tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46577226213383755652024-03-05T08:28:28.649-08:00Older Dog; Newer TricksAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.comBlogger381125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-69509102262360931052018-07-29T12:54:00.000-07:002018-07-29T13:01:34.490-07:00Hardcore Locavore<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUL7Bqq-x5guV98kGI6y6m8-QOaDZVA32XkbooYPYLvQjKIlMgNDJPWRviIHg7IEjwYGo5-sOfQgnTfOGmntASowv72DG_OglXzhIT2oYFU_IqAU2tUpWzoSzCevSU4NprLwFS83n_XQ/s1600/IMG_2100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="1600" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUL7Bqq-x5guV98kGI6y6m8-QOaDZVA32XkbooYPYLvQjKIlMgNDJPWRviIHg7IEjwYGo5-sOfQgnTfOGmntASowv72DG_OglXzhIT2oYFU_IqAU2tUpWzoSzCevSU4NprLwFS83n_XQ/s320/IMG_2100.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I thought it was a lot of money for a tomato, to be honest, but I live in the country, and I believe in supporting local agriculture. We were on our way home from the vet and needed a tomato. I have a "regular" farm, but it wasn't on my way home, so I stopped at a farm stand I've never visited before. I took my hefty tomato to the register, and the lovely older gentleman said "That will be $2.51." I NEVER complain about the price of produce because I have read enough to know the investment of time, money, and labor it takes to produce locally grown, organic, sustainable food. <br />
<br />
When I looked in my wallet, I only had twenties and a single. <br />
<br />
"I'm sorry to do this to you," I admitted, "but I only have a $20." <br />
<br />
I handed it over, and he poked around in the cash box. <br />
<br />
"I don't have any change so just don't worry about it," he demanded. <br />
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"NO!" I answered vehemently. "I'm not taking your tomato. This is your livelihood!"<br />
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"Well," he suggested, "do you live nearby?"<br />
<br />
I do actually.<br />
<br />
"Just drop it off the next time you drive by." <br />
<br />
I gave him the $1 I did have. "Okay," I compromised, "now you have some change. Monday I'm going back to the vet so I'll drop off the $1.50 I owe you."<br />
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When you live in the country, and a kindly gentleman restores (some of) your faith in humanity, $2.51 is a small price to pay.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-2334144117449126772018-05-28T12:01:00.000-07:002018-05-28T12:05:30.647-07:00The Divine Miss M<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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She runs into school each morning, her smile as wide as the moon, excited for whatever the day holds. She is maybe 6, and she sparkles, all almost 47 pounds of her. She sparkles from her blond curls to her glittery sneakers. She has several pairs of them, in silver and gold and pink; some have bunny ears, and some have pink kitten noses. We were talking one morning, my little fashionista friend and I, and I said,<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> "You know, I have silvery glittery shoes like that."</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>The D Miss M said,<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> "You're not wearing them."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>"No, I'm not."<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>"Why not?"<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>"I don't know," I replied, in resignation.<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>I thought about why I bought these shoes and what happens inside my head every time I put them on. "I'm too old." "They're too dressy to wear to work." "They're too casual to wear out." "They're too flat to wear with pants." "They're too flat to wear with dresses." "They make my feet look too big."<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>I thought about the other child, a young man, really, who I thought had taught me this lesson, 8 years ago. Too ________. Always too ________. Too ________ for what? Who was doing the judging here? Why? And I wondered why I couldn't allow myself to sparkle just a little bit. They're only SHOES after all. They make DMM very happy, and DMM has every reason NOT to be happy. She has dyslexia; her brain learns differently. I don't think she knows yet that school could become a struggle for her. She is happy and curious because she has teachers who know how to teach her the way she learns best. I devote every one of my working minutes trying to creating a world where children like Miss M never have to lose their sparkle. They don't have to be judged for what they can't do, and we do our best to honor what they can. They deserve the best teachers, the best chance in life. They deserve all the promise that Miss M holds when she runs through that front door, radiant in the morning sun with the future ahead of her.<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>The next day, I said to Miss M, "You know, Friday is a dress down day."<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>"It is?"<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>"I'm going to wear my sparkly shoes."<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>"Then we can be twins!"<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>"Yes, we can."<br />
<br />
