to hold dominion over it?<br />
<br />
Will the microbes and tiny creatures ultimately alter the course of human development? (They sure seem to be right now!) Will it be that the tiniest of predators ultimately hold sway over the world, rather than the creatures whose brain development has led to a belief that their species has the God-given right of dominion over all life on this planet?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAHUUu2-f_88Bem5qLk8wbErowlrfbKf9VpN4_8G3iJTfduubt_lAN4m5xDzME98JM6rh1pQC9Ha7VnbH5J2ik-WRdiVvGMXcn-X_X-E2iqx2SLIUivdO-ee3N77pETJ1T8Dz5cL43sBgv/s1600/Ebola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAHUUu2-f_88Bem5qLk8wbErowlrfbKf9VpN4_8G3iJTfduubt_lAN4m5xDzME98JM6rh1pQC9Ha7VnbH5J2ik-WRdiVvGMXcn-X_X-E2iqx2SLIUivdO-ee3N77pETJ1T8Dz5cL43sBgv/s1600/Ebola.jpg" height="292" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ebola virus electron micrograph</i></td></tr>
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What if the tiny predators already do? Is it possible that microbes are responsible for our aging, for the deterioration in our joints, our organs, our ability to reproduce, our brains. We think about aging as a cellular process with input from the environment. But if we accept the concept of connectedness and the predatory power of microbes, isn't it possible that more is going on here? Are cells really microbes that learned to organize and cooperate in such a way as to create this species called humans?<br />
<br />
Is it possible that these tiny cellular forms that have organized themselves for so long now grasp on some level that the organism they've collectively empowered to function homo sapien has drifted so far from the natural order of things that they've got to do their part to restore a universal balance, as in, take us down a notch or two? (I know, talk about the ultimate conspiracy theory!)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh5TqQCXMCtMk9a9aBxx5-wQltcqCN0BcmaqC8Bbz6WcYrZN8cv3t2ZRJaSR0oAWa8G3077mdP0cBirIPRSK1pznsr1scqGVz8Lel1i_dwFJonArDFpUF598ySC-CzwPRcZ15kuB2EdNk1/s1600/IMG_9059.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/AVvXsEgh5TqQCXMCtMk9a9aBxx5-wQltcqCN0BcmaqC8Bbz6WcYrZN8cv3t2ZRJaSR0oAWa8G3077mdP0cBirIPRSK1pznsr1scqGVz8Lel1i_dwFJonArDFpUF598ySC-CzwPRcZ15kuB2EdNk1/s1600/IMG_9059.JPG" height="176" width="200" /></a>And here's where all this "unsupervised thinking" leads me: that, ultimately, the best thing any of us can do is to quiet our minds and bodies, in meditation or prayer, and try to plug into to that universal energy, balance, order of things, God, if you will, and try remember that we're all in this together, we're all connected, and that the only way out is through, <i>together</i>.<br />
<br />
And so with that peachy-keen thought, I believe I'll take a stroll through the beauty of creation still available to me. And pet my dogs.<br />
<br />
May you, too, find such beauty.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Images</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Easter Island by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/goccmm/3364302402/in/photolist-8isJCK-nvQYcC-68hWbw-68hVaU-7DWPew-7mQyUg-7mQrja-6VMVM-68hTY7-68hVTQ-68hVnb-68dHSn-68dGqk-68dJdB-68dGwp-68hVKN-68dJBr-68hV7h-68hUXs-68hUZS-68hUff-68dJjx-68dHsx-68hVR7-68hVds-68dHoa-68dGKr-68dGVg-68hU8S-68hV41-68dGAr-68hULw-68hVCy-68dGMn-68hWBQ-68hWyw-68dJxt-68dGCM-68hWfA-68dJHF-68hU1W-68hTV3-68dGYP-68dHJK-68dGaB-68dJ8D-68dGFX-68hVNU-68dJgr-68dJEH">goccmm</a></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Wooly Mammoth by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/toddography/1596524841/in/photolist-3r5Bdn-orp7j-orp7h-a8nsPA-5vBjqq-6gDJaS-c6LF1j-6gzy5V-bov7Qt-7CxriH-2Gb2U7-e5Q9Hg-CZKzn-e8vKpz-2G6DGF-2G6Jtn-4y5smG-4oAfi9-2GaZi7-2G6FiR-aaAzgw-dgfL5S-dgfL3b-dgfL9o-dgfJvv-dgfJt4-orp7g-4y1dwv-4y194z-4y5mFq-4y19VT-4y5hWY-4y162n-4y19k2-4y5v3Y-4y5kK3-4y5jRQ-4y13St-4y5rUw-4y1f2B-4y5upy-4y1ayX-4y5jcS-4y1fyx-4y1gkB-4y1eGM-4y1e4p-4y1cav-4y1bGe-acXSkd">Johnny Lightning</a></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Book cover of <a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/153614611/Wicked-Bugs-The-Louse-That-Conquered-Napoleon-s-Army-Other-Diabolical-Insects">Wicked Bugs</a></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Ebola virus from <a href="http://phil.cdc.gov/phil/details.asp">CDC</a></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Ginsberg by Kathleen Kimball-Baker</i></span><br />
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<br />Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-44051815131018538572014-05-05T19:24:00.000-05:002014-05-06T22:31:16.361-05:00A big beautiful mess out of everything<br />
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<i>Thoughts on aging . . .</i><br />
<br />
My mother used to say: It's hell getting old. Mostly she'd grin when she uttered that thought. But more often than not towards the end, she really meant it.<br />
<br />
I couldn't stand it when she said those words. She had such a big influence on my life, and I didn't want that sentiment to influence my own thoughts on the inevitable march of the years.<br />
<br />
I understand her point of view. The joint pains, the rolling forward of the shoulders and the rounding back. The need for reader-cheaters and the frustration of not finding them when you need them. Having to ask people to repeat themselves because hearing just isn't has sharp. The color fading from hair. The immune system that takes 3 times as long as it used to once upon a time.<br />
<br />
I had a birthday last week. A nice quiet birthday, because truth be told, birthdays just don't feel like a big deal to me. OK, I do have a problem saying "April 28" without saying "April28-my-brithday" like it's one word. But hat's just habit. I don't really measure my life in <i>years</i>. I'm more prone to use for the context of my life things like this: moments of joy, epiphanies, big losses that break open my heart and mind, wintry scenes, encounters with wildlife. Those are my punctuation marks. But years? Meh.<br />
<br />
Still, I reflected not too long ago on how I was feeling about aging . . . and much to my surprise, my mother's words were not as salient as my own experiences, my own patina.<br />
<br />
Here's how those thoughts spilled out . . . do they resonate with your experience?<br />
. . .<br />
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<br />
Edges smoothed and sanded<br />
<br />
No longer wired by expectations<br />
<br />
Able to sleep through disappointments,<br />
knowing the bend follows a bend,<br />
that something will lift that which connects the heart,<br />
-- and that what hurts also breaks open like the egg<br />
released from a shell<br />
a flow, a newness, and end.<br />
<br />
It doesn't matter, and it all matters.<br />
<br />
Time suspended in its deluge forward<br />
<br />
A hint gleams like pyrite, like hope<br />
whether real or simply desired,<br />
enough to flutter something inside,<br />
enough to make it through a night,<br />
or an afternoon,<br />
or a morning,<br />
or a shower.<br />
<br />
Few words required<br />
Less interpretation needed<br />
The softness and quiet of simply being<br />
in a spot, a place, a thought, a breeze,<br />
a sunset, or a sunrise<br />
<br />
Distastes left aside<br />
to be as they may<br />
<br />
The impulse to change, mold, perfect<br />
too tired and threadbare<br />
to observe or entertain<br />
<br />
In fact, it's the imperfections<br />
that stand in relief to the perfection<br />
in every way<br />
<br />
. . .<br />
<br />
The boy in the cafe<br />
fidgets, entertains the<br />
baby in the highchair<br />
Asks:<br />
"Was I good baby?"<br />
<br />
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Same cafe<br />
Bespeckled grandpa<br />
eats breakfast with<br />
his dandelion-headed<br />
granddaughter<br />
who sits like a cotton fluff in a highchair<br />
<br />
. . .<br />
<br />
Once more, the cottonwood trees<br />
are going to crack open<br />
their seed and blow away<br />
and make a big mess out of everything,<br />
a big<br />
