tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6243788059129212442024-03-13T13:39:58.984-06:00melissa's blogMelissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.comBlogger488125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-68088017536761020442023-06-30T22:54:00.004-06:002023-06-30T23:13:31.522-06:00Agendas Don't Read Comments, People Do. <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvzfbcPWrbR9_yjdqGGyjvJv1kOK66NsnHx1SOrRCEUNNXDJbsH-Dh_95goFSA2MhkFWrNTChfYtG6sRSyodKnoLK9a_hF6XPf26mwS1ue1Nhb-lKIjGIzHZvbhmM8YQ-L1qI-femYqBaf5xbdASdVk1BcB7a1KhCQBmjg-aP95XKpFU_Ep2ZG5b1InFo/s1920/rainbow%20sky.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvzfbcPWrbR9_yjdqGGyjvJv1kOK66NsnHx1SOrRCEUNNXDJbsH-Dh_95goFSA2MhkFWrNTChfYtG6sRSyodKnoLK9a_hF6XPf26mwS1ue1Nhb-lKIjGIzHZvbhmM8YQ-L1qI-femYqBaf5xbdASdVk1BcB7a1KhCQBmjg-aP95XKpFU_Ep2ZG5b1InFo/w476-h357/rainbow%20sky.jpg" width="476" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #242424; font-family: "Segoe UI", "Segoe UI Web (West European)", "Segoe UI", -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-feature-settings: inherit; font-kerning: inherit; font-optical-sizing: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-alternates: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; font-variation-settings: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">According to my faith practice, a desire to be called one of God’s people is a willingness to “bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light,” and a commitment to “comfort those who stand in need of comfort.” (Mosiah 18:8-10) It’s no small commitment. </div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #242424; font-family: "Segoe UI", "Segoe UI Web (West European)", "Segoe UI", -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-feature-settings: inherit; font-kerning: inherit; font-optical-sizing: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-alternates: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; font-variation-settings: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #242424; font-family: "Segoe UI", "Segoe UI Web (West European)", "Segoe UI", -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-feature-settings: inherit; font-kerning: inherit; font-optical-sizing: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-alternates: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; font-variation-settings: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">When I see rainbows (especially in June) that’s what I think about. I know too many dear, beautiful people to reduce Pride month to an “agenda”. Besides, agendas don’t read and hear comments, people do. If I am to love my neighbor as myself, then I’m going to seek to understand, because I really don’t like being misunderstood or dismissed. At least, that is the goal- I fall short of it all the time. Anyway, I think this sunset tonight is a spectacular end to the month, and it got me thinking. </div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #242424; font-family: "Segoe UI", "Segoe UI Web (West European)", "Segoe UI", -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-feature-settings: inherit; font-kerning: inherit; font-optical-sizing: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-alternates: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; font-variation-settings: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #242424; font-family: "Segoe UI", "Segoe UI Web (West European)", "Segoe UI", -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-feature-settings: inherit; font-kerning: inherit; font-optical-sizing: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-alternates: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; font-variation-settings: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-20103750794624719302022-12-06T22:39:00.000-07:002022-12-06T22:39:27.083-07:00#cristiedailywalk<div style="text-align: left;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Cristie’s daily walk</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Isn’t just on her street.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The magic,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Miracle,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And gift of the journey is</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In every flower, in every face,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In every grief, season, and space.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On Wallace</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At Huntsman</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the temple</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">By the ocean</span></p><p><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In all times, things, and places -</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She knows.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cristie is daily walking</span></p><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">on holy ground.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: -13.5pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><span style="border: none; display: inline-block; height: 158px; overflow: hidden; width: 128px;"><img height="158" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/T85WwTjV6MCPjUf1D8Tv6IsCayQk9EZkefytiVbVSmVijZdwqHRtm7olUIqxn2_8BQNgTlphe5zkrjaHzU3ueCGsDtHnMkocx0lcBNhTvhn_1rZeSezGK-3dgfYxH00uF5E288gmZZgYeGxwB4TAxwIJHaCeK0lLRFCizYmhPnEwfX5mjsQUTND0IjslyQ" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="128" /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><span style="border: none; display: inline-block; height: 157px; overflow: hidden; width: 159px;"><img height="157" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/GANxX-U1MCfabXUa9FasvkcMKeVf_f2DvKJ7XfX6Z7WkKkOMl2fs294JXCM-vtzDpORQcWCjCRA-hW6iBcRGnZs1c7a8U9ImLtwmnFVLdKTYZ7Y9LELLa7rHsbLa9yfdHhC9_V6xkg9rS1co9vgDRlVegyfw6d6_B1lOzbOlMOiwtyFjbf4SZpbqVaT6Vw" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="159" /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><span style="border: none; display: inline-block; height: 158px; overflow: hidden; width: 158px;"><img height="158" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/dtKJhevoZGkDUrZQepwfQI1GXjHSqREx47YEz1XGKwtK1-HmRdp9WDtD1Mggw8fL_j3_w2lRAAzw2miuKpijPCSL-f4CamnySquIMs2nhW4q-tij1d6uMvrM0AFWzzfjzBoYvdSQDKyf49ZHrmsZAS6HTekar4kbgkspUPgZXVEhJoMVcdHZV1NWM1pTQA" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="158" /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><span style="border: none; display: inline-block; height: 158px; overflow: hidden; width: 127px;"><img height="158" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/TuuE__1SSOUNdayNtu4jjJiQG4_skDG09VutIdQ6u3mhTXodSk_FKulEF9S2QqHkoO3pdp6bvkHoMgmhUW4udQ4n0X9HGUk1uksHdeYVzbEfzrhEdK-XTRvG_Zfl_l2sajvQl-zNJvK7Ntk_kK22Vs-mPQjQb9aom3r8guWp8hZD9ETkNLx0HInvVBS-pA" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="127" /></span></span></p><p><b id="docs-internal-guid-0f86f4b7-7fff-94ef-c1c4-1df2be795e81" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; white-space: pre-wrap;">*images shamelessly stolen from Cristie's instagram </span><br /><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-62906212712378431372022-11-23T11:13:00.002-07:002022-11-23T11:18:15.608-07:00New Poem, New Heroine. <p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I recently came across the first two stanzas of this poem in an old anthology book we use at our school. I loved it and had my students memorize it last week. Upon further research, I discovered the rest of the poem (so good). I also learned this kindred nature lover was a fierce advocate who spoke out (and wrote) on behalf of the mistreatment of the indigenous peoples of this country. (Basically, she rocks.) Her friendship of E. Dickinson and praise from R.W. Emerson leads me to believe I've been living in a hole, but I'll share just in case you are like me and love to discover new poetry. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">November woods...and the ever-giving Mother who provides life and a place to rest. Thanksgiving and abundance peacefully elucidated. Lovely. Below, I've linked her other writings and information in case you are also interested. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">(Also, Happy birthday to my sister Mary. Another fierce force for good!)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b>Down to Sleep</b> </i></span></p><p><span face="Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;"><b>by Helen Hunt Jackson</b></span></p><p><span face="Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p><span face="Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">November woods are bare and still;</span></p><p><span face="Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">November days are</span><span face="Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/clear/" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-decoration-line: none;">clear</a><span face="Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span face="Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">and bright;</span></p><div class="articlebody" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 25.6px;">Each noon burns up the morning's chill;<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />The morning's <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/snow/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">snow</a> is gone by night.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Each day my steps grow <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/slow/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">slow</a>, grow <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/light/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">light</a>,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />As through the woods I reverent creep,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Watching all things lie “down to sleep.”