"Pinky promise," Miss M. insisted.<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>"Pinky promise," I affirmed.<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>And I did.<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>These interesting, creative minds deserve the best teaching, and I pray every day that the little Miss M's of the world will never have to know the kind of struggle that will extinguish their spirits. Yes, they need to struggle enough to develop grit, face challenges, stare failure in the face, and push beyond it. They also need teachers who are willing to share their best selves. Just like our students do, we need to be able to own our challenges, but we also need to be willing to shine. We need to light their way. We need to reflect their light. Shine on, Miss M. Thank you for the lesson. I hope you will always sparkle.<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>PS - I have no financial or nonfinancial relationships to disclose with TOMS shoes; however, if you are not already aware of their mission, you should be. For every product you purchase, <span style="background-color: white; color: #373533; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: center;">TOMS helps provide shoes, sight, water, safe birth and </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373533; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: center;">bullying prevention services to people in need.</span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-31746670098020893012018-04-30T17:44:00.002-07:002018-04-30T17:44:40.358-07:00November, 2013: In My Life<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span>
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<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">In My Life</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">There are places I remember</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">All my life, though some have changed</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">Some forever not for better</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">Some have gone and some remain</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">All these places have their moments</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">With lovers and friends I still can recall</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">Some are dead and some are living</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">In my life I've loved them all</span><br />
<br style="color: #474747; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">But of all these friends and lovers</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">There is no one compares with you</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">And these memories lose their meaning</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">When I think of love as something new</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">Though I know I'll never lose affection</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">For people and things that went before</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">I know I'll often stop and think about them</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">In my life I love you more</span><br />
<br style="color: #474747; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">Though I know I'll never lose affection</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">For people and things that went before</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">I know I'll often stop and think about them</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">In my life I love you more</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">In my life I love you more</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">-John Lennon and Paul McCartney</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-2152981042398941382018-04-29T11:32:00.000-07:002018-04-29T11:32:57.106-07:00November, 2013: How Deep Is the OceanI leaned over and brushed a single tear from my father's lapel: fifty years, one infinite ocean, balanced on my fingertip.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-46567050816663292022018-04-27T19:10:00.000-07:002018-04-27T19:10:51.667-07:00November, 2013: It's My Party (and I'll Cry If I Want To)My mother had nothing to wear. It was her last social engagement, and she was the guest of honor.<br />
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In the years that she was ill, she stopped paying attention to things like her wardrobe. She did little socializing during those years, and comfort had become her most important factor in selecting clothes. She had become progressively smaller, and even though her closets were overburdened with clothes, she truly had nothing to wear. There would be no "trying on everything in the closet." We did begin there, even though it felt intrusive to be standing in her cold, abandoned closet fidgeting the hangers back and forth over the rod. We would need to buy her a new outfit for her funeral.<br />
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While my father went out to buy a new suit, my sister and I set out for the mall, armed with his debit card. Realistically, we needed to buy everything my mother would wear that day. It occurred to us on the way there, that we had no idea what size to look for. There is no handbook on how to dress your mother for her funeral. We did the only thing we could think of; we stopped at the funeral home and asked. We explained, probably unnecessarily, that our mother had wasted away, and we had no idea what size she wore. The very understanding undertaker said "I'll go check for you," as if this were a question she was asked every day, and surely this is part of the training in undergraduate funereal management programs. "Size 14," she told us upon her return. We were astounded; how was it possible that our tiny mother needed a size 14 dress? Back in the car, the logic of it occurred to us, individually, and we acknowledged that this was not a situation in which "too big" would be a hindrance.<br />
