tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37942548877760451992024-03-05T16:33:59.333-08:00In Just 10Changing the world ten minutes at a time.Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.comBlogger356125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-75734106971181441382015-06-02T05:57:00.001-07:002015-06-02T05:57:08.512-07:00See You Soon.We buried my Uncle Gene last Friday. His life was long. His final years did not suit him. His body failed to cooperate with his mind. We celebrated his life and said goodbye for now.<br />
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As I stood behind the pall bearers, strong men with broad shoulders, my cousins, I was forced to accept that so much time has passed. We, who for a time, felt forever young, are young no longer.<br />
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So many of our relatives, those who were solid landmarks in a chaotic world, are gone. Those of us that remain are much older now. Our hair is dusted with gray. Our faces etched with lines. We ask each other, "Where has the time gone?" When did WE get so OLD?" Our age sobers us. We, who walked in the shadow of our elders, now cast shadows of our own.<br />
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For a few trying minutes, I felt the passage of time, the loss of what was, the loss of those who mattered. I stood behind a wall of somber strength and fought back tears. I was glad that my uncle was free from the limits of his failing body but I mourned the loss of time. <br />
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The pain of this hit hard. Giving in to the personal grief could not be allowed. Focusing on the flickering candles, the feel of the early summer air, the smell of incense, wax and wood, I realized that the best use of time is found in moments in which feeling intersects with life. This painful grief is an integral part of what makes other moments sweet. Without the contrast, life becomes a meaningless blur.<br />
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Much of my life has been a blur. Some thing, some one, seemed to have their foot on the accelerator and I have raced through the years riding in the back seat. The years that remain don't stretch before me like an endless highway of what-might-be. Time is at a premium. Soon, I will be back to bury another and another. All too soon, that other, will be me,<br />
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Silently, I pray to those who have gone before me. <br />
"I need help. I feel lost. Nothing is turning out like I planned. What do I do?"<br />
In my mind, they look on me with a quiet, benevolent silence. There is no need for words. They, who fought the good fight, who have run the race, wait at the finish line. Their trials, their fears and failures were part of the journey as mine are to my own.<br />
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In the end, life is less about what you have done and more about who you have become.<br />
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My uncle's life was a simple one. He made a living by the work of his hands. The land was the floor below him, the sky his cathedral. In his presence, I felt a reverence I never understood. Our relationship didn't have words to define it. They weren't necessary. Words aren't what really defines a life or shapes a destiny. Those monumental events occur in between the crevices of the minutes, days and years. They are found in action and choices, in moments of intense feeling both pain and joy. The blood and bone of life is in the doing and the being. It's in the showing up. <br />
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Thanks, Gene, Dad, Grandmas, uncles, aunts. . .Your lives have shown me the way. Please save me a spot at the table. We have some catching up to do. See you soon.Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-75901985790276701192015-05-27T05:44:00.000-07:002015-05-27T05:44:29.487-07:00Why Not?Recently, Elizabeth Gilbert recommended the blog, <a href="http://momastery.com/">Momastery</a>. Of course, I checked it out. Loving it, I envied how well Glennon Doyle Melton writes. For 3 days, it provided me an excuse not to write. I gave up because I wasn't someone else.<br />
Crazy? Yes. Not all my excuses are so illogical, however, I am an amazing author of excuses. Maybe, it's time to look for reasons instead. So, I did.<br />
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Carol's reasons to write:<br />
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<b>In order to write, I have to write</b>. It's just like breathing. It's what one does to stay alive, if you're so inclined Holding my breath is not breathing. All that effort to avoid the inevitable is futile.<br />
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<b>I am not Glennon Doyle Melton or any other author I admire. </b> My life is uniquely mine. Instead of finding reasons why I'm not good enough, I need to remember that the ONLY person I need to be better than is myself or the me I was 30 seconds ago.<br />
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<b>I am interesting.</b> I honestly believe I'm one of the most interesting people I know. In fact, I'm overly attached to my ideas and stories and I never tire of sharing them.<br />
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<b>It's important to make time to do something I love. </b> Considering how much time I spend doing the things I have to do and don't enjoy, if I can't make time for a little fun and enjoy what I'm doing, it's time to pack it all in.<br />
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<b>I won't know what I can write if I don't give it a try.</b> Not every word or post is going to be good. It doesn't really matter. Once in a while, I hit the mark. The more I practice, the more I learn and the better I get.<br />
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<b>Why not?</b> No, really. why not?<br />
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<br />Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-61742536979055994042015-05-20T21:47:00.000-07:002015-05-20T21:47:43.211-07:00Fragile"Stop thinking you are fragile," a wise friend said. <br />
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Guilty. And, yet I know, I am not fragile. <br />
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My life is full of challenges. Some may say it's a mess. Some do say, "you're a mess!"<br />
I am a glass-half-full gal. I come from a long line of pessimists who are trying to find a glass. A glass-half-full is an accomplishment.<br />
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I have good reasons to wake up at 3 a.m. and cry. Occasionally, I have "sack-and-ash cloth" days when I feel sorry for myself. There are days when I'm angry and impatient. I remain human. In time, I get a grip and begin again. That's the joy of being human. You can reinvent yourself when the old self just doesn't cut it.<br />
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This mess, that is my life, has become a tremendous opportunity for growth.<br />
This mess, that is my life, has opened my eyes to what is most precious and who among my friends and family provide bright spots in our lives.<br />
This mess, that is my life, has witnessed a generosity and kindness that often leaves me speechless and teary-eyed with gratitude.<br />
This mess, that is my life, has drawn us closer. <br />
This mess, that is my life, has forced me to be brutally honest with myself and to begin to take greater responsibility for how I contribute to where I am in the moment. . . any moment.<br />
This mess, that is my life, has taught me that blame, guilt and pity stand in my way and prevent me from the important work of beginning again.<br />
This mess, that is my life, has deepened my faith in a loving God. In a world turned upside down by disappointment and financial challenges, God is the only constant that makes sense. <br />
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No matter how discouraged I may feel in my darkest moments, my life remains an amazing gift. I can not waste it.<br />
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I'm not fragile because I've discovered what I'm made of. I am strongest in my broken places. <br />
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My wise friend, ended the evening with a direct statement to me. "You are going to get through this. We're going to get through this." She is right. We are not fragile.Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-7728947504754375572015-05-12T19:24:00.000-07:002015-05-12T19:24:05.519-07:00BlockedBlocked. That was the message I received when I tried to post on my web site. Blocked seems to be the theme lately. <br />