beautiful mess<br />
out<br />
of<br />
everything<br />
<br />
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<br />
Cheers my friends. It's all good.Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-45894646252822525272014-02-23T13:38:00.000-06:002014-02-24T06:05:00.731-06:00On carrying wood<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzkouFM2gcTlGrpdSBTDFN4C72566794LAswYyrnDbdgQtHAOx-aVYnDyRBy4p7Nw8yYCVS2lgcwhecQnv4XTUYdVw-9lyKxDGNs3q5idBXhmJ-nnY3M4LkiPX5WIKvBhRjquFORdswwXb/s1600/57180419_74049eebcb_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzkouFM2gcTlGrpdSBTDFN4C72566794LAswYyrnDbdgQtHAOx-aVYnDyRBy4p7Nw8yYCVS2lgcwhecQnv4XTUYdVw-9lyKxDGNs3q5idBXhmJ-nnY3M4LkiPX5WIKvBhRjquFORdswwXb/s1600/57180419_74049eebcb_o.jpg" height="308" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Goudy Old Style';"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Goudy Old Style';">I worried about
using too much.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Goudy Old Style';"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Goudy Old Style';">The stack of logs in the woodshed was shrinking, and somebody
had chopped and split all those logs and it wasn’t me. I am just a city girl
pretending she knows how to live in the woods all by herself with sled dogs in
a cabin 25 minutes from the closest filling station along twisty roads rutted
with snow, not far from the biggest (and mostly frozen) fresh water lake in the
world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">I’ve been
experimenting for a while, with living deep in the woods, often alone, and with
fire for warmth. I’ve played with different arrangements of newspaper, egg
cartons, birch bark, and misshapen stumps of wood to see what lights fastest,
burns longest. I never learned such things as a child. I heard about evolution,
the earliest molecules of life, and cancer research from my father, and from my
mother, all about Egypt and antiques and how to head straight to the back of fancy
stores to find the sales racks. But nobody showed me how to make a fire or
carry logs or drive on icy roads far away from civilized people. So, I’m teaching
myself. At my age, I realize I have to make a few mistakes before I’m “good
enough” at anything new. I prefer blundering by myself, laughing and swearing
at myself by myself. I guess when you’ve mastered certain life skills after so many
years, you’d just as soon your humble efforts to learn <i>new</i> tasks not have any judgmental
company other than your own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYPtIb2eSvMGgrl46Sir72lOpl06-8NJSa0YOgrTnjeX3TptCAisQIxfuAPOoIn8c54at61LKFD9-FNjMvUfUJMLDt4PUxfcM3_RU4qYkFl8t-VgtRI8Xc1K66tQe10oZoTDoKPQIXvpS/s1600/8440312734_cb047aed77.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/AVvXsEimYPtIb2eSvMGgrl46Sir72lOpl06-8NJSa0YOgrTnjeX3TptCAisQIxfuAPOoIn8c54at61LKFD9-FNjMvUfUJMLDt4PUxfcM3_RU4qYkFl8t-VgtRI8Xc1K66tQe10oZoTDoKPQIXvpS/s1600/8440312734_cb047aed77.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">So for days, I
carried the logs in my arms, their hairy splinters and crumbs of bark clinging
to my outside clothes. They filled the crook of my arm and balanced under my
chin and I had to walk slowly so as not to trip and fall into the snow drifts or
hit my head on ice, which I’ve done before and know too well the consequences. It was
important to be mindful, so that I not default on my promise to care for 13
wild puppies, one fading elderdog, 5 adult sled dogs, and one tabby, all of whom
belong to mushers who were running a race in Wyoming, nice people who entrusted
their homestead to me. I may have dropped a log here or there, but not that
often. I got pretty good at carrying wood and keeping my balance. Usually I
waited till all the chores were done, till all the dogs were fed, which was around
sunset. I had to wear a headlamp to make my way to the woodshed and then back
to the dark cabin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">When snow was
falling and I looked upwards, my beam spotlighted a thousand or more flakes drifting
down like a blur of swans. But on clear nights I found the stars. I don’t
understand how these tiny specks of brightness can hold their own against such impenetrable
darkness. I loved how, with my neck tilted back, the plume of my headlamp widened
and vanished somewhere up there, a reminder of how little we really are. I stood
for I don’t know how long, arms full of prickly wood, inhaling the sub-zero air, and gawking at those stars. Sometimes they made me cry. I caught the Big Dipper
once showing off, curving itself into the dark bowl, dangling its long handle
as if daring treetops to take hold. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZWNa_c6PCxuMtMhXAroBGRVWWHDDFCzSysuG6wCBh59TcH2s70r8qbK9Pwm1MRQCxPEeIeBTztkTmqPePz5lToMtkyxvOBxyIPT5j4olS8QZT9yM-YsYW8vsHeEXktTIKkzHlCa0o3Ic/s1600/936148_10200378494157236_1549895066_n.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/AVvXsEiHZWNa_c6PCxuMtMhXAroBGRVWWHDDFCzSysuG6wCBh59TcH2s70r8qbK9Pwm1MRQCxPEeIeBTztkTmqPePz5lToMtkyxvOBxyIPT5j4olS8QZT9yM-YsYW8vsHeEXktTIKkzHlCa0o3Ic/s1600/936148_10200378494157236_1549895066_n.jpg" height="320" width="310" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">And then I’d
remember the logs in my arms and the funny sled dog inside who had skin
troubles, who scabbed and lost his fur, and how he lived to loll by the
wood-burning stove, rolling on his long narrow back, slowly stroking his snout
with this paws and bending his pointy ears forward. He often wiggled, feet
upwards, closer and closer to the stove till I had to attach a short leash to
him to ensure his safety. I knew he was sitting in the cold dark cabin on a
big plush easy chair waiting for me, the big dog on two feet with the light on
its head, to drop the logs into the canvas holder, kneel, and begin sticking
things in the black box till it got nice and hot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">And so I aimed
my headlamp at the cabin door and walked up the wooden stairs, careful not to
drop the precious load I’d hand-selected for the evening, the different shapes
and sizes culled from all parts of the stack to even out the appearance of the
dwindling supply. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">Choosing logs
probably shouldn’t take so long, but the variety fascinated me. So did the
sounds the woodpile made. I opted for gnarly pieces that looked like they might
burn a while. I chose stumps of birch whose bark was peeling, in hopes
they might ignite quickly. I picked short, skinny pieces that could serve as a
base upon which to lay bigger, fatter sections of wood. I wondered whether I
should set the sharp wedge side of the split logs toward the flame or place
them bark-side down. Sometimes when I removed a log, others would roll to fill
the emptied space, rumbling as if a marimba player haunted the place Each log I
added to my pile had its own voice when it joined the others: clunk, plunk, or
rip-scratch when bark caught on bark.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">I always had
arrangements in mind, ways I would start the fire, cheating with combustible wafers
from </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw4D27CJBrHPPIE2eNpZLRhRSoD0Mb42y_aLw5BBXbhQm-_EGZciBq_UPNBw9rhOT8NRDb6TcHb-0f_Z3QLH235tq5lekD9QKqzzrcTpNwM5niocWUyStUmupvIpzMY6WBgELIFz2Vl5vL/s1600/3436282279_6e3b332a11_n.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/AVvXsEjw4D27CJBrHPPIE2eNpZLRhRSoD0Mb42y_aLw5BBXbhQm-_EGZciBq_UPNBw9rhOT8NRDb6TcHb-0f_Z3QLH235tq5lekD9QKqzzrcTpNwM5niocWUyStUmupvIpzMY6WBgELIFz2Vl5vL/s1600/3436282279_6e3b332a11_n.jpg" /></a></div>
the hardware store and inserting wads of newsprint I made from throwaways I
picked up when I was in town. The paper roared and blew bursts of warmth, but
the real trick was to coax a union of logs and fire that delivered flames and hot
coals to keep heat going as long as possible. Such a prize took practice,
patience, and an iron poker to move, lift, and settle logs into the perfect
perch. I swept out a fair amount of sooty ash in the mornings and thought about