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There were so many issues to consider. Pants? Dress? Skirt? What would she have chosen for herself? Colors? What would she have liked? Black was out of the question, but it couldn't be a festive color. Money was no object, but realistically, it was. We wanted to respect the gravity of our mission, but this outfit, much like the wedding dress she had worn 50 years earlier, would not be worn again. She had to look nice, but she couldn't be overdressed or underdressed. The myriad considerations were overwhelming. We decided on a pantsuit. It was purple, just the right shade of purple to be serious and age-appropriate, to be respectful. It was the sort of thing you might want to wear to your interview for the afterlife. We found a patterned blouse that was neither floral nor jaunty; neither trendy nor old-fashioned. We were stupid-giddy-broken-heartedly exhausted as we entered the lingerie department to finish the final items on our list, and God help the poor young woman who inquired innocently "Can I help you?" A moment of silence passed, and we erupted into perfectly inappropriate guffaws of laughter. The number of ways in which the salesclerk could not help us was unfathomable. We each thought of explaining our mission but decided against it; politely, we declined her help, periodically giggling as we finished our shopping spree, weeping over what we had lost and laughing at the absurdity of what we were selecting. As the saying goes, I guess you had to be there.<br />
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Afterward, my friend Laurie and my mentor Diana told me my mother had been beautiful. It seemed strange to me at the time. They didn't know her, and as I had watched her fade away for two years, beauty had been the last thing on my mind. But our brains don't actually see color; instead, they see the reflections of the light waves that are not absorbed by the objects in our gaze. I believe on that day, as I looked at my mother for the last time, what I saw was the reflection of my own heartache. It was empty. Exhausted. Broken.<br />
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As the last 4 years have passed, time and struggle have brushed against the rough edges of my experience, smoothing them out and buffing the colors into soft and cloudy memories.<br />
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When I call up my mother's image now, what I remember is not fear, loss, or heartache. What I see reflected now is love.<br />
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Beautiful.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-58470789245226250162016-05-13T15:18:00.000-07:002016-05-13T15:19:48.378-07:00November, 2013: Not With a Bang but a Whimper"Honey, Mom's gone."<br />
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Later, my sister and I would confess that our first thought when the nurse had woken us up from our unexpectedly deep sleep in the TV lounge in the hospice ward was "Where the hell could she go?" My mother had been a stubborn woman, which we would all agree is an understatement, but she had been unresponsive since we agreed that a morphine drip would be the best way to keep her comfortable. Still, it would not have surprised us if she had stood up and walked away. She had, that summer, gotten into the driver's seat of my parents' car because she wanted to go home --even though her license had expired, and she hadn't driven in almost two years. My second thought was actually that they had physically lost my mother in the hospital. But no; the nurse had walked by the room and peeked in on her, and she had simply stopped breathing. She quietly slipped away. <br />
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The moment I had been the most afraid of was the split second that she passed from Before into After, and we had all slept through it. We had been reassured by many lovely, well meaning people in the hospice ward, that many people choose to let go that way, to wait until no one was watching to make the giant leap. 11/11/13. 1:11 a.m. Maybe it was 1:10 or 1:20, and my brain craftily turned it into 1:11. Poetic license. We noted that it was Veterans' Day, and we would never forget.<br />
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We held my father's hand and watched while the nurse listened for as long as she needed to for my mother's absent heartbeat. The nurse told us to stay as long as we wanted to. We stayed as long as my mother would have wanted us to, which was long enough to say goodbye and respect the moment but no longer.<br />
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It was strange to pack up our various bags of things: our knitting; the bag of socks my father had brought with us; the rest of the Halloween candy; my mother's clothes; my father's comforts from home; tea bags; laptops; e-readers. We walked off the ward. I thought fleetingly of all the things that happen in the dark of night in the hospital, in the hospice ward, so that families like ours could leave in dignity and peace.<br />
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Someone drove my father home. I vaguely remember driving his car at some point. Jamie went home to be with our son the next morning because his parents, who had been babysitting all week, had to get back. I slept for a very long time in my hotel room until my sister called, and I was reminded of all that we had ahead of us. <br />