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Heading back over to "In Just 10" I rediscover what "In Just 10" was about. I'm ashamed to admit that I had completely forgotten. Total blank. It's time to get back to what I value and to take action to protect it and to increase the joy I am certain will follow by being more attentive to those things that truly matter to me. It requires effort. I wonder if I have the energy.<br />
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I'm off course. The wrong things are capturing my attention. Ideas for op/ed pieces roar through my head like hungry lions.<br />
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As I try to shake off the mantle of negative energy, I realize that underneath my frustration and anger lies a deep and profound loneliness. No one is more surprised than I to discover it there. <br />
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I am desperate to feel useful, essential, connected. Instead I feel a profound disconnect at the deepest level. Maybe this is the nature of grief. Maybe, it is an essential component of change. What ever it's purpose, cause or function, I walk with it now.<br />
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My life is rapidly reduced to its basic elements so that I may rebuild again but the process is exquisitely painful and isolating. Reality does have teeth and they are sharp. <br />
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I grieve under a great burden, the brokenness and the confusion follows me like a love sick puppy. Insight comes and goes with a brutal randomness. Is this how others live? Do other people worry about these things, the things that rip me from a sound sleep at 3 a.m. and form shadows on the wall that the light of day can not erase?<br />
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Polite conversation is no place for such things. A curtain drops between me and the rest of the world. It tries to hide the danger. If it isn't spoken aloud, it doesn't exist. But, it does. I carry it around with me like a hungry cancer.<br />
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<br />Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-73009006311058167032011-10-11T19:05:00.000-07:002011-10-11T19:05:47.469-07:00TransitionMy new web site is here! I am not going to deactivate <i>In Just 10</i>. Eventually, I hope to link the entries here to my new web site.<br />
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As of today, October 11, 2011, I am now writing and posting at <a href="http://carolsturgeon.com./">CarolSturgeon.com.</a><br />
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Thanks to the creative talents of my brother, Len. I'm shifting my focus and starting a new direction. I'm expanding my scope, increasing my reader base and making it easier for those lovely little search engines to find me.<br />
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It will take some time for me to learn Wordpress so check in often to see future developments.<br />
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I want to thank my readers. Your support, friendship and interest is encouraging and inspiring. I have been very blessed by the amazing people that I have in my life. Words fail to capture how much you all mean to me. <br />
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<br />Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-17710681444417461742011-10-10T10:51:00.000-07:002011-10-10T10:53:21.980-07:00Following Your HeartI walk a tightrope over the valley of tears. Some times, I look down and feel panic. Other times I look up and see a beautiful blue sky and I remember why I am on this journey. After spending a wonderful, stimulating weekend, I found that I was searching for a way to process all I had learned, a way to understand what my true purpose is.<br />
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I<i> </i>waited for inspiration. No bill board lit up my mind with a simple summary sentence of wisdom. No words played across the inner screen telling me what my life was all about. I was disappointed. What happened to all that inspiration, my desire to discern my direction, my attempts to be open to what the universe/God had to teach me?<br />
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Disappointed, I turned to a familiar distraction and logged on to my computer to check my random e-mails. There buried in all the recipes and daily updates was a simple posting in a blog <a href="http://www.kindovermatter.com/2011/10/if-you-havent-found-it-yet-keep-looking.html?utm_source=Kind+Over+Matter%27s+RSS+E-mail+List&utm_campaign=868bf7d5b3-RSS_EMAIL_CAMPAIGN&utm_medium=email">(Kind Over Matter)</a>. It was a clip of Steve Jobs giving a commencement speech at Stanford.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/UF8uR6Z6KLc" width="420"></iframe><br />
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Had he not recently died, I may not have been as impressed as I was with his words. I had to write some of them down as if the writing of them would some how make them more real, more easily grasped.<br />
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<i>"Remembering I'll be dead soon is the most important tool, I ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life because almost everything, all external expectation, all pride, all fear of embarrassment and failure, all these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart." Steve Jobs </i><br />
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Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place. I could see clearly the lesson that the weekend held for me. In a single moment, I saw the point of my life. I didn't have to work hard to figure it out. I simply had to get out of my own way long enough to acknowledge what I have always known.<br />
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As for what I discovered about my purpose. . . well, some things are best kept to one's self. Tomorrow, I may have a new purpose. Just for today, I am at peace. Peace is a beautiful thing.<br />
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It will pass but the memory will remain. We all live life one moment at a time. We string the moments together and look back at what we've created. We often fail to realize that we've lost so many moments by not living in them. This is something I know well. I needed Steve Jobs, a house full of women, a son having a meltdown, conversations with new friends and a hug from my daughter, to help me realize how precious each moment is. I am already naked. There is no reason not to follow my heart.Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-44018105384787995082011-10-06T11:15:00.000-07:002011-10-06T11:15:38.646-07:00In Between the Words<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/5XyKZcvLqmk" width="420"></iframe><br />
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<i>(Somehow this song feels like it fits today. I don't have words to explain why. It just does. It's not the words. It is what falls in between them.)</i><br />
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Words have limits. They create little boxes into which we drop bits and pieces of our lives. So much of our living takes place in between the words. Inside our heads we play the endless commentary of our lives and yet never fully capture who we are. So many things are left unsaid. So many things fall outside the neat boxes that words create.<br />
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At home, snug in my well-worn recliner, I look at my husband in the chair beside me. The things I want to say can't be captured in words. We sit in mutual silence. The TV drones on mindlessly. So many words pour from the screen. They say so little. I'm not even remotely entertained. Something is missing. What's missing are all the words left unsaid. They press down on the inside of my lips. They ripple across my tongue. I open my mouth to let them out. They flutter away in silence. <br />
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Feelings, raw and primitive course through my body like electric current. They snap and crackle. My nerves stand at attention, waiting. They wait for words to capture them but the words can not.<br />