how I should use it – but never did.<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">It was intoxicating
to play with fire, and I have a few scorched pinholes in some shirts from tiny
meteorites the stove spit out while I absently pondered its flames. I always
managed to snuff these sparks fast enough not to set myself ablaze. But those
moments reminded me just how tenuous life is deep in the winter in the woods by
oneself. So I always kept the matches far away from the wood-burning stove.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL9i7wAM-6Vy-D3Uw38JZWdKp2s03smvJVZfJZ7r5syj-IlV4Hv5X6aggpEPRzDu5j-EEyIuyMrv7sZRkto86BtS6pRpWxHByzufOYSz-hb1fi1PP8Em4k1cRBviOGbhOXzZ0o2JiA3fW2/s1600/lynx.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/AVvXsEhL9i7wAM-6Vy-D3Uw38JZWdKp2s03smvJVZfJZ7r5syj-IlV4Hv5X6aggpEPRzDu5j-EEyIuyMrv7sZRkto86BtS6pRpWxHByzufOYSz-hb1fi1PP8Em4k1cRBviOGbhOXzZ0o2JiA3fW2/s1600/lynx.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><i>Lynx by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/NaceHagemannPhotography">Nace Hagemann Photography</a></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">Eventually, when
I got practical, I started using a child’s sled to drag my wood supply to the
cabin. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying to pull the loaded-down plastic thing,
not like cradling lumps of old trees against your breast. But it was more sensible,
and I was able to stack the deck against frozen nights more efficiently this
way, which matters when you’re alone in the North Woods, where timber wolves prowl
and lynx saunter about in what look like oversized footy PJs, acting for all
the world like they own the place, which clearly I did not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">Whenever I made
a late-night dash to the outhouse, only a few feet past the woodshed, I could never
return without a few logs in my arms. Nor could I resist staring up at the
stars or the flakes or sometimes into a firmament of nothingness, inhaling the
reassurance of woody smoke if the wind were just so.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">Maybe that’s why the woodpile
shrank so fast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Woodpile image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kellinahandbasket/57180419/sizes/o/">kallinahandandbasket</a></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Night sky image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jkleeman/3436282279/sizes/n/">chasedekker</a></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Wood-burning stove image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jkleeman/3436282279/sizes/n/">jkleeman</a></span></i></div>
Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-49117701079347156092013-12-31T06:16:00.001-06:002013-12-31T06:16:50.916-06:00Bellystorm<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99wz_DfAgonnh1vLjVtigRPYVW0WM5YgLb1qNaiSasuGRhC7t6JTwS8bjNd8j7hRBUOg9H8QDwFtxT5PtckFHCXceyjO8-_5ydrToHCN9PKkYYV731D9WaMzWDBHjenlep2gprL8WVaFv/s1600/Storm+surge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99wz_DfAgonnh1vLjVtigRPYVW0WM5YgLb1qNaiSasuGRhC7t6JTwS8bjNd8j7hRBUOg9H8QDwFtxT5PtckFHCXceyjO8-_5ydrToHCN9PKkYYV731D9WaMzWDBHjenlep2gprL8WVaFv/s640/Storm+surge.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';"><br /></span></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Hammer
of Gall</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';"><i>By Kathleen Kimball-Baker</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">No early detection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">No emergency prep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">Thunder is billowing<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">north of her equator<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">and walled air ripples,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">full of charge; she closes her<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">eyes, counts one Mississippi<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">two Mississippi three<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">Mississippi FOUR<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">A sopping mattress leans,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">no way out, only through.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">Bayous are swollen, they'll spill<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">She must shelter in place in the<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">roaring darkness . . . she fastens<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">her arms around what's anchored<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">to the floor, cold and white</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">and she lowers her head,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">a bow to the surge<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">Splinters of hurt cross the<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">dome of her belly and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">everyone and everything<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">is running around the wet<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">hair, back of neck, temples,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">the place above lips<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">all sticky with salt water<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">and her wipers can’t lift<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">against the deluge. She <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">thinks this: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">O God<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">the
flash flood is going<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">to
drown me I just know it<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">But someone is lifting her</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">head just above the tide,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">an angel, surely an angel<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">till her throat is raw</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">till hurt crawls out of the wreckage <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">like refugees. In this shelter<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">of tile and slippery porcelain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">and hurricane hand dryers,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">she slumps, awaiting rescue,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">and it comes, and so do</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">the cuts</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">The storm has a name that sounds</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">like a southern belle: <i>biliary
dyskinesia</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">you know, like Frankly Scarlet<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Abadi MT Condensed Light';">I<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">mage by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/psoup216/8550891313/sizes/l/in/photolist-e2By5z-ceLYvE-8JvbF5-amQ1Bg-9NJybd-9NEtYQ-9NAsCc-atMuoQ-agLepw-5og4Gr-5ogang-8ZaTs7-5okqhE-doipdj-3X3YVW-haWeNh-5oUJUv-avfbtr-5u4owD-eSqM59-eSqM1Q-dptfJM-doVbmQ-7xkWkv-4pquka-dsiJuq-dqgxB6-6cZ164-6dJGzd-5u4pbp-9Bqtig-dr3c67-dr32ae-dr31QB-akuBHo-ah4dfr-5u8Nod-5u4oZB-4YzMsZ-dpe3dc-9go8E4-8xPxcH-5uLYTw-eEEVo2-7oKk17-dqWcWP-9C5JaP-dpfvWv-eaXW8x-5oUJQB-8v2fmx/">psoup</a></span></i></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-31678820337947718862013-12-23T12:12:00.000-06:002013-12-23T12:16:50.997-06:00Got you good<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmUcza6IlDF9orOo-GIDAjMyR0aDmdEJ1dYizwd5AiLjUkLSCBQsOA4N_lW5T20v5cMgvZMJTWsKwaW1QQLWEk9_CR-9mGXwLFloG-1cJ8FYi8teFzlm_ZuCah8J6DBBfXg6JlFNcVkS6/s1600/IMG_1782.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmUcza6IlDF9orOo-GIDAjMyR0aDmdEJ1dYizwd5AiLjUkLSCBQsOA4N_lW5T20v5cMgvZMJTWsKwaW1QQLWEk9_CR-9mGXwLFloG-1cJ8FYi8teFzlm_ZuCah8J6DBBfXg6JlFNcVkS6/s1600/IMG_1782.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Got you good</span></b><br />