<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/never/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">never</a> knew before what beds,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Fragrant to <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/smell/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">smell</a>, and soft to <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/touch/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">touch</a>,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I never knew before how much<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Of <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/human/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">human</a> <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/sound/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">sound</a> there is in such<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Low tones as through the forest sweep,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />When all <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/wild/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">wild</a> things lie “down to sleep.”<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Each day I find new coverlids<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Tucked in, and more <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/sweet/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">sweet</a> eyes shut tight;<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/sometimes/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">Sometimes</a> the viewless <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/mother/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">mother</a> bids<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Her ferns kneel down full in my sight;<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/hear/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">hear</a> their <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/chorus/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">chorus</a> of “<a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/good/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">good</a>-night”;<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />And half I <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/smile/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">smile</a>, and half I weep,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Listening while they lie “down to sleep.”<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />November woods are bare and still;<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />November days are bright and good;<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Life's noon burns up life's morning chill;<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Life's night rests feet which <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/long/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">long</a> have stood;<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Some <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/warm/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">warm</a> soft bed, in <a href="https://internetpoem.com/poems/field/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;">field</a> or wood,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />The mother will not fail to keep,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Where we can “lay us down to sleep.”</div><div class="articlebody" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 25.6px;"><br /></div><div class="articlebody" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 25.6px;"><br /></div><div class="articlebody" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 25.6px;"><span face="Roboto, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"><<a href="iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GWWMfUl8MNE" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>" target="_blank">iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GWWMfUl8MNE" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe></a></span></div><div class="articlebody" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 25.6px;"><span face="Roboto, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div class="articlebody" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 25.6px;"><span face="Roboto, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif">Internet Archive of <u>A Century of Dishonor </u></span></div><div class="articlebody" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 25.6px;"><a href="https://archive.org/details/centuryofdishono00jackrich/page/18/mode/2up">A century of dishonor : a sketch of the United States government's dealings with some of the Indian tribes : Jackson, Helen Hunt, 1830-1885 : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive</a></div><div class="articlebody" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 25.6px;"><br /></div><div class="articlebody" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 25.6px;"><br /></div><div class="articlebody" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 25.6px;"><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2802">Ramona by Helen Hunt Jackson - Free Ebook (gutenberg.org)</a></div><div class="articlebody" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 25.6px;"><br /></div><div class="articlebody" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 25.6px;"><br /></div>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-16156863777041087722022-05-25T20:53:00.005-06:002023-06-12T17:36:12.867-06:00Is it me, Google? Am I the Racist? <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCykxGHuCy3GPMTKjwPudubSZDB6EU7-dAtoaMCuTzxi_6ZktBUK5p1g6cxzuKtCNNXZhTeiQXfyn9O_ljP2gzNERJfBtB_jhxCYztZOkAj-urbXjThGzJQqZ5QZ_hiINbwHklr4bSKzkrhNu6nuzrRL0NPQ4Ooh6Iza2RYQyHuTsImTreqmGJ6vJgVA/s1000/black-fetus-illustration-feature_0.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="1000" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCykxGHuCy3GPMTKjwPudubSZDB6EU7-dAtoaMCuTzxi_6ZktBUK5p1g6cxzuKtCNNXZhTeiQXfyn9O_ljP2gzNERJfBtB_jhxCYztZOkAj-urbXjThGzJQqZ5QZ_hiINbwHklr4bSKzkrhNu6nuzrRL0NPQ4Ooh6Iza2RYQyHuTsImTreqmGJ6vJgVA/w375-h211/black-fetus-illustration-feature_0.webp" width="375" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Artwork by medical illustrator, Chidiebere Ibe</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>You can find him at: </i><span style="text-align: left;"><i><a href="https://www.instagram.com/ebereillustrate/?hl=en">https://www.instagram.com/ebereillustrate/?hl=en</a></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Back in December, I was a viewing a medical student on TikTok who had asked a simple question: "Have you ever seen any kind of medical art or medical representation that was of a person of color?" He posted the above medical artwork (a profile of a pregnant woman and the fetus inside with beautiful dark brown skin). My mind began to meander with questions. A conversation with myself followed, which led to a surprising realization that didn't have anything to do with the artwork (and also everything to do with it):</p><p>Q: Until now, I have never seen brown skin in medical art, in a physiology book, or on the knee replacement model in my OS' office last year. I have four kids so I've been to the doctor, a lot. I had books as a kid that I looked at and studied. Classes. Other than the<i> photos</i> from the diabolical Tuskegee Syphilis Study, I haven't seen medical images of people of color. Why?</p><p><i>A: Maybe it's because I live in Utah, and it's pretty much mostly white people. The art represents my community. </i></p><p>Q: Except...then I would have to assume that all these charts and models and such were made here, or made specifically for my community, and other communities have representation. Do they? </p><p><i>A: No. (source cited below)* </i><i> </i><i>Besides, there <b>are</b> people of color here. Lots. </i></p><p>Q: Are there just more white babies born in the U.S. than black babies? That doesn't seem plausible (nor is it a very good reason). But I don't actually know. <b> I wonder, how many babies of color are born in the U.S. compared to white babies?</b></p><p>Enter: Google </p><p>Because I am the worst at coming up with succinct search phrases, I crudely type the phrase, "Percentage of black babies that were born in the U.S. in 2022" into the search bar. To my surprise, the first several search results included things like: </p><p><i>"How many out-of-wedlock births in the United States"</i> and<i> "Percent of black babies born out of wedlock" </i></p><p>In fact, I couldn't get the simple bar graph or set of stats I was looking for on the whole results page. These results were not answering my question, and made me wonder... I went back to my search bar, left everything the same except I deleted the word "black" and put in the word "white" and hit the enter button. The <b>very first result</b> was exactly what I was initially looking for: <i>"Percentage of births by race/ethnicity".</i> And the others that followed it were similar results. In fact, I went two pages in to see if there were any results about "out of wedlock babies." Nope. This led to more questions: </p><p>Q: Why did I get different search results? </p><p><i>A: Melissa, think of how many times in the last year especially that people have brought up "broken families" when referring to people of color. Even in conversations about social justice and #blacklivesmatter, more than once, people would bring this very topic up - using phrases about them (black lives) like: "a cultural thing" and "crime rates" and "drug usage" and "lack of family values". Almost in a, "This is how they choose to live." kind of way. </i></p><p><i>"They/them"... meaning black people. All of them. Generalized and unnuanced. </i></p><p>Q: Is that why Google gave me indirect results for black babies?