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This break down of language leaves me broken and mute. I want to cry, to mourn the loss. I'm in way over my head and I can't find a way to tell anyone. And, then again, maybe I just did.<br />
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<br />Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-86962595444802549042011-10-05T11:01:00.000-07:002011-10-05T11:05:25.353-07:00Risky Words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkcRULegs8WrD5LfOChVkmE9BF0fuxmnDY_7xZX0zWiqiozfny_t6YaD93Nvg8qAiLI4lAR_XbydVkqfxVw42hsbNmYZdVCF-GbvLo3K37j2xGv4jiknWs49QfwJeyzoOQmu06T0m80XOu/s1600/lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkcRULegs8WrD5LfOChVkmE9BF0fuxmnDY_7xZX0zWiqiozfny_t6YaD93Nvg8qAiLI4lAR_XbydVkqfxVw42hsbNmYZdVCF-GbvLo3K37j2xGv4jiknWs49QfwJeyzoOQmu06T0m80XOu/s320/lake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Image credit goes to my talented daughter</div>
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Some days another person can say things so much better than I can. Today is one of those days. I'm sharing this poem. I'm often a lousy risk taker. It's time to take the leap!<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">BE A RISK TAKER<br /><br />To laugh is to risk appearing a fool,<br />To weep is to risk appearing sentimental,<br />To reach out to another is to risk involvement,<br />To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self,<br />To place your ideas and dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss,<br />To love is to risk not being loved in return,<br />To hope is to risk despair,<br />To try is to risk failure.<br /><br />But risks must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.<br />People who risk nothing, do nothing, have nothing, are nothing.<br />They may avoid suffering and sorrow,<br />But they cannot learn, feel, change, grow or live.<br />Chained by their inaction, they are slaves who have forfeited freedom.<br />Only a person who risks is free.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">(author unknown)</span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-26672008678938394842011-10-04T14:25:00.000-07:002011-10-04T14:25:43.836-07:00Saying Goodbye<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpridKa-PNT4BPgKXdSp09rJ_fP4HDqPEPI_zoVqDBsJStXigJYfCGzOURmZ8t4B-b9b5MaBSzndJpyawinzv52c1YavPs7uPjZ7YsQx5O-c0FXOIiuN6CwQi3AaIOj1w9iMWH1FKZ7gQh/s1600/Mom+and+Sibs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpridKa-PNT4BPgKXdSp09rJ_fP4HDqPEPI_zoVqDBsJStXigJYfCGzOURmZ8t4B-b9b5MaBSzndJpyawinzv52c1YavPs7uPjZ7YsQx5O-c0FXOIiuN6CwQi3AaIOj1w9iMWH1FKZ7gQh/s320/Mom+and+Sibs.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Cliff, Grace, Margaret and Gene</div>
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We buried my uncle, Cliff yesterday. He returned to the earth from which he came. He loved to garden and created a small garden paradise on his city lot. He understood the earth, the soil, the seasons. His life was marked and bounded by his garden. Near the end, his biggest concern was not being unprepared for death. He was worried about his garden and how to harvest the fruit and vegetables he had so carefully tended. He didn't want them to go to waste.<br />
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Despite the years between now and then, the family is still drawn together when it's time to say goodbye. We remember Cliff fondly. We remember how young and vibrant he was. We remember the wonderful homemade ice cream he and Aunt Marianne brought to every picnic. We remember his quiet laugh. He was a bright star in the constellation of all our lives. He's gone to join the other stars that have gone before him. <br />
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As we say goodbye, we step closer to our own mortality. In the faces of relatives, I look through the years to see the faces I remember. They are hidden underneath layers of time. We let go of our uncle, our friend, our brother, our father and we let go of the fiction that we will live forever. We say goodbye and must accept that one day we will join him. Goodbye, Cliff. Rest peacefully. We'll see you soon.Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-76468011757156511332011-10-03T17:19:00.000-07:002011-10-03T17:24:45.526-07:00Wordle for Today<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.wordle.net/show/wrdl/4178304/injust10" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Wordle: injust10"><img alt="Wordle: injust10" height="240" src="http://www.wordle.net/thumb/wrdl/4178304/injust10" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-left: 4px; padding-right: 4px; padding-top: 4px;" width="320" /></a></div>
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This is what was generated when I plugged in my blog URL into the create window on the web site: <a href="http://wordle.net/">Wordle.</a></div>
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For a better view of what Wordle actually created for me, just click on the word scramble box above.</div>
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Go have some fun. </div>
Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-28228921957805933732011-10-02T20:29:00.000-07:002011-10-02T20:30:23.478-07:00Life in Six Words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibY5_TuBZCAd5sduHglgsgLRojjv1GqQC5jkgSBcu6FMJcrietgvoT6JoPgc4_dbB7oEMMpRWJb8upal7I2WynoTfkxTxPoh-dZ-Lbx7KJckYcIpBEicv1dSOaFntOQtBX01lLTti639aJ/s1600/Icant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibY5_TuBZCAd5sduHglgsgLRojjv1GqQC5jkgSBcu6FMJcrietgvoT6JoPgc4_dbB7oEMMpRWJb8upal7I2WynoTfkxTxPoh-dZ-Lbx7KJckYcIpBEicv1dSOaFntOQtBX01lLTti639aJ/s320/Icant.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
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Yesterday's library trip yielded a wonderful find, a small book filled with six word memoirs called,<i> I Can't Keep My Own Secrets:Six Word Memoirs </i>edited by Smith Magazine. The intro of the book mentions a story told about Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway was said to be challenged to write a novel in six words. He returned with "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."<br />
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After reading a few of the memoirs in this tiny book with over 600 authors contributions, I wanted to write my own six word memoir. It was much harder than I expected. I was also a lot of fun. I dare you to try it. Let me know what you come up with.<br />
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I came. I saw. I died.<br />
It was a five dog life. <br />
A Swanson brownie disguised as poo.<br />
A drink of water was everything. <br />
Tightrope walking over the hidden valley.<br />
Slowly, Sister Mary Nobody rides again.<br />
Quiet midnight moon watches me sleep.<br />
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<br />Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-44080139137444656652011-09-30T21:04:00.000-07:002011-09-30T21:05:43.117-07:00The Receiving ProjectDiscovered just in time for Free Friday. . . <i>The Receiving Project.</i><br />
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Here's what Jo Anna Rothman writes on her FAQ page:<br />
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<strong style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">What is The Receiving Project?</strong></div>
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<strong style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></strong>The Receiving Project is a free 32 e-course designed to assist you in opening up to receiving all the gifts that are available for you.</div>
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<strong style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">What’s so important about receiving?</strong></div>
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So many of people are great at giving, but not so hot at receiving. And so many are looking to experience greater abundance, prosperity, wealth, health, love. When we learn to receive with grace and ease, we are truly able to experience all we want in life!"</div>