<i>By Kathleen Kimball-Baker</i><br />
<br />
Along came the day you knew,<br />
dangerous, like black ice.<br />
<br />
You had a choice<br />
but only this: do or die.<br />
Some call that a choice,<br />
because the dying is slow<br />
and they don't notice,<br />
even though it shows around<br />
your eyes and how you walk.<br />
So you were afraid of the do,<br />
because you might be alone<br />
and that wasn't at all sensible.<br />
<br />
But you couldn't stop the longing --<br />
For muscles humming "more"<br />
For clumsiness, knowing nothing, and the bruises<br />
For tree tops casting over their shoulders gold and pink<br />
For chasing a runny nose into the woods, into cold white and blooms of darkness<br />
For frozen waves able to sing once more<br />
For the click of little stones the lake swallows<br />
For the spill of painful beauty on your face<br />
<br />
You wanted all this and sweetness,<br />
the width of it all and the tallness, too,<br />
the dark nights with noises and the soft safe mornings<br />
and the whole do-over every single day<br />
with the "feed me, water me, let me run and smell things"<br />
<br />
You didn't think you could choose them<br />
You thought you would die,<br />
and you would have,<br />
and you still will.<br />
<br />
Then along came the day<br />
you just knew:<br />
<br />
The wild got you good.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHMasSLyPtw5fXm6aiMzgr6HqWxox2ASDf8xmiNxIe29hQaPsXul7XX70PUJU2CK7_AY6xENM88KOsfg_YzTUxmo-xK_EyERj71nUgOjwkAUMcjyeb_4C5T7hqBW7lyml248djoHK7m42m/s1600/IMG_1708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHMasSLyPtw5fXm6aiMzgr6HqWxox2ASDf8xmiNxIe29hQaPsXul7XX70PUJU2CK7_AY6xENM88KOsfg_YzTUxmo-xK_EyERj71nUgOjwkAUMcjyeb_4C5T7hqBW7lyml248djoHK7m42m/s1600/IMG_1708.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-71269167615740897232013-11-24T22:27:00.001-06:002013-11-25T22:51:18.172-06:00Tummy troubles<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUhPXz38SM44-AYQICjZ6stHurbP9j3CXUGmp9dpAPItYNmQ0ANK_dJBllVM5qDsH0ruY95YhCX6aedO1dG2wyUlB-2uLrLpTmTVVD1gB2QoD6EGEnW2x4PcXW1xD7Q04i7revSb6qcTgv/s1600/tiles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUhPXz38SM44-AYQICjZ6stHurbP9j3CXUGmp9dpAPItYNmQ0ANK_dJBllVM5qDsH0ruY95YhCX6aedO1dG2wyUlB-2uLrLpTmTVVD1gB2QoD6EGEnW2x4PcXW1xD7Q04i7revSb6qcTgv/s640/tiles.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><i>Image: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/benobryan/3285043403/sizes/m/in/photolist-61hGXn-thfkd-86MLKn-bRKzxx-bRKzvk-bRKzxp-bRKDVV-bRKzza-bRKDVM-bRKDVa-bRKDVz-bRKDTP-6rqKVD-5KAa29-6VtBZB-6VtBzr-6VxGUu-6VtBLc-6VxHns-6VxGoJ-7AJDpz-7ANqmy-gQ1b2w-gQ1dxd-gqsW6-5KA9gh-6VtDsB-6VtCke-6WaGQE-6VxHFS-6VtBD8-6VxHRo-6VtBm8-bqfogA-6b5MT4-5vpP1o-6vrsPM-pgd1-f2HcXc-4Jptwa-4piaw7-67j314-5vpP1s-exF6od-8xPgzX-49Wb7S-4radns-3mVQj-m3F8c-ajpzsf-dUo7e8/">Ben Oh</a></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>"Stay with me, Kathleen. Stay with me."</i><br />
<br />
Never in my life did I expect to hear those words spoken to me.<br />
<br />
Never in my life have I felt so powerless, so vulnerable, and so so sick.<br />
<br />
It happened November 15.<br />
<br />
I had just completed physical therapy. I sat up on the table and knew I was going to be sick.<br />
I found my way to the bathroom on the 2nd floor of the Calhoun Executive Building, kneeled on the floor, and away I went.<br />
<br />
Within 15 minutes I was reduced to a sweaty, stinky, barely coherent, terribly sick lady. I had tried calling my doctor's office, and they said call 911. I tried calling my husband, but honestly, I couldn't get any understandable words out. (He saved the message and played it back for me - ish!)<br />
<br />
I have vague snatches of recollection. Like hearing my physical therapist tell someone my name and say I'd been perfectly fine less than half an hour earlier. I heard a doctor's voice saying, yes, call 911. And I heard the voice of an earthly angel who was holding my head from dropping into the loo, and saying things like "Stay with me, Kathleen." I could feel my energy ebbing, and all I wanted to do was flatten myself on the cool tiles and pass out.<br />
<br />
But that's not what happened.<br />
<br />
EMTs showed up and managed to unwedge me from my position in that tiny bathroom stall. Two men carried me to a stretcher and started an IV. Into that port they pumped anti-nausea medicine and morphine. The pain in my stomach was excruciating. I moaned like a zombie and begged for help. Every bump in the road felt like a jackhammer to my stomach.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0XBngi7D3QemGml_woQ3S-iDftkANgRmrYlF8l2kFYL7MvCW78Ri0cvPiHDJdxnjgTrX_z3hKXxBHlVKMsdvvu5saUf0DuXlMfulwljZHwMJ8qyoX5TEwe-QdBkyH2yKci1UMxOn9H5ws/s1600/iv+-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0XBngi7D3QemGml_woQ3S-iDftkANgRmrYlF8l2kFYL7MvCW78Ri0cvPiHDJdxnjgTrX_z3hKXxBHlVKMsdvvu5saUf0DuXlMfulwljZHwMJ8qyoX5TEwe-QdBkyH2yKci1UMxOn9H5ws/s1600/iv+-1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><i>Image: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bk_/6796356753/sizes/n/in/photolist-bmz75H-4oFm6G-BJqD2-7m3ASj-4TQbdY-bmz7Zx-uoSSb-2k5n1V-dA1upB-4b2wVv-u696-6TesNL-8vHPi-9gHxcF-dQrg8t-u7ejv-avxoL7-5W6Bvi-5SY2Vb-8haqu-7Vu6zD-9VN9a4-9nSw2U-qELaP-qEKXH-4Gp2gF-7H4ncn-9RB4TK-7H4n5t-2ssydT-2swW5A-5SBVfR-63hBnc-63hBjp-63mSky-2TNYrW-gjKsdo-8Fxik-5nNPdD-o75ST-9agSma-9TpxDR-dR3G7V-6GFhA2-BJhBT-3jVLJL-6KVAYD-46tD19-46pwdR-46pwyn-eFEjQ4/">Brian K YYZ</a></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And then I arrived at the Emergency Department and was transported swiftly to a room. More anti-nausea medicine. More morphine, which made me momentarily even sicker. And potassium. I guess my potassium level plummeted, as did my hemoglobin and my blood pressure. To even things out, my heart raced into tachycardia.<br />
<br />
My friends, I was a mess -- a moaning, writhing, bona-fide mess. Another round of anti-nausea meds and morphine and I finally began to feel enough relief to be taken for a CT scan. Results: normal. I was on the 6th bag of fluids when my husband and daughter arrived. And I'd finally stopped moaning and was drifting off to sleep now and then.<br />
<br />
The decision was made to keep me overnight to get my heart rate down and build my fluids back up, and I was released 24 hours later on the condition that I get further tests.<br />
<br />
On Tuesday, I was pumped full of radioactive dye and given an injection that briefly -- but frighteningly -- brought the symptoms back on.<br />
<br />
Diagnosis: <i>Biliary dyskinesia</i> (aka a gall bladder whose warranty had expired). Not stones. Just a really bad bile-maker. On the day of the test, it was functioning at 7%. Bare minimum is 35%. Why the sucker causes so much pain when it is so incompetent I'm still not sure, but I can guarantee you it does.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi55psRruSG8jXfOqkCDJUcNy156SJ0nz05JdQpMFbMHkRfHv-bFiC3msoDZaj5OSdJ2PEEgLu1Y3bvFf8b0W0Cm9DoDn6EcYsoJc0jgYhE-NQZzYozksY3mzfxocj5qpDffoOVcr2aUuZP/s1600/Beth+the+triage+nurse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi55psRruSG8jXfOqkCDJUcNy156SJ0nz05JdQpMFbMHkRfHv-bFiC3msoDZaj5OSdJ2PEEgLu1Y3bvFf8b0W0Cm9DoDn6EcYsoJc0jgYhE-NQZzYozksY3mzfxocj5qpDffoOVcr2aUuZP/s320/Beth+the+triage+nurse.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><i>Beth, RN, and me</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So I'm headed for surgery December 3 and in the meantime I am on a completely fat-free vegan diet. No animal (mammalian or fish) products, no soy beans or soy products, no dairy products, no oil (healthy or not), no nuts. And truth me told, I haven't felt this good in years! It's amazing what happens when you eat right.<br />
<br />
But that gallbladder is a ticking time bomb, and I never NEVER <b>NEVER</b> want to go through the likes of that Friday again.<br />
<br />
