tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955984267052690952024-03-06T00:58:29.219-08:00Hell in the HallwaysThoughts from an unemployed 30ish almost adult on suriving the hallways when doors unexpectedly close, writing to breathe and reading to save a life.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.comBlogger146125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-77295426915388641422014-01-14T10:00:00.001-08:002014-01-14T10:00:47.447-08:00The Mirror of a Beautiful Soul<div style="float: left; padding-left: 10px;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEcEAh7Bw6QxwLtZ1l3TeBuUmZfp0GzCPgBngWmwTptP8gRB-oVn0xeGX7pgIY0g5tJ0yrAwotNZTvx5uKF6azsZdGY3ht0pz1KMt3QSvAHy_vRGGF3NIiu9OXmfEXVk0F-pNTLhq_em4/s1600/photo-6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEcEAh7Bw6QxwLtZ1l3TeBuUmZfp0GzCPgBngWmwTptP8gRB-oVn0xeGX7pgIY0g5tJ0yrAwotNZTvx5uKF6azsZdGY3ht0pz1KMt3QSvAHy_vRGGF3NIiu9OXmfEXVk0F-pNTLhq_em4/s1600/photo-6.JPG" height="200" width="146" /></span></a></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>This is a reflection of a gutte neshuma, a beautiful soul; a tribute not only to the loving mother and Bubby now physically untouchable, but to her her son who loved her with a brimming heart and lives his days worthy of a lifetime of nachas, joy and blessings, for any mother. </b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLxAS4DjX3sodoF_k0M1p_iT0D89XS75muIzEc2-DRT_mSpCUSeSathfLplsu4w3AhLYkp1Bk7e_hsNhxZRuBfOSRrqjcInYcFEG55wsXSNwj8IUQt9amzDZIXjRMhDNnZzvDK-MvecH4/s1600/P1020196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLxAS4DjX3sodoF_k0M1p_iT0D89XS75muIzEc2-DRT_mSpCUSeSathfLplsu4w3AhLYkp1Bk7e_hsNhxZRuBfOSRrqjcInYcFEG55wsXSNwj8IUQt9amzDZIXjRMhDNnZzvDK-MvecH4/s1600/P1020196.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The gathering of men at 6:30 am on a random Monday morning, packed side by side, numbering over thirty...this is the reflection of an honorable man, a kind soul, a pure and spiritual son living his life righteously. they showed up to ensure the required men for the morning prayer service, far in excess of the required ten. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>They showed up to say "Here I am, here for you, here to pray along side you, to prop you up in these times of grief, and join my voice with yours to share your pain. They showed up out of respect, to act as a witness, to pay <span>homage to your beloved mother, but mostly to the man, son, father, leader, doctor, friend, uncle, and brother that you have become that indisputably would make any mother ache for such a son.</span></b></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLxAS4DjX3sodoF_k0M1p_iT0D89XS75muIzEc2-DRT_mSpCUSeSathfLplsu4w3AhLYkp1Bk7e_hsNhxZRuBfOSRrqjcInYcFEG55wsXSNwj8IUQt9amzDZIXjRMhDNnZzvDK-MvecH4/s1600/P1020196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLxAS4DjX3sodoF_k0M1p_iT0D89XS75muIzEc2-DRT_mSpCUSeSathfLplsu4w3AhLYkp1Bk7e_hsNhxZRuBfOSRrqjcInYcFEG55wsXSNwj8IUQt9amzDZIXjRMhDNnZzvDK-MvecH4/s1600/P1020196.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></span></a><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>It was a full house last night, friends gathering from all stages of our lives, all corners of the city, touchstones from different eras throughout the evolution of his life, from fresh-faced doctor to spiritual leader, from work-all-day young doctor to a man who invests more in his soul and spirit than in the stock market, who leads his life guided by age-0ld wisdom and rituals rather than ego-driven wordly desires. Crammed with only a sampling of lives that his has touched, it was a community standing there with open arms ready to walk along side during saddened days, listen to stories while sipping coffee, and simply be a rock for the shakey legs of an orphan. They showed up as a physical reminder that he is loved, cherished, and never alone. </b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjom4JgJxAbnlcvRSTJhjHrxGC92_7HWYGSC23wF5WLF4mqXKmIcPkznGJv1EKJtKnTX4foxYpxTPUvirwtGM6b5hySTkOXNaWIgn2yyEvUpQ9IwO0LpIdE98OuXct1nNonnPPzrFIv13g/s1600/P1040223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjom4JgJxAbnlcvRSTJhjHrxGC92_7HWYGSC23wF5WLF4mqXKmIcPkznGJv1EKJtKnTX4foxYpxTPUvirwtGM6b5hySTkOXNaWIgn2yyEvUpQ9IwO0LpIdE98OuXct1nNonnPPzrFIv13g/s1600/P1040223.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span>Community doesn't happen by luck or get created merely by the address of your home. This sort of network, where they rush in to help before even being asked, where food overflowed and arrangements are taken care of without request is the greatest love gift. It's born from decades of leadership, passionate volunteering of time and money for his vision of a vibrant Jewish community, a healthy family, and the ability to wrap all those he loves in a bubble to protect them from any and all pain and suffering. </span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span>It's born from years of willingness to endure growing pains, make sacrifices, and humbly admit that there's always more to learn, more to do, more to improve upon, becoming a man any mother would clamor to claim as her own.</span></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZufek9HY0j9F81R87xDdbE5FS7ZmKwYdVNveC7ojAWLZQoNHYhw3B5AlaJUEVgtGLYeVCoKeXV1GqzDTWggIY2OEMj8q_F8IC_NXAi3g8yppN4cuDKTFO69fFH6wIJ_nMFqr61t_uQv4/s1600/Image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZufek9HY0j9F81R87xDdbE5FS7ZmKwYdVNveC7ojAWLZQoNHYhw3B5AlaJUEVgtGLYeVCoKeXV1GqzDTWggIY2OEMj8q_F8IC_NXAi3g8yppN4cuDKTFO69fFH6wIJ_nMFqr61t_uQv4/s1600/Image.jpg" height="200" width="134" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span>She would have been so proud. She was proud - from the moment her first born son was born. It's a lot of pressure being the son that all hopes for a new and better life are pinned upon. It's a lot of pressure to make up for the pain of all of those murdered senselessly; to hold the dreams of a new future, a life worthwhile of surviving, the meaning in parent's days found in the birth of a son born in freedom. She was proud...proud of his success, of his family he created, grateful for the gift of grandchildren, and mostly, proud of her first born son who holds up his entire family with both hands and an open heart. She had to have rested easy knowing that her beloved moishe serves as a pillar in his ever-widening circle, living a life worth emulating, and serves as a role model to more people than he will ever realize. </span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span>She knew all along what a good husband, father, son, and brother he was, as do the rest of us lucky enough to know the man behind the doctor and businessman facade. Sometimes it takes us longer to recognize what everyone else can see. The reflection in his mirror can become warped and the precious crucial gem that we all see gets skewed by the chatter in our brains. </span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span>So today, while the mirrors are covered and he spends the day uncomfortably shifting on a low, hard mourners chair, his community will act as his true mirror-image - the validation of a mother's greatest wish - to raise a menche, living a life of torah and meaning, with honor, spending his hours healing, supporting, giving and loving those within arms reach.</span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span>We gather to pay tribute to Tosha Rene Bottner, his mother, my last remaining grandparent, but the reflection in the mirror tells the story of why it's standing room only in this ample sized house. It's the pair of glasses that portray the true man that we all can see and adore. </span></b></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-27810282802321475832014-01-08T17:11:00.000-08:002014-01-08T17:28:03.393-08:00House Lust<div style="float: left; padding-left: 10px;">
<a href="javascript:window.print()" rel="nofollow"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="javascript:window.print()" rel="nofollow"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">My apartment fin</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">ally feels like a home - at least inside the walls. Yet, a sad disappointment of what i was actually looking for. I need outdoor space to garden and a yard where i'm allowed to leave out a chair. I want to sunbath with my puppy in the morning rather than sit inside because I have no patio. We'll skill complaining about schlepping laundry and heavy groceries up the never-ending flight of stairs and glide right into the drawers that don't glide at all, or the nonworking deadbolt, sure to ease parental anxieties.</span></div></div>
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Regardless, is it worth packing up this place that I just spent two months perfecting? Is it worth the hassle of getting out of my lease? It might be a xanax-craving event but would it be worth it?<br>
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That answer is clear. As long as I can remember, its that one question that strikes panic in my heart. "What are your dreams? What are your goals? What do you want to do with this life?"<br>
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AAAAHHHHH. Time to hide under the covers. How did i miss that class? Where was I when they taught dream creation? How is it that i draw a blank when it comes to dreams and aspirations? What is wrong with me that i don't have a burning passion to be something, go somewhere, accomplish some great feat? I don't itch to travel or yearn to do any profession that offers an income seeing as what I love more than anything is writing, and that's not such a great monetary 5 year plan. <br>
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My answer to the dreaded question? There is only one and it's remained steadfast for as long as I can remember. I yearn to own a home.<br>
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A sanctuary I can create with produce planted lovingly from the garden and hand-tended jasmine lining my walls. I drool over a sun soaked backyard where I can write and play in the grass with my puppy. I ache to paint walls without wondering if its worth it since i'm just going to have to paint them back white when I move, or be able to mount my tv on the wall without worrying about repairing the damage when my lease is up. Staunchly against reality television, I've crossed over to the dark side when it comes to "love it or list it", "house hunters" and "property brothers", sure that i'm now fully qualified to just knock down that wall and rip up the old carpet to reveal gorgeous hardwood floors. <br>
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My one and only dream is to own a home of my own, my security insurance policy and the sense of grounding that occurs knowing I have a place to call home for forever.<br>
<br><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUa_XQ1QCIliK57aL7FFwYJfAhL3BH7k1XjBlOQ4NLY8S_PWnTHzfVuWS86omJSB2hyw11-q2XtkRtF2lE-wuvKaCacL2i9XpvLpOVb4870zpOICIHilT9Sy-5ml2zFgfd7nX-wbxcjs/s640/blogger-image--896358693.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUa_XQ1QCIliK57aL7FFwYJfAhL3BH7k1XjBlOQ4NLY8S_PWnTHzfVuWS86omJSB2hyw11-q2XtkRtF2lE-wuvKaCacL2i9XpvLpOVb4870zpOICIHilT9Sy-5ml2zFgfd7nX-wbxcjs/s640/blogger-image--896358693.jpg"></font></a>Home is my safety zone - where i get to shrug off labels, expectations, facades and stiff jeans and ease into pjs and exhale. Rooms filled with meaningful objects and set up exactly to my liking allow my eyes to rest anyway and still feel an unmatched sense of peace.<br>
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It's not the same renting a one bedroom apartment. Not the same when your music competes with the neighbor's tv, and i worry about the noise from playing fetch with Gracie for my downstairs friends. Not the same when you must become a quarter whore for laundry or park in an alley behind your building. Forbidden from painting, planting, and upgrading, i'm left feeling like a house guest, powerless to do any improvements other than replacing the faucet head of my sink.<br>
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Perhaps its stupid, but even just walking to my own mailbox where i could actually send and not just receive mail makes me smile.<br>
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I'm a nester. I can't help it. I arrived in phoenix at 7:40 last night and by 8:04 was fully unpacked and transformed the room into my own. I can't help it. It's something about belonging, finding space to breathe, and the calmness that ensures from everything in it's rightful place.<br>
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At heart, i'm a small town girl ironically living in LA. I was happier living in Buffalo Gap, middle of nowhere texas, pop. 637 including the actual buffalo i lived next to. With its two restaurants, one movie theater, and 24-hour walmart, i was perfectly happy and entertained. I like the quiet life, living outside and spending days with the sunshine, friends, and my four-legged shadow.<br>
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So that's it. I might wish to publish a book or expand my professional organizing business. It'd be nice to travel to luxerious beaches or explore foreign lands.<br>
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But ask me what I ache for? There's only one answer.<br>
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A home-base to call my own.<br>
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<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-15586267412887494662014-01-08T14:20:00.002-08:002014-01-08T14:20:34.711-08:00Definition:survivor<div style="float: left; padding-left: 10px;">
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s2">SURVIVOR: To remain in existence and continue to function. </span><span class="s2">To live on.</span><span class="s2"> </span><span class="s2">To prosper.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s2">In every way, Bubby Rene was a true survivor. Not merely choosing existence, she came to this country and built a full life. She would have fit the bill just by continuing to breath in and out. She would have complied by she lived a quiet, </span><span class="s2">shut-down</span><span class="s2">, closed-off life. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But she didn’t. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s2">Bubby Rene was a survivor by definition, living out loud with uncontainable love. She prospered, swimming in </span><span class="s2">nachas</span><span class="s2"> from even the smallest moments of joy. My short, soft, perfectly coiffed Bubby couldn’t lavish us with enough kisses and cotton</span><span class="s2">pj’s</span><span class="s2">, meatloaf or </span><span class="s2">kishkas</span><span class="s2">. She wasn’t simply a bystander in her life, but rather a full-fledged participant; always ready with a meal at the drop of hat lest we feel a twinge of hunger and unclasping any complimented piece of jewelry before we could finish to try and give it to us.</span></span></div>
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<a href="webkit-fake-url://10CBAC7D-5A6A-4731-9603-A70CF675D50B/image.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="webkit-fake-url://10CBAC7D-5A6A-4731-9603-A70CF675D50B/image.tiff" width="234" /></a><span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She taught me the definition of love. It’s pure love to know that Bubby Rene would be waiting outside on the balcony, sometimes for over an hour, just to have the first glimpse of our arrival, before she rushed to the front door to listen for footsteps. She defined it in the way she hugged so tight and smothered my face with enough kisses to wash it clean, in the exorbitant number of photos of her children and grandchildren. She defined love with the gleam in her eye any time the names of her children were mentioned. </span></div>
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<span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I miss my bubby.</span></div>
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<span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Then again, I’ve missed her for a long time. I don’t remember the last time I heard her admonish me “Don’t touch the hair” in her thick polish accent or was enveloped in a squishy hug. It’s been a long time.</span></div>
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<span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But Bubby Rene was a true survivor, even when it seemed like there was no good reason to anymore.</span></div>
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<span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She lived on, no matter what.</span></div>
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<span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She lived on because for every second that she could, she would breathe for those she loved who never got the chance.</span></div>
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<span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She lived on because it was worth it somewhere, somehow, for another second with her family.</span></div>
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<span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She lived for those she mourned, and those she loved.</span></div>
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<span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I will forever be blessed to have had her and been loved by her.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s2">If the motto is “We must always remember, </span><span class="s2">We</span><span class="s2"> must never forget” She doesn’t have to worry. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Bubby Rene, you are unforgettable. I love you forever</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-50532615714810893582014-01-06T12:48:00.001-08:002014-01-06T12:48:49.707-08:00Lamed-vav Tzaddikim<div style="float: left; padding-left: 10px;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitGYeXAqC_DVL4v3LFAwQNraKVoQ5jRB1NshfYxsWSfkpFzk3MQ02DfN41WbEaxYKm1MrB8b15q31KmyJnRwe8j2aOPC0xLBmPJWBIaWH_9kKnmvg9Mm9UCmeLn-_DywCMG18xRPgmn4/s1600/lamed-vav-pn385_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitGYeXAqC_DVL4v3LFAwQNraKVoQ5jRB1NshfYxsWSfkpFzk3MQ02DfN41WbEaxYKm1MrB8b15q31KmyJnRwe8j2aOPC0xLBmPJWBIaWH_9kKnmvg9Mm9UCmeLn-_DywCMG18xRPgmn4/s1600/lamed-vav-pn385_1.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>In any generation, there are thirty-six of them, who through their goodness and virtuous acts, hold the world together. You probably wouldn't recognize them in their various disguises stopped at the red light or pushing the shopping cart in front of you, but they are there, quietly grasping dropped edges so that our world doesn't start to fray.<br />
<br />
36 righteous ones, Lamed-vav Tzaddikim. <br />
<br />
Well, I've sussed one of them out. <br />
<br />
She thinks she's nothing spectacular as she volunteers to help at the hint of a need. She doesn't even know her true identity while she "mims" you with the perfect thoughtful gift "just because I love you." She lives honestly and kindly, tending the souls of those she loves with the ultimate attention to detail. She has magic hands, deftly carving her designs so that from a blank canvas emerges a masterpiece of beauty.<br />