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There is also a picture of Jo Anna. Her glasses reminded me of Gru's mother in <i>Despicable Me</i>.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Nobile, arial, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">My mind works in mysterious ways. Any way. . . back to Free Friday. . .</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Nobile, arial, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><i>The Receiving Project </i>might seem a little "new agey" but something free and positive shouldn't be passed up without a second look.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Nobile, arial, serif; font-size: 10px;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/mage%20details:%20%20Title:L%20to%20R)%20Agnes%20(ELSIE%20FISHER),%20Edith%20(DANA%20GAIER),%20Gru?s%20Mom%20(JULIE%20ANDREWS)%20and%20Margo%20(MIRANDA%20COSGROVE)%20check%20out%20Gru?s%20old%20photos%20in%20Universal%20Pictures%20and%20Illumination%20Entertainment?s%20inaugural%203-D%20CGI%20feature,%20?Despicable%20Me?.%20The%20film%20tells%20the%20story%20of%20one%20the%20world?s%20greatest%20villains%20who%20meets%20his%20match%20in%20three%20little%20girls.">Image Details</a></span></div>
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</span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-13380603454383236832011-09-27T23:01:00.000-07:002011-09-27T23:03:59.497-07:00Blank PageStarring at the blank page, my mind is a whirl. Few words are making it out of the maelstrom alive.<br />
<br />
I google "topical Tuesday" looking for inspiration. The results bore me. <br />
<br />
Topical Tuesday Tip Off -- Connective Tissue<br />
Topical Tuesday: E-mail Snafus Can Happen to You<br />
Topical Tuesday -- Puppy Mills<br />
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[Heavy sigh]<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/quinnanya/4483902285/" title="My life is over by quinn.anya, on Flickr"><img alt="My life is over" height="333" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2689/4483902285_07316e1ab9.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
I know what I want to write about. . I want to write about all the things I can not write about. I want to write about little, insignificant things that become much bigger than they are. <br />
<br />
During the dog days of summer, a hose was left on. . .probably a bit more than a trickle but less than a stream. It slowly seeped into the lawn over a period of days. It was the unintentional oversight of a young boy. Nothing could suck the water back into the pipes. What was done was done. At least, that was what I believed. Use it as a teaching moment and move on.<br />
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This view was not shared by the other half of the parenting equation. The air sizzled and cracked with an angry eruption. I walked away. At least, I tried to. Apparently, this issue was still alive. Today, I was summoned to view a water bill. "See, that hose left on cost us $40."<br />
I felt annoyed. I expected the figure to be much higher. $40 seemed like a bargain. A bargain we can't afford but we can't afford most things. I've learned to let go. It's better than being upset all the time. I don't need to look for reasons.<br />
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"See, that cost us $40. I knew it would increase the bill," he says again.<br />
I've been home less than 15 minutes. The dog leaps for my attention and "hello" pet fest. My daughter is eager to tell me about playing second flute and needing to practice and my husband wants to show me a water bill to justify rage. <br />
"I'm not sure what you want from me. Do you want me to rubber stamp your getting upset? Do you want me to say, 'Your anger was justified? It was worth upsetting everyone?"<br />
"Do you think it was ok for him to leave the water on?" His voice rises.<br />
"No, I'm not saying that. I'm objecting to getting upset about something that can't be changed. What is done is done."<br />
I start to feel angry but not about the hose. I felt angry that I was expected to get angry. <br />
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"Forget it, just forget it." He throws up his hands and leaves the room.<br />
"I shouldn't have brought it up. I'm sorry I did." He is angry, again.<br />
I follow and try to say as calmly as I can, "What reaction were you hoping I'd give you?"<br />
"Forget it" he says again.<br />
But I can not. <br />
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The words and the anger behind them fester inside of me. I don't want to be angry but I am. The anger is still fresh as I struggle to write about something other than my frustration. The words keep circling around the issue. There is no escape. . . no one to talk to except the blank screen.<br />
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<br />Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-21864616153128573212011-09-24T19:20:00.000-07:002011-09-24T19:20:29.396-07:00Saturday Shimmers<span class="hw">From the <a href="http://www.thefreedictionary.com/shimmering">Free Dictionary.com:</a> </span><br />
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<span class="hw">shim·mer</span> <span class="pron">(sh<img align="absbottom" src="http://img.tfd.com/hm/GIF/ibreve.gif" />m<img align="absbottom" src="http://img.tfd.com/hm/GIF/prime.gif" /><img align="absbottom" src="http://img.tfd.com/hm/GIF/schwa.gif" />r)</span><br />
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<i>intr.v.</i> <b>shim·mered</b>, <b>shim·mer·ing</b>, <b>shim·mers</b> <div class="ds-list">
<b>1. </b> To shine with a subdued flickering light.</div>
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<b>2. </b> To appear as a wavering or flickering image, as in a reflection on water or through heat waves in air.</div>
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<i>n.</i><div class="ds-single">
A flickering or tremulous light; a glimmer.</div>
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[Middle English <tt>shimeren</tt>, from Old English <tt>scimerian</tt>.]</div>
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To shine with a subdued flickering light. . . I like the sound of that. Tremulous also sounds exciting. I want more shimmering in my life. When I look at things closely, I want to find a bit of magic. I want things to be more than they are. I want subdued light to appear in all the dark corners. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4f8XpIGviGt1YQR1DGv2qmSju9kydkfnIAd4rAM59Qz6cMjrIri_oh03Bwrl_COvkVXtHTlqiGJxRTPOwOjwaQwX7wVYthQY3ENywFrdCSKDZo7SCveWmZrH1gpPx57FvXcpyRDUc10b/s1600/optimism+bias.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4f8XpIGviGt1YQR1DGv2qmSju9kydkfnIAd4rAM59Qz6cMjrIri_oh03Bwrl_COvkVXtHTlqiGJxRTPOwOjwaQwX7wVYthQY3ENywFrdCSKDZo7SCveWmZrH1gpPx57FvXcpyRDUc10b/s1600/optimism+bias.jpg" /></a></div>
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I recently started reading a new book called: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Optimism-Bias-Irrationally-Positive-Brain/dp/0307378489"><i><span id="btAsinTitle"><span style="font-size: small;">The Optimism Bias: A Tour of the Irrationally Positive Brain </span></span></i></a><span id="btAsinTitle"><span style="font-size: small;">by Tali Sharot. It's a fascinating, well-written book. The author explains how optimism is often irrational but an important component in biological survival. I had to stop reading it. <b>(For those, who don't need to cling to hopeful illusions, I recommend this book highly.) </b> I was afraid it would affect my ability to see the shimmering. I was already having a hard time finding it in my life. If I am to harness the power of optimism, I need to maintain the illusion that it is rational and possible at least once in a while. </span></span></div>
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<span id="btAsinTitle"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div>
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<span id="btAsinTitle"><span style="font-size: small;">To whom do I give the power of determining what is real or unreal, what is rational or irrational? Scientists look for empirical evidence. It's a very effective paradigm for the scientific but I find it a bit too confining to apply to the totality of a life, especially to my life. I need the irrational, the hope of the impossible for those are the very things that lie just beyond the shimmer. Without the shimmer what remains?</span></span></div>
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<span id="btAsinTitle"><span style="font-size: small;">It's not rational for children to believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny but it is a lot of fun. Some of childhood's fondest memories are often rooted in these fantasies, a time when the world contained magic and the impossible was possible. </span></span></div>