</p><p><i>A: It's an algorithm. It's anticipating your direction based on others' searches. It doesn't think the question you're asking is the question you're asking. </i></p><p>Okay, this is my take: Google held up to me an objective, algorithmic mirror to the subjective and racist world in which I live. The search for white babies answered my question directly. And, much like some of my conversations about racism, the questions about black babies took an indirect approach. </p><p>One of the sneaky aspects of racism, is that as human beings we are inclined toward bias and comfort. As readily as we participate in racism, or any kind of "otherism" - we just don't see it. And when we are confronted with it, we resist. The brain doesn't want to go there. I mean, I never once noticed the skin color in all the years of going to the doctor, or in all my classes growing up. I'm not naïve enough to believe I was colorblind and neutral about it. My brain saw a representation of myself, so I was comfortable. Bias confirmed and accepted so fast I wasn't even conscious of it. </p><p>Stanford Social Psychologist <a href="https://web.stanford.edu/~eberhard/about-jennifer-eberhardt.html" target="_blank">Dr. Jennifer L. Eberhardt </a>wrote an outstanding book about this: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LJPthU1IM-jkKcxskRDb6sCrhCOWcRhjvMY1mGN2_CEyhIa2S4xVpB7QlKK1EWDMorpOINu1UJ9PSfcIj4kzLsU9OrYCHVGKo5tw9euHX20xhx72HE78u6ou9fOxiNukO3jmMkcEEUhGjiiiNWfleoF9-r9RMIZFUJRGV5ajIFhA_rl_6gu5jC6tfw/s499/biased.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="332" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LJPthU1IM-jkKcxskRDb6sCrhCOWcRhjvMY1mGN2_CEyhIa2S4xVpB7QlKK1EWDMorpOINu1UJ9PSfcIj4kzLsU9OrYCHVGKo5tw9euHX20xhx72HE78u6ou9fOxiNukO3jmMkcEEUhGjiiiNWfleoF9-r9RMIZFUJRGV5ajIFhA_rl_6gu5jC6tfw/s320/biased.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>Here I am, months after that experience, and I realize I didn't spend any more time with the issue of the medical art. As I write, I can see some of my initial bias in the process that I didn't notice before. When the topic presented itself, my first inclination was to look for a "logical" and benign explanation. After all, a common response to such topics is <i>some people want to make <b>everything</b> about race. </i> So my questions are built around finding out if it's possible that it's <i>not</i> racist that 95% of medical art is of a white person? While there's nothing wrong with answering that question, it's important to weigh both sides of the scale and challenge my potential bias if I am ever going to come to a just answer. Otherwise, I might be tempted to instead make up reasons to keep my state of comfort. I should have asked other questions: </p><p>Q: "In what ways could this be racist?"</p><p><i>A</i> <i>Well, one race is substantially represented, so this feels like a dumb question. But let's ask and answer it anyway with some follow up questions.</i></p><p>Q:<i> </i>"Does this kind of representation matter in health care?" </p><p><i>A: Well, you deliberately chose a woman OBGYN - so to you it obviously does.</i></p><p>Q: "What if I only ever saw artwork, models, and prosthetics of people of color at the Dr.'s office and in pamphlets and text books? What message could that send to me?" </p><p>A: <i>I don't know, and I'm not capable of knowing at this point - but I'm certain, based on my reaction to the above illustration</i> <i>I would have noticed the skin color without someone having to point it out. Also, if I had a rash, and my doctor only had images of rashes on dark skin, I might wonder if I'm being diagnosed properly.</i></p><p>Q: If this issue meant something to a person of color, would I listen? Would I validate it, knowing that I am incapable of truly understanding what this means? </p><p><i>I really hope so. </i></p><p>My question to Google was unaddressed, and I was waylaid into a strawman search result. The shocking part of that moment was realizing Google isn't impartial. It is designed to perform as its users dictate.</p><p><b>Q: So, Why haven't we had medical art, models, and prosthetics representing people of color other than for infectious diseases? </b></p><p><b>A: </b><i>Go ahead, answer it.</i></p><p>What I am learning, is that in order to keep myself in check, I must be willing to ask what feels like tedious questions. I want to refuse ANY scapegoat explanation (blame) which separates myself from the other, and the possibility of enacting change. Most importantly, I need to listen to someone who is experiencing it from the perspective I can't ever have. If I truly believe in personal responsibility and empowerment, than I am always beholden to my neighbor. In my life, I have come to know this truth: I am only as powerful and free and loved as my neighbor is. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #01598b; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;">For I am involved in mankind.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #01598b; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #01598b; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;">Therefore, send not to know</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #01598b; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #01598b; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;">For whom the bell tolls,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #01598b; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #01598b; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;">It tolls for thee.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #01598b; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;">-John Donne</span></p><p><br /></p><p>Tonight, I did the same searches as before and got better results. If Google can do it, so can we. </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Source Sans Pro", sans-serif" style="color: #333333;">*A </span><a href="https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/29501717/" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #0e6ce4; font-family: "Source Sans Pro", sans-serif;" target="_blank">2018 study of four anatomy textbooks</a><span face=""Source Sans Pro", sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"> frequently assigned at medical schools found that dark skin tones were greatly underrepresented, making up less than 5% of more than 4,000 images analyzed. The same study also found that, despite having higher mortality rates for six common types of cancer—breast, cervical, colon, lung, prostate, and skin—Black people appeared in fewer than a quarter of images depicting cancer. None of the cancer-specific images showed what the study deemed to be dark skin tones. (</span><span face="Source Sans Pro, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><a href="https://healthcity.bmc.org/policy-and-industry/creator-viral-black-fetus-medical-illustration-blends-art-and-activism">https://healthcity.bmc.org/policy-and-industry/creator-viral-black-fetus-medical-illustration-blends-art-and-activism</a>, Jan. 2022)</span></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-1123453918229299112022-05-24T23:27:00.000-06:002022-05-24T23:27:45.411-06:00Capitol Offense<p><br /></p><p> I read in an article today that there have been 27 school shootings this year. </p><p>As a teacher, I immediately did some calculating since I usually plan on about 35 weeks of instruction for my classes. That means...</p><p>-Twenty-seven school shootings averages to a school shooting about every seven days in a school year. </p><p>-In 2022, we could expect an active shooter to enter a school nearly every week in this country. (More often in 2021.)</p><p>-In other words, what we are seeing is that every 1.29 weeks of school, someone is going to attempt to shoot your kids and my kids en masse. OUR kids. And their teachers. </p><p>This is real. This is where we live. This is what I can expect as a teacher. This number doesn't include other public shootings (universities, grocery stores, movie theaters, concerts). </p><p>I also read this today: our defunct senate has let a background check bill sit for two years. Waiting in the chamber is at least some kind of an actionable effort for responsible gun control. The house passed it. </p><p>But the senate won't. Corpulent egos with hot, flapping gums feign effort and movement within a lifeless wing. The real actions in the field take place in the Senate's efforts to protect the party. The terms never time out. Bills like HB8 illuminate the the true objective: party first, and people when it serves the party, sometimes. Diatribes of conviction and principle and "the people" are plays made for the sake of its true goal: more seats than the other team. The senate has become a veritable pro sports league, recruited (or at least not fired) by the people. </p><p>We, the people, have allowed the cultivation of a profession of putting off action with words and more bogus words. We pay them to stay in their comfortable chairs, in their air conditioned building (when they bother to show up). We pay for their special health care, as well as security staff in the workplace. </p><p>All this safety and security for these "public servants" is funded by our tax dollars in addition to now giving our teachers and our children as tribute while they deliberate. Our children. We pay and lose and pray and mourn these tragedies and continue to wait for a group of people who will never be able to come to a consensus because one party cannot let the other party get any points. </p><p>We let them stay. At the price of one shooter (and many bullets) in one of our schools every week. </p><p>Have we had enough, yet? </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-64477756967263238372021-09-08T23:59:00.003-06:002021-09-09T00:19:45.210-06:00<p style="text-align: center;">9/8/2021 11:51 pm </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mp4RmsqC7Tc/YTmh3fmYkwI/AAAAAAAAGDs/063aO4FCqLkRJHTFqNYLrEGBSty2xpaNgCPcBGAsYHg/s1334/IMG_3299.