<br />
She hasn't yet parted seas to my knowledge, or drawn water from a rock. She doesn't have cool super-powers or the need for a phone booth to morph into an alter-ego.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_Idc-4rO2rIvj_qaNaM3LBZ1ziJXT8HVPhcl2kU0PkdFY9t9Gr5JXqYnDCIAGkyv3EukAKyjkRRnttQMHZreDVh8lKkzk1dhg4wldbbSzWmzlS3KAYAH9wT0PdNno6ukf_nLcRPRvK8/s1600/tzaddik.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_Idc-4rO2rIvj_qaNaM3LBZ1ziJXT8HVPhcl2kU0PkdFY9t9Gr5JXqYnDCIAGkyv3EukAKyjkRRnttQMHZreDVh8lKkzk1dhg4wldbbSzWmzlS3KAYAH9wT0PdNno6ukf_nLcRPRvK8/s1600/tzaddik.jpg" height="200" width="167" /></a>But just spend an afternoon with her and it becomes clear you're in the presence of greatness.<br />
<br />
They say that you never know who these 36 saintly creatures are, never know when you might have the good fortune to bump into one of them on the sidewalk, so you should treat everyone you meet as if they had that potential. Out of the 35 that are left a mystery that is.<br />
<br />
The last one is safely at home, recharging her batteries, before resuming her job as mom, wife, sister, aunt, friend, artist and healer; sprinkling small kindnesses and transforming her corner of the world as instructed.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiEvxjphrGkyozc4O7QuS-OwXgKf5UjUxYjktyFhVlJuru4Tcu64gWmHUZT1r66SAAtDbiiIZXiQGbWH6OvfA9uTmQYVGrLZfMe82mqfx1A8vhcv5_GhSJ75gvHhRze8ScqhRoPrlBx4I/s1600/me+and+mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiEvxjphrGkyozc4O7QuS-OwXgKf5UjUxYjktyFhVlJuru4Tcu64gWmHUZT1r66SAAtDbiiIZXiQGbWH6OvfA9uTmQYVGrLZfMe82mqfx1A8vhcv5_GhSJ75gvHhRze8ScqhRoPrlBx4I/s1600/me+and+mom.jpg" height="200" width="155" /></a></div>
If you're lucky, you might stumble across a Tzaddik in your lifetime. If you're unbelievably blessed, you might be born to one.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-40298405517146943972014-01-02T13:24:00.004-08:002014-01-02T13:27:05.753-08:00Arrival at grown-up milestone ETA 2:05 <div style="float: left; padding-left: 10px;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It just hit me. I've been distracted with arranging pick ups and delivery and worried about squeezing in cleaning between the removal of the old and the arrival of the new. </span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #990000;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbmwIPj5avYLQhhhAQB5IoNP5ugtxOZt2jYZoAf0D5KdzL7aIt2o7cHnr9gdWjb6FYTJqce2s1Wbs5AFBC6m2SWdZ-7nj8Pbj49vpV290JRdziZpbVrJRytBN9-Z_dIEDCxvjrJ5bbvqA/s320/monopoly+%22Go%22.jpg" width="320" /></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But suddenly i realized I'm crossing "GO" and passing a grown up milestone. For the first time, I'm not lying on my parents' old teal couch, lugging one up the stairs from "the guy on craigslist" or salvaging it from the side of the road. For the first time, my tush will be the only one that's plopped down so far on it's cushions. A brand new couch will be arriving shortly to Wooster Street...try to contain your excitement.</span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is a big girl couch: smokey gray, soft and long enough to stretch out on for a lazy sunday snooze. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What the hell is it doing in my apartment??</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm used to being transient, on a first name basis with movers, and decorating like a starving student. While it does breed creativity (did you know a drawer turned on it's bottom can be used as a shelf and storage?! I'm used to browsing the aisles of Goodwill and scrubbing paint stains from flannel pants for my "fixer-upper" furniture. I'm used to honing my "cheap" radar, always fearful of the unrealistic, totally needs to be gotten over, rainy day when i'm living out of the box my sofa came in.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
</span><span style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #990000;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrdqGE88R1KVnTA-M02jEtzKLI_tWmP3e1TuaQPbznPU34QPvotbU98mTdfDYzcJNdhUlaC8Pc6thc3BWM0-bsKGD_cmBYP3BKdPj4-JBzDwRWEOZezEoVLE3E4e0Qik_ilrauCeJd2Xo/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></span></span><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Again, definitely a place for cheap and creative, especially when you want things that can be painted, traded, and replaced if you change your mind. But there's something about a couch - it has the home smell...you know, the one that you can't smell but other people say your house smells like you (hopefully in a good way). So perhaps this couch will actually belong here. And if i can resist the urge to keep it covered in plastic like Bubby Rene taught me, just to keep it clean, then it will actually be a beautiful comfy piece of furniture in this apartment I'm trying to make a home.</span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So it's a big day. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But then again, i have to admit, it's a lot easier to pass growing up milestones when the couch is a gift...I'm not sure i get to count this as some internal accomplishment or soul-growing improvement...</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Still, i did manage to overcome my inner stupidly fearful child and accept the gift - does that make a difference?</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Either way, ETA 2:05 PT.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'll be unavailable for the rest of the day...I have a date with the couch. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Print this Article</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-6085082733906655852013-12-30T12:54:00.000-08:002013-12-30T12:54:24.649-08:00Resolutions<div style="float: left; padding-left: 10px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilWoqTUVpxemQz6X3iXJfouXqN8hJ2bRp48Vh4AJJoDlYwa3nU50m6Vm6KDirZhf0YQu7G1LLgeG_V5rfJazVm43RUEIKnjOqkdtJiXu86dJJGvsLCx4XPvI6T_jnNKz9Ozovb3lkEFhA/s1600/to-do-list.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><img border="0" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilWoqTUVpxemQz6X3iXJfouXqN8hJ2bRp48Vh4AJJoDlYwa3nU50m6Vm6KDirZhf0YQu7G1LLgeG_V5rfJazVm43RUEIKnjOqkdtJiXu86dJJGvsLCx4XPvI6T_jnNKz9Ozovb3lkEFhA/s200/to-do-list.jpg" width="200" /></b></span></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>It's that time of year. Time for
pressure to start penning goals and setting down aspirations. Time for
to-do lists of grandeur and bucket lists for the upcoming year. Why we do
this for an arbitrary date and feel pressure to uphold our plans, I'm not really
sure. Regardless, it's that time of year when my fellow humans join me in the
list-making profession and resolutions are unearthed from the back of the
closet. <o:p></o:p></b></span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHlN_MBapYfE-uMZ-7wVDgUFNpOW-8CcU70NW8YbPRuuGNJlKuO9MOPKLfT6ZQrCMcAii311viFYn8oYZPlFt9QWawIGywPZPoQfcgiDVzXigyEsvlhTls7GNNWixAPTNTI86M6JsBWw/s1600/132561245_e16fb7af5b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b></b></span></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I'm actually not big on new years
resolutions. Sadly, there’s nothing new to aim for, nothing different
from last year’s problems that still need fixing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or from the year before that, or the year before that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s just too depressing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus, to have a goal it would seem that
one actually has to believe that goal can be achieved. Or have a smidgen of
hope that by Dec. 31, 2014 they’ll be at least closer to the finish line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know what happened, but my
smidgen of hope has obviously gotten misplaced, perhaps in one of the moving
boxes tucked high away.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHlN_MBapYfE-uMZ-7wVDgUFNpOW-8CcU70NW8YbPRuuGNJlKuO9MOPKLfT6ZQrCMcAii311viFYn8oYZPlFt9QWawIGywPZPoQfcgiDVzXigyEsvlhTls7GNNWixAPTNTI86M6JsBWw/s1600/132561245_e16fb7af5b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHlN_MBapYfE-uMZ-7wVDgUFNpOW-8CcU70NW8YbPRuuGNJlKuO9MOPKLfT6ZQrCMcAii311viFYn8oYZPlFt9QWawIGywPZPoQfcgiDVzXigyEsvlhTls7GNNWixAPTNTI86M6JsBWw/s200/132561245_e16fb7af5b.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> </b></span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I could resolve to be healthier,
be more open-minded, be more flexible or more relaxed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could resolve to meditate daily,
start the day off with a swim, volunteer or go back to school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could vow to treat myself as kindly
as I do others, or to be a better friend, sister, daughter, cousin, niece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could. And yet, I don’t dare write
them down on paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></b></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>It’s too real, too binding, too
final.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Written down, I have to
admit failure if I don’t succeed, hanging my head for yet another year gone
by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not just run of the mill
fear of failure, although I’m sure in a 50-minute hour, some psychologist could
twist it that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the
cumulative spiral of decades of struggle, too many nights vowing never again
and too many mornings woken in regret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s the lack of faith that this year really will be any different, can
be any different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggULPqCgMX2ZGAOQjur0_9hrkmp9W-MMrIyh2OcOh75f9twOdU-xyo7eGp15wJD9ZsUveuxt4tRJUXBHSjcHKJ0oekfzcvcw3L7E4TcptaB91adhFw64vU7KRkkDdkiM05EeXiUNSPlds/s1600/1178401294.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggULPqCgMX2ZGAOQjur0_9hrkmp9W-MMrIyh2OcOh75f9twOdU-xyo7eGp15wJD9ZsUveuxt4tRJUXBHSjcHKJ0oekfzcvcw3L7E4TcptaB91adhFw64vU7KRkkDdkiM05EeXiUNSPlds/s200/1178401294.jpg" width="200" /></a></b></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> <o:p></o:p></b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I wish I were different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish to be more “normal” and whip out
the tired list of resolutions to go to the gym more or eat more salad or read
more books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish that I could
ignore the past inertia and instead believe that despite it all, 2014 is going
to be the year of change, the year of life, a great year…I’d settle for even
just an okay non-crisis mode year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wish that January 1<sup>st</sup> felt like some kind of new beginning,
a fresh slate available for carving out joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish. <o:p></o:p></b></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Instead, I have to remind myself
that Wednesday is New Years Day, and I can’t pick up my library books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to make an alarm in my phone to
watch the ball drop on Tuesday night at midnight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forget about the pressure to make big New Year’s plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m just aiming to remember the correct
date when I sign a check.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9tojWGNhOT9GpLA1C3ZoIvZhuw1K28eswUuHYQoSf8G98HFd7wAH-UqqpOP6a2kIELCBgUcODrr8H3xA59iwQkYhz_hwgN7CjetUsxL-NX1lNlaU0H7y1KmICIrCw8q0JQ0_virs9b2w/s1600/35198403_2c4f9921bc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9tojWGNhOT9GpLA1C3ZoIvZhuw1K28eswUuHYQoSf8G98HFd7wAH-UqqpOP6a2kIELCBgUcODrr8H3xA59iwQkYhz_hwgN7CjetUsxL-NX1lNlaU0H7y1KmICIrCw8q0JQ0_virs9b2w/s200/35198403_2c4f9921bc.jpg" width="200" /></b></span></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I seem to have lost my hope,
misplaced my faith, and let my goals slip out of my pockets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As much as I hate clichés, perhaps this
is one of those times to “fake it til you make it.” <o:p></o:p></b></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>So, pretending that I did
believe, pretending I’m more normal, pretending I’m someone else,</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>what would I dream for in 2014?<o:p></o:p></b></span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Treat
myself and those around me gently, kindly, softly and with love.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Nourish
my soul’s only vehicle <o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Feed
my heart and my spirit with meditation, meaning, classes, and inspiring pages<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Leave
my corner of the world a little better than I found it on December 31, 2013<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Make
a bathing suit my morning attire and glide through the water with the purpose
of strength and relaxation rather than achieving a certain distance.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Show
up to be a better sister, daughter, friend, cousin, and niece.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Learn
what living feels like rather than merely existing.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Choose
life.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">9.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And actually Live.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-33166674813518144332013-12-28T18:24:00.001-08:002013-12-28T18:24:19.308-08:00There's a reason she's my favorite author...<div style="float: left; padding-left: 10px;">
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<a href="javascript:window.print()" rel="nofollow">And she just doesn't stop...I finished Anne Lamott's new book in a day and then yesterday this was her status on facebook...it's amazing and beautiful and worth reading!!</a><br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Status Update</b></span></div>
<div class="UIShareStage_Subtitle" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>By Anne Lamott</b></span></div>
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><a href="javascript:window.print()" rel="nofollow"></a></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>We need to talk.<br /><br />I know you are planning to start a diet next Wednesday. I used to start diets, too. I hated to mention this to my then-therapist. She would say cheerfully, " Oh, that's great, honey. How much weight are you hoping to gain?"<br /><br />I got rid of her sorry ass. No one talks to ME that way.<br /><br />Well, okay, maybe it was ten years later, after she had helped lead me back home, to myself, to radical self-care, gentle Self-Talk, to a jungly glade that had always existed deep inside me, but that I'd avoided by achieving, dieting, people-pleasing, multi-talking, and so on<br /><br />Now when I decide to go on a diet, I say it to myself: "Great, honey. How much are you hoping to gain?"<br /><br />I was able to successfully put on weight on book tour by eating room service meals in a gobbly trance in 13 different hotels. So that was exhilarating, to make myself feel like Jabba the Hut.<br /><br />And then I accidentally forgot to starve myself in December, or to go back to the gym, which I've been meaning to do since I had a child, 24 years ago.<br /><br />So I am at least five pounds up--but praise be to God, I do not currently have a scale, because as I've said before, getting on a scale is like asking Dick Cheney to give you a sense of your own self-worth.<br /><br />I can still get my jeans on, for one reason: I wear forgiving pants. The world is too hard as it is, without letting your pants have an opinion on how you are doing. I struggle with enough self-esteem issues without letting my jeans get in on the act.<br /><br />By the same token, it feels great to be healthy. Some of you need to be under a doctor's care. None of you need to join Jenny Craig. It won't work. Some of you need to get outside and walk for half an hour a day. I do love walking, so that is not a problem for me, but I have a serious sickness with sugar: if I start eating it, I can't stop. It turns out I don't have an off switch, any more than I do with alcohol. Given a choice, I will eat candy corn and Raisinets until the cows come home--and then those cows will be tense, and bitter, because I will have gotten lipstick on the straps of their feed bags.<br /><br />But you crave what you eat, so if I go for 3 or 4 days with no sugar, the craving is gone. That is not dieting. If you are allergic to peanuts, don't eat peanuts.<br /><br />So please join me in not starting a diet January 1st.<br /><br />It's really okay, though, to have (or pray for) an awakening around your body. It's okay to stop hitting the snooze button, and pay attention to what makes you feel great about yourself, one meal at a time. It's an inside job. If you are not okay with yourself at 185, you will not be okay at 150, or even 135. The self-respect and serenity you long for is not out there. It's within. I hate that. I resent that more than I can say. But it's true.<br /><br />Maybe some of us will eat a bit less, and walk a bit more, and make sure to wear pants that do not hurt our thighs or our feelings Drinking more water is the solution to almost all problems.<br /><br />I'll leave you with this: I've helped some of the sturdier women at my church get healthy, by suggesting they prepare each meal as if they had asked our beloved pastor to lunch or dinner. They wouldn't say, "Here Pastor--let's eat standing up in the kitchen. This tube of Pringles is ALL for you." And then stand there gobbling from their own tubular container.<br /><br />No, they'd get out pretty dishes, and arrange wonderful foods on the plates, and set one plate before Veronica at the table, filled with happiness, love, pride and connection. That's what we have longed for, our whole lives, and get to create, now, or or on the 1st. Wow!</b></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-27486521149627232332013-12-28T13:49:00.003-08:002013-12-28T13:49:50.307-08:00It's hard<div style="float: left; padding-left: 10px;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLO9j3Kf17c8OInfxPa9Sy-jTHq2h45VOyk3pW8gRvXziNhHcG9pCayJQE6V60rBogBtVKAlt4X8WYqVc9VA6JR5JXAXBp8zCC3X9nLqkN1y4A7yLDtUal0SCd8u44UeCVomq3DzlsoZg/s1600/life-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLO9j3Kf17c8OInfxPa9Sy-jTHq2h45VOyk3pW8gRvXziNhHcG9pCayJQE6V60rBogBtVKAlt4X8WYqVc9VA6JR5JXAXBp8zCC3X9nLqkN1y4A7yLDtUal0SCd8u44UeCVomq3DzlsoZg/s200/life-1.jpg" width="152" /></a>It’s hard to…</div>
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I should just stop there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Everything is hard today, yesterday, this year. </div>
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It’s hard knowing that a year has passed since we watched
fireworks out of my hospital room in Denver and nothing has improved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard marking holidays and
birthdays amidst days spent imitating life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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It’s hard to know what to do. What the right thing to do. What I want to do.