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<span id="btAsinTitle"><span style="font-size: small;">Years ago in a philosophy class, we read Plato's allegory of the cave. I think of it now. In the story, Plato describes a group of people who are chained facing a blank wall. They can not see what is behind them only what is in front. They watch the shapes of shadows cast on the wall. The shadows are </span></span><span id="btAsinTitle"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span id="btAsinTitle"><span style="font-size: small;"> illuminated by a fire behind. The shadows are not reality. It is the philosopher's job to point out reality. </span></span></div>
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<span id="btAsinTitle"><span style="font-size: small;">I found this confusing. What made the philosopher so sure that he had the corner market on truth? Was a philosophical view really more accurate? Isn't a large part of reality relative? If I believe that I hear the hooves of Santa's reindeer on my roof, as a child, can a philosopher prove to me that I am mistaken?</span></span><span id="btAsinTitle"><span style="font-size: small;"> Should he/she? </span></span></div>
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<span id="btAsinTitle"><span style="font-size: small;">Today, I sit in a chair facing a blank wall. On the wall, the shadows flicker and shimmer. I know that behind me are things I can not see. But the shimmering light on the wall is enough for today. I'm not ready to see beyond. . . not just yet. I'm enjoying the shimmer.</span></span></div>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-25450821113896134682011-09-23T08:25:00.000-07:002011-09-23T08:30:54.141-07:00Free EleganceAnd now, for something completely different. . . <br />
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This morning I stumbled across a beautiful blog created by Lexi, a graphic designer.<br />
She has some wonderful and elegant free printables on her blog: <a href="http://loveobsessinspire.typepad.com/my-blog/2010/01/free-printable-goodies-three-kisses-studio.html"><i>Love, Obsess, Inspire. </i></a><br />
These were created by Amy from <i>Three Kisses Studio</i><br />
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Enjoy your Friday! Make it elegant!<br />
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<br />Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-82038858703659578662011-09-21T09:20:00.000-07:002011-09-21T09:21:36.482-07:00Memory: Alone in the Moonlight Wednesday's word is <i>memory.</i><br />
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Memory: <br />
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<span class="pronAll">(<span class="pointer" style="color: blue;"><span class="pron">mĕm<span style="font-size: 15px;">'</span>ə-rē</span></span>) <span style="cursor: pointer;"><img align="middle" alt="pronunciation" border="0" src="http://content.answcdn.com/main/content/img/pron.gif" /></span></span><br />
<i>n.</i>, <i>pl.</i>, <span class="kw">-ries</span>.<br />
<ol style="margin-top: 0px;">
<li> The mental faculty of retaining and recalling past experience.</li>
<li> The act or an instance of remembering; recollection: <i>spent the afternoon lost in memory.</i></li>
<li> All that a person can remember: <i>It hasn't happened in my memory.</i></li>
<li> Something remembered: <i>pleasant childhood memories.</i></li>
<li> The fact of being remembered; remembrance: <i>dedicated to their parents' memory.</i></li>
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Read more: <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/memory-psych-in-encyclopedia#ixzz1YbNEUM5q" style="color: #003399;">http://www.answers.com/topic/memory-psych-in-encyclopedia#ixzz1YbNEUM5q</a><br />
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<i> The words below are an excerpt from the book I'm currently writing.</i><br />
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Memory is both fragile and powerful. We all have a need to make sense out of our lives and the events in them. We all write the stories of ourselves basing then on the bits and pieces of the past that break into our now. We are often wrong. Our subconscious works overtime trying to protect us. We shield our sanity in a fragile shell. Our capacity for denial is especially strong.<br />
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We weave the scattered parts of our lives into a past that explains our futures to us. There is much that doesn’t make sense. Life rarely has a neat beginning, middle and end but we so desperately seek some order in the chaos that we become masters of fiction. This fiction supports our tomorrows. We come to rely on it as we stagger toward an uncertain future. <br />
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If we were to stop assembling the fiction of our lives, how could we continue? If we were to face the truth hidden behind all that we deny, all that we block from our awareness, would we be rendered useless before all that is to come?<br />
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We are fiction writers. Cutting away all the layers of time as we create the character that we believe ourselves to be. How could we bear the truth? So few of us are really special. We aren’t more noble, more honest, more gifted than others most of the time but we believe ourselves to be. Those assumptions move us forward into our tomorrow. <br />
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Try to feel equal to, just as worthy as any one you meet today, I dare you. It’s very hard to do. Critical judgment will break through our best intentions. We all have “feet of clay” and yet we all believe we were blessed with wings.<br />
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I know that my memories of childhood and of my life carry only bits and pieces of reality. Reality and I are often at odds. Over the years, I have just begun discover how much my memories have tried to save me. They guard the dark corners of my mind. Memory protects and disturbs. I struggle to make sense of it and in the struggle I weave a tale. In sickness and in health, for richer and poorer, till death do us part, memory is an unfaithful partner. It is all I have. Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-41442162940730656772011-09-20T11:43:00.000-07:002011-09-20T11:53:54.903-07:00Hold on to What You Believe<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/7a9M0jIkjDg" width="560"></iframe>
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<b> </b><br />
I'm breaking away from Topical Tuesday. I'm tired of hearing the bad news on TV and reading it splashed across newspapers. I'm looking for the good, for things I can pin my hopes on. . . .<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>"But we're young, open flowers in the windy fields</b><br />
<b>of this war-torn world. . ."</b><br />
<b></b><br />
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The problems of the world press down on me. My heart is heavy. My mind struggles with the weight of reality. I'm Atlas holding up the world. It hurts. I stagger. And yet, . . .<br />
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Last night at the weekly Mary Kay meeting, I won one of the raffles prizes. Satin Hands, a new lipstick named "Give Hope", Lavish Sable fingernail polish. . .all the things girls love. They came in a smartly dressed coffee cup with one word printed on both sides, "Hope." Hope was the theme of the evening. I let it carry me away as I rested gently in its arms.<br />
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It was the thing I needed most. It came as a surprise gift of that impish serendipity. I spent my morning running errands, applying for a temp job, visiting the employment office. I come home to write while listening to music. It's soothes the savage heart, you know. I find the song posted here. Pure chance? Maybe. . . but just maybe "when the student is ready the teacher appears." I open my arms to welcome hope with a warm hug. Hope seems to be everywhere lately.<br />
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In between the melancholy elements of this song, hope shines. Despite avoidance, denial, and escape, one can learn to question: <b>"So what if I was wrong".</b> I can learn to find what is missing in what I already have. I can hold on. Hope is reaching out to me today.<b> I am young. "I am an open flower in a windy field of a war-torn world." </b>Hope. What a lovely virtue. <b>"Hold on to what you believe."</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
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<b>"Hold On To What You Believe"</b><br />