This past Friday, one week after the horrific day, I managed to track down the earthly angel who did so much to help me, but whose face I never saw. Her name is Beth, and when I brought her cookies, Himalayan bath salts, and a thank you card, she told me that was unnecessary, because "I was just doing my job." But I wasn't her patient. I was a complete stranger, losing the contents of her belly in full technicolor and surround sound. And I'm humbled by people the Universe puts in my path when I most need them.<br />
<br />
So here's to you, wonderful Beth! May everyone be so fortunate as to find you along their path!<br />
<br />
Next up: gotta track down those EMTs!<br />
<br />
<br />
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-59234524982066139452013-10-20T01:46:00.000-05:002013-10-20T01:46:20.214-05:00Cinderella moment<div style="text-align: center;">
Dashing off to the cyber event of the year . . . </div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLubjXGR57dxF-5c7-eCkmMwjd643lU4MZG3vu5hJsfbfm721vjD7xm-6pVRLpADU_Ay_ZPD0RNbhqLLNCgAysgfOWEnwAYq_UGdc1VuifKkZ89A9PWTdFSzq74Lp2LGOcEfgFjgZ37HFX/s1600/wm+ball+2013+badge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLubjXGR57dxF-5c7-eCkmMwjd643lU4MZG3vu5hJsfbfm721vjD7xm-6pVRLpADU_Ay_ZPD0RNbhqLLNCgAysgfOWEnwAYq_UGdc1VuifKkZ89A9PWTdFSzq74Lp2LGOcEfgFjgZ37HFX/s1600/wm+ball+2013+badge.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
. . . wearing this . . .</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ci5hY3eNJ4zVUtryjNjUAcBCRaK92vJgNcyTnGuxIKBzlCj46jPeWuKm-sKEPf5cWq-HsXq0GeRaAysy8zpHfcPwB0Yj5dkalEVlVT2H_Zpzpf_5ncWoE9Q-5L9imJrhcS9qphfo75h_/s1600/Oct+20+gown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ci5hY3eNJ4zVUtryjNjUAcBCRaK92vJgNcyTnGuxIKBzlCj46jPeWuKm-sKEPf5cWq-HsXq0GeRaAysy8zpHfcPwB0Yj5dkalEVlVT2H_Zpzpf_5ncWoE9Q-5L9imJrhcS9qphfo75h_/s640/Oct+20+gown.jpg" width="330" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
. . . while being escorted by . . .</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglWarNc4e-BnInHnV-WYljqUdZgKkSwEQIAnynqu3W9O9zexm0jEhpwx_ptZvfptHspsTUtLBIzxFBjJvD_sx0bo1i6Rpdtj__jpf8pVq6Vesi4drHvS8HE8M7As0UUfyTiLR8OqnoQKaM/s1600/C+Foyle+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglWarNc4e-BnInHnV-WYljqUdZgKkSwEQIAnynqu3W9O9zexm0jEhpwx_ptZvfptHspsTUtLBIzxFBjJvD_sx0bo1i6Rpdtj__jpf8pVq6Vesi4drHvS8HE8M7As0UUfyTiLR8OqnoQKaM/s640/C+Foyle+2.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #434253; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10px;"><i>Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
. . . I'm not sure I'll be able to convince him to dance . . . </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(actually, I think he only agreed to be my date because he thinks I might be up to something.)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh, did I happen to tell you how we met?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdYYFvW8ZfpGKGDP4abWr7TNNYGRBDJwl_lchsvZ8e-mKXSITwbskAFrEdvSavtF65Pk6Es2FCW7KVYns1ubw3q9d_rWN9WieA3FVpSmJ3W4JmNcTQXD8FUoRLD2nSG_pMRmQLdlp1Lnms/s1600/640px-Catburglar_TDKR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdYYFvW8ZfpGKGDP4abWr7TNNYGRBDJwl_lchsvZ8e-mKXSITwbskAFrEdvSavtF65Pk6Es2FCW7KVYns1ubw3q9d_rWN9WieA3FVpSmJ3W4JmNcTQXD8FUoRLD2nSG_pMRmQLdlp1Lnms/s320/640px-Catburglar_TDKR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
See you at the <a href="http://networkedblogs.com/QerJJ">ball</a>!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://networkedblogs.com/QerJJ">Photo 1</a>, <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/63543044714806861/">Photo 2</a>, <a href="http://www.foyleswar.com/">Photo 3</a>, <a href="http://images.wikia.com/batman/images/c/cf/Catburglar_TDKR.jpg">Photo 4</a></span></div>
Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-83660508561534825832013-06-10T23:17:00.000-05:002013-06-10T23:33:11.509-05:00Won't you be mine?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKPlpbRUYuWc83lPTUlIK5R5C4NkSjsulbqbz5FGvnC1DAQV9eDXa3IU42hHsV91At_qJ08ZTssSNJkzVOa29jZMiqma9qH8j3rSvFkP3MiaqtX8s4aV_WhhSUX687cn3K06hNUQeLlokW/s1600/IMG_4123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKPlpbRUYuWc83lPTUlIK5R5C4NkSjsulbqbz5FGvnC1DAQV9eDXa3IU42hHsV91At_qJ08ZTssSNJkzVOa29jZMiqma9qH8j3rSvFkP3MiaqtX8s4aV_WhhSUX687cn3K06hNUQeLlokW/s640/IMG_4123.jpg" width="464" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A beautiful day for a neighbor,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Would you be mine?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Could you be mine?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifGVsH5VqjaHNHBYfo8GL6Y5gOIWUlzCjEroShaSGkcIT-JT8hRTfgepN-UJ8H8IX1PTmgKPsEIuJfIh1-aAAIf2SbrXB3ODky9bU46M9LecU2_d5MmJMSkj5Pxrjducr0c1cCY67zr0QD/s1600/IMG_4192.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifGVsH5VqjaHNHBYfo8GL6Y5gOIWUlzCjEroShaSGkcIT-JT8hRTfgepN-UJ8H8IX1PTmgKPsEIuJfIh1-aAAIf2SbrXB3ODky9bU46M9LecU2_d5MmJMSkj5Pxrjducr0c1cCY67zr0QD/s640/IMG_4192.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It's a neighborly day in this beautywood,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOifiVZceC4VxAjt0pVluxxcTYZyTtrmZ0hd9gHHEAJ0pLYAArstxkhvLW3TegEnWwt8qDPiQOSGFTd_uqgiJdZ406e_Ch0nC_igm8Z6q30MXsx4TwRI1iif_zW3wodHDJ4ULpqhaaoZe0/s1600/IMG_4190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOifiVZceC4VxAjt0pVluxxcTYZyTtrmZ0hd9gHHEAJ0pLYAArstxkhvLW3TegEnWwt8qDPiQOSGFTd_uqgiJdZ406e_Ch0nC_igm8Z6q30MXsx4TwRI1iif_zW3wodHDJ4ULpqhaaoZe0/s640/IMG_4190.jpg" width="508" /></a></div>
A neighborly day for a beauty,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPIhmGZdVigwepri0lm51LTsCusuCsSj59E1CcZO7AYmamCZD56_tQpj6QiRQC7meTtKIW0-wAFwmGTsiNC_h7p0rt3OS4ta4DRy64c6adTRF8NzbRglQ8hHMSRMKnZuAldaNQfuxVzrD/s1600/IMG_4142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPIhmGZdVigwepri0lm51LTsCusuCsSj59E1CcZO7AYmamCZD56_tQpj6QiRQC7meTtKIW0-wAFwmGTsiNC_h7p0rt3OS4ta4DRy64c6adTRF8NzbRglQ8hHMSRMKnZuAldaNQfuxVzrD/s640/IMG_4142.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Would you be mine?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBjlTdGRXOkFSZDxseUiSojuhdN7GKdxDsSvjTJVia8K5h-t3BWUR76QHwqcij7-NtDMQDAIPb9PVC1puQOEo1Y8aOSso5oSI-Ddt0cx2OmiVcJCJriidpvIdIpIHcc0ItpdR7Q-wxZxi5/s1600/IMG_4146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBjlTdGRXOkFSZDxseUiSojuhdN7GKdxDsSvjTJVia8K5h-t3BWUR76QHwqcij7-NtDMQDAIPb9PVC1puQOEo1Y8aOSso5oSI-Ddt0cx2OmiVcJCJriidpvIdIpIHcc0ItpdR7Q-wxZxi5/s640/IMG_4146.jpg" width="412" /></a></div>
Could you be mine?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguS3snJV0zU3JBVWUGl5bnES8mdhCYICM4cP_eb8SulpKMzn_uIvBfPkHxnsdR-Hq9sJkYr15jyGR6pnj97ZU7AtyU-ktTef86T01FRR7Z-kNd23Q3lpJaE7TjyTwfDj50Fi3ogXdyWDMH/s1600/IMG_4219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguS3snJV0zU3JBVWUGl5bnES8mdhCYICM4cP_eb8SulpKMzn_uIvBfPkHxnsdR-Hq9sJkYr15jyGR6pnj97ZU7AtyU-ktTef86T01FRR7Z-kNd23Q3lpJaE7TjyTwfDj50Fi3ogXdyWDMH/s640/IMG_4219.jpg" width="512" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzkvk3nIcbsKMBqUyqVGf6Fit6gy4Gral5Rxr-A47EId5a1s42VnFVNV8rcFYGexvx7rqVfcDcFs8yAYvuyZOP_62N_96PwQGRBkPU41GGOZHiKeDpaF3p1cyoWbdcsjeB9QnCJ35mC-ml/s1600/IMG_4152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzkvk3nIcbsKMBqUyqVGf6Fit6gy4Gral5Rxr-A47EId5a1s42VnFVNV8rcFYGexvx7rqVfcDcFs8yAYvuyZOP_62N_96PwQGRBkPU41GGOZHiKeDpaF3p1cyoWbdcsjeB9QnCJ35mC-ml/s640/IMG_4152.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So let's make the most of this beautiful day,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Since we're together, we might as well stay.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNaEj02XKtZZELYUzz4oGD0-QIWsSb6JOv7rwI6kAJbjWrHfjbmYgUPc-zBygmVMj8SRhr1NzxGoCLUwg1oO3GtmT-Es5Ol_HLjVShR5eJJWCke5Bxg3EdMxq7RzTPDjUSFxeLxzWaqnv/s1600/IMG_4228.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNaEj02XKtZZELYUzz4oGD0-QIWsSb6JOv7rwI6kAJbjWrHfjbmYgUPc-zBygmVMj8SRhr1NzxGoCLUwg1oO3GtmT-Es5Ol_HLjVShR5eJJWCke5Bxg3EdMxq7RzTPDjUSFxeLxzWaqnv/s640/IMG_4228.jpg" width="390" /></a></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Would you be mine?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4VhGGRx0H2SNClyva_P6jfoGWMa6XiivS19Kqm-6tdmXq3bZPfAaXW6Uv9EKYA-ZZv1MZrnUaXJrO0iuCZxHpLR8mYH0Hhvt2OzBuq-R2J1boenp_xL2CbnbGYN2AF5pY8KJLG6e1LTIm/s1600/IMG_4182.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="435" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4VhGGRx0H2SNClyva_P6jfoGWMa6XiivS19Kqm-6tdmXq3bZPfAaXW6Uv9EKYA-ZZv1MZrnUaXJrO0iuCZxHpLR8mYH0Hhvt2OzBuq-R2J1boenp_xL2CbnbGYN2AF5pY8KJLG6e1LTIm/s640/IMG_4182.jpg" width="640" /></a>Could you be mine?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmOcbhlqLJsp21vq9uW_1abgsv2BMS02YkAkRxKnEebmSnHpHbEH5p9qap3eY_i0A95uS2vVX2UZowqdykJubWpT5JbfI-lSBc5Q_O6iLkTG-vBbY66TbnCqhN9B9eweXfoacUeq7I2Zb/s1600/IMG_4208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmOcbhlqLJsp21vq9uW_1abgsv2BMS02YkAkRxKnEebmSnHpHbEH5p9qap3eY_i0A95uS2vVX2UZowqdykJubWpT5JbfI-lSBc5Q_O6iLkTG-vBbY66TbnCqhN9B9eweXfoacUeq7I2Zb/s640/IMG_4208.jpg" width="528" /></a></div>