It’s hard. Especially when
nothing sounds appealing. There’s
the off-label treatment that involves getting stuck with an IV and receiving an
infusion of a horse tranquilizer. There’s the use of a certain smoke-able
plant, legal here, though often used more recreationally than I would
attempt. There’s therapy. There’s doing nothing. It’s hard to set down a plan on motion when
it all appears futile and inertia is the default mode. It’s hard to decide when you have no
hope of success.<br />
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It’s hard to opt for another stab in the dark, especially
when he thinks it’s the absolute right thing to try and she’s convinced it’ll
kill you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard to muster up
any emotion over who’s right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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It’s hard to believe that any of them are the answer. It’s
hard to believe there even is an answer. </div>
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And even when I stop the mental pro/con tight rope dance and
book an appointment, it’s not over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because that’s when she proposes her new idea, backed by research,
convinced it’s worth a try because “what do I have to lose?” And I’m at a loss
to defend myself.</div>
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Which is how I found myself driving downtown on a Friday
night to a hole in the wall doctor’s office after having stopped in at the
closest “pharmacy” filled with pizza boxes in the lobby. Crossing into an
alternate universe, I filled out the paperwork, forgoing actually reading what
I was initialing after “I understand that this product could cause
hallucinations…I understand this is not approved by the FDA”. Instead I just
scan for blank lines in need of ink and hand it back to the guy behind in the
window. </div>
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And if only all doctors appointments were so speedy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Five minutes later I was back at the
window, waiting for my cash-only brand new ID.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It really was a very strict policy they have there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lots of hoops to drive thru.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctor was very thorough.</div>
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The requirements? Blood pressure of a living mammal and the
ability to stand with your eyes closed and not fall over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After those three minutes, the crusty
doctor wished me a happy year before I’d need to come back and see him and I
was on my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knew?</div>
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If anything, the recreational benefits will be appealing to
certain family members I’m sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m sensing an influx of visitors with a whole new tradition for dessert
after the mandatory kosher Chinese dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then again, we’ll probably do that in reverse…</div>
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So we’ll see.</div>
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It’d be easier if there was a talking burning bush or if my
meditation cards could be a little more instructional: “Lauren, go to Arizona”
rather than “I embrace the world with love”.</div>
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It’d be easier if the peanut gallery agreed or if I actually
had an opinion of what to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYYTws3JOMqWHrRw3jwSkktkxn17HhEveZqa8yP-cUk701ZIy_UwU-Db65fIkQmaEXo-Ua-GJOunrMDCRwDsYcwjLNAlDYvTA2q1h0JBc6Ga5NtO7i0sTLYWoJ4noGtYJo36LLBjE1SI/s1600/on+couch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYYTws3JOMqWHrRw3jwSkktkxn17HhEveZqa8yP-cUk701ZIy_UwU-Db65fIkQmaEXo-Ua-GJOunrMDCRwDsYcwjLNAlDYvTA2q1h0JBc6Ga5NtO7i0sTLYWoJ4noGtYJo36LLBjE1SI/s200/on+couch.jpg" width="149" /></a>It’s hard when she’s so sure, he’s so sure, and I’m not sure
about anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard to know
what to do when it takes all my mental energy to remember to breathe and walk
the pooch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard when the
ground shifts unpredictably.</div>
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And all of the bushes on our morning stroll were smoke-less
and the rune stone of the day was “acceptance.”</div>
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So for the moment I’ll take the guidance and attempt to
accept that this is where I am, rooted in the snarly mess of uncertainty and
hopelessness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Accept that for this
minute, nothing is so drastically wrong. Accept that it’s hard and try not to
drown in the unknowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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It’s the quote that I apparently haven’t learned my lesson
from yet because it keeps popping up after decades…</div>
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<b><span style="color: #990000;">“Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and
to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books
written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could
not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the
point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far
in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into
the answer.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #990000;">Rainer Maria Rilke, in Letters to a Young Poet</span></b></div>
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Living in the question…I’m awful at it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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So it’s just hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I accept that.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-51562675973148103712013-12-24T14:12:00.002-08:002013-12-24T14:12:31.444-08:00I QUITAnd she does it again...sucks the jumbled pondering of meaning and import right from my heart and publishes a slip of a book that leaves me folding down every corner to mark some phrase that strikes a forgotten chord. <br />
<br />
She hits the nail on the head (oy, again with the cliches), driving home her wonderings, speaking exactly to what my quandary is:<br />
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Where is the meaning during the bad times? How do we escape the trite cliches and find purpose for our days when the world seems to crumble around our ankles?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0ryjY_uUPq9uOZkxS9qlXoixENHvnyLlHKItW0B5i_2vvQkSsK6V-9yPixhGUFHjT2Et86Ca1JzDYF-TcZamOBT1qNYKW4G8plgR6neUxqB2_DaR4HVkANgJ6yOXsT-qtYEfjijO89g/s1600/wallpaper_info_1170672667.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0ryjY_uUPq9uOZkxS9qlXoixENHvnyLlHKItW0B5i_2vvQkSsK6V-9yPixhGUFHjT2Et86Ca1JzDYF-TcZamOBT1qNYKW4G8plgR6neUxqB2_DaR4HVkANgJ6yOXsT-qtYEfjijO89g/s1600/wallpaper_info_1170672667.jpg" height="145" width="200" /></a>I was saving it, her newest book "Stitches: A handbook on meaning, hope and repair", having forgotten the title I pre-ordered it so long ago, saving it until i finished with the library books attached to a due date and the pile of magazines overflowing in my closet. But for some reason, for the seven minutes of a morning cigarette, I pulled out Anne Lamott's newest book and settled under the burning sun in the end of December, slowly forcing my jaw upward after dropping open on her first paragraph.<br />
<br />
"It can be too sad here. We so often lose our way."<br />
<br />
I want to highlight each sentence, underline paragraphs at a time, raise my hand and say "yes, here I am, the one you wrote this for."<br />
<br />
And the silver lining is that my favorite author wrote this book, so that must mean they're not just my troubled musings and depressed hopelessness but hers too. Because we write what we need to hear, what we need to learn, what we are dying from if we do not say. So Miss Lamott and I are branded with the same hollow hole of longing, she just further ahead, wiser, older, still struggling with the same existential unknowables, but finding some energy to keep trucking.<br />
<br />
Am I willing to do that? To hold on to this senseless, messy, often meaningless life? Just keep holding on, dog paddling along even when there's no shore in sight?<br />
<br />
I don't know.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE0-bRoor635CuGRdiP9k8ZMEU9dAxlikCYfzgp2rIdnApGDNbt1vR5AMLIAIPXlGBHHc-YSS4ORRzavdAfZ9dR77XLEoQvfsPFifkUv7acIeWxTgpcV2QJyJUjBDkxkbLuDbvPo8pABw/s1600/life.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE0-bRoor635CuGRdiP9k8ZMEU9dAxlikCYfzgp2rIdnApGDNbt1vR5AMLIAIPXlGBHHc-YSS4ORRzavdAfZ9dR77XLEoQvfsPFifkUv7acIeWxTgpcV2QJyJUjBDkxkbLuDbvPo8pABw/s1600/life.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>Do I have the courage to seek answers and purpose even when fibers scream in protest that it's all an act, faking smiles to hide the grey vortex of emptiness that swallows me whole?<br />
<br />
I want to say no. I want to say I'm too tired, I give up, I give in. I want to say I surrender, I'm done. I want to say enough. I quit.<br />
<br />
And yet, I'm still here. Despite my overwhelming struggles and dark hours, I'm still here, waking up to a new day, reading books and folding down corners. Maybe I've had enough. Maybe I've given up. But for the moment, it doesn't seem to matter. For the moment, I breathe in and out and wonder what to fill my hours with and if any of it will make a smidge of difference when I wake up tomorrow. Wonder if there is anything, any one, any action that will cause an inner tetonic shift to match up my uneven parts and make living a blessing rather than a curse.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpP4D4H2QZFsfTziL7Jei1EUhZcY8gjO8x8BABN1h809Xw4mmeDsZGlyzliRXeanl-Cx_xiKTNqFucTPEmBaB_crcNitlSfnQ4xvctxmJQXWQuyM6R86X13OjYXlWKf70KI6Ue-hDLQCs/s1600/IMG_0904.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpP4D4H2QZFsfTziL7Jei1EUhZcY8gjO8x8BABN1h809Xw4mmeDsZGlyzliRXeanl-Cx_xiKTNqFucTPEmBaB_crcNitlSfnQ4xvctxmJQXWQuyM6R86X13OjYXlWKf70KI6Ue-hDLQCs/s1600/IMG_0904.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a>I quit...and yet, apparently I'm still rolling the dice and plodding along.<br />
I quit...as I reach out for a hand, a hug, printed inspiration, a warm puppy lick.<br />
I quit.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah, prove it. Perhaps I'm bluffing. Perhaps I just want to quit this particular definition of life and not life all together. Perhaps I'm not.<br />
<br />
I quit...as I sip my coffee and crack open the spine of my book.<br />
<br />
I quit...as I take a deep breath.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-84319067321818812882013-12-24T13:31:00.001-08:002013-12-24T13:31:23.895-08:00Trapped in the potholes of cliches<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Perhaps that's the writer's curse of depression: everything is defined by cliches...accurate, true, and utterly devoid of any individual slant. </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3aVGgIfoJboVAdbSPbvOtSWpZA6o6Qum99CfcOvSMr_qUVn6iRZ5Xaqk3xUpVcXmVo-U4qu_f0zsk534y7x-1EEcbnsIypkaO8zzqBVbzdwc8xLUWQeQgVIvJ9BRlLQTyjd650XdedY4/s1600/survivalsecret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3aVGgIfoJboVAdbSPbvOtSWpZA6o6Qum99CfcOvSMr_qUVn6iRZ5Xaqk3xUpVcXmVo-U4qu_f0zsk534y7x-1EEcbnsIypkaO8zzqBVbzdwc8xLUWQeQgVIvJ9BRlLQTyjd650XdedY4/s1600/survivalsecret.jpg" height="197" width="320" /></a></div>
<b style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;">Boring and trite, they sum up the roller coaster days and meaningless minutes without actually saying anything new, without owning my own letters, expressing to the world "this is me." Instead i'll just point you toward the book of quotes on the shelf or the cute posters on the wall and instruct you to read.</b><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Then again, who am I writing for? </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I write because it's what I know to do, because it stills the ceaseless motion of cleaning and to-do lists and text-tapping thumbs. I write because otherwise i lose my breath among unsaid words, suffocating on stomped down phrases, traveling through life on autopilot unable to calm the tangled panic that blooms.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>And alas, if it's cliches I must start with, so be it.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpal59Ud0M2QNX2QliPIEpDZOzUcfDCKfdNAq0qFW__LeIAPmZVuaXkY341kJbwr1pBusRXf4RSW0GJa5UDvJ2LDhBmau_p5N8FhRAZJ6Jw3CBF0jhS32sEHwV0UMLpFYsM3y2YCkDWIU/s1600/lifeBEST.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpal59Ud0M2QNX2QliPIEpDZOzUcfDCKfdNAq0qFW__LeIAPmZVuaXkY341kJbwr1pBusRXf4RSW0GJa5UDvJ2LDhBmau_p5N8FhRAZJ6Jw3CBF0jhS32sEHwV0UMLpFYsM3y2YCkDWIU/s1600/lifeBEST.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Prompts of not "counting the minutes but making every minute count" only induce guilt and having the "power to create my own reality" leaves me labled as a failure. I can't "act as-if" or "fake it til I make it". I can't "turn my frown upside down" or "put on my big girl underpants" to create a life unknown. </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>There's no frame of reference. No starting point. No picture in the photo banks of my mind that says - there, that's what I want, that was a life worth living, that is what I need to get back to. I literally have to create the wheel of an actual life; one spent living and not merely surviving. And that looks like an insurmountable mountain, too icy to trek alone, too steep to manage on weary legs.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The other option is to stop with the trying, the experiments, the trials, the new ideas and innovative plans. To continue trudging along, filling hours with tasks and errands, jealous of a grandmother living on borrowed time. But treading water isn't my forte. It seems my constitution offers me two choices - forward or back.</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURCFS1uAvPamjc2A3mlokmzFcNbMeclQ1c2NA5OJaDAMIAOXwkQWvfrtTvfSjgGkZYS6EyMAHnoOM8yjt0KR1NGPNc4OpSyorkLPykc_EEIH9Z8NhasuiPAY9_Luzmk61m1CgmpJUONw/s1600/adviceinspirationquotetypographyvis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURCFS1uAvPamjc2A3mlokmzFcNbMeclQ1c2NA5OJaDAMIAOXwkQWvfrtTvfSjgGkZYS6EyMAHnoOM8yjt0KR1NGPNc4OpSyorkLPykc_EEIH9Z8NhasuiPAY9_Luzmk61m1CgmpJUONw/s1600/adviceinspirationquotetypographyvis.jpg" height="221" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I choose back. I'm too tired, too hopeless to start over yet again, too worn out to try to find my footing only to be blamed when the outcome falls short of a miracle.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>And yet, I look into the eyes of those who inexplicably love me and don't have the heart to break the news. Despite it all, i care more about them than myself, care more about what they want. </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>What do I want?</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I don't even know. That piece of my brain that should think independently and seems to function for all other adults as they practice self-determination has gone missing, vanquished by too many strong voices and institutions dictating what to think, how to act, when to breath.</b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9nqJ9ZTtvYSBDZudWTUEnz6dxfgYT_K2A4d4nOAyDHrqFasGgQyxyRpfFH_fzI0t1l1nLnd0TXilw0r2kcDLPzC1H-Y7SoeIh9cDhKIr0QgWLb23FOTxT9W_IwxIvyVDTNUuo3s408Q/s1600/ththinkforyourself.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9nqJ9ZTtvYSBDZudWTUEnz6dxfgYT_K2A4d4nOAyDHrqFasGgQyxyRpfFH_fzI0t1l1nLnd0TXilw0r2kcDLPzC1H-Y7SoeIh9cDhKIr0QgWLb23FOTxT9W_IwxIvyVDTNUuo3s408Q/s1600/ththinkforyourself.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>So left to the quiet corners of my mind, I get lost and hunker down, overwhelmed by the maze toward an unseen light. Perhaps someone will find me who knows the answer. </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Perhaps that someone is me. </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Perhaps.</b></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-22440156086659118042011-04-05T12:36:00.000-07:002011-04-05T12:37:26.923-07:00Bottom of the List<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It’s not a surprise anymore. I know this about myself. I wish it wasn’t true. I wish I were more ‘normal’, more adult, more productive, more….something. Regardless, I fall to the bottom of the list no matter what. The second that there is anything to-do, fun gets blacklisted and any item that is laced with pleasure or self-fulfillment magically gets deleted. I started a new job. And by job, I mean that I have hours I am expected to show up somewhere, tasks to complete, and the dress code doesn’t include pjs. By job I don’t mean actually making money. But still, I like it more than I thought I would.</div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlT0qkVX9Y0dnCCBplG3YouUWi6VkG7qfc8vB3nChnL8685-RhxJlZxTNekJdkCA4GvV8BHi7KdVAzLYRBmBa1O3D07sTj4mVJ8cCttKuL65AkvlMOQvaNepCRpTooSVArEa37dDD2hu8/s1600/191x216_anxiety.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlT0qkVX9Y0dnCCBplG3YouUWi6VkG7qfc8vB3nChnL8685-RhxJlZxTNekJdkCA4GvV8BHi7KdVAzLYRBmBa1O3D07sTj4mVJ8cCttKuL65AkvlMOQvaNepCRpTooSVArEa37dDD2hu8/s200/191x216_anxiety.jpg" width="176" /></a>There’s something satisfying about showing up when I say I will, keeping my word, and applying my perfectionistic dictator as I write the article, re-write the article, re-re-write the article. I get a thrill from the smiles of approval, and I’ve managed to locate a twinkling of inner validation that lifts my chin as I walk to my car knowing I did the best I could, even if I’m going home to write yet another draft. So it’s not the job that’s necessarily making me anxious. I like the job. Rather, it’s the idiotic schedule. <br />