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I, I can't promise you<br />
that I won't let you down<br />
And I, I can't promise you<br />
that I will be the only one around<br />
when your hope falls down<br />
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But we're young, open flowers in the windy fields<br />
of this war-torn world<br />
And love, this city breathes the plague<br />
of loving things more than their creators<br />
<br />
I ran away<br />
I could not take the burden of both me and you<br />
It was too fast<br />
Casting love on me as if it were a spell I could not break<br />
When it was a promise I could not make<br />
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But what if I was wrong?<br />
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But hold on to what you believe in the light<br />
When the darkness has robbed you of all your sight<br />
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And now this land means less and less to me<br />
without you breathing through its trees<br />
At every turn the water runs away from me<br />
and the halo disappears<br />
and the hole when you're not near<br />
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So what if I was wrong?<br />
<br />
But hold on to what you believe in the light<br />
When the darkness has robbed you of all your sight<br />
<br />
So hold on to what you believed in the light
Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-55166543052332466702011-09-19T12:34:00.000-07:002011-09-19T12:42:42.583-07:00HeartsickSeptember isn't over yet but twice I've got a call to come pick up my son from school. He says he doesn't feel well. In my heart, I know that it isn't his body but his mind that feels sick. My heart breaks a little as I drive across town to pick him up. He isn't coping well with the transition to middle school.<br />
<br />
Later, I read an e-mail from his teacher. He was refusing to do work in class. He was throwing papers, yelling at his teacher and his helper. Security escorted him out of the classroom. Inside my heart breaks again, only sharper and deeper this time. I try and imagine his future and I start to panic inside. He copes so poorly with life. If he knew what awaits would it crush him? It almost crushes me.<br />
<br />
<br />
On the drive home, he reads my broken heart and it frightens him.<br />
"I love you, Mom", he says in a feigned weak voice.<br />
"I love you too."<br />
"Are you mad at me?" He asks.<br />
He is afraid of the answer.<br />
"No, I'm not mad. I'm really concerned and frustrated. You've got to make better choices. I'm not sure how to help you. You know that thinking yourself sick to get out of something isn't the best way to deal with a problem."<br />
<br />
"I know, Mom", he says sadly.<br />
<br />
"I'm really concerned about this problem cooperating. School is often work and you are expected to rise to the occasion. Not cooperating makes your life more difficult than it has to be."<br />
<br />
He doesn't know how often I convinced myself I was sick to avoid the exquisite torture that school provided me and later work. There were consequences. I don't always cope as well as I should. I can make my life more difficult than it has to be.<br />
<br />
His father and I work out some new "rules" for coming home during the school day.<br />
<br />
Vomiting.<br />
Fever.<br />
A medical condition that requires immediate attention.<br />
<br />
Those are his get-out-of-school free cards. Tough love is tough. My heart breaks a little again but not as sharply and deeply this time. I know what needs to guide my choices. I stand on a top of the years, looking down. I know how important it is for him to learn how to deal with life. I want to give my energy, my faith, and my hope to his potential to overcome what holds him back inside.<br />
<br />
But, there are things I can't control. This fact feeds a growing mass of worry inside my heart. My heart breaks again, sharply and deeply. I look at the pieces of my heart and realize that broken again and again, my heart has become stronger in all the broken places.<br />
I tell myself, "I can do this. I can cope and so can he."Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-60268340139130020122011-09-18T13:10:00.000-07:002011-09-18T13:11:25.699-07:00Awakening<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/qaI8K02nDyE" width="560"></iframe><br />
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This morning, I lie awake beside my husband. Suddenly, words spring into my mouth and demand to be said.<br />
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"Do you ever think that some times we love each other for all the wrong reasons?"</div>
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"Hmm," he says. "Do you?"<br />
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"Yes. Some times. Sometimes I think we're way too co-dependent. It's not good for us."<br />
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"What should we do about it?" he says back in a sleepy voice.<br />
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"I don't know. The words just fell out of my head. I'm not sure what they mean, yet", I say.<br />
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The Sunday morning is lazy and so am I. I don't want to think about the words. Understanding them would create a need to act. Some needs feel too heavy to pick up. I leave them in a pile on the floor while I take a shower.<br />
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After breakfast, I plug myself into music and lose myself in writing. At least, I try to. It doesn't take long for the words to find me. I start to see me, see us, peeking out from between the words.<br />
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"Do you ever think that some times we love each other for all the wrong reasons?"</div>
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The meaning demands to be found. The words blink back at me from the heart of a white screen. I stand before them. They are an altar of sacrifice. We are its religion. It needs reformation. So do we. Some where along the way, we've lost ourselves. Lacking so much we each blame ourselves for what the other lacks. We are less than we want to be. We see this in the others' eyes. We've lost ourselves in a chasm of all that we are not, individually and together. We have lost the best part of us. <br />
<br />
"Do you ever think that some times we love each other for all the wrong reasons?"<br />
<br />
As the morning ends, this question opens into another. It is the more important question.<br />
<br />
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<i>"Do you think that we can learn to love each other for all the right reasons?"</i></div>
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For a moment, I hesitate to answer, afraid what I might say to myself. The answer forces itself to the surface.<br />
"Yes", it whispers, "but it won't be easy."<br />
I whisper back, "The best things in life rarely are."<br />
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The music that I hoped would "take me away" pulls me back to earth with a vengeance. I hear the Indigo Girls sing <i>"A Moment of Forgiveness"</i>.<br />
" In a moment of forgiveness, you reach out and take my hand."<br />
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Forgiveness. . . of the self. . . of the other. . .it is the place to start. I'm fully awake now. I know where I'm headed. Loving for all the right reasons waves from the distance.<br />
<br />
"Come and get me," it says.<br />
I start walking.<br />
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<br />Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-42961848123295227532011-09-17T10:12:00.000-07:002011-09-17T10:12:27.211-07:00Broken ThingsSo why is it difficult to be an artist?<br />
<br />Because artists break things. Breaking the status quo,<br />the established rules, the way things usually are. - Seth Godin<br />
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Photo of our, Ruby</div>
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Taken by me.</div>
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This morning, I woke up with sadness sitting on my chest. It was trying to suck my breath away. Struggling against it required too much energy. I let it have its way with me. It stole my breath and filled me with the dust of broken dreams.<br />
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My mind began to kaleidoscope in the gray shades of despair. <br />