Won't you be my neighbor?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwFzJZj0hjU5cVCzqLUZdmtCjwOX5ub0w7Q33gG0C11ErYB8Q-HcUVH4YprkL4SzbPEqtvtpV_uc3WMUAH6yH6qsfZz4rOQM1QUaiJ-QSwBHufgf77Qy7bE9yRt3jqdH2js6vuEnl9-vFc/s1600/IMG_4164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwFzJZj0hjU5cVCzqLUZdmtCjwOX5ub0w7Q33gG0C11ErYB8Q-HcUVH4YprkL4SzbPEqtvtpV_uc3WMUAH6yH6qsfZz4rOQM1QUaiJ-QSwBHufgf77Qy7bE9yRt3jqdH2js6vuEnl9-vFc/s640/IMG_4164.jpg" width="540" /></a></div>
Won't you please,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQuE4TPXWnyy2gNfUg25TfIPQCnqdwTH-w9Lj9qAIp_6UAj-Wcht2CaZMRKEqy01Se72IGvyaUsPuQYGmupMBT6jWNOY8HEPkurpGXMWkdxrMB_TwUac2M5d6zlsTkYJoi7am1NVHV-EP/s1600/IMG_4243.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQuE4TPXWnyy2gNfUg25TfIPQCnqdwTH-w9Lj9qAIp_6UAj-Wcht2CaZMRKEqy01Se72IGvyaUsPuQYGmupMBT6jWNOY8HEPkurpGXMWkdxrMB_TwUac2M5d6zlsTkYJoi7am1NVHV-EP/s640/IMG_4243.jpg" width="441" /></a></div>
Won't you please,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVQrPiJJ9V9Mk1_nQYogZmAtqyoK4zkR-LbO0-oe6wNVAqcEVh__sDthPASPWWsSHq6yKCj6yj5isFrA_tnAZcocUAfZd-orWuruvzpCVUQhk0852hQzvjSP452pYAqpGp_04q596UTSp/s1600/IMG_4198.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVQrPiJJ9V9Mk1_nQYogZmAtqyoK4zkR-LbO0-oe6wNVAqcEVh__sDthPASPWWsSHq6yKCj6yj5isFrA_tnAZcocUAfZd-orWuruvzpCVUQhk0852hQzvjSP452pYAqpGp_04q596UTSp/s640/IMG_4198.jpg" width="406" /></a></div>
Please won't you be my neighbor?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8dkjKE0ghNVwHvP3I_B8sM1mC6aY0MO9EMDQupEfX8xp_wRW3iKLyBWYSDRySzTW-RMjgHNse57WnPZFObJ3YB1lFj1hn_qq6i513QeDXO-wcgVDmBZu0qzusYMrFXbryokXyNBXfTt3/s1600/IMG_4172.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8dkjKE0ghNVwHvP3I_B8sM1mC6aY0MO9EMDQupEfX8xp_wRW3iKLyBWYSDRySzTW-RMjgHNse57WnPZFObJ3YB1lFj1hn_qq6i513QeDXO-wcgVDmBZu0qzusYMrFXbryokXyNBXfTt3/s640/IMG_4172.jpg" width="492" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Lyrics by Fred Rogers</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Thank you, Mr. Rogers</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-33849612263768190872013-06-10T05:57:00.001-05:002013-06-10T05:59:50.834-05:00Some people!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QBJGKDAP83TsDZnu7uPp6qpADwPvZsIYXNT8RXu4BD4rDCsKjp1wWnQ1GhXnrgDRDrC8Ire2F5vfqJJJtPbkLlMJbjBMKUeTp7UxPntwsV0QGUcsivGUpGIZkJ-hrOHYclRvXzDDscv6/s1600/IMG_4078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="636" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QBJGKDAP83TsDZnu7uPp6qpADwPvZsIYXNT8RXu4BD4rDCsKjp1wWnQ1GhXnrgDRDrC8Ire2F5vfqJJJtPbkLlMJbjBMKUeTp7UxPntwsV0QGUcsivGUpGIZkJ-hrOHYclRvXzDDscv6/s640/IMG_4078.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>"Ecstasy" - <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">© </span>2013 Kathleen Kimball-Baker </i></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"Some people have a wonderful capacity to appreciate again and again, freshly and naively, the basic goods of life, with awe, pleasure, wonder, and even ecstasy."</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~ Abraham H. Maslow</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And may we all be so fortunate!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">From on Word for the Day - Jun 10, 2013, www.gratefulness.org</span></i></div>
Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-53422992225625901972013-05-10T23:24:00.001-05:002013-05-11T11:58:23.000-05:00Cheek to cheekIt was a good day.<br />
It's always a good day when I'm dancing cheek to cheek with these guys.<br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"And the cares that hang around me thro' the week</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Seem to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">When we're out together</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">dancing cheek to cheek"</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i>
Sing it Louie . . .<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzrypquae97VFvGnN_Z7AUkwjR1k17sH4j1CkvreS9O0oARyrMeLEZwe691Lvi4EYoszueuhHSitum0te0INg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
Oops . . . the date should be 2013 . . . oh, whatever, it's all the same, really.<br />
<br />Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-56679583890135906742013-04-12T06:01:00.001-05:002013-04-12T06:12:47.772-05:00Not so bad, really<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3QHChctQg1bnS-BA82YODrYHhGh0Ik_zTBAt4FXX9KHwFS4mLxUSunXp2e9VXcU2ezv-2IKbv1zh6ZnKFyJHUjqr17bjd8jG5sPSmfmgGB7M2W8FJsZl3hh-aMtFRr3giih9rHM9nTT_i/s1600/IMG_1512.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3QHChctQg1bnS-BA82YODrYHhGh0Ik_zTBAt4FXX9KHwFS4mLxUSunXp2e9VXcU2ezv-2IKbv1zh6ZnKFyJHUjqr17bjd8jG5sPSmfmgGB7M2W8FJsZl3hh-aMtFRr3giih9rHM9nTT_i/s640/IMG_1512.jpg" width="496" /></a></div>
<br />
<b>One last kiss, cold and white</b><br />
<br />
O, weary Northerner,<br />
<br />
Wrestle your cold feet into boots<br />
this one last time<br />
tonight--<br />
Glove your hands<br />
and walk with me<br />
We'll bring along the dogs<br />
<br />
Now then<br />
lift up your chin<br />
<br />
Can you feel it?<br />
The ping of infinitesimal darts,<br />
the icy bites on the delicate skin of your nose<br />
before they vanish<br />
<br />
Can you hear it?<br />
The squeak of boots,<br />
enough to make your teeth itch<br />
<br />
Can you see it?<br />
The night that can't go dark<br />
The billowy ground of<br />
white, fresh as a sheet pulled directly<br />
off a wintry clothesline<br />
Watch as our companions<br />
plow into the snow<br />
looking for some moldering<br />
stick or crust of bread meant for<br />
the chickadees<br />
See the silly grins on their<br />
snow-bearded muzzles<br />
<br />
Is it really so bad?<br />
<br />
April, yes, but soon<br />
enough, slush will trickle<br />
down the sidewalks, gray and messy<br />
Green will shoulder up through the mud<br />
Sun will baste us sticky,<br />
and sodden air will suck away our breath<br />
<br />
I know what you'll do then:<br />
You'll hurry down to the lake<br />
<br />
You'll smell of algae,<br />
slip your sweaty skin<br />
into the lake's dark cloak<br />
You'll pull your head<br />
beneath,<br />
propel your steamy form<br />
to the underwater<br />
ladder of the floating dock,<br />
<br />
all the while cooled<br />
by the water<br />
<br />
the water<br />
not so long ago frozen<br />
by our long white winter.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>By Kathleen Kimball-Baker (c) 2012</i><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Image: "Cora on an April walk" by Kathleen Kimball-Baker</i></span><br />
<br />Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-38709127795719573102013-03-21T09:01:00.000-05:002015-09-01T11:13:15.728-05:00The Year of the Sledgehammer, or Why I Stopped Planning Too Far Ahead<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.thejunglestore.com/Gift-Catalog/Douglas_3/Floppy-Wolf-Tyson-By-Douglas-WF284" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKWtzWzWTuvUWkFZNQBropCXLCi9uTUMcHOW7kmmcuVEcCpzKN2wCbEN-2LDTTiYzGTGaDSDbwMHUOd7F1BidbkQ8uJv4kJkljfdkPfIQ3REc9CgYHXrS4PYkoZjbBUR3CUv4Mwib3WFE/s400/tyson.jpg" width="329" /></a></div>
<br />