It’s my rigidity and compulsive cleaning and ritualistic manner of life that crams every free minute with panicky dusting and errands and pruning my plants. That’s all fine when my entire day is my own. However, with less time I can’t seem to shake off the useless rituals I created to ensure boredom never appears on my list. I seem to have a phobia of stillness. Ironic since I crave relaxation and the peace of lying on the couch cuddling with my dog, calm with no deadlines hanging over my head. In other words, fantasy land. <br />
<br />
Hence the flutter of anxiety is my constant companion, speeding home overflowing with the guilt of a puppy left alone. I review in my head while drumming fingers in traffic: first play and shower with love, walk her, brush her, vacuum, mop, do laundry, don’t forget the run to Smart and Final and also Vons because they have the best 4% cottage cheese, get gas, return library books due by Friday, oh and there are those ace bandages I bought yesterday at rite aide that I need to return – obviously today. We’ll ignore the fact that I’ve already returned two nail polishes two hours after they were purchases to the same rite aide. I’m going to need eggs in two days so I better run in and get them now. Oh shit. It’s already 9 pm. But I still need to shower and walk Gracie two more times and make dinner and cut out the coupons from Sunday’s paper and water my plants and respond to that email and call the unemployment agency and remember to add tasks to my phone to get Gracie’s nails clipped tomorrow…maybe I should wash my sheets so I don’t have to do it tomorrow since its been three days already…and the basil needs to be transplanted NOW and fuck now I’m shaking over the time and how little I’m going to get to sleep before I have to wake up and do it all over again. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqZnDg0DLgNvQuYAgnhwhVOfMTFTMvZ4Njl9rNgUo35O8nGPL1qerSwIlR8gwwmKapTBrz4i8aZ2LU9Ntx9u8KO4boUHcCX-RWgl8XaE9QW7maVOcr4tpRVGBDuKezASiEUYU8DmIKAow/s1600/ll.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqZnDg0DLgNvQuYAgnhwhVOfMTFTMvZ4Njl9rNgUo35O8nGPL1qerSwIlR8gwwmKapTBrz4i8aZ2LU9Ntx9u8KO4boUHcCX-RWgl8XaE9QW7maVOcr4tpRVGBDuKezASiEUYU8DmIKAow/s200/ll.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
This is the way I drop to the bottom of my list. Where is the time for my own writing? Where is the time to breathe?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-3224866777066621272011-04-05T12:21:00.000-07:002011-04-05T12:21:42.864-07:00In case you've run out of reading material...<title></title> <style type="text/css">
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<div class="p1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">For all of my book lovers who are in need of some new reading material, here's a few that I've stumbled across lately that are worth the trip to the library/bookstore/kindle purchase!</span></div><div class="p1"><b><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;"><br />
</span></u></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0ryjY_uUPq9uOZkxS9qlXoixENHvnyLlHKItW0B5i_2vvQkSsK6V-9yPixhGUFHjT2Et86Ca1JzDYF-TcZamOBT1qNYKW4G8plgR6neUxqB2_DaR4HVkANgJ6yOXsT-qtYEfjijO89g/s1600/wallpaper_info_1170672667.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0ryjY_uUPq9uOZkxS9qlXoixENHvnyLlHKItW0B5i_2vvQkSsK6V-9yPixhGUFHjT2Et86Ca1JzDYF-TcZamOBT1qNYKW4G8plgR6neUxqB2_DaR4HVkANgJ6yOXsT-qtYEfjijO89g/s320/wallpaper_info_1170672667.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="p1"><b><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">FICTION:</span></u></b></div><div class="p1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">The Lovers dictionary-jonathan levethan</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">Handbook for lightening strike survivors-michele stone</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">Blue nude- elizabeth rosner</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">The lovers-vendela vida</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">The postmistress -sarah blake</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">Sumertime-JM coetzee</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">Creation of eve-lynn cullen</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">The nobodies album-Carolyn Parkhurst</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763;">The Forgotten garden</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-38098993684285075582011-01-26T11:26:00.000-08:002011-01-26T11:26:46.637-08:00Dear Brain<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Dear Brain,</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgByO6AEMoV7AVQlnfyHTyZUrxB5LQqY5Qmpj_7OwQo8_Tyg_1PGCLz9EuKTNJO5xq_nwS4zI-IYWHtmThafYDUQLvNuTLVFrePBVMv0AoP0cKxFdbzQdnY_T9YamJ7Z94Vnwwo-u_GLeM/s1600/stopworrying.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgByO6AEMoV7AVQlnfyHTyZUrxB5LQqY5Qmpj_7OwQo8_Tyg_1PGCLz9EuKTNJO5xq_nwS4zI-IYWHtmThafYDUQLvNuTLVFrePBVMv0AoP0cKxFdbzQdnY_T9YamJ7Z94Vnwwo-u_GLeM/s1600/stopworrying.gif" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is a final notice to cease and desist any and all pointless worry. In concordance with the terms of your lease, you are required to maintain a habitable environment and I regret to inform you that your anxious pondering and obsessive rigidity are a violation of your contract. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I am aware of the Creativity Thief that has been stalking the neighborhood and apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you. Hopefully following today’s court proceedings, he will no longer be a threat to our residents. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I would like resolving this matter amicably, and would suggest the sage wisdom of a Ms. Ida. “99% of what we worry about never happens.” I realize we have had a turbulent relationship previously, and are optimistic that we can come to a peaceful compromise in the immediate future. Otherwise, you will be receiving an eviction notice within the week. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCUA47eK3N6ZJrvsg9ghP2yfaStnEZWEmk3eChGuoXbFZz65Lg9iGPoDMtWiGwuXsUEKoUyEZUQ7iJspbsz3rWlCIm2XXutVAV_itVafRbmKJd6ajbT_7tDfJt2Wmo2tG4Ckk2bwheqPg/s1600/Worrying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCUA47eK3N6ZJrvsg9ghP2yfaStnEZWEmk3eChGuoXbFZz65Lg9iGPoDMtWiGwuXsUEKoUyEZUQ7iJspbsz3rWlCIm2XXutVAV_itVafRbmKJd6ajbT_7tDfJt2Wmo2tG4Ckk2bwheqPg/s320/Worrying.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Please do not hesitate to contact me, say a prayer, or take a pill at any time.</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thank you, </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Your Landlord</span></b></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-68919861827670633362011-01-21T11:55:00.000-08:002011-01-21T11:57:21.597-08:00Understudy Auditions<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">This comes from a previous blog post:<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> </span></span><a href="http://www.hellinthehallways.com/2010/05/casting.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Casting...</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> </span>written after Mother's Day...</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #134f5c;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">I thought I needed an understudy. I used the term ‘family of choice’ while holding auditions for mothers take 2. I must have been out sick when they taught that nobody is perfect, that sometimes you have to ask for what you need, that mothers are simply you plus twenty years. I missed the gift I was born into through the years that I plucked new mothers to try on for size.</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">There was Susan, the therapist I saw when I was sixteen, whom I thought hung the moon. She was young and naive enough to try to save her motley crew of patients, despite our insistence to stay sick. She was free to empathize absent the background noise that my mother carried: an illness she couldn’t cure, the pains of watching her daughter suffer, and the sadness buried under piles of unfulfilled dreams. Ignoring therapeutic boundaries, Susan dove in determined to pull me to the surface, dismissing my mom on the shoreline reaching for my hand. At the time, I considered our unprofessional coffee dates and offers to adopt me proof that she really loved me and not just because ‘we pay her to be nice to you, Lauren.’ When mother’s day rolled around, her card was my hook, my plea to care about me most, to rescue me aside from my patient status. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9sh3u3Otqi3x2z_VSk-jkcUOxVzjjVj9KBKkysVEMnlGhfjDDr87Ba7qJ3w_tjLuVG9DyXkgsiStmZs3bNlEC4_2tkdLvUEcKsOGucAlVQa-iAgTG9CVVWssBRxHk1px-WTYHDn6n6Ak/s1600/artful-s-quotes-lies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9sh3u3Otqi3x2z_VSk-jkcUOxVzjjVj9KBKkysVEMnlGhfjDDr87Ba7qJ3w_tjLuVG9DyXkgsiStmZs3bNlEC4_2tkdLvUEcKsOGucAlVQa-iAgTG9CVVWssBRxHk1px-WTYHDn6n6Ak/s320/artful-s-quotes-lies.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Armed with my own therapy license, savior isn’t the word that comes to mind. She was an inexperienced counselor, armed with good intentions, but leaving wreckage in her wake. She often was an hour or two late for sessions because clients continually were in crisis on her couch, knowing that meltdowns bought additional minutes with our beloved therapist. I rode her horse and played with her puppy, boastful with my other therapy group friends until I heard that Sarah had done the same. Not special enough. Not sick enough obviously. I amped up my efforts with a hollow suicide threat that won me a nighttime home visit and silences that conveyed absolute misery. She was my life raft at 16. The thing I looked forward to all week, the only couch where I could exhale and drop the act of ‘fine and dandy’. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">She was definitely creative, confiscating Lucy’s baggy overalls and extra large hoodies serving as emaciation disguise while replacing them with spandex aimed at a body image reality check. She wrote up contracts for our parents to sign, and advocated for our sanity while we set out proving her wrong. Susan became my God, the road map for Woman, and my answer to ‘What do you want to be when you grow up.’ She was smart, funny, confident, and still knew how to play. Yet, she was my therapist, so the fact that I knew this hints at trouble from the get goes. I set her words on repeat as my personal soundtrack, and if Susan was going to jump off the Empire State Building, my question was merely ‘When are we taking the leap?’ Just as she got to play mommy without the mess of being a parent, I cast myself as Favorite Daughter, and through my rose-colored lenses, shaded her with perfection. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">It was 9:30 pm by the time I got home from Hebrew High School, 2 weekly hours spent meeting with friends at the campus and then heading over to the Coffee Plantation before the first bell rang. As the 16 year old, who didn’t drink, do drugs, sleep around, or go to parties, I figured I was entitled to ditching as the bare minimum of required rebellion. Wait a second….ok, what the hell happened while I was sipping my coffee?? My room was naked. Over 20 bunches of dried roses were missing and my wall of framed photos gleamed white. I saw orange. Literally. I found a folded loose-leaf sheet of paper on my bed next to a small can of white paint and a watercolor brush. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG_ejKuedHETwdUte9FauPr3ZHmd0ODx_ahfPuI0mLGZjs1D100_LogLOCDMCZsilO8UZFSlsh4mdTwhhs67gE38opyeGQlDvQF1EuoP21dTDnWBJZpK9-q9kj79qLRBmsDmcilwd7sMY/s1600/paintbrush-1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG_ejKuedHETwdUte9FauPr3ZHmd0ODx_ahfPuI0mLGZjs1D100_LogLOCDMCZsilO8UZFSlsh4mdTwhhs67gE38opyeGQlDvQF1EuoP21dTDnWBJZpK9-q9kj79qLRBmsDmcilwd7sMY/s1600/paintbrush-1.gif" /></span></a></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">“Lauren, You may come back to see me when your room is white again. Until then, I suggest you take some time to consider what you are doing to your life. Love, Susan.”</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Furious that my parents had okayed this stunt or honored that Susan loved me enough to come over to my house and decorate? I was torn. (Notice that I never was angry with her for defacing my pretty room. Of course not. Parents were definitely to blame.) Everywhere I looked, I saw orange. Orange. The one color I couldn’t stand. Locating her lost painter, Susan had come armed with orange paint, and left truthful messages that I read as insults as they dripped down my walls. “You’re throwing your life away down the toilet” “All you care about is how you look.” “It’s shallow to only care about the number on the scale.” “Looks aren’t everything. You are more than the size of your jeans.” “Having an eating disorder doesn’t make you special.” “Any one can starve. It doesn’t make you unique.” “You are wasting your life.”</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg18jL_oYB5JUvQmNDxu9PrGJUu_guYaoK_l-H7oHqcqEpJqXUogvmfuvoYO_7NPf4srrRlD49pu8OUA4DSHQ-dCymXfw_FJlLxt5dUYnhGYcxxDs4i2EkF1mwrC1-AUQpUq2bJ0NR5UEc/s1600/stubborn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg18jL_oYB5JUvQmNDxu9PrGJUu_guYaoK_l-H7oHqcqEpJqXUogvmfuvoYO_7NPf4srrRlD49pu8OUA4DSHQ-dCymXfw_FJlLxt5dUYnhGYcxxDs4i2EkF1mwrC1-AUQpUq2bJ0NR5UEc/s1600/stubborn.jpg" /></span></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">I knew she was trying to shake me up, rattle my delusional thinking, and shock me into recovery. She gets points for originality, but the beauty of her creativity was lost on me. All I could see were my fears splashed up for any and all to read. I cringed to think that I was perceived as vain. It wasn’t about food or how I looked, and Susan knew that. But she also knew the world’s perception of eating disorders, and while its not about the food or weight, it’s all about food and weight. Plus, teenagers were the ones that only cared about looks and dieting. I was not going to fall into that category, despite my chronological age. Glancing at the tiny watercolor brush and her note, I realized it would be way too long before I could see her again if I played by her rules. Having mastered the art of lying, I bought a rolling wall brush and caked my room white by the next day, showing up in her office for our scheduled appointment with innocent insistence that the watercolor brush worked amazingly well. Guilt-free, I looked her straight in the eyes and vowed that I didn’t buy a bigger brush. I cared only about seeing her, and making sure that she still loved me. Morals could wait for another day. The trouble with lying is that it masks the primer, and shadows future eyes, with orange paint peeking through the deceitful cracks on my walls decades later.