<br />
Yesterday, I sat to wait for my husband in a coffee shop. I didn't buy a thing. I picked up the Wall Street Journal instead. The quality of the writing was superb. The words started to feed me until I began aware of how powerfully biased they were. I wanted impartial. I didn't want them to try and win me over. I wanted facts, embellished only by the truth by wordsmiths with lofty ideals. I also want that from life. So far I'm still waiting to get it.<br />
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As I lay awake, starring at the ceiling, my mind plays the sound bites it read in the Wall Street Journal. <br />
"US Postal Service to eliminate 35,000 jobs". <br />
Bank of America restructuring eliminating 30,000 jobs.<br />
Unemployment still rising."<br />
<br />
I had an interview this last week. That was an achievement. Several days later, I got an e-mail. They had chosen some one else for the job. When I left the interview, the woman said it would probably be several weeks before they'd make a decision. She'd already made up her mind about not hiring me. <br />
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Part of me wants to feel defeated. Part of me knows that I can't take it personally. All of me feels tired, bone tired.<br />
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Yesterday, my husband pointed out the rising bubble in the floor in front of the kitchen sink. This sink has had a leak under it for more than a year. We tried to fix it. We were all thumbs. It was never fixed. Mold covers the wall under the sink. Now the water is obviously damaging the floor beneath us. Poverty is mold and leaks that can't be fixed.<br />
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My mind longs for escape. My soul demands it. I comfort myself with the fact that the greedy bank will get the house back, in much worst shape than it was. Plumbers are too expensive. Let the bank hire one. A new roof . . . too expensive, water damage under a shower. . . too expensive. The house is as broken as I am. <br />
<br />
The memory of a recent fierce argument burns still. He and I are both broken. We came together broken and life continues to break us. We are broken like this house. It is our metaphor. I want to believe that strength can come from broken places and things but some times they are just broken. Not strong. Broken.<br />
<br />
Yet, in spite of everything, I start to pick up the pieces. Truth, no matter how painful, is still truth. It becomes a base camp. I will operate from here.<br />
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A tiny, eager dog comes to visit. In her mouth a rag. She wants me to throw it. Her tail wags furiously. Her eyes beg, "Come play with me." <br />
I tell her to find my son. She trots off. Her tiny toe nails tippy-tapping across the tiles. It is a happy sound.<br />
She's back. No one will play with her. Her eyes say, "Please. Please play with me."<br />
<br />
I take the rag and toss it. She is happy. I smile just a little inside. Hope lives still. Sadness could not steal it. A little dog with a rag shows it to me. Broken half truths are sometimes all that you have. It will be enough. I will take the pieces and make them into words. Words are painting my life with colors so vivid that at times I must look away. Words break the status quo. They rise up in protest full of promise. They drip with hope between the shards of despair. I have been here before and I have risen. I will rise again.<br />
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<br />Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-10404123068610229912011-09-16T07:53:00.000-07:002011-09-16T07:53:36.298-07:00Free the Write WayI write better than I live. My live is often chaotic. I search for meaning but don't always find it. I tumble through life doing a lot of things I don't want to do and few things that I want to do. I try to pick up the pieces and make some thing out of them but most of the time all I have to show for my efforts is a pile of pieces.<br />
<br />
Some of those pieces have jagged edges. They cut into me as I hold them. Some thing isn't right but I can't seem to figure out what's wrong. The sense that something is wrong wraps around me. I gasp for air as it squeezes me. I am a trapped animal. Nothing makes sense except my fear. Fear is all I have.<br />
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And then, the words come. They flow out on the page and release me from my trap. They free me. In them I see where I am headed and where I have been. They tell me how I feel when I don't know. Words carry me into redemption. They soothe my soul. They impose meaning and order where there had been none. I owe them my life.<br />
<br />
Words bring magic with them. <br />
<br />
I challenge you to think of your own story, your own life. How would you capture it with words? Begin to write about it, about you. There, between the words, you will discover yourself... the Write Way.Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-42930116258227484942011-09-15T08:54:00.000-07:002011-09-15T09:45:21.941-07:00Wave<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://andreas.com/hokusai.html">Image Credit</a></div>
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Hokusai (1760-1849)</h1>
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<strong>Katsushika Hokusai</strong>, Japan's best known artist, is ironically Japan's least Japanese artist. Japan's best known woodblock print, <i>The Great Wave</i>, is very un-Japanese. Welcome to the artist often known as Hokusai.</div>
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Thinking Thursday</div>
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A doctor recently prescribed Aller-Chlor. It's an antihistamine. It was supposed to help with the congestion that has followed a sinus infection. It did not. It did light up my brain cells in a new and unusual way. My brain never ceases to surprise me.</div>
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Normally, I think in words but with this new drug in my system, my neurons were tickled into thinking in pictures. These pictures weren't based on words. They were based on feelings. </div>
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I was told that the medication would make me sleepy. I looked forward to a nap. Instead of rest, I got a mindful of art work. As I lay there, aware of feelings that I could not capture with words, this image dominated my thoughts. It hung on the wall inside my head. There were many other images there but none as compelling as this "Wave". I sat down in front of it.</div>
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It was me without words.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">The mood has passed but the image remains. Today, I went in search of the image. I found it easily on the first try. Today, I'm going to sit in front of it. I think it may hold a secret, something that I really need to know. It came to me as a gift. I accept it with open arms.</span></div>
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</span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-83248690423320752712011-09-14T09:03:00.000-07:002011-09-15T08:59:36.605-07:00ChorophobiaWordy Wednesday<br />
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Chorophobia: the fear of dancing.<br />
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I think I have this. Dancing without dulling my senses with alcohol is extremely difficult. In my mind, I see myself lurching across the dance floor like a rusty Tin Man. I die a thousand deaths of embarrassment. Now, that any form of alcohol makes me instantly nauseous, I do not dance.<br />
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<a href="http://nowherewithyou.files.wordpress.com/2010/08/tin-man.jpg">Photo Source</a></div>
I know my fear is irrational. I feel as if all the eyes of the world watch me and find my dancing an insult to rhythm. I never want to insult rhythm. I feel the beat. Life has a pulse. It surges, it throbs, it sleeps. Everything affects this pulse. Everything. The idea makes my heart race. I have trouble finding the line that separates me from the rest of the universe. In odd moments, we are one and the same.<br />
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This fear of dancing must be conquered. My life lacks form without it. I need rhythm. . . something fluid, something memorable, something lyrical to guide my steps as they plod through the days. Without feeling the music within me and moving to the magic of its charms, my life is dry and empty. I need to know where I end and everything else begins. <br />