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mp4RmsqC7Tc/YTmh3fmYkwI/AAAAAAAAGDs/063aO4FCqLkRJHTFqNYLrEGBSty2xpaNgCPcBGAsYHg/w230-h400/IMG_3299.JPG" width="230" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Life was - no -</p><p><i>is </i></p><p>whirling - </p><p>A Wedding, A House of Love - </p><p>Eternity, A House of God -</p><p> Filled-to-the-brim Life. Days upon days,</p><p>It is good.</p><p>Yet, tonight I sit alone "getting work done" and...</p><p>This aching churns and burns in my chest. </p><p>I </p><p>feel </p><p>so </p><p>alone.</p><p><br /></p><p>I believed he loved me three days ago. I knew I loved him.</p><p>I was surrounded by all of it (the Love).</p><p>Soon enough</p><p>it will just be one and one, and, </p><p>Tonight I wonder if it's all a lie. He's still somewhere I can't see. </p><p>The house sits quiet while I wait. Wait and see..</p><p>I don't get to hold on to anything. </p><p>None of it is mine, and I feel a little lost in this quiet house</p><p>Tonight. </p>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-35794846713926852122021-03-30T18:40:00.003-06:002021-03-30T18:40:48.218-06:00You Dress Yourself, But You Can't Dress Your Baby <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-gdPjceqqebg/YGOZpexl8bI/AAAAAAAAF9s/Zdr0fH3QORItTfVrm5XT5KFz68skanzswCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="290" height="316" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-gdPjceqqebg/YGOZpexl8bI/AAAAAAAAF9s/Zdr0fH3QORItTfVrm5XT5KFz68skanzswCLcBGAsYHQ/w258-h316/image.png" width="258" /></a></div> <i><b>Scorn</b></i> - Tomas Rowlandson - 1800<br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div> It is so, so hot. I look around my small and sweltering basement apartment. I scan the packed room. A playpen (where the baby slept), kitchen table, book shelf, rocking chair, computer desk and a tiny TV/VCR on a table Sam brought home from the pawn shop where he used to work. All these things are flanking the walls while filling the room. It is July, and there is no air conditioning. We (Sam and I) had been using a spray bottle at night, dampening our sheets with cold water in an attempt to cool down. Unable to sleep, Sam would check the thermostat; "Eighty-six degrees in the middle of the night?" <div><br /></div><div>But now it is midday. I need to get out of this sweatbox and I have the car. Looking at my sweet, dewy baby, I get him ready for an outing. I change his diaper, and that is all, because that is all he was wearing. (Baby is hot, too.) Strapping my beautiful, smiley, little boy into his car seat, we set out. </div><div><br /></div><div>I would often take drives to look at possible places to live, and dream of the kind of house I might have some day. Maybe. Sam and I had been searching for condos, tired of paying rent. Maybe we could build some equity? Maybe we could find a place that is a little roomier? Invariably, I end up in old, treelined neighborhoods with beautiful brick houses that we certainly couldn't afford now, and might not ever be able to manage. I would drive slowly and dream. <i> I like that walkway... I would plant flowers just like that... Those windows must bring in lots of light, etc.</i> My baby was always up for a drive while I dreamed. He was an easy and cute companion. </div><div><div><br /></div><div>My car was also without air conditioning, and on this summer day, the rolled down windows are providing little relief. I pass a grocery store. Drawn to the probable air conditioning inside, I am already feeling relief as I pull into the parking lot. </div><div>Unlock Baby from the car seat. </div><div>Wrap my hands around his bare chest. </div><div>Scoop him up. </div><div>A fleeting thought comes over my conscience as I do this: <i>perhaps I should have at least put a onesie on him</i>? </div><div>I cradle my little boy's back as he sits on my hip, and we walk into the cooled building.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>I had just strapped him in the grocery cart, feeling thankful for the cooler air, when an older woman approaches me, talking. I think she may be Russian. Her words sound Slavic, anyway. Her body language is eager and her eyes are angry. It takes just a moment for me to realize she is chastising me. Speaking (quickly), pointing to the "baby", touching his bare skin, then hugging her body, pretend-shivering. Next, she is pulling at my short sleeved shirt with utter disgust. What I heard from her scalding, broken English; "Where are his clothes?" "Why don't you dress your child? You dressed yourself and don't bother dressing your child? It's cold in here for a little body. You buy food, but you don't buy clothes for your child? What's the matter with you?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't remember if she actually said, "You are a bad mother." Maybe it was, "What kind of a mother are you?"</div><div><br /></div><div>She walks away with hand motions and harrumph. </div><div><br /></div><div>The shame. It washes over me like a bucket of boiling water being poured over my head, soaking through to my gut. As I stand there, looking helplessly at my poor child, all the typical responses of that emotion come flooding to the surface.</div><div>I want to fight. </div><div>I want to give that lady a piece of my mind, and all my excuses (so as to change hers). </div><div>I love my child more than anything. </div><div>I take care of him, clothe him (usually).</div><div>I should have put clothes on him. What was I thinking? </div><div>I don't know what I'm doing. </div><div>I am all alone. Every day. Winging it. I have no idea. </div><div>This poor boy. </div><div>I don't know what I'm doing. </div><div>I want to hide.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>What kind of a mother am I?</i></div><div>I answer myself:</div><div><i>A lousy one.</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>Suddenly, my happy baby looks so deprived. So...naked. I realize he is being raised by an imbecile; a young, dumb-headed girl. Oh, I love my baby fiercely. But when it comes to caring for him? Poor boy. My poor, poor boy at the mercy of my incompetence. And that mean, old lady just called me out in front of God and all the patrons at the Albertson's grocery store. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>****</div><div><br /></div><div>I woke this morning with a desire to write. As I searched in my mind for ideas; (anti-racism, teaching, book reviews, star trek...) this memory surfaced out of nowhere. Of all the blasted things - </div><div><br /></div><div>Upon reflection, I realize that the confrontation at the store brought more than feelings of incompetency to the surface. I felt profoundly lonely and lost. I have always had wonderful support, but this motherhood responsibility was mine, alone, to navigate. I truly had no idea what I was doing. I managed to keep my baby alive and happy, but most of the time I was in a panicked, puzzled state, wondering what to do about...anything. As a new mom, I felt pathologically insane and it just hadn't been diagnosed yet. Now I know more about postpartum depression, but then I just scoured my one parenting book, and worried. He was so colicky at first (panic). I could not satisfactorily swaddle or get him to use a pacifier (failure). I couldn't figure out how to nurse him (neglect). I was always fumbling (proof of inadequacy). And then, there I was, fumbling in front of the whole wide world, looking at my baby and trying to see if he was shivering. If he was cold and unhappy and I didn't even notice. <i><b>How can I not know to dress my baby?</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div><div>My only peer, the only young mother I knew at the time, was my sister in law. She took to motherhood naturally. Being the oldest girl of a large family, she was used to caring for babies. She had cute clothes and bows and a nursery. She seemed to have enough energy for photo shoots and sewing. Motherhood isn't easy for anyone, but it didn't seem to be a mystery to her. I realize now what a blessing it was to have her example. Seeing her not panic when her baby cried taught me that it didn't mean I was automatically ruining my child when mine did. Babies cry. She would talk about the stages (teething, for example) as if it would pass, and that I wouldn't be sleepless forever. She also relished the fun, fleeting parts while she could. (I may have missed it, not knowing how quickly each stage passes.) I got to see her move forward confidently with her life, developing skills and hobbies, nurturing her role as a mother. She took charge with that swaddling blanket and with all of motherhood. In so many ways, she shined a sane, faith-filled light on motherhood. But on days like that hot day, I shrunk back into a dark place, pushed in by that self-condemnation that comes with comparison. The shame of all my lacking. And now I had a real life accuser to snuff out any doubt about it. Oh, how she crept back into my mind over the years. And still.</div></div><div><br /></div><div> I seem to remember walking defiantly in the store for a minute, but then decided I couldn't bear the shame anymore, and left. Sometime later, I went to my mother in law's house. (Perhaps I was teaching piano lessons to her younger children?) I do remember being self-conscious there about my almost naked child. I think she looked at his bare body and said something about it being a hot day. I remember telling her about what happened at the store. I'm sure I was defensive. I remember her listening. I don't remember feeling judged by her, even though I know my mother in law would never, ever have taken a baby to the store in just a diaper. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's not the most neglectful thing a mother can do, I know. However, it is very embarrassing to think that I sometimes don't have common sense about things. (It's hard to even type it out. Pride is another failing.) But, I didn't. I was kind of a mess. </div><div><br /></div><div>What would I say to that mom in the store now? If I saw her standing there, dumbfounded, looking at her cute naked baby as he looked back at her. Knowing how scrambled her mind was, I would put my arm around her and say, "Look at that darling baby and smile at him. Look. He is o.k. and you are o.k. He is a cute, healthy baby boy. If he looks cold, you'll go home and take care of it. Just like you tried to take care of it when he was hot." </div><div><br /></div><div>It is possible that my mother law said as much to me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was 22 years old then. That baby is 22 years old now. He's just fine. In fact, he turned out to be this wonderful, beloved human being despite, and maybe because of, my shortcomings. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>There. I wrote something today. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-29974087648316482592021-03-30T07:11:00.002-06:002021-05-12T15:58:30.099-06:00<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wyatt:</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-4b037f04-7fff-7c7b-eea8-fcb883b4b063"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Like a little cherub,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A soft, loose crown of curls,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cheeks that squeeze your eyes shut</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When you smile so big.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You feel the need to love</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Up you get -- you don’t wait --</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Making your way around the table</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kissing the knees (as high as you can reach)</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One by one, each receives this sweet token.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know you still shower love</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As far as you can reach,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kissing those you adore however you can --</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You keep shining bright,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pure love and light without hesitation,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is who you are. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-29911834424848430162020-11-22T09:39:00.005-07:002020-11-22T09:53:32.528-07:00The Woman at the Well<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iYO3nCtyIBY/X7qQuSQLpSI/AAAAAAAAF4M/x3VNkli6ZsgaqTScnWx_NdElCgFSzVnswCLcBGAsYHQ/s648/woman-at-the-well-diptych-joan-columbus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="600" height="526" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iYO3nCtyIBY/X7qQuSQLpSI/AAAAAAAAF4M/x3VNkli6ZsgaqTScnWx_NdElCgFSzVnswCLcBGAsYHQ/w486-h526/woman-at-the-well-diptych-joan-columbus.jpg" width="486" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"> Woman at the well Diptych</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"> is a painting by Joan Columbus </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">At Jacob's Well</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">From which she gathered water;</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Coming late. An empty vessel.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Not knowing the promise of this font </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">was also hers to partake. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">A mark of the consecrated, dug deep into the earth</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Was forsaken by brothers and sisters</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">For, Jerusalem was the Holy Ground. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">She was forgotten --</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Deemed too changed to be worthy.</span></p><p><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">But he waited for her at this place.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">He waited, specifically for this woman,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Knowing all she had done.</span></p><p><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">The Living Water,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Seated upon the symbol</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Of the promise,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Picked the forgotten and scorned woman </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">to declare: </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">God is not a temple. Is not a place. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, If thou knewest the Gift of God...</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">You would drink freely- </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then, making her the conspirator of good news, </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">He declares;</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I am He. I am here, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">for Her</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">for Me</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">for You</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Isn't it beautiful? They way He </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Loves each one of us?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Knowing all I have done. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><br /></span></p>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-19355394724056574842020-10-12T22:36:00.004-06:002021-05-12T16:17:31.480-06:00Mid Life Miracle.<p><br /></p><p>10.12.20</p><p>Having just come home from a date and feeling peckish, I stood facing the open fridge, searching. </p><p>I heard her voice down the hall. My nineteen year old daughter was playing guitar while singing my eight year old son to sleep. </p><p>Strangely and suddenly, I went back in time. I was sixteen and sitting on the shaggy red carpet in my bedroom. It was one of those days I tried to contemplate my future - one of those times I wondered what my life would bring. Usually, those visions were fuzzy. More of a feeling than a picture. But this time, my young self was getting a vivid glimpse of the adult me, standing in front of the fridge, hearing a pretty song carrying through the hallway. It was such a beautiful sound. Wanting to investigate, I follow the song down the hallway and peek into the bedroom. A lovely and grown girl, about my age, is playing guitar. She is familiar, but nothing I could have constructed in my mind. She is singing a song about hope. I am awed by her. Above her in a loft bed lays a sweet boy, safely tucked in. The softest cheek and longest eyelashes peek from the covers. I want to know him and all about the ample collection of sea shells and rocks that rest on a shelf beneath his bed. </p><p>Sixteen year old me seeing this is thrilled at what her life had become. She would marvel at the beauty, the goodness. She would think, "Yes. This is exactly what I want. To the last detail." There are other glimpses of the future which would have left young-girl-me utterly terrified. But this one - this was magic. </p><p>My refrigerator reverie ended, though I was still facing the wide open fridge with my hand mindlessly gripping the handle. I knew instantly what the vision was, this merciful and strange gift of presence. So, I stood there a bit longer and accepted it. I let it fill me up. Brim full. I said, "Thank You" and closed the fridge. </p><p>Then, I took my 43 year old self and followed the beautiful sound down the real hallway of my real life so I could see and wonder at it all again. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-64608441041237676832014-05-11T17:59:00.002-06:002014-05-12T11:48:39.485-06:00Like a Rolling Stone<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XyZmPnQGJG8/U3ANBBxnYfI/AAAAAAAACno/40CUZ0_XNv4/s1600/IMG_0466.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XyZmPnQGJG8/U3ANBBxnYfI/AAAAAAAACno/40CUZ0_XNv4/s1600/IMG_0466.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
Yesterday I was driving with my daughter.<br />
We had the music on loud<br />
we were singing.<br />
<br />
Like a flash, I saw you- in her place.<br />
I heard your laugh, which I love so much.<br />
We were road-trippin'. Remember? <br />
<br />
Loud music<br />
Bob Dylan<br />
"This is my personal anthem"<br />
you said. And you sang every word, with feeling.<br />
Swaying, eyes closed. <br />
<br />
When you are happy,<br />
the light that shines from you is the<br />
sweetest<br />
warmest.<br />
<br />
You introduced me to the White Stripes that day<br />
I became obsessed.<br />
It was a thing we could share,<br />
which was nice, because - let's be honest<br />
<br />
We didn't share a whole lot<br />
It's hard for you<br />
To find a place to fit in.<br />
Hard for me, too, to meet you where you are. <br />
The prettiest misfit I ever saw - that's you. <br />
How does it feel? <br />
<br />
We all have our stuff, the stuff that makes life hard work.<br />
But your lot, dear girl - it's a puzzle to me. <br />
So I struggle<br />
But not with liking you, or loving you.<br />
You make that really easy. It's a gift you have, I think. <br />
<br />
And so when I saw your vision there<br />
My eyes stung and my heart broke.<br />
Last week I said some things I shouldn't have, <br />
(even though I meant every word).<br />
Still, <br />
I should have taken more time. <br />
I forgot about the fine print-<br />
that part of you that says; <br />
<br />
<i>More patience required. </i><br />