In her book <i>Traveling Mercies</i>, the wonderful writer Anne Lamott talks about the Year the Big Eraser in the Sky wiped away much of what she loved. That image has always stayed with me. It helped me name 2005, perhaps the most tumultuous period in my life to date. The Year of the Sledgehammer broke me open, smashed to smithereens much of what had grown rigid in my world view, and it exposed me to wonders I never could have imagined in my fastened-up heart and brain.<br />
<br />
It also made me a poor planner.<br />
<br />
In January of 2005, it dawned on me that an auspicious year lay ahead. One child would come of age, my youngest would finish high school and go to college, I would reach a landmark birthday, and my husband and I would celebrate a big anniversary. All of which seemed worthy of some kind of BIG celebration as a family. A cruise, perhaps? A grand family reunion? To be sure a graduation open house, an anniversary fete, and three grand birthday celebrations needed planning. I started scheming, looking for venues, nailing dates.<br />
<br />
All my life, I'd been trading on my tenacity, energy, enthusiasm - and as it turns out, a very warped view of my own personal power. Until 2005, I figured if I wanted something badly enough, I could make it happen: just turn on the willpower, apply extra doses of enthusiasm, and start planning.<br />
<br />
But the Great Unknowable had something else in mind for me.<br />
<br />
Within 6 months, I was breathing my way from one minute to the next, coming to grips with how very little power and control I honestly had in life, holding "it" together as best I could. Planning wasn't even an option.<br />
<br />
In a nutshell, three generations of my beloveds became terribly ill and I was the primary caregiver for all three. There was blood -- and other body fluids. There was a putrid open chest wound the size of a dinner plate. There was psychic anguish only months of wailing could vent. Revelations no one wants to hear. There were shakes and paralysis. There was the wretched and sour smell of too much alcohol metabolizing in a person's malnourished body. There was urinary incontinence and tubes and hospital fluids and crashing blood pressures. There were falls and bruises and sleepless nights and emergency room runs and taking an adult to day care and locked up "mental health" units. Surgeons and infectious disease specialists. Wheelchairs. Hospital wrist bands. Frantic calls to physicians and psychiatrists.<br />
<br />
There was no cruise.<br />
<br />
And in the midst of the blur on the personal front, there was the job that suddenly exploded into 5 jobs. The caring for beloveds, then working till 3 am to keep up with job expectations. Responsibility for millions of dollars that meant other people's livelihood. Trying to learn and meld 3 new cultures within an organization so that they functioned in a healthy way together. A staff that grew from 3 to 25 overnight. Traveling to promote a book, leading workshops, forging important partnerships to keep the "mother ship" alive and afloat, building a Web site with a partner I found hard to abide, arm wrestling with a glitzy ad agency that didn't have time for the work.<br />
<br />
I cringe now when I think about how I answered the simple and innocent greeting/question, "Hi, how are you?"<br />
<br />
I thought I could mange all this by myself. But the Great Unknowable had something else in mind.<br />
<br />
On one particularly bleak morning, a colleague handed me a print out with dates and places and smarmy-sounding names like Serenity Today and Steps and Traditions. She smiled knowingly and said "Maybe this will help." She's was right; it did. I found refuge in a 12-step program for families going through similar hard times. I went to 90 meetings in 90 days where for 1 hour I stepped out of the mayhem and into peace. Sometimes I left those meetings sobbing. I always left feeling understood and heard. I reached out to a wise woman who became a guide to sanity. I learned, somehow, that I had to take care of myself. And in doing so I made the most remarkable, mind-blowing discovery of my life.<br />
<br />
Here's the revelation: Whether or not my beloveds healed was <u>not</u> up to me. That's right. Their recovery was just that; THEIR recovery. Mine was mine. Bingo! I understood for the first time in my life the concept of boundaries. It was humbling. And it was liberating. I was responsible TO them. I was not responsible FOR them. So simple, and yet so profound.<br />
<br />
Coincidentally, two of my beloveds were in fact healing. It's easier to see in hindsight than it was to see in the moment, but there were signs. One of my beloveds died. And I was broken open enough by that point, in November, to discover in the dying process incredible beauty, the slowing down of all that matters, the singular focus on love and comfort.<br />
<br />
It would be many many months before I regained vitality. I was emptied out by the Year of Sledgehammer, and it required much sitting still and staring at my feet and taking walks and intentional nothingness to mend. But in that empty and broken place, unbeknownst to me, the Great Unknowable had cleared room for the entry of joy and delight, the likes of which I'd never known before. And it was at that point I made a decision to center my life around joy rather than on controlling my destiny. Best decision I ever made.<br />
<br />
A dear friend who has been a big part of helping me along my joy-filled path mentioned today that she is amazed at how spontaneously I go about things. In other words, she's a planner, someone who thinks months ahead and gets the good deals because of it. I, on the other hand, am more spur of the moment kind of gal. There's a heftier price to pay for being spontaneous, but it's mostly worked well. Still, I really have to explore whether I've become this way out of fear (as in, if I plan too much I might invite another Year of the Sledgehammer into my life). I truly have come to trust those little messages that pop into my head that suggest doing something "this" way rather than "that" way, as long as my motives are honest. But I also think there's room for more thoughtful planning, so long as I don't hang onto to a certain outcome.<br />
<br />
<i>Dear Great Unknowable - I'm going to try to introduce a little planning into my life now. I trust you'll let me know if I'm taking it too far. And if I am, would you mind using a Beanie Baby rather than a sledgehammer this time? OK, thanks, bye!</i><br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.thejunglestore.com/Gift-Catalog/Douglas_3/Floppy-Wolf-Tyson-By-Douglas-WF284">Image</a>: The Jungle Store</span></i>Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-78014912479735974382013-01-31T23:36:00.000-06:002013-01-31T23:36:26.943-06:00Feeling 'little'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJOwyJkrK-cnR9LOu_M_C5Nc_n-Eru1L4oy9CQEnwAL0tW2LQOMDkMipuB0tZFT1BNtqvgMFnq6oll013NOVpy1ekuxUw3twxrdmtqZiw-ka0DCS3Mmp9AAtoA1LiHSaPESqIYUc5kVwfh/s1600/Little.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/AVvXsEhJOwyJkrK-cnR9LOu_M_C5Nc_n-Eru1L4oy9CQEnwAL0tW2LQOMDkMipuB0tZFT1BNtqvgMFnq6oll013NOVpy1ekuxUw3twxrdmtqZiw-ka0DCS3Mmp9AAtoA1LiHSaPESqIYUc5kVwfh/s320/Little.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
Many many moons ago, when I was a young girl, my mother used the most wonderful expression to help me articulate those moments when I felt insecure, frustrated with my limitations, or just plain in a funk.<br />
<br />
<i>"Are you feeling little," she would ask.</i><br />
<br />
Yes. That captured it perfectly. Because inside my tiny frame was a spirit that usually felt big and sunny and full and sure of things. And then there were times when my pilot light just seemed to dial down to a flicker.<br />
<br />
'Tis such an evening. Missing my mom. And feeling little.<br />
<br />
Hopefully, not for long.<br />
<br />
What do you do when you're "feeling little"?<br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/limaoscarjuliet/149580816/sizes/l/">Limeoscajuliet</a></span></i><br />
<br />
<br />Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-28873768981513960722013-01-01T15:48:00.000-06:002015-08-07T05:19:13.259-05:00Wishin' and hopin' and thinkin' and prayin' <br />