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Dancing would define my edges.<br />
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It's time to form a support group: For those who fear dancing. It has a nice ring to it. A nice ring is important in music and in the dance. Surely, I can't be the only one who carries this fear. Maybe, as well grow together and become braver being who we are, we can start with a simple circle dance like the Hora.<br />
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Who can resist this? It is a special form of madness guided by the frenzy of the music. A sacred infectious madness. No one dances alone.<br />
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Maybe, this fear of dancing taps into the fear of being alone. Cast adrift by life, I float in the middle of a vast ocean. There are eyes everywhere. Watching. Waiting. They do not like what they see. I feel it in my bones. It robs my body of rhythm. My bones slowly begin to dissolve and I melt into a puddle on the dance floor. Life can feel that intimidating.<br />
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But is life without the dance worth living? Life is much more than just showing up. It's about jumping into the dance. It's about whirling like a dervish. It's about stepping on your partners toes and apologizing while you keep on dancing. It's about riding the rhythm and being the music. Any thing less cheats life. I have been cheating myself. I have been cheating the dance. My dance. My life.<br />
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Chorophobia: the fear of dancing. <br />
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Today, I'm going to dance. I hope to make the angels in heaven laugh. I'll be laughing at my fear. Dance with me. Please, dance with me.Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-51798623279605388452011-09-12T12:02:00.000-07:002011-09-12T12:02:46.314-07:00Writing a BioMy assignment: write a bio. <br />
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You "can't" have a website under your name without an explanation of who you are. <br />
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I wish you could. How do you sum up your life in a neat little bundle? How do you choose the words to make it interesting to read but not give away too much of your mystery? You've got to hook the reader so that they want to learn more. You've got to make people want to come back and see what you're writing, doing, thinking. Does my life have that power? Do I?<br />
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So here is what I wrote: <br />
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<b>Carol Sturgeon is the person behind the words printed here. </b><b>Carol writes because she is and always has been a writer. It has
taken her half a life time to discover this basic truth. For her,
writing is as natural as breathing. This is where her breath takes the
form of words.</b><b> </b><br />
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<b>Carol is a free lance writer and is a rather rare form of English Major who had the opportunity to work in her field, as an Editorial Assistant for a small trade journal, <i>Resource Recycling</i> and later as a Textbook Coordinator for a division of the publishing giant, Harcourt Brace. Leaving the world of business to start a family, she is the mother of two children. She writes whenever she can and is currently working on her first book.</b><br />
<b><br />Carol can be reached by writing to: carolsturgeon@gmail.com</b><br />
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Okay on a scale of one to ten, ten being the best bio ever and one being the worst. How do you think this one rates? Since I'm usually trapped in Carol's body, objectivity can elude me.<br />
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<br />Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3794254887776045199.post-81254763326567632932011-09-12T11:45:00.000-07:002011-09-12T11:45:47.049-07:00What is Sunday Hiding?<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/slagheap/132112993/" title="WTC 9/11 by slagheap, on Flickr"><img alt="WTC 9/11" height="500" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/53/132112993_b17fcb4d1b.jpg" width="367" /></a><br />
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This photo was taken on <a class="ywa-track" data-ywa-name="Date, Taken on" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/slagheap/archives/date-taken/2001/09/14/" title="Uploaded April 20, 2006. ">September 14, 2001</a>. by slagheap. See more images<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1390103062"> http://www.flickr.com/photos/slagheap/132112993/.</a></div>
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Very aware of the tenth anniversary of 9/11, we deliberately set out to have a good day. I didn't want to remember how 9/11 made me feel.<br />
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The memory of 9/11 was a surprisingly painful one. Maybe that is the price I pay for being too stoic, too guarded. The Sunday after, I was attending mass at St. Joseph's. At the end of the service, we all stood and sang "God bless America." I was so moved I was choked by tears. I could not sing that day. <br />
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The memory sticks in my throat like a broken piece of concrete. I am haunted by the images and the awareness that I was watching people die, live on tv. Alive one minute, crushed the next. Alive one minute and then in a last act of desperation plummeting to earth leaving the inferno behind. Alive in an airplane seat, destroyed upon impact.<br />
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Yesterday, my daughter asked, "What was worse for the United States: Pearl Harbor or 9/11?"<br />
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Only seniors remember Pearl Harbor. Japan attacked a military installation in an obvious act of war. For that generation it was the defining moment. It pierced the illusion of safety by attacking US soil on a calm December Sunday morning. A morning saved for sleeping in, going to church, spending with family.<br />
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For those alive and aware in 1941, I wonder if the memory of that day was linked with the 9/11 attack. What would they choose as the worst? Could they choose? Can any of us choose?<br />
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So much of 9/11 is incomprehensible. Terrorists attacked civilians who were just having an ordinary work day doing what they did every work day. Out of a clear September sky, planes, often a symbol of freedom, technology and wealth, because deadly weapons. The magic of television allowed too many of us to watch. Over and over it played the horrible scenes. It burned into my brain. On that day, I finally turned off the television and walked away. <br />
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Yesterday, television tried to take us back again. I refused to go. I watched only a few minutes of a segment replaying the collapse of the first tower. My body responded to the image with a chill and a shudder. Seeing it again was that painful. I walked away. I answered my children's questions about this historic event as well as I could. It has to be acknowledged. It has to have some explanation but so much of it defies explanation. That is the nature of terror. Terror became real that day. It haunts my memories and it should. The moment I no longer recognize terror, is the moment I am lost. <br />
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Within the tragedy of 9/11, I found a sense of patriotism that the cynical me didn't know existed. I found empathy and compassion. I learned to recognize terror and to speak out against it no matter what form it takes. I saw how misguided, misinformed people can do incredibly evil things. <br />
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As a nation, our innocence died that day. We were no longer a "young" country experiencing a prolonged adolescence collectively as a nation. We had to grow up that day. Our problems became adult problems that continue to demand resolution. We forge ahead in the dark, children no longer with a memory that burns brightly to help show us the way.<br />
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<br />Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03886095253411671126noreply@blogger.com0