<i>No, more than that... </i><br />
<i>but it's worth it.</i><br />
<br />
I lost sight of the bigger picture.<br />
<br />
Pushed too hard, and you say you're through. done.<br />
That's new for me (but probably inevitable).<br />
So now you're in the dark<br />
(again)<br />
And we ever wait.<br />
<br />
To hear you laugh again, dear girl.<br />
That would be sweet music.<br />
Because that personal anthem of yours has a few things wrong; <br />
<br />
You are known.<br />
You are loved.<br />
You have a home.<br />
And we ever wait.<br />
<br />Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-87751361622809052232014-04-06T23:39:00.000-06:002014-04-06T23:39:07.066-06:00Bread is the Word.Some people wear emblems on jewelry, or as a tatoo: It might say,<br />
<br />
Peace. <br />
Or Light.<br />
or Love<br />
or Om<br />
or something in chinese that is supposed to mean one the above words.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rQOpuk1ZcWI/U0I3b1793RI/AAAAAAAACnE/XmLgqtDjlL4/s1600/necklace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rQOpuk1ZcWI/U0I3b1793RI/AAAAAAAACnE/XmLgqtDjlL4/s1600/necklace.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
and no explanation is needed. You seet it. You get it. It may even inspire you.<br />
<br />
Well,<br />
My new favorite piece of jewelry has raised a few eyebrows and I feel I need to expalain:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ai4ZbzPjk4E/U0I3-i6vx4I/AAAAAAAACnM/EoRluO8_WLc/s1600/bread.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ai4ZbzPjk4E/U0I3-i6vx4I/AAAAAAAACnM/EoRluO8_WLc/s1600/bread.JPG" height="320" width="275" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
That's right. This chubby girl is walking around with a necklace that says "Bread 2014". <br />
<br />
<br />
It's not because I love bread (even though I really, really do).<br />
<br />
At Christmastime, My grandparents challenged each of us to look at all the names in the scriptures that have been given to Jesus Christ. (The Savior, The Redeemer, The Holy one of Israel, The living Water, The Bread of Life, etc etc). Then we were challenged to pick one, and look for ways in which Jesus fulfills that name.<br />
<br />
I'm embarrassed to even write this, but this name stuck out to me partially because I have been struggling with my weight ever since Bo was born, and it was becoming a real negative focus in my life. The instant I read "bread of <i>life</i>" in relation to the Savior I realized that I am really missing something. It wasn't just that I was carrying extra weight. I just wasn't well in general. I realized in that moment, <br />
<br />
My focus needs to shift in a <i>big </i>way. <br />
<br />
Fast forward a week or so into the New Year, and I received an email from my mother in law asking me and all my sisters in law to pick a focus word for the year. <br />
<br />
Not wanting to be overwhelmed by too many resolutions, I timidly submitted "Bread" with an explanation, knowing that it didn't sound that pretty.<br />
<br />
About a month later I received this wonderful gift. My necklace. It came at a time when I was losing my initial zeal for the name I had chosen and it rekindled my desire to focus on this name. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AqgfZscHcgU/U0I5X0SbhFI/AAAAAAAACnU/2oQ3ANi96BI/s1600/bread-of-life-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AqgfZscHcgU/U0I5X0SbhFI/AAAAAAAACnU/2oQ3ANi96BI/s1600/bread-of-life-1.png" height="400" width="325" /></a></div>
<br />
I love my necklace! Such a sweet and thoughtful gift. My husband loves to tease me about it ("Mmmmm, bread!" he says, whenever he sees me wear it). <br />
<br />
I am making a goal to submit something I learned about "Bread" each week (hopefully)... <br />
<br />
<br />Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-2553547155947671532014-03-24T21:40:00.001-06:002014-03-24T21:48:05.658-06:00Monday's Memoir: Mercy Me! (Mercy You.) I went before the King<br />
bowed, begged, pleaded<br />
pure in intent, hope<br />
despite knowing the impossibility<br />
of restitution in even a lifetime of servitude. <br />
<br />
I asked<br />
<br />
and all was forgiven.<br />
<br />
<b><i>all.</i></b><br />
<br />
but when I returned to my day<br />
I noticed, like a piece of food stuck in my teeth,<br />
a gnawing irritation.<br />
an injustice, which <br />
<br />
every so often I would pick at<br />
and my irritation would grow.<br />
my soul would burn<br />
with self-righteous entitlement, for <br />
<br />
I was right. I had been wronged.<br />
There was no relief, no changing this.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until I told the first story <i>out loud </i><br />
(about my insurmountable debt that was forgiven<br />
by that great King)<br />
<br />
did I see it.<br />
<br />
How could I miss it?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MzSkBy6bfHQ/UzD6dHGbaaI/AAAAAAAACms/Df2knH3g-xo/s1600/IMG_4492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MzSkBy6bfHQ/UzD6dHGbaaI/AAAAAAAACms/Df2knH3g-xo/s1600/IMG_4492.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
What does being right have to do with <i>anything</i>? <br />
When mercy has been poured over me in full abundance,<i> </i><br />
surely I have some wealth to share.<br />
<br />
I am no widow clutching her last mite,<br />
no<br />
this mercy, this forgiveness?<br />
<i>infinite</i><br />
<br />
I laughed inside at the thought - the ease of letting it go.<br />
I was light.<br />
I was free.<br />
I was sorry for my blindness. <br />
Best of all, I was <i>filled</i> with love.<br />
and so it was <br />
Mercy bestowed to me, in even greater proportion.<br />
<br />
That was a sweet Sunday.<br />
That was yesterday. <br />
<br />
{Matt. 18:21-35}<br />
Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-67082940975108453892014-01-05T22:39:00.002-07:002014-01-06T12:05:12.535-07:0010 things I've learned in 2 days:<div><br></div>1. Bo calls feathers "fly" <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br>
2. After 16 years, I finally succeeded at making a yummy pot roast. I hope it wasn't dumb luck. <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-wuW6K-FOkpY/UspGdadWwRI/AAAAAAAACl0/qCqZJtQNzgY/s640/blogger-image--931684898.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-wuW6K-FOkpY/UspGdadWwRI/AAAAAAAACl0/qCqZJtQNzgY/s640/blogger-image--931684898.jpg"></a></div><br>
3. Flannel sheets are the BEST. The BEST, I say.<br>
4. There is such a thing called "Glacial Silt" - and it makes quicksand sound like a cake walk.<br>
5. Blogging at night leaves me tired and not wanting to post.<div>6. My 1970s house comes equipped with this bad boy. It's a heat lamp on the ceiling in the bathroom. I really like it. <br><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-IdEtB031ons/Usr-U9ZkceI/AAAAAAAACmE/mIH54s8G5WU/s640/blogger-image--2107814191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-IdEtB031ons/Usr-U9ZkceI/AAAAAAAACmE/mIH54s8G5WU/s640/blogger-image--2107814191.jpg"></a></div><br>
7. Bo's new favorite thing is to put bubbles on his chin right when he gets Into the bath. <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HUmKGNjRirY/Usr-YD2ESyI/AAAAAAAACmU/ZNwNIQpCsfQ/s640/blogger-image--1663570146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HUmKGNjRirY/Usr-YD2ESyI/AAAAAAAACmU/ZNwNIQpCsfQ/s640/blogger-image--1663570146.jpg"></a></div><br>
8. Teenagers like to talk to parents. Mine do, anyway- Usually when I'm laying in bed at night. But it's a sweet surprise and I am grateful for the time with them. </div></div><div><br></div><div>9. My list of potential excuses for not getting in shape got quite a bit smaller. I got a trainer for my bike. <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-RNQ3gUPOxkk/Usr-WkETTGI/AAAAAAAACmM/5-t38FyHq6g/s640/blogger-image-464072718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-RNQ3gUPOxkk/Usr-WkETTGI/AAAAAAAACmM/5-t38FyHq6g/s640/blogger-image-464072718.jpg"></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">10. I realized that I've become a baby lady. I loooovve them. I used to be really scared of babies. But look at some of our newest family members: Aren't my nieces the sweetest? I wish I had taken a picture of my nephew while he was here. He's such a charmer, with the warmest smile. Heart melting. <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-OG-bEhKhz2Y/Usr-Z7O_KWI/AAAAAAAACmc/1wr6n-Vr0g8/s640/blogger-image-1529869705.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-OG-bEhKhz2Y/Usr-Z7O_KWI/AAAAAAAACmc/1wr6n-Vr0g8/s640/blogger-image-1529869705.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></div>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-25967977442536989262014-01-03T22:11:00.001-07:002014-01-03T22:16:09.779-07:00Have you ever fallen asleep while saying your prayers?How about mid morning? It was 10am before I got to saying my prayers and I woke up kneeling at my bed to the sound of Bo asking "codor?" --he was holding a pencil in his hand. I haven't found where he "codored", yet...<div><br></div><div><br></div><div>so this is going to be a sleepy and sloppy post. <div><br></div><div> today Bo was in full swing toddle-mode, I'd say...<div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KYopLRejEoA/UseX0GRXt0I/AAAAAAAAClU/IK5nQ-ag9Lc/s640/blogger-image-1472941968.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KYopLRejEoA/UseX0GRXt0I/AAAAAAAAClU/IK5nQ-ag9Lc/s640/blogger-image-1472941968.jpg"></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Haha, this picture cracks me up. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">By 430pm, I felt likeit really, really should be bedtime. It was the kind of day where you feed your toddler refried beans and corn chips, sprinkled with sixlets candies. He started with an orange so I feel no guilt. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-gp1l-66Yn-4/UseX4NLR2bI/AAAAAAAAClk/x8fIY1ZMsPk/s640/blogger-image-334395184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-gp1l-66Yn-4/UseX4NLR2bI/AAAAAAAAClk/x8fIY1ZMsPk/s640/blogger-image-334395184.