</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"> We said goodbye over coffee before I left for college. I avoided her eyes as I handed her my gift, keeping up appearances of being ‘fine’ while desperately hoping she knew I would drown without her. I had made her a journal hand-filled with quotes, my writings for her, and lyrics I knew she would cherish. I needed her, needed her like oxygen, needed her not to forget me, and not to find a new favorite client to lovingly save. With perfect synchronicity, she handed me her wrapped present; a blank journal with her card tucked inside next to a poem. I drove home blurry with tears, gasping for air, positive I’d miss her forever. Despite my teenage taboo, I managed to conquer dramatic teenage angst just fine. I went to St. Louis and found new oxygen and new adoptive mothers, while still tripping over cracks of orange truths. 1. The Mom role had been cast with the best woman from the start. 2. It was time for me to let go and become my own savior. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Letting Go</span></b></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">Author unknown<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" does not mean to stop caring,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">It means I can't do it for someone else.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is not to cut myself off,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">It’s the realization I can't control another.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is not to enable,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">But to allow learning from natural consequences.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is to admit powerlessness,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">Which means the outcome is not in my hands.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is not to try to change or blame another,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">It’s to make the most of myself.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is not to care for,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">But to care about.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is not to fix,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">But to be supportive.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is not to judge,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">But to allow another to be a human being.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is not to be in the middle arranging the outcomes,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">But to allow others to affect their own destinies.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is not to be protective,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">It’s to permit another to face reality.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is not to deny,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">But to accept.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" it not to nag, scold or argue,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">But instead to search out my own shortcomings, and correct them.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is not to adjust everything to my desires<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">But to take each day as it comes,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">And cherish myself in it.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is not to criticize and regulate anybody<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">But to try to become what I dream I can be.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is not to regret the past,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">But to grow and live for the future.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">To "let go" is to fear less,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">And love more.</span></b></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-61095663360310542182011-01-14T11:57:00.000-08:002011-01-14T11:57:41.094-08:00Thou Shalt...pick up dry cleaning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Just for fun...</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">for those to-do lists and sticky note reminders that need some added oomph, these post-its can be yours for only $6.99</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9CYTcQa3txZFbxtLHYDcrEEojQYOCOV6tGrIvTIc5zuYI1_BcirFzTsBO0o_lOtlhWSyry2FD7H7BKKgOFdSWn5cNCjGTSmDFn6r0uI9ULqH2eRnKbKDcLFswuMTQlWl51bCOw7x94o/s1600/commandments-sticky-notes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9CYTcQa3txZFbxtLHYDcrEEojQYOCOV6tGrIvTIc5zuYI1_BcirFzTsBO0o_lOtlhWSyry2FD7H7BKKgOFdSWn5cNCjGTSmDFn6r0uI9ULqH2eRnKbKDcLFswuMTQlWl51bCOw7x94o/s320/commandments-sticky-notes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.neatorama.com/2010/09/04/the-ten-commandments-sticky-notes/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">http://www.neatorama.com/2010/09/04/the-ten-commandments-sticky-notes/</span></b></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-65250743540037123052011-01-12T11:57:00.000-08:002011-01-12T11:57:27.045-08:00Stale Rules<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #674ea7;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I continue to work on my book, I am expanding, editing, deleting and rewriting some past blogs. This comes from an old post: </span></b></span> <a href="http://www.hellinthehallways.com/2010/04/rules-for-playing.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Rules for Playing</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #674ea7; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">but is the new and improved 2.0 version!</span></b></span></div></div></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
</span> </span></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Without rules, we are like children without a bedtime, running wild, secretly seeking some structure. Even as damaging as some of my early tractates were, they were still rules, allowing for direction and order. So as I build my own adult life, I look around me and realize that for the first time, there is no one authority figure dictating my choices or outlining their worldview for me to subscribe to.</span></span></b></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8LiC2fu_PLf5XEc_MZhojx3cKZWgXMxgiXsHg42uPrWNaa6O1H4qs-rXqOxVblk-N_-8Nvu43RPBbyM-ugX1XI6TBCuXqbPb4uLRplnMmy_pv-kDBUwXDyIQBEKLJ-EW4sYVu2Zh7XQ/s1600/ththinkforyourself.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8LiC2fu_PLf5XEc_MZhojx3cKZWgXMxgiXsHg42uPrWNaa6O1H4qs-rXqOxVblk-N_-8Nvu43RPBbyM-ugX1XI6TBCuXqbPb4uLRplnMmy_pv-kDBUwXDyIQBEKLJ-EW4sYVu2Zh7XQ/s1600/ththinkforyourself.jpg" /></a></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">In the past decade as I’ve moved from state to state and job to job, I sought new teachers wherever I went. Instead of sifting through their lessons and deciding which parts I agree with and which parts I’ll choose to let slip through my fingers, I simply nod and smile, grateful for my new guidebook. It’s much simpler this way. No need to think for myself, no agonizing debates about values and morals, no uncertainty about what to say, what to think, or what to do. The fatal flaw came when I eventually moved: moved on, moved away, moved back and was left floundering, a mess of competing rules from different schools of thought. </span></span></b></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">As a freshman in St. Louis, I discovered the thrill of breaking old rules, staying up until 3 am on my co-ed dorm floor, running to class in flannel pants, and the entertainment of drawing with sharpies upon the cheeks of passed out floor-mates after beer bong contests. WashU was a wet campus, allowing freshman to drink on university grounds, and so I arrived at the party without having to leave my single room. Some of the rules were familiar: Attend class. Be smart. Get A’s. Find a niche to Shine. The rest of the lingo and culture we learned in College 101: WILD means a day off of class, drinking beginning at 10 am, a day-long college sponsored concert standing for ‘Walk In Lie Down’. ‘The Quad’ is the best place for flag Frisbee. RA’s will join the 2 am floor dance if you invite them. Best friends forgo sleep the night before thanksgiving break and commiserate on the dramas of going home. Sleep is optional at all times. Caffeine is more essential than air. </span></span></b></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_T7yBHmDMSWX0QGCLsgyWTr0qpJx3RIi35w5ndalUrDhQjoMdk0kSOo41AtSG7W1mTKyR8DbpuLPGHjHSGIqs9KMtcf4nEa_FBaTSQYkCKVAKH0u_LXs0A6cHH9uoTlKR_0ppesBmHBY/s1600/th00203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_T7yBHmDMSWX0QGCLsgyWTr0qpJx3RIi35w5ndalUrDhQjoMdk0kSOo41AtSG7W1mTKyR8DbpuLPGHjHSGIqs9KMtcf4nEa_FBaTSQYkCKVAKH0u_LXs0A6cHH9uoTlKR_0ppesBmHBY/s1600/th00203.jpg" /></a></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Banished from my dream college, I trudged to Crystal City, MO for yet another residential program. In a bankrupt lottery winner’s mansion, I became the patient rules were based on. A new center trying to cater to the individual and preach unconditional love despite destructive actions, I gave them a run for their money. The endless diet coke supply became 2 a day. Equal packets were doled out in multiples of 5 rather than the 200 I was using. Molly Mcbutter could only be used as a topping, not a side dish, as was imitation vanilla, cinnamon, and mustard. Walks were now monitored lest purging was the aim. I learned to value movement over words and invest in art scribbles over childhood analysis. I heard the staffing whispers of being stuck, unsure how to cure my tendency to crash every time I stepped out their front doors. Rule #1: there must be a reason for sickness. There must be a missing piece that will explain all. Rule #2: Treatment centers are businesses looking for a profit. Rule #3: Having an anorexic child in a treatment center across the country doesn’t qualify you to open your own program. Rule #4: Actions are trusted more than declarations. Body memories are not to be disputed. Rule #5: Programs can ravage a family and induce rather than cure sickness. Rule #6: Professionals can be horribly wrong. Rule #7: Professionals aren’t always Professional.</span></span></b></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> In Buffalo Gap, Texas, the standard was confrontation and voicing your anger, one day at a time and tough love. I moved out of the residential center and tacked up pictures in the doublewide trailer nee halfway house, greeting the neighboring buffalo, Bob, for my morning walks. I filled my days with group lessons on identity and anger. I’m Lauren: anorexic, bulimic, obsessive compulsive, sufferer of anxiety and depression, co-dependent, love avoidant, and survivor of emotional abuse. And then braced myself for the inevitable rash of confrontations. Lauren, I feel anger when you purge behind the bushes and I would need or like for you to get with the program or get out. Lauren, I feel anger when you sneak more than 2 Splenda packets at breakfast, and I would need or like for you to get honest. Lauren, I feel anger when you skip your butter at dinner and I would need or like for you to follow the rules. I clenched my jaw with stone cold eyes and vowed no seeable response, acting like I couldn’t care less as my best revenge. Rather than using the peer pressure as a motivator to take steps toward recovery, I garnered my fury as fuel for increased deceptiveness and honed my manipulative talents.</span></span></b></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="clear: left; color: black; float: left; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="keep-it-simple-stupid-kiss-thumb.png" height="194" src="webkit-fake-url://04E92EF7-4723-4FD2-A74F-792873A22736/keep-it-simple-stupid-kiss-thumb.png" width="200" /></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> We had a lingo out in middle-of-nowhere Texas, fluent in 12-step clichés and tough love. ‘Trying is lying.” “No is a complete sentence.” “Everything after ‘but’ is bullshit.” For a girl who skittered away from frustration and spent a childhood sweeping up hurt feelings after my brother’s illegal angry displays, I learned to join in the cacophony of confrontations and found a home in our ramshackle trailer house. The rules were clear, laid down by BMW speeding Queen, ex-pill addict, covered with spikes unless you became one of the chosen few, which I did. Straight shooting and crass with manicured toes, Cindy had little patience for clients wasting her time, and led anger groups that ended with foam bats beating pillows and anorexic twigs tapping into years of stifled rage as they wrestled with her, often winning, to ‘get it all out’. </span></span></b></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">The Written Rules: A meeting a day. Read your big book every day. Pray daily. Eat 3 meals a day, no white flour or sugar. No snacking in between meals. Work the 12-step program. No purging. No binging. No drinking. No drugs. No cutting. No isolating. No gambling. No raging. No sex. No over-exercising. Attend all groups. The Other Rules: The 12-step program is the only way to get better. You must find a higher power if you will recover. We know what’s best for you, so before making any decisions, bring it to group for ‘feedback’. Staying close to the treatment center is the only way you’ll (Lauren and other frequent flyers) ever reach any semblance of recovery. Blunt truth is always the best option. Any action that steps over normal limits gets labeled as addiction, leaving me with no acquaintances that didn’t need some 12-step program. Years later, it sounds cultish and crazy, but this coddle-free corner worked for me at the time. I became one of the inner circle, a yearlong patient twice, both times moving to buffalo gap once I finished or was kicked out of the program. </span></span></b></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">In psychology graduate school, the outlook was that of dysfunction, healing. We learned how to soothe client’s wounds after making sure that our own scabs had stopped oozing. I found a cohort of wounded healers, classmates drawn to the profession of sickness with sob stories seeping out of their baggage in the hall. Back in Arizona, I learned that family is a unit that stands together and falls together, that love has no limits but can also bring a family to its knees. The guidelines were clear: keep breathing, if not for yourself then for us. Living out of guilt was my default position, and when I tried to quit, the Rule Makers forced my hand.</span></span></b></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9Ma3jYy6jpgEGKiAsTTrlEzMu8wGCiecx04IeHad_S-Wf7zlgARKNzCtzn74oZK-CxY4WnprkmtQvsRDiyYyWgAa56Q4FQp0E_59QEJO2sHrSeD_bHA5uUg-P8kU7wRHOY0TfqjUWW8/s1600/hqdefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9Ma3jYy6jpgEGKiAsTTrlEzMu8wGCiecx04IeHad_S-Wf7zlgARKNzCtzn74oZK-CxY4WnprkmtQvsRDiyYyWgAa56Q4FQp0E_59QEJO2sHrSeD_bHA5uUg-P8kU7wRHOY0TfqjUWW8/s320/hqdefault.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Shipped off to Malibu, I learned independence, feminism while still performing the people-pleasing dance. There were all of the familiar rules: no cell phones, iPods, and novels not pre-approved. 30-minute meals with Ensure to make up the difference. Exercise must be earned and groups were mandatory. Within these, I managed to carve out space to breathe, encouraged to pen my own rules for life, but after a lifetime of institutions, I simply looked to my adored therapist and adopted hers. I flipped from ‘worst patient ever’ to ‘star patient’ and each identity came with clear-cut mandates. I might have found space to ponder my life view, but I excelled at Hero Client, miracle story complete with vows of a bigger life and bread pudding for dessert. I knew what I believed only by the reflection from others, and culled together opinions on politics, love, career, and life without ever having a unique thought.</span></span></b></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">In west LA, in my own apartment, there are no rules written on the chalkboard, no mindset that I can put my finger, dictating values and opinions. Being an obsessive order craver, I decide to make my own rules. Some are old, some have been taught, and some are only applicable for today. The beauty of authoring your own constitution is that you get to add amendments at any moment without a majority vote.</span></span></b></div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #674ea7;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For my own rules, see</span></b></span> <a href="http://www.hellinthehallways.com/2010/04/rules-for-playing.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">RULES FOR PLAYING</span></a> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #674ea7;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">but these sum it up pretty nicely!</span></b></span><br />