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<span class="userContent"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">if you want it</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">Moisture</span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">for our fields</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">Shelter</span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">if you lack it</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">Sustenance</span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">in good measure</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">Forgiveness</span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">as you need it</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">Love</span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">to help you breathe</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">Breath</span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">to move the love</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">Mirth</span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">to float your soul</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">Rest</span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">in all its forms</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">Astonishment</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.38; text-align: center;">
<span class="userContent"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">to awaken you</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;"> and</span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">Mystery</span></span></div>
<div>
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.38; text-align: center;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;">to keep you searching</span></i></div>
<span class="userContent" style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="userContent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span class="userContent" style="color: #444444;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</span></div>
<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: x-large;">These are my 2013 wishes for you,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: x-large;">my friends and loved ones.</span></div>
<span class="userContent" style="color: #444444; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px;"></span><br />
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<span class="userContent" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent" style="color: #444444;">Oh, and dogs</span></div>
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<span class="userContent" style="color: #444444;"><i>if you so desire-as do I</i></span></div>
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-30059501680709704762012-12-29T17:19:00.000-06:002012-12-29T17:19:42.215-06:00Remembering Renie<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixRXnZwaCiTGzG2eiOOVKfwbQmRWDIYRdegEZRgrnzbElrN9Xw_gsdShF0XSxE2dbjpAsR219tiOBb_yei3fAhomev0d2M_7ryY4onoXa6PsA-ls887QppQ9xGxaKwXlEVNBqWZF1w-69x/s1600/Birch-Trees-11-x14-300x225=Russia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixRXnZwaCiTGzG2eiOOVKfwbQmRWDIYRdegEZRgrnzbElrN9Xw_gsdShF0XSxE2dbjpAsR219tiOBb_yei3fAhomev0d2M_7ryY4onoXa6PsA-ls887QppQ9xGxaKwXlEVNBqWZF1w-69x/s400/Birch-Trees-11-x14-300x225=Russia.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Oil Painting: "Birch Trees" by Tatiana Yanovskaya-Sink / <a href="http://fromrussiawithart.org/store/?product=birch-trees">From Russia with Art</a></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Droid Sans', arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span>Three years.<br />
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My friend Renie drew her last breath three years ago. She was so young. And so alive. And so loved. She chose her way out, not by hurrying death in any way, but simply by being present for it. Courageous beyond belief. Cancer took over her liver, and it was not an easy way to go.<br />
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But before that and a good while back we worked together for five years. Amazing woman. Gifted writer. A spirit so free, so unfettered by convention, it's a wonder she stayed earth-bound as long as she did. She was never easy to track down and I'm not given to calling people for help, but amazingly, during my darkest, most difficult why-is-this-happening-to-me moments, she never failed to answer my distressed phone calls. <i>Oh, honey, that's SO big. </i>And I was off and running and she was listening with her low coos and her <i>OhHoneys</i>. Nothing I said, no amount of despair, no level of wretchedness turned her away.<br />
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A mutual friend often organizes events to remember and to honor Renie. I can't bring myself to go to a single one. I just haven't found the courage to show up for the level of grief I fear I'll encounter in a group lament for our friend.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitf8DjFROs9P9_sI69a5GaLZ4N-e7sWUjA9r2yDLXyOQ4VPtvRRB3xJKtEkOBsek7jPMbRrImrfm6HpusfBL_O0NbJ5yTe92BcM5qoh8CQLt6Jjbx2tjhe_hpGsrHW4o1PaDvwfErbzoy_/s1600/IMG_1606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitf8DjFROs9P9_sI69a5GaLZ4N-e7sWUjA9r2yDLXyOQ4VPtvRRB3xJKtEkOBsek7jPMbRrImrfm6HpusfBL_O0NbJ5yTe92BcM5qoh8CQLt6Jjbx2tjhe_hpGsrHW4o1PaDvwfErbzoy_/s400/IMG_1606.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
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So I remember her quietly. </div>
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And here. </div>
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Maybe someday, I'll be a big girl.</div>
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But not today.</div>
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Renie loved rocks, water, and trees. </div>
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Here's a snippit from Robert Frost's poem <i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWL7dEx43qNnvHL-9R8wxI9QGDNNfe4Z5skk9lntM_V3ftL9WTuTND8PaYMRE7cE0VeMesJEIxHY1DZLN6y2QPbrQC2UPWqXYi4DUADLjSI_udkstLhO9DtpNSh5TqOlmBTqhsSiQfovLG/s1600/IMG_1564.jpg" imageanchor="1">Birches</a></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">. . . I'd like to get away from earth awhile</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And then come back to it and begin over.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">May no fate willingly misunderstand me</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And half grant what I wish and snatch me away</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Not to return. Earth is the right place for love:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I don't know where it's likely to go better.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>Toward</i> heaven, till the tree could bear no more,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">But dipped its top and set me down again.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">That would be good both going and coming back.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.</span><br />
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<br />Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8406187896474319609.post-40917993623455231902012-12-29T01:33:00.002-06:002012-12-29T01:43:23.139-06:00Stay awake, Jax . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Vigilant is the word that comes to mind when I think of Jax, a fine Alaskan Husky sled dog. He's normally on his toes and ready for action. Jax is a member of a pack I recently took care of while their man was away. And on this stay, Jax decided he could let down his guard and relax a bit. I considered this a great honor!<br />
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Here he is doing his best to stay awake.</div>
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Night, night, sweet boy . . .<br />
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18372015226222285350noreply@blogger.com2