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It has taken me three days to figure out where my holiday husband has gone. He's been acting different... Oh yes, holiday is over and it's back to work and that requires some sobriety. He's such a good man. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WC_lLFtk7zU/UseXx6F0ZoI/AAAAAAAAClM/TF2E4L8md1o/s640/blogger-image--1985666226.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WC_lLFtk7zU/UseXx6F0ZoI/AAAAAAAAClM/TF2E4L8md1o/s640/blogger-image--1985666226.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div>I believe him when he says he would be the most impressive, honorable </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And even affable man of means and leisure there ever was. He says it with a laugh, but he's kind of serious. I know people often speak of Mr. Darcy as this silver tongued hottie- but if you've read the book, you would know that he is pensive, no nonsense, and abrupt- all while being so good, full of integrity and a possessing a compassionate heart. Put him in a frilly shirt and trousers, on a massive estate with beautiful English gardens, and my handsome Sam is as close as it gets. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">...finally,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">As I try to wrap up this post, I am once again interrupted by my daughter's excited explanations of the episode of Dr. Who she is currently watching. I blame all grammatical and spelling mistakes onthese many interruptions. To say she is a fan, is not saying enough. She's fun. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-GoKa3WhWufk/UseX2PbIXmI/AAAAAAAAClc/KVd71AcET28/s640/blogger-image-1107372846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-GoKa3WhWufk/UseX2PbIXmI/AAAAAAAAClc/KVd71AcET28/s640/blogger-image-1107372846.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Day three. My life is good. We are safe. I am grateful. </div></div></div>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-28285837011513159642014-01-02T22:06:00.002-07:002014-01-02T22:11:16.355-07:00Recalling the day: The highlight was listening to Dad (Sam) make up love poems with words that had changed endings. You know, so it would rhyme with some girl's name that our boys new. We laughed a lot. <br />
<br />
Another image, is that of a woman who I just met. Who is brave and fun and tries so hard to be good. She is a mother. She has heartache somewhere. I can see that, too. She has shown love and kindness to me from the start. I found a treasure, is what happened.<br />
<br />
There are other things lurking. Things like insecurity and even suspicion. But, I am trying to not feed those thoughts. I am trying to try and be a good girl, I am. That's as clear as I'm going to get on that topic.<br />
<br />
I am missing the clean air... I'm not depressed though, because I found this autumn photo, taken from my porch and know pretty days will come round again: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--JGYHQE0aDU/UsZETPX6YxI/AAAAAAAACk8/3POjSyk3FE0/s1600/IMG_4961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--JGYHQE0aDU/UsZETPX6YxI/AAAAAAAACk8/3POjSyk3FE0/s640/IMG_4961.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
That was a great moment, too. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-27382186110762246232014-01-01T21:54:00.001-07:002014-01-01T21:56:48.425-07:00The best yearStarted today, because when I went to drop off Eddie at the slopes this morning, I was caught up in the beauty of the winter mountains and the following text ensued: <div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-KfQup2XBH-o/UsTxE1woSGI/AAAAAAAACks/hGp8AHXar7s/s640/blogger-image--1319843474.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-KfQup2XBH-o/UsTxE1woSGI/AAAAAAAACks/hGp8AHXar7s/s640/blogger-image--1319843474.jpg"></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I love that at a moment's notice, my husband was willing to hold down the fort all day so that I could have some spontaneous fun. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">***</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Also, as I watched my 15 year old shove an enormous forkful of rolled up ramen with green onions into his mouth, my heart swelled with gratitude for being able to watch such a sweet boy grow up. That I get to call him mine. This very tall, deep voiced, dimple-faced, son of mine. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It is these things, and easily 50 others today that make me think; </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Oh yes. This is one of the good years</i>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Happy 2014!!! </div>Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-55047056329210702932013-10-14T11:35:00.000-06:002013-10-17T01:37:39.589-06:00Baby DearI hold him at night<br />
and sometimes pretend<br />
it's every one of my babies<br />
because I ache for each and every one<br />
of those tiny bodies<br />
warm against my heart<br />
nuzzling those soft jawlines <br />
again and for always.<br />
<br />
Oh the sweet days past.<br />
<br />
But really,<br />
I am so tired.<br />
It's the middle of the night, for heaven's sake<br />
and<br />
to do it again<br />
would be utterly exhausting.<br />
<br />
what a lovely paradox a baby brings to the night time.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_DIQw4NjtxY/Ulj_Pd-yh-I/AAAAAAAAChc/xpewmHKyXbk/s1600/Bo3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_DIQw4NjtxY/Ulj_Pd-yh-I/AAAAAAAAChc/xpewmHKyXbk/s400/Bo3.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-21266822357643354622013-10-11T11:42:00.001-06:002013-10-17T01:38:22.930-06:00A Daily PrayerWhat makes raising teenagers so scary?<br />
It's because<br />
<br />
they start to grow up<br />
branch out<br />
seek their own way<br />
<br />
AND<br />
they aren't ready<br />
they know so little about life - <br />
They aren't ready<br />
(I'm not ready)<br />
<br />
but it's coming, <br />
the essential and beautiful breakaway <br />
<br />
All that is left undone,<br />
Is done. no makeup days.<br />
<br />
so you just start with today<br />
look them in the eyes<br />
Love, Love, Love<br />
<br />
Teaching, speaking ever so gently (no, even more gently) <br />
<br />
Here - you see more than ever-<br />
here are the days when Charity,<br />
that pure love which comes from <br />
He who alone can do the saving<br />
<br />
is the greatest of teachers, and the only way that will work-<br />
patience<br />
prayer (lots of prayer) <br />
long suffering<br />
kindness in words, in deed<br />
and also, <br />
attempts to raise the dead in the morning, and in despair, and in the face of discouragement<br />
<br />
It is a holy work<br />
and when I kneel at night<br />
I express gratitude for one more day<br />
one more blessed day to get it right<br />
Help me, I plead. <br />
Help me forgive<br />
Help me to be quick to express happiness, praise, goodness, peace -<br />
Help me LOOK and understand <br />
Help me to know what to do<br />
<br />
Because I'm still that kid<br />
who is feeling her own way<br />
and I just want to get this right, despite my weakness.<br />
<br />
Oh, my weakness. Glaring in the face of offspring who are now eye level -<br />
they see them all, more clearly then ever. <br />
<br />
Is it hard? Raising teenagers?<br />
I don't wish away one moment,<br />
<br />
I am so fond of these young people.<br />
<br />
In those quiet nights (and mornings and lunchtimes) when my prayers are most earnest<br />
I remember: <br />
<br />
I will always be their mother.<br />
It's okay.<br />
You have now.<br />
It's enough time.<br />
Write this day on your heart, It is a gift just for you, you blessed (and loved) girl. <br />
<br />
and remember,<br />
<br />
The sweetest season is the one you're in. <br />
you know this, but only it if you pay attention and filter your days with gratitude.<br />
<br />
So pay attention.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n6ZO09rCBGo/Ulg3UdrxoCI/AAAAAAAACgc/ZfB1atKYPWs/s1600/IMG_4360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n6ZO09rCBGo/Ulg3UdrxoCI/AAAAAAAACgc/ZfB1atKYPWs/s320/IMG_4360.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dqLu4sI3sjw/Ulg3VkIkDbI/AAAAAAAACgk/MQsFr0-dTWU/s1600/IMG_4362.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dqLu4sI3sjw/Ulg3VkIkDbI/AAAAAAAACgk/MQsFr0-dTWU/s320/IMG_4362.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U3yJhN6btQ8/Ulg3VW9ohcI/AAAAAAAACgg/AzZ2KdbAuYk/s1600/IMG_4365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U3yJhN6btQ8/Ulg3VW9ohcI/AAAAAAAACgg/AzZ2KdbAuYk/s320/IMG_4365.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e0numVq3IwM/Ulg3XPLMnBI/AAAAAAAACg0/l9ini-JI73U/s1600/IMG_4366.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="476" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e0numVq3IwM/Ulg3XPLMnBI/AAAAAAAACg0/l9ini-JI73U/s640/IMG_4366.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-81472765099795503572013-07-06T23:20:00.002-06:002013-10-17T01:40:12.446-06:00What it Means to Love a Good ManHe wakes each morning<br />
with a fast and heavy breathing<br />
it wakes me with a sense of panic<br />
<br />
He gets up<br />
That lionhearted soul<br />
determined to slay the dragon of that day<br />
<br />
for me<br />
for mine<br />
<br />
And at night<br />
His breath is deep like thunder<br />
rumbles about the room<br />
<br />
I try to contain my own heavy breathing<br />
lungs struggling to stifle tears<br />
of gratitude<br />
of amazement<br />
of pleading in prayer<br />
<br />
He needs his sleep<br />
He needs to be rested <br />
<br />Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-44682561526426776182013-02-10T01:00:00.002-07:002013-02-10T01:00:19.200-07:00I Was Skimming Througha blog I like. This person decided to take a portrait of each of her children once a week for the year. It was her New Year's Resolution. <br />