<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"></span></span></b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdK2SZ2-TRrTqfIwiv9GgGMIYuQaEZCyWmL-TjaizIe8h9VGT0JENJplh35LtEAMqaZyhS2GHHRPkdGKvaEsBSs7gd3S0AgqtDoSkd981Gds3qBcyMjKFHdtgDlZ1hhKqKvcZs_k9RuSA/s1600/media_httpwhis3prodlg_Jsfoi.png.scaled500.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdK2SZ2-TRrTqfIwiv9GgGMIYuQaEZCyWmL-TjaizIe8h9VGT0JENJplh35LtEAMqaZyhS2GHHRPkdGKvaEsBSs7gd3S0AgqtDoSkd981Gds3qBcyMjKFHdtgDlZ1hhKqKvcZs_k9RuSA/s640/media_httpwhis3prodlg_Jsfoi.png.scaled500.png" width="640" /></a></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-671787811274660272011-01-07T12:12:00.000-08:002011-01-07T12:12:22.186-08:00Nuts<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeC4uSN4yiyth6cxlKNzO80xNBdCXlYBsVpriNWI2un7rpd2C9OCRWJJjVSxGgXqCaWb2j5IYu2gU33F2-xnF7JA5QeS1AfsIUUufnro6LAm1kyISiEdL1YgY4bC19b3SerY-2kKKoA-E/s1600/th_323.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeC4uSN4yiyth6cxlKNzO80xNBdCXlYBsVpriNWI2un7rpd2C9OCRWJJjVSxGgXqCaWb2j5IYu2gU33F2-xnF7JA5QeS1AfsIUUufnro6LAm1kyISiEdL1YgY4bC19b3SerY-2kKKoA-E/s1600/th_323.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The assignment was the write about nuts. Finally, a topic I’m fluent in. Until I finish the paragraph…nuts, cashews, almonds, peanuts…</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Nuts are my people. They are my roommates in treatment centers and my co-conspirators in psych wards. They are the reality speakers blinded by truth that join me in alternate worlds, none of us knowing how to slip back into the life we abandoned long ago. Nuts are my people; the alternative clique donned in depression, anxiety, ocd, bi-polar disorder, borderline personalities, addicts, and eating disorders. We carry cards of identification marked by psychotropic drugs and bonus points for seasoned veterans who have done stints at multiple sites. There is a hierarchy among the sick with the incurable reigning as Kings and specialness determined by number of diagnosis. I can spot my people in a crowd, set aside by the disease of normalcy and self-sharing that induces listeners to scan for an acceptable escape excuse. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We laugh at the stories of prom and all-nighters, silently adding our own escapades: ‘it was hilarious. When I was 16 and living in a locked psych ward while in an eating disorder program, Sarah and Megan were my best friends. And we would play bunko every afternoon and paired completed crossword puzzles with hidden lunch scraps in the couch cushions.’ Snapshot: summer afternoon in Scottsdale Behavioral Health inpatient unit. Four adolescent anorexics eating lunch outside with our warden/nurse. Sarah, needing to gain weight to earn parole, next to Megan, whose only goal remained disappearing, gulped down her fish entrée while I watered the ficus tree with chocolate ensure. Oh, we had some fun that summer.’ </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUvEk-HMPLvxJD3swsuce7ajyUu2TT1UcTRpzPNeB889mhjkIcYs_WFxOY-hwT5sWsNynes4K47GyFV0G8iZsELKBK9kpjy4tKlthGQvjOuwhpu_hR86lnChOO1slp8xx7hBXjBsanIY/s1600/th_FunnyMaxinelolFunnySayings28.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUvEk-HMPLvxJD3swsuce7ajyUu2TT1UcTRpzPNeB889mhjkIcYs_WFxOY-hwT5sWsNynes4K47GyFV0G8iZsELKBK9kpjy4tKlthGQvjOuwhpu_hR86lnChOO1slp8xx7hBXjBsanIY/s1600/th_FunnyMaxinelolFunnySayings28.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I can do cocktail parties, holding my own in the vortex of weather small talk and extroverted talent. I can mingle while smiling pretty, but I hate it. I hate the awkwardness of moving on to someone new because I simply can’t handle talking about the weather any longer with my current conversationalist, half listening as I scroll thru acceptable excuses to move away, seeing as how ‘I’m bored with you now’ not so much making the list. I hate the inevitable high school flash backs of lingering on the clique’s edge, emphatically not cool enough. Abnormal in a sea of my peers, my ears prick up with the hint of a fellow nut. I catch the stammering explanation of late graduations or the awkward pauses when questions skirt perceived shame. I sidle up; confident I have enough craziness to spread around, relieving the pressure off a more private compatriot. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We’re all around, having swerved off the ‘Good Child’ track, leaving muddy tracks behind our trails of darkness. We’re there in the midst of turmoil sure that a coat of concealer will magically transform despair. It’s the lucky ones that show up after the rain has dried. We come with tales of new lands and fresh eyes, comic adventures and epic bruises. Jealousy still creeps into my purse at these cocktail parties, wishing I had managed to stay on the ‘normal’ track. I long for the Ordinary in these moments, and stuff my wounds in back pockets. But there’s also the air of superiority among my crowd, tilting our chins down at the masses who haven’t been tested yet, haven’t had to sift through the meaning of life and claw their way out of cement holes. We know trouble, and us lucky ones learn to weave crazy as entertainment, using scars as inspiration. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuJva5A1QmYhKFrOXP3c3iOapJ7GEYMH7sKGYptzAfiDvjy1ryMuFfITDRDt3REnH0uzfk1d153cWKbloTqoyXOPaBUXMzzdF8TAmxu_fgtTzEakKLHXuGsUJk9jKLEgP-YJb6vHmDKg/s1600/th_normal-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuJva5A1QmYhKFrOXP3c3iOapJ7GEYMH7sKGYptzAfiDvjy1ryMuFfITDRDt3REnH0uzfk1d153cWKbloTqoyXOPaBUXMzzdF8TAmxu_fgtTzEakKLHXuGsUJk9jKLEgP-YJb6vHmDKg/s1600/th_normal-1.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">These are my people, my nutty, crazy posse. If you want to chat about the weather or the latest Oscar nominees, I’ll stand there for a minute. Then you’ll see me scanning the room, searching for fellow nuts because as much as I might want to fit into the Normal mold, frankly I’m just bored…</span></b></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-56842952843898447382011-01-06T10:49:00.000-08:002011-01-07T11:36:53.390-08:00Grown Up...ish<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Teenagers: An 11 year old’s list</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1. Bedrooms resembling the aftermath of a tornado</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">2. </span> </span></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Screaming back retorts at sweet well-intentioned mothers</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">3. Becoming boy-crazy, meaning shallow, stupid and annoying</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">4. Caked in make-up, transforming adorable little girls into objects of ‘she used to be so little and lovable'</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">5. Having a phone implanted permanently, in the pre-cell phone era, with topics ranging from boys, make-up, clothing, stupid parents, and boys</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">6. #1 destination: the Mall</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">7. Shirking all parental affection, wounding loving mothers and fathers callously</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b></span><span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">8. </span> </span></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Morphing into an angry, prickly, crabby, unlovable almost grown-up necessitating survival from all surrounding loved ones</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZRMG4SH1_sr-DN3l8MBh8dzp0N0kuu7nXYtVlazRYJKt8kl0SroB8Xf_vyTIsR_PD5L343r_UHQoDFDdSF4nc2pHfb81VdfXntrMwem754cLCST5rFOnsJy2VrR1iqgNo6h6LXtNqcjY/s1600/th_quote-moreAfraid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZRMG4SH1_sr-DN3l8MBh8dzp0N0kuu7nXYtVlazRYJKt8kl0SroB8Xf_vyTIsR_PD5L343r_UHQoDFDdSF4nc2pHfb81VdfXntrMwem754cLCST5rFOnsJy2VrR1iqgNo6h6LXtNqcjY/s1600/th_quote-moreAfraid.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Death was preferable. I caught the furtive glances at my parents as I celebrated my 13</span></b></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">th</span></b></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> birthday, and listened closely to the messages behind the jokes of terrorizing adolescents. Obviously, teenagers were nightmares of worry-causing trouble, high-pitched giggling beneath the eye shadow and shopping passion. Teenage girls were petty and shallow, argumentative and boy-crazy. They hated their mothers and rebelled against their fathers. They slammed doors while getting drunk, shedding sweet lovability in hallways. They were dreaded beings that had to be survived and I wasn’t going to become one. I lurked in corners of adult conversation, jotting down ‘What not to be’, certain that with the right knowledge I could prevent the teenage stench and avoid being the object of parental weary sighs and eye-rolling frustration. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Plus teenagers were just one hop away from becoming a grown up. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7cEjSyczuBTtV5RaX7R3ijzGbzmd6JbJ5l5RF52n1btlVR-BxqZ9TRCkesGmIpOHQbl19_hduBrsjj5PipuWGlw1AC27Ne1n18Etz3bGlfkngiAnWyxVFgrozSD0P6gLODwvhDiiI_V4/s1600/th_growingold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7cEjSyczuBTtV5RaX7R3ijzGbzmd6JbJ5l5RF52n1btlVR-BxqZ9TRCkesGmIpOHQbl19_hduBrsjj5PipuWGlw1AC27Ne1n18Etz3bGlfkngiAnWyxVFgrozSD0P6gLODwvhDiiI_V4/s1600/th_growingold.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A fate marked by mind-numbing routine, 9-5 jaunts serving solely to pay for the car to drive you home, the bed to crash upon, and the coffee to jolt you awake, rinse and repeat. I was missing the appeal. I couldn’t understand how they did it, these commuters hurriedly applying mascara at the red lights, the permanent brow furrows my mom sported while juggling hot dinners, Hebrew school pick ups, spotless floors and volunteering. How did my dad wake to his 6 am buzzer, slip on his white lab coat and not strangle the masses with strep throat, diabetes, high blood pressure or loneliness that he tangoed with in rushed 10 minute consults? Was I the only one seeing the futility in Grown Up land? Was I missing the secret, the hidden purpose making it all worthwhile? I studied my accessible adults: aunts and grandfathers, parents and teachers, sure there must be a redeeming prize hidden within the soft eye wrinkles. Nothing. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I spent the next 15 years grasping at childhood straws, shrinking ounce by ounce in a thin attempt to maintain my kid status. I was sure I wasn’t missing a thing, living my small life in my imaginative never-never land, definitely not a little girl but not even close to a grown-up. I waited for my instruction manual, searching for Adult 101 in my course listings. As friends got married and settled into independent lives, I watched with wonder, secretly jealous as I scoffed with disapproval over their Grown Up crowns.</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What was happening? We were the kids, meant to be packing for summer camp and writing book reports, backseat residents and the receivers of bedtime stories. They were the grown-ups back then, high heeled in responsibility, absolute possessors of universal truths and magic kisses to make it all better. They were adults, strong and confident, wise and fearless. Titles of ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ superseding lingering childhood, they were the final answer, protectors of safety, and owners of life’s guidebook. I watched her put on her make-up, superfluous to the beauty I saw early in the morning, as I tasted a glimpse of this ‘other life’, cast in moonlight skies and whiffs of Escada perfume. They were old, with kids and houses, jobs and responsibilities. They had all of it figured it. They must! I needed to believe that these two tall figures knew exactly what they were doing, that they really could deliver the sun, and that soothing words erasing fears were based in reality and not merely placating an anxious daughter. They were grown-ups; of course they had it all together. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Except as I look at the pictures from her 30</span></b></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">th</span></b></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> birthday party, it sinks in. I’m 30. Oh goodness. Panic seeps thru confidence cracks as I ponder the two options:</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b></span><span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">1. </span> </span></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She had no more clues about life and parenting and living in her skin than I do now and was just making it up as she goes along, which induces the crumbling of childhood pedestals and notions of ‘when I grow up’ I’ll somehow be granted the missing key.</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2. She was much more grown-up than I and really did have a life plan and know how to stand on her own two feet without peering around corners for approval and help. In that case, I am shockingly delayed. Without the kids, house, or spouse, I have somehow stepped off of the timeline.</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">‘Grown Up’ has always been inversely defined by my two older cousins. At 10 and 8 years older, whatever birthday they were celebrating immediately became fair game, un-adult, not old. They can’t old. We’re still sitting at the kid’s table. And my parents can’t be old. They’re no different than they were twenty years ago, so as the years pass, I simply slide the ‘old’ marker up a few years, protecting those I love from having to dip a toe into the danger zone. But I look around and I know, secretly seeing it in my little cousin’s eyes. I am one of them, crossed over into the grown up camp. I wish I could tell him the secret: I feel just like you, only with a few more stories to tell. We are adults. We’re all in our twenties, thirties, forties, out living independent-ish lives, getting married, getting divorced, having kids, slipping on our own high heels. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’ll consider being Grown-Up-ish. I’ll mull over the idea that this fault line following childhood might have been imaginary, and that adulthood just may hold some appealing qualities. I’ll learn that adult doesn’t equal alone, and that interdependence is a perfect compromise between toddler reliance and hermit independence. I’ll ponder freedoms appreciated and discover Grown Ups get to make their own rules, or at least add multiple amendments. I’ll debate the merits of responsibility over the stress of bills, and laugh amidst days spent in pj’s. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPhHYdOK5whzcxhGrZ9VMNoCG9YlesfdBM93q2bDoYmBTI1OHqgwF2uwCjqdS3mzMDOmT-xhL7unKzB9xQV8TcAssewI7pX9nKTWEotxKw8nU_HSlGhoMueP6vxw-JD-RH3gsesxu6n4/s1600/tumblr_kzk3efqiBK1qaq3svo1_400_larg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPhHYdOK5whzcxhGrZ9VMNoCG9YlesfdBM93q2bDoYmBTI1OHqgwF2uwCjqdS3mzMDOmT-xhL7unKzB9xQV8TcAssewI7pX9nKTWEotxKw8nU_HSlGhoMueP6vxw-JD-RH3gsesxu6n4/s320/tumblr_kzk3efqiBK1qaq3svo1_400_larg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I remember my grandmother looking in the mirror as I fastened her necklace, caught off guard as if she couldn’t match her 85-year-old face with the young girl she was somewhere beneath the wrinkles. I’m guessing that’s how it goes. We all skip and stumble, take risks and laugh through the falls. We do the best we can in the absence of instruction manuals, and we try to fill the oversized shoes left behind. We banish monsters from the closet and kiss skinned knees, hoping that they won’t notice our own fears. We are all kids playing as grown-ups, with sweet insecurities poking out as we build our Lego lives and pray that somehow it will end with ‘Happily Ever After’. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’ll concede to being an almost Grown Up.</span></b></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-27597602253680087662010-11-15T16:49:00.000-08:002010-11-15T16:49:03.313-08:00Is anyone still out there?<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">To all of my family, friends, faithful readers and drop-in visitors:</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDfbw85xkvBk73kwEqON1w47d-VsUKeafHZe8VeLv0qUp-KFi5gl1nF1lsI12-UPaMeKbwKgYISjt8QqoNRa7bBsHh60i87juFzzu0NXh3UvQCmQJ4mHJ3fcjPln_S5gRwiguD8AK77A/s1600/LeapandtheNetWillAppear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDfbw85xkvBk73kwEqON1w47d-VsUKeafHZe8VeLv0qUp-KFi5gl1nF1lsI12-UPaMeKbwKgYISjt8QqoNRa7bBsHh60i87juFzzu0NXh3UvQCmQJ4mHJ3fcjPln_S5gRwiguD8AK77A/s200/LeapandtheNetWillAppear.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I am not trapped under something heavy nor rendered mute. I am still well and alive and writing, but simply veered onto a new course. I am now working on a book, which surprisingly is quite a bit harder than sitting down to write blog articles, and therefore haven’t been entertaining/boring/updating you all on this site. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I will continue to post my writing from time to time, for those of you who are interested. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Also, if anyone were eagerly raising their hand as volunteer readers/editors/critics – hopefully of the constructive nature, I would love to send you some pieces for feedback. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj95zxxaRG30GeoGX6bcw68DWxI2QERDXFFOWHDSt7bujGYYTkMxJdCCPBDJNhOMM2CQ1DXIWMwH0Q1V4uDwwVXipk_FyTWZQNadGttgm06nwfYbyhpcurg8PzEX1fCRs78O-8EvSgI6tQ/s1600/live+or+exist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj95zxxaRG30GeoGX6bcw68DWxI2QERDXFFOWHDSt7bujGYYTkMxJdCCPBDJNhOMM2CQ1DXIWMwH0Q1V4uDwwVXipk_FyTWZQNadGttgm06nwfYbyhpcurg8PzEX1fCRs78O-8EvSgI6tQ/s320/live+or+exist.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Know that I am forever grateful for anyone who read my words and smiled, cried, nodded, scowled, or simply took the time to stop and read. In the vein of trees falling and no one hearing, I am a writer regardless, but all of you made me feel like a Writer. So thank you and stay tuned for future musings. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">With love,</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">lauren</span></span></b></div><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-60064154491087730802010-10-21T13:41:00.000-07:002010-10-21T13:41:13.472-07:00very productive day...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-NcfiUUPCcYg6uHQt0BFdck70H6fXIrB2AqXWOF0PQRmPS48kQEpcNxPthoHN5a67sCf8p2o8fTvnDHzE9f25q8qWoOePrMeGlEGPcpOl_eEe84CTQfEFqGxbs-ZUH34lfRnbNcb9aME/s1600/191x216_anxiety.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-NcfiUUPCcYg6uHQt0BFdck70H6fXIrB2AqXWOF0PQRmPS48kQEpcNxPthoHN5a67sCf8p2o8fTvnDHzE9f25q8qWoOePrMeGlEGPcpOl_eEe84CTQfEFqGxbs-ZUH34lfRnbNcb9aME/s200/191x216_anxiety.jpg" width="176" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I want to write a book. I have written over 120 articles in the past 6 months. I have a life story that more people can’t claim and yet, I have no idea what to write. Somehow I’ve gotten out the habit of writing every morning. How did that happen? There was the trip to Canada in august and then mold fiascos and then apartment hunting and then packing and moving. And now? I’ve been living here over a month, and yet, somehow puttering in the garden and painting furniture and searching thrift stores for the right night table and meandering on craigslist’s free listings and the day has slipped away. What happened? Could this be why I’ve been feeling so crabby, skin is bristling to the world that keeps tossing out barbs? Am I craving writing that I was starting my day with for so many months? Or maybe, am I missing the praise and the feedback and the self-ego boosts about what a great writer I am? It seems like there was a rush of rainbows – articles published, newspaper journalist, websites eager to post my words for payment – first timer’s luck? Random blessings? Too much good news building up a false sense of confidence?</span></b></span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5CcO7eJaD3FneOwEJ0fepl8B9-7EEdlneHS8B6xJKf1zJHiE3TQZuVvu8HP7H5WMDRStIeLe-vx3SQE9WxisFqwGmBGXAm97GpASaHsaoYn-hqQ3vO5wAcT0_amIMW_UsM5yuG_yieQk/s1600/389f2ad9eb6c3be6f1c9f3c52f5bfd72892.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5CcO7eJaD3FneOwEJ0fepl8B9-7EEdlneHS8B6xJKf1zJHiE3TQZuVvu8HP7H5WMDRStIeLe-vx3SQE9WxisFqwGmBGXAm97GpASaHsaoYn-hqQ3vO5wAcT0_amIMW_UsM5yuG_yieQk/s1600/389f2ad9eb6c3be6f1c9f3c52f5bfd72892.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Because now, six months later, I find my words have curled away from inspiration and scatter in gusts of doubt when I run in pursuit. I wonder how much is simply I have let myself get out of the habit of composing, let myself build new routines of inane errands and superfluous tasks that sweep away creativity and suck time thru a meaningless vortex. I know that I am uniquely gifted at wasting time until I’m late, filling spaces with dusting and organizing, pruning and the “home” aisles at tj maxx. I’ve been gardening and going to appointments, painting and reorganizing. There was a visit from my parents and three blind dates. There was the planning of the parental visit, thanksgiving plans, and a looming future without a steady paycheck. There’s always something I can distract myself with. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt8rp6G6d4_niYpQ0Za9yB9HmBR5fAed0UjT4aHQSUr0jCjFMKNxxE-t4SlGfSjuEgE6pGztOYhpIjmuFetChwcvITeSsEMmBfAv_rRqtMPiHh3YXBlN6Lsyss3DYRaK7bAOpJTTZdf2M/s1600/newcamerarebel090.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt8rp6G6d4_niYpQ0Za9yB9HmBR5fAed0UjT4aHQSUr0jCjFMKNxxE-t4SlGfSjuEgE6pGztOYhpIjmuFetChwcvITeSsEMmBfAv_rRqtMPiHh3YXBlN6Lsyss3DYRaK7bAOpJTTZdf2M/s200/newcamerarebel090.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I would never have said that I procrastinate. Rather, I’m the opposite – give me a task, an assignment, an essay to write, and I feel anxious until I can get it done – hence the depositing the check the moment I receive it, buying the birthday gift when I notice it at the bottom of my list. And yet, my wise friend pointed out – that is exactly procrastination masked as productivity. I can run around all day, home depot, the grocery store, the park, planting, vacuuming, walking the dog, doing laundry...very productive...and not necessary...at least not in the quantity that I do them. This is how I put off crafting an introduction, mulling over plot, and avoiding outlines of chapters. This is how I fritter hours away because there are always library books to return days before they're due, milk to buy without the apples I'll need tomorrow, and towels to launder the moment they soak up a spill. A vision of “Don’ts” in time management and productivity. I don’t want the title of procrastinator. Don’t like it. And yet, I zip it up snugly as my book remains a plan rather than a work in progress.</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It’s easy to talk about writing, plan to write, create space to write, graph budgets and brainstorm titles. But still there is the blank page and days have passed.</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovreArA-2gvTptoM7hzmiecJJG_3SvQ3fhOUSuqAnHMfg6JLqSB_-Bg-8TUEmXZ3cvUEyJyPmbYoyksjixbKkQiR4hu1sj1tdF_XMaFO2kpSIXZTnbasJfedADpBezaYm5fjNBDmMXUQ/s1600/maze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovreArA-2gvTptoM7hzmiecJJG_3SvQ3fhOUSuqAnHMfg6JLqSB_-Bg-8TUEmXZ3cvUEyJyPmbYoyksjixbKkQiR4hu1sj1tdF_XMaFO2kpSIXZTnbasJfedADpBezaYm5fjNBDmMXUQ/s200/maze.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Write what you know – that’s what all of the authors say. Classes aren’t essential – the best medicine for writing is daily writing and read as much as you can. Ok – so I’ve got the reading under control and the daily writing – I can get back there. So I’m supposed to make a plan – a business venture to propose – does it include classes? Is it arrogant to assume that I don’t need education in writing before trying to draft my story? But more than the plan – because I’m good at plans and numbered outlines and excel spreadsheets...more than the plan is the bigger question: what kind of book to write?</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhURIJXhPULgMjU7H0xlPVxKiBHvzxt3MAKhol_TWl8F_p8008hq3y0PzeBC8TRGWOsvCD_Wn-bQAs9rKOqrCEedf8MfV9netIg75MUrhzrqQljjG2Vm6QbpY79SQRNR-hmIUwynnzVU/s1600/thBigGirl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhURIJXhPULgMjU7H0xlPVxKiBHvzxt3MAKhol_TWl8F_p8008hq3y0PzeBC8TRGWOsvCD_Wn-bQAs9rKOqrCEedf8MfV9netIg75MUrhzrqQljjG2Vm6QbpY79SQRNR-hmIUwynnzVU/s1600/thBigGirl.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I could write fiction; a thinly veiled memoir with artistic freedom to speak for my loved ones, disclose family trauma without splashing ‘nonfiction’ across the cover. But with fiction, there must be a plot and a climax, a storyline and an ending. And how to begin the story of my family? Is it a generational saga? No – I’m not really a fan of those. So I think I’d want it to be written from the different characters perspectives. Is that overdone? Would I be able to write fiction? I’ve never really tried. And what would be the ending? I have no good ending – but I wouldn’t want a story wrapped up in a bow anyway. And then I feel like I’d need to do some research – reread some of my favorite novels – but then I’ve read that’s a bad idea – don’t over think, don’t look for inspiration in old dog-eared novels because you’ll end up stuck in their genius and unable to write with your own voice. Can I tell I story that others would want to read without the support of true-life accounts?</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbRxz66Uq0VgDaVkHK-qMg1fMFUK9fqmj2fgXRHnVP3LSkVxOk7qLeD6L29APVs3T46lBPRa6tHFr6noJ7TuVaAKDOLBYSs9tk112CLC-gNhk7Ff6oOVoArOAVkBemwTu5BT8AgTWlIM4/s1600/normalfamily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbRxz66Uq0VgDaVkHK-qMg1fMFUK9fqmj2fgXRHnVP3LSkVxOk7qLeD6L29APVs3T46lBPRa6tHFr6noJ7TuVaAKDOLBYSs9tk112CLC-gNhk7Ff6oOVoArOAVkBemwTu5BT8AgTWlIM4/s1600/normalfamily.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I could write nonfiction – which is what I at least know, read more of, and have been doing for the past six months, not to mention fifteen years. But memoirs seem tired – and for sure addiction memoirs are passé –but what is my story without that? More I want to write a compilation of articles, thoughts on life, and various insights like what I’ve blogged on – but what would keep the reader’s attention? There still needs to be a storyline, characters revisited, history explained, albeit slowly, that keeps it from being forever closed after a few chapters. How would my family react? How do I make it unique? Something undone? </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I feel like that’s impossible – I want to make it like Sabrina ward Harrison in “spilling open”, like “encyclopedia of an ordinary life”, like ‘plan b: further thoughts on faith’ by Anne lamott, like ‘bird by bird’. What is my angle that’s undone? What makes my story worth reading? What’s the catch? The specialness? </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And then I know – I’ve fallen into the old trap, prey to the quicksand of silence until I find my talent, my specialness, the one thing that I am the best at. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There it is – that’s where I start – </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Potential at my heels” – I start writing without a plot fully planned, without an outline, without knowing exactly what the book is about. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Or is that totally wrong? </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtpl0GKfcRqomPO7VXZciYWi7XWEmW0Mc2AuP-WkHzRPET8FR3KPohHJpo_aKhYwnCS-6JQxjHD8QJSmtVeK8zgTB7RQ97rzXBtojhz_0XxM0ojDTM8SPLOcpv2xEtOr18u8R2_xRW-MM/s1600/155508_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtpl0GKfcRqomPO7VXZciYWi7XWEmW0Mc2AuP-WkHzRPET8FR3KPohHJpo_aKhYwnCS-6JQxjHD8QJSmtVeK8zgTB7RQ97rzXBtojhz_0XxM0ojDTM8SPLOcpv2xEtOr18u8R2_xRW-MM/s1600/155508_large.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Why all of a sudden do I feel lost in the pages of vanishing prose, unsteady balancing atop piles of journals, blindly wandering aisles of novels with a pen as my white cane? I don’t know the best way to write a book. So I would turn to more advice – more articles and books on writing, but I promise you, I could spend a year doing that and I’m not sure I’d be anymore clear. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Perhaps if I had a mentor – someone to pile my articles and journals and artwork and musings and say, help! Show me how to string this together. Help me create art from stale tears and thread stories to knit a cloak of prose. Help me figure out how to use all of these writings, what order to put them in, if I need a plot and a neatly outlined direction, or if I just put pen to paper? Help me tease apart my melodies and flesh out the orchestra. Guide me as I lug my words upon my shoulders. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJWnRXQ04r67kZIugrdPbb4KDFXT8XD9rqreo9fLNXZNbllu0gPxwy2ZuLpXyOfuVHaD7pON0MJbBktYKKRG7aupBxa3OkgIF91v10q5oSN_0nAPARd82fhxxPE_VtmM2QmIt9SzVw3M/s1600/LeapandtheNetWillAppear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJWnRXQ04r67kZIugrdPbb4KDFXT8XD9rqreo9fLNXZNbllu0gPxwy2ZuLpXyOfuVHaD7pON0MJbBktYKKRG7aupBxa3OkgIF91v10q5oSN_0nAPARd82fhxxPE_VtmM2QmIt9SzVw3M/s200/LeapandtheNetWillAppear.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Well, I don’t know if I’ve figured anything out- but at least I wrote. I wrote without a plan, for hours, just a rush of worries laid down and words spilling over the prior days of silence. I just wrote. That’s enough for today. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">a very productive day...</span></b></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-33389252861747770272010-10-09T11:55:00.000-07:002010-10-09T11:55:11.265-07:008 minutes<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">8 minutes. 8 minutes away and it’s been 9 months since I’ve made the trip. It’s not polite to broadcast, rude to rub in the fact that I live a hop and a skip away from the ocean, so I’ll murmur it above the breeze and inhale sandy toes. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i1094.photobucket.com/albums/i449/XLets_Get_Fucked_UpX/Beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="http://i1094.photobucket.com/albums/i449/XLets_Get_Fucked_UpX/Beach.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I used to walk on the beach every morning, one of the ‘regulars’ collecting sand dollars and able to cite exact timings of low tides. When I lived walking distance away, I couldn’t imagine how anyone California resident would pass up the chance to stroll at the water’s edge. It was easy and familiar, dug into my safety zone with plastic shovels. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But then I moved, moved, and moved again. New routines built small boundaries as I shirked the unfamiliar and strayed from the different. The beach was too far. There’d be nowhere to park. It would be too crowded. I didn’t know how to get there. All fine lies to keep me stuck inland and falsely safe as the balm of crashing waves ebbed from my memory. This is usually how my trail goes: widening before narrowing, trampled with guests and picnic remnants leading to fallen leaves and missing footsteps. But always, slowly, the worn path reappears, opening up with laughter and exploration. New growth rooted in risk.</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i49.photobucket.com/albums/f257/Rosdale/mx07_bOpportunity-Einstein-Posters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://i49.photobucket.com/albums/f257/Rosdale/mx07_bOpportunity-Einstein-Posters.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So it’s been a week of unfurling petals and stretching familiar zones, poking holes in routines and remember the sound of sea gulls. 8 minutes away and I even managed to parallel park for free street parking. It wasn’t far, crowded, or hard to find – merely new. New, looming large if enclosed in the dark, turns out to be exciting, added joy to the salty sunshine as I made sand angels by the shore, welcoming the sandy sprinkles I knew I would find later in my scalp. And just to seal add confirmation to my spontaneity, the moment I sat up, 7 dolphins frolicked by for a free show in playfulness. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMaSefMCRoy-A2yJ7UvKF8hdqTkkcJFLzCxTDvjQFsA_ta0rOcOf2mP_8Koe_c98k5TRcZwh1SgQuxh2TNvlWXxFpNk0qimFF2d0g9YQug1Dsb5_nXMCbOdgjAUi8nCHc84eY41WsDQ9OL/s400/umbrella.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMaSefMCRoy-A2yJ7UvKF8hdqTkkcJFLzCxTDvjQFsA_ta0rOcOf2mP_8Koe_c98k5TRcZwh1SgQuxh2TNvlWXxFpNk0qimFF2d0g9YQug1Dsb5_nXMCbOdgjAUi8nCHc84eY41WsDQ9OL/s200/umbrella.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It’s not polite to rub it in, and if it helps, traffic coming home added half an hour. Of course I have my sore spots and mud holes, but for today I am where I need to be, 8 minutes from sandy toes and a routine with gaping arches. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For today I’ll whisper out of respect: Waves are my murals and life is good.</span></b></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-74254963980365106082010-10-05T11:52:00.000-07:002010-10-05T11:52:20.916-07:00For no good reason<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Tucked amidst the ‘wrong side of the bed’ days, gray weeks, and ‘bang your head against the wall’ moments, are those days where minutes flow easily tinged with joy.</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9DpmX25CXfXsidBAatAwtCl64-b6huyRLFChQNcY_QzWvFfHe7I7cw0dXcRZ3MXNpRUSsk25GG8dJc73fWnPEOFIlootEOPV6yisbkGUcR-XuklxdQ2bCEJdp7DVJcvjuGGiImsr2mPw/s1600/peaceofmind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9DpmX25CXfXsidBAatAwtCl64-b6huyRLFChQNcY_QzWvFfHe7I7cw0dXcRZ3MXNpRUSsk25GG8dJc73fWnPEOFIlootEOPV6yisbkGUcR-XuklxdQ2bCEJdp7DVJcvjuGGiImsr2mPw/s200/peaceofmind.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It’s one of those days where nothing is particularly good or exciting, no big plans or special celebrations, but simply a morning spent smiling. I wish I could figure out what makes the difference – wish I were in on the secret, could bottle up my contentedness, and reproduce the simple joy when the world is rubbing me raw. But rather than analyze the whys and hows, rather than squander the day making lists of possible factors: good night sleep, entertaining phone chat with new friend, baby tomatoes beginning to grow...and I’m reigning my obsessiveness in....done.... really.</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rather than make lists, I feel like I should do something. Be out; enjoy the happiness, live life to the fullest. And that’s just a recipe for an abrupt end to my peace of mind, because now there’s pressure to have the ‘best day’ or do something great – like New Year’s Eve plans or Valentine’s Day. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvjjOoQ3e1m_KQYNI1loDvWqAfK_fPw7fqcKTyRnVGBu_crfjeiQdZnw041AIb7kMIrW2cXcNCS5SzGIyFhQ7gDGem2lubUUbeqlH2QOvceCp-wPCW7dHcA50KNDipOuC2FB56oDTXnBc/s1600/z199646108.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvjjOoQ3e1m_KQYNI1loDvWqAfK_fPw7fqcKTyRnVGBu_crfjeiQdZnw041AIb7kMIrW2cXcNCS5SzGIyFhQ7gDGem2lubUUbeqlH2QOvceCp-wPCW7dHcA50KNDipOuC2FB56oDTXnBc/s200/z199646108.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And really, there’s nothing pressing to run off to – no crucial errands or important business to take care. It’s not a beach day or warm enough to frolic in the park. But even so, I have to train myself to sit still, not to fill the seconds with cleaning and re-cleaning, organizing, errands, and lists – not to be scared of space stretched ahead, and to recognize that perhaps the sweet balance of the day sneaks in only when I’m still long enough for it to catch me. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGLVZgVt3VYXZ6mNCnb-whL-LsImbZ9BGzbaSo4cb8BX7Skn0x_Krn5FAzQGrLfR6zIe0szZwtr_fucfo3GWPIms-4_nOE_m7UgaNubFhiO3kRgsjybk3fTPZHdg59Z14Z_ncHIInnPM/s1600/quoteinspirationdreamfloorfootgirl-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGLVZgVt3VYXZ6mNCnb-whL-LsImbZ9BGzbaSo4cb8BX7Skn0x_Krn5FAzQGrLfR6zIe0szZwtr_fucfo3GWPIms-4_nOE_m7UgaNubFhiO3kRgsjybk3fTPZHdg59Z14Z_ncHIInnPM/s200/quoteinspirationdreamfloorfootgirl-.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I’m just going to enjoy it, without stress to maximize or pressure to achieve. I’ll write and I’ll work, I’ll putter under fresh mint blooms and curl up with a warm puppy and a book. I’ll go about my normal day. And there’s the beauty – sometimes the best days are just the normal, ho-hum days, the blessings that only occur in the absence of crisis. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Leaving behind the reasons and wishes to capture and save, I wish you all a normal day of smiling over nothing and that sense that it’s “A Good to be Alive” day.</span></span></b></div><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-42345321274169307492010-10-01T10:30:00.000-07:002010-10-01T10:30:26.889-07:00Crashing through polite boundaries<div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">It is entirely possible that I have become the annoying stranger bulldozing polite social boundaries. Or put another way, I am exuberantly friendly with important gems to share...</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmsSUIRBSUNj7rcGj1w6up1qv2Jwo-SjrtgQsIAcoo1uN9Z7hPXZ7bst4giodz2lXgZ54EVtI7Rdea840jk-v3BKsuL1BSEfY1W06FqWEmSSsokEkAMMJMnsjm626nAUbY4uSqeO3Jo4/s1600/wallpaper_info_1170672667.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmsSUIRBSUNj7rcGj1w6up1qv2Jwo-SjrtgQsIAcoo1uN9Z7hPXZ7bst4giodz2lXgZ54EVtI7Rdea840jk-v3BKsuL1BSEfY1W06FqWEmSSsokEkAMMJMnsjm626nAUbY4uSqeO3Jo4/s200/wallpaper_info_1170672667.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Sitting in a waiting room, I catch my seat neighbor pulling out an Anna Quindlen book. Looking down, I bite my tongue until self-control slips under the chair and I lean over to proclaim my love for said author. And before I know it, I’m jotting down other favorite ‘must-reads’ for her and trading thoughts on past loved pages. Ah, my job is done. Reader gold star for Lauren.</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Apparently, she missed my inappropriate social behavior, and we continue to chat amidst the much-appreciated ultra air conditioning, covering preciousness of the library, tips on parallel parking, cheaper parking lots, book clubs, and our growing displeasure with doctors who triple book. By the time my name is called, Roz and I are now well acquainted and on our way to best buds. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGDDPCoLwNVIsMiPgeDmdHHy_RCw5OkvnCbng8fuhg1NyZMBF_xqmTMtEWNqAs9lp0ksQ9D1hLDVMqRqpLfbU8-L91_a850qCo8JboFs-WHr8fTFs4ABo8UG-aROuty6ABBzv8g0vu7c/s1600/medsforthat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGDDPCoLwNVIsMiPgeDmdHHy_RCw5OkvnCbng8fuhg1NyZMBF_xqmTMtEWNqAs9lp0ksQ9D1hLDVMqRqpLfbU8-L91_a850qCo8JboFs-WHr8fTFs4ABo8UG-aROuty6ABBzv8g0vu7c/s200/medsforthat.jpg" width="175" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">It’s partly a sickness; this welcoming enthusiasm that nabs innocents and displays ‘potential friend’ signs in neon above random strangers’ heads. I’m sure that the guy buying milk doesn’t always want to strike up a philosophical debate. Or the dog walkers who are just looking for a quick potty trip rather than a budding connection.</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">However, I would rather live in a world with too many smiles, extra ‘good mornings’ and friendly waves. I would rather hear the tips and recommendations, the secrets of the city, and get the added bonus of a distance shortened; the isolation ebbing back to reveal kind hearts and gentle footsteps. Given the choice, I’d opt for occasional annoyances if it meant more bodies without masks and a corner of the world where I feel at home. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK0DnRS6YJMi4tOXDnF5jRtIt_-6nqJ_ptLeW143h0x7eG9B2s9_RPHx5-3xsETfpTS486SDyQBudNhjSeuzkbGomQGiUmBkKBe-aqeOwNpaLRM2adfMTRliUmxLjcMy9t8_QRHG32I2g/s1600/home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK0DnRS6YJMi4tOXDnF5jRtIt_-6nqJ_ptLeW143h0x7eG9B2s9_RPHx5-3xsETfpTS486SDyQBudNhjSeuzkbGomQGiUmBkKBe-aqeOwNpaLRM2adfMTRliUmxLjcMy9t8_QRHG32I2g/s1600/home.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">So I pass along the crossroads of the best dog park, and trade gardening tips with my upstairs apartment dweller. I nestle into my community, and collect compassionate hands to hold and faces that mark the familiar. And if the friendliness turns sour and boundaries are crushed, I hope that they will remember my face and choose another seat the next time...</span></span></b></div><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-80642290181212702112010-09-27T11:45:00.000-07:002010-09-27T11:45:55.235-07:00Decorator Extraordinaire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixNNo-UA8xvDJ3uIi88TbvUBYKuyiSS-_TehmuVHZPqC9lBnBtN8L39URu3B8ZQ1StrWTIXWpi0u_C_rOfoRlJZoYWDiRDBWZrvXu-9SmSmX39SMglJ-dyB2tyveemnoESx-Q6tfWGzGc/s1600/home-sweet-home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixNNo-UA8xvDJ3uIi88TbvUBYKuyiSS-_TehmuVHZPqC9lBnBtN8L39URu3B8ZQ1StrWTIXWpi0u_C_rOfoRlJZoYWDiRDBWZrvXu-9SmSmX39SMglJ-dyB2tyveemnoESx-Q6tfWGzGc/s200/home-sweet-home.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I stepped back, giving myself a decorating pat on the back as I surveyed my work. Yes, my writing area was off to a good start, a lovely combination of calming lake photos, inspirational quotes, and the tree house painting that I dream of residing in. Perfect. </span></b></span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b></span></o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As I rifled through the un-hung art, planning on adding to my creation, I noticed a slight snag. Within on 6’x6’ wall, I had just placed almost my entire wall decor, leaving at least 9 walls pristinely white. Martha Stewart would not be pleased. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhURIJXhPULgMjU7H0xlPVxKiBHvzxt3MAKhol_TWl8F_p8008hq3y0PzeBC8TRGWOsvCD_Wn-bQAs9rKOqrCEedf8MfV9netIg75MUrhzrqQljjG2Vm6QbpY79SQRNR-hmIUwynnzVU/s1600/thBigGirl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhURIJXhPULgMjU7H0xlPVxKiBHvzxt3MAKhol_TWl8F_p8008hq3y0PzeBC8TRGWOsvCD_Wn-bQAs9rKOqrCEedf8MfV9netIg75MUrhzrqQljjG2Vm6QbpY79SQRNR-hmIUwynnzVU/s200/thBigGirl.jpg" width="137" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I pondered undoing my hammering and spreading out the beauty, tailoring the decor for an outsider’s eye. How much did I care about Their opinion? Who is the one actually living here, enjoying the view? All of a sudden the placement of my bulletin board was about more than what height to put the nail, and all about owning my own life, believing in myself, and yanking up my confident adult underpants. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It’s a radical move – catering to my own taste – especially because I’m learning on the fly, defining preferences as I go. Its un-trodden snow to opt based on intuition, to follow my own leanings rather than through the filer of others who I assume know better than I. I brush aside the nudge of Nora Ephron in ‘When Harry Met Sally’, “</span></b></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Everybody thinks they have good taste but they can’t all possibly have good taste...”</span></b></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> and hope that my art maintains no resemblance to the aforementioned wagon-wheel coffee table. I’m choosing not to care today. It’s my sense of peace that these walls are charged with unearthing, and my personal nook in the world that needs to spur an exhale as I unlock the door. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i135.photobucket.com/albums/q153/sweetie259pie/Vintage/Anne%20Taintor/thBad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i135.photobucket.com/albums/q153/sweetie259pie/Vintage/Anne%20Taintor/thBad.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I leave things where they are, and for now, breathe easy wherever my gaze falls. That shall be the new measure of success. So lets make my walls ooze with balance, reflect motivation, and draw me close with the scent of Home. Let my eyes rest upon tree houses that nudge easy smiles and frames twinkling with memories of laughter and sweetness. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Welcome to adulthood, Lauren, where I get to be queen, master of my domain, and the judge of good taste. I think I could learn to like this...</span></b></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-895598426705269095.post-40470566105738446282010-09-24T11:21:00.000-07:002010-09-24T11:29:47.554-07:00It would be funnier if...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><a href="http://www.jta.org/news/article/2010/09/23/2741030/in-un-speech-ahmadinejad-attacks-israel#When:21:27:00Z"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">JTA: Ahmadinejad tells U.N. - U.S. was behind 9/11 attacks</span></a></b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxVurAsA7tavyOb-5DfCgJdN8TK36KaYn_GQnv4Mkeoo2PxuhlTOsn-q9EIS0BHycfpds6D4j4RYaKBIrumSmB4MJsvWuIYv6u0_uvf7iX9s5Xal4jzGGy7lWX7e063BBj1I2kltXI6Go/s1600/scream_now.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxVurAsA7tavyOb-5DfCgJdN8TK36KaYn_GQnv4Mkeoo2PxuhlTOsn-q9EIS0BHycfpds6D4j4RYaKBIrumSmB4MJsvWuIYv6u0_uvf7iX9s5Xal4jzGGy7lWX7e063BBj1I2kltXI6Go/s200/scream_now.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">It would be funnier on the big screen with popcorn and a credit reel. It would be laughable if the genre fell on the fiction shelves. Not so funny at the podium of the U.N. General Assembly. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">According to Iranian Present Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, its time to set the record straight, informing us all that the U.S. arranged the 9/11 attacks to “save the Zionist regime”. He then called on the United Nations to establish an “independent fact-finding group” to investigate the attacks. Were I there, I would have followed the footsteps of the U.S. delegation who walked out of his speech, along with all 27 European Union delegations, Canada, New Zealand, Australia and Costa Rica. I’m wondering who was left? Did he finish his ranting to an audience of reporters? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Were I a reporter at the General Assembly, I might have a few questions for Mr. Ahmadinejad. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRDyearJMMjQ-jisgY8gl1O2x4NpUBrXHE18ES0JUTtgMQbylw&t=1&usg=__IE-MRtM8hkLNX2-f4SrwYmyK8mM=" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRDyearJMMjQ-jisgY8gl1O2x4NpUBrXHE18ES0JUTtgMQbylw&t=1&usg=__IE-MRtM8hkLNX2-f4SrwYmyK8mM=" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">A) If this is true, wouldn’t it have been wiser for us to stage the mass murders on foreign soil so have our own citizens? Or at least set the attacks at a location that wouldn’t cause so much chaos and disruption...like the middle of nowhere? B) How exactly do the 9/11 attacks relate in any way to Israel and supporting them? I’m not the most politically savvy, but I’m failing to see the connection. C) Is he not aware that there were extensive ‘fact-finding groups’ following 9/11, which led to a war that we are still fighting (we’ll leave the discussion of the accuracy of those groups for another day...) D) Could you comment on the irony of your speech taking place not far from where Islamist terror attacks destroyed the World Trade Center towers 9 years ago? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;"> E) Were you dropped on your head as a small child, or take medication for the voices you must hear in your head??</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSH_9Tocq4V14L3DnQjqAI7o9EXF6fq7RM2iPyWsBfGPlSACbYd9QfDMSB6vpUs3gr-qHqGtpr5OQk0ZKX-hHwKkUE_oDZZzZfodKNFMkFhsk8RfIk1X9Lms0JOeBY0xI8uQOxsuX0RnA/s1600/thChew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSH_9Tocq4V14L3DnQjqAI7o9EXF6fq7RM2iPyWsBfGPlSACbYd9QfDMSB6vpUs3gr-qHqGtpr5OQk0ZKX-hHwKkUE_oDZZzZfodKNFMkFhsk8RfIk1X9Lms0JOeBY0xI8uQOxsuX0RnA/s1600/thChew.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">The outrageousness would make me laugh were he not the president of a state with nuclear powers and sitting too close for comfort to Israel. It would be funnier if this weren’t real life...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">I’m not laughing. </span></div></b></span><br />
<h2 style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></h2>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792212805746565017noreply@blogger.com0