<br />
I loved that idea. Then I meandered onto my blogger dashboard and realized that not only have I not blogged in quite some time, but that my last post was a bit depressing. And it wasn't about my cute baby! What?! <br />
<br />
Samuel Bowen is 8 months old. Already. I just can't believe it. He changes so fast. And I know my other children do too. I may have to adopt this "once a week photo" resolution. <br />
<br />
<br />
I guess for today, I will post some photos of Bo. Some of my relatives don't do Instagram, and so don't see the many pictures I take of my baby, and have requested that I post some.<br />
<br />
Here are a couple for now (from his younger days - last summer). I promise to add more soon!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nHdlMwQtMWA/URdQByaAP-I/AAAAAAAACZ8/Hx_hwxIgfcU/s1600/IMG_1787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nHdlMwQtMWA/URdQByaAP-I/AAAAAAAACZ8/Hx_hwxIgfcU/s400/IMG_1787.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9WyM1CZK9Pc/URdQCURJ6wI/AAAAAAAACaA/uMSiabcTwqM/s1600/IMG_1969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9WyM1CZK9Pc/URdQCURJ6wI/AAAAAAAACaA/uMSiabcTwqM/s400/IMG_1969.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wNtpyGgQx3Y/URdQAtujxlI/AAAAAAAACZk/hvZYCYBiwMQ/s1600/IMG_1087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wNtpyGgQx3Y/URdQAtujxlI/AAAAAAAACZk/hvZYCYBiwMQ/s320/IMG_1087.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ID-07y0QTsE/URdP9LtwsHI/AAAAAAAACYs/6lAB9SbXvBE/s1600/IMG_0693.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ID-07y0QTsE/URdP9LtwsHI/AAAAAAAACYs/6lAB9SbXvBE/s400/IMG_0693.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-27333255558673047292012-08-27T19:20:00.001-06:002012-08-27T19:20:59.461-06:00Monday's Memoir: I Will Not Die With This Regreti took lessons in brief stints <br />
with months or years in between.<br />
<br />
Then one day, (during one of the breaks)<br />
i wanted more <br />
i sat myself down at our piano<br />
opened a book<br />
pieces i had not yet heard<br />
could not comprehend.<br />
<br />
it was painfully slow<br />
taking my right pointer finger to the sheet music<br />
face almost kissing the paper <br />
carefully counting the lines and spaces<br />
from middle c (because I knew where that belonged) <br />
to that mysterious note marked on the page,<br />
i held my finger still, memorized the number<br />
and then, using my left hand <br />
I would walk my fingers from middle c<br />
down or up the keyboard<br />
the same number<br />
play the note <br />
say the name of the note<br />
<br />
for<br />
<br />
each<br />
<br />
note<br />
<br />
i<br />
<br />
<br />
did<br />
<br />
this. <br />
<br />
soon,<br />
i got faster and faster<br />
i began to know <br />
i could pick up simple pieces and just play them<br />
at first glance <br />
my mother caught me<br />
praised me <br />
"you can sight read"<br />
and she signed me up for lessons again.<br />
<br />
<br />
i performed at my first recital<br />
when i was 14<br />
it was a simple piece<br />
i was certainly no virtuoso, but afterwards<br />
a man came up to me and said,<br />
"you have the touch -you love the music and play with feeling"<br />
i was surprised<br />
but i believed him<br />
because he was a stranger <br />
<br />
it was a work that brought simple joy to my day<br />
every day after school.<br />
I wasn't forced to practice<br />
i liked it<br />
i got lazy too, playing <br />
the same hymns, the same old recital pieces<br />
my mom would walk by and coach<br />
slow down!<br />
don't muffle through the difficult parts!<br />
<br />
occasionally i branched out and learned new things<br />
running into new music at grandma's house<br />
was a thrill -<br />
a new emotion<br />
a new rhythm<br />
a new mystery to unlock<br />
and set my heart to.<br />
<br />
always, it begins slowly<br />
and then<br />
fast,<br />
usually too loud,<br />
pure joy.<br />
<br />
everyday there was time for music.<br />
<br />
when i grew up<br />
i thought i had to let it go<br />
it was more like an afterthought <br />
i didn't cry about it or anything<br />
<br />
i had reasons<br />
i was in love, moving out<br />
apartment was too small<br />
<br />
now<br />
a house that's too small<br />
<br />
sometimes i get to play in church<br />
i have lost a lot of strength<br />
i fumble<br />
notes that I worked so hard to know<br />
are puzzles on the page again, <br />
but it still brings me joy<br />
<br />
i miss the piano <br />
i have lived almost as many years with out it<br />
as i have with it<br />
<br />
when it comes to the mystery of time <br />
perspicuity comes in retrospection<br />
now, I see - <br />
we insist upon things<br />
or we don't<br />
time does not care <br />
<br />
sometimes <br />
i feel deep regret<br />
at missing out<br />
at not making it a priority<br />
letting it go so easily (how could I do that?)<br />
<br />
my children should have grown up<br />
listening and playing<br />
they don't know <br />
how much i love it<br />
<br />
i have cried about it<br />
some days.<br />
<br />
but <br />
I am making a 5 Year Plan.<br />
It includes a giant piece of furniture.<br />
I look forward to sitting down to play<br />
and play... <br />
Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-36938964271698960442012-08-22T05:30:00.000-06:002012-08-21T16:19:52.552-06:00A Mouth Watering OpportunitySweetness in work<br />
requires one to<br />
take a bitter first bite of the branch<br />
and chew, for a short time,<br />
breaking up the tough, thick bark -<br />
<br />
and then you find the tender, green middle<br />
it is an invigorating sugar<br />
rewarding one with a desire to <br />
keep tasting.<br />
<br />
It is a soft center<br />
-the reason for starting<br />
-the joy in the doing<br />
-an easy nectar<br />
<br />
I am a childish soul,<br />
with shallow forsight-<br />
always forgetting the second part. <br />
I pinch my mouth closed,<br />
shake my head side to side.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I attempt to build up the nerve<br />
Turning the stick over and over,<br />
looking for the easiest way to start at it<br />
resisting the intial roughness on my tongue.<br />
<br />
The wiser soul does not hesitate<br />
to grasp the scabrous timber<br />
and bite hungrily.<br />
-He knows-<br />
His jaw strengthens<br />
He can chew down thicker, tougher tasks<br />
His capacity to take in sweetness increases<br />
when he does not hesitate.<br />
<br />Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-18054728941989348922012-08-21T13:05:00.001-06:002012-08-21T15:47:43.675-06:0012 Things (Only One Third of Them are Irritants).I am reading <i>The Wednesday Wars</i> by Gary D. Schmidt (cute book, so far). We are reading this in my book club group and when I learned it was juvenile fiction, I decided I would read it aloud to my children. It is a last stitch effort to do at least one constructive and educational activity this summer, before school begins again.<br />
<br />
<br />
This was my view when I finished the chapter and looked up at my brood: 12 Observations follow:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BvMeSAFSNuQ/UDPG1kr7ZVI/AAAAAAAACWU/tkNDKZOfxIo/s1600/TheWednesdayWars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BvMeSAFSNuQ/UDPG1kr7ZVI/AAAAAAAACWU/tkNDKZOfxIo/s640/TheWednesdayWars.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
1. <i>"Hey mom, make sure you take a picture of my good side"</i>- then he turns, just so.<br />
<br />
2. Vibram 5 Finger shoes. My boys are big fans. Me, not so much. They get stinky.<br />
<br />
3. Hence, the foot powder, which has been left on the arm of the sofa (a huge pet peeve of mine, because things left there end up falling on the floor making mess and racket).<br />
<br />
4. Another pet peeve. These cushions. Which always look mashed and messy.<br />
<br />
5. Pet peeve #3. The remote control left on top of squishy cushion, to inevitably be dug out from inside the sofa later on by an irritated Dad.<br />
<br />
6. I actually used a blur feature in a futile attempt to cover up the messiness and lack of design in my house. <br />
<br />
7. Marmalade: the beast with which I compete in seeking affection from Sam.<br />
<br />
8. My only sweet girl.<br />
<br />
9. The pink swing my sister lent me, which has stirred a surprising many (albeit brief) conversations about nature vs. nurture of gender in relation to the color of baby supplies...REALLY, PEOPLE. <br />
<br />
10. The only evidence (jacket dumped on the floor = PP#4) of a lovely evening prior, in the mountains, with delicious dutch oven food, and good friends. I should have brought my camera. <br />
<br />
11. Proof that I wasn't seeing the trees for the forest whilst constructing this photo. Makes it a better one, so it is okay.<br />
<br />
12. Sleeping baby in stripes = adorable. Also, the reason I am having to type this post with only one hand. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
I almost made this a " 21 things" post. I really could of done it...is that sad?<br />
<br />Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624378805912921244.post-7164716681005411222012-08-13T08:23:00.001-06:002012-08-21T15:46:26.616-06:00Monday's Memoir: Practicing for the talent show april 2010When I am home and all alone I dig through old things and take the time to remember. This is what I found while rummaging through my computer.<br />
<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=AD6v5dx5LgJn7e1tiFcg9Gqlg_Uc1e31keLrmSxLzcX5JAYmIU1T4VV4fNJE6yfCsA8cI_PH6e6h_M7QLCb_OEMa8Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Am I wrong, or did my my daughter make an adorable 8 year old? She is most definitely one of the sweetest parts of my life.Melissa:http://www.blogger.com/profile/12355857556707264725noreply@blogger.com2