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A lot of work goes into letting go. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-18931796060175436932016-04-27T19:12:00.000-07:002016-04-27T19:19:00.515-07:00November, 2013: Angels Among Us<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have seen them everywhere. Shuffling in the parking lot at Trader Joe's; taking slow, careful steps in the library; sitting in the audience at the elementary school chorus concert. They're mostly women although that may be coincidence. They are ghosts of themselves, with their thinning hair and translucent skin, barely hanging on to their husbands/children/sisters. Their effort to remain in the world is almost too much to bear. I can't make myself look at them because they envelop so much loss.<br />
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We began losing my mother much more quickly than I expected but exactly as I feared. She spent 7 long weeks undergoing intensive chemotherapy in 2011. We celebrated her birthday the first weekend she was admitted. Celebrated is not the right word - although we tried. When I left her, I hugged her harder that I was ever able to hug her again. I was afraid of the word chemotherapy; afraid of what it would do to her. I was afraid I would never see her again. She hugged me back and told me it would be okay. She was never the same.<br />
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Because I lived two hours away, I spoke to her a lot on the phone during those weeks in the hospital. She remembered a lot; she always knew who I was and asked about Duncan and Jamie. She also talked about the who were keeping her imprisoned in that place and how poorly they treated her. I couldn't tell if she really believed she was being held hostage or if she was using a metaphor. She talked about the clouds in the corner of the room and sometimes about the angels. The same mother who raised me to be a card-carrying, devout agnostic...We began to develop our sense of dark humor as we knowingly spoke of "chemo brain." Sometimes, it gets better after the treatments end, and sometimes it does not. I imagined a complete recovery followed by five years of remission and counted to five obsessively, wondering where we would all be in five years. I really believed we would have five more years with her, and even though five years is really no time at all, it can be a very long time if you spend it well. It would not, in the end be five, but you see how those fives add up, optimistically, when you count them over and over by five.<br />
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Almost two years to the day later, I held her cool, fragile hand, kissed her forehead, and smoothed back her beautifully white, baby fine, angel hair. My father and sister were so much better at managing the entire hospital experience than I was. I was so afraid, already drowning in the weight of loss. I was still learning to just be there together in the moment. <br />
<br />
I met my friend Laurie shortly before she lost her own father and before my mother was diagnosed with leukemia. In his final days, her father had taken to carrying these silver angels in <br />
his pockets. He gave them away to everyone he met. After he was gone, she continued to find them everywhere. Stacked in her son's room, on the windowsill, under the bed, next to the socks...she gave me one of his angels, and I have carried it in my wallet since. I pull it out from time to time and stroke it softly, adding three, subtracting two, subtracting 2011 from 2016, smoothing away the years before and the years after. Always, we end up here, today, where literally everything is different, and we are learning to rebuild life in the shadow of loss.<br />
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I see them everywhere. Shuffling in the parking lot at Trader Joe's; taking slow, careful steps in the library; sitting in the audience at the elementary school chorus concert. They're mostly women although that may be coincidence. They are ghosts of themselves, with their thinning hair and translucent skin, barely hanging on to their husbands/children/sisters. Their effort to remain in the world is almost too much to bear. I want to hold their cool, fragile hands, kiss their foreheads, and smooth back their beautifully white, baby fine, hair. They are angels among us.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-75013127409600852152016-04-23T19:40:00.000-07:002016-04-23T19:42:56.488-07:00November, 2013: Prayer Shawls<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFe57vVQWHlwYzXgv2kbtob7S8zpuD6E-RqshyRssaEpk65yjTui1NtHIlXTQx6ro_wV9F8cX0lfW6-JuGGQHNw03A942iUuhbCjr7nsihlTRgGBxEBosIZEWeWbpEksU8sLf3Cc5PHqM/s1600/shawl+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2CdgSF7eOmGZLB5mMyEzhViqwozFvQvIsqg7wl-jJ2q1bfUPh5JqXK3GGpu8ARKtkB-wik87GXhcu-4L-83nEjZZGP9LB9RfTh5uNzlXjQHlMq2X5Tk-73bWkI0qm4ZnCOVZfiroWoQ/s1600/shawl+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #bf9000;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2CdgSF7eOmGZLB5mMyEzhViqwozFvQvIsqg7wl-jJ2q1bfUPh5JqXK3GGpu8ARKtkB-wik87GXhcu-4L-83nEjZZGP9LB9RfTh5uNzlXjQHlMq2X5Tk-73bWkI0qm4ZnCOVZfiroWoQ/s200/shawl+4.JPG" width="200" /></span></a><span style="color: #7f6000; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">While I sat in the hospital in November, 2011, watching plasma and</span><br />
<span style="color: #7f6000; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">saline and toxic chemicals drip into my mother, I needed something to keep my fingers busy. I needed the quiet rhythm of wooden needles marking time against each other while I learned to sit quietly, in the moment, with my family. I wanted to make her something comforting; although hats were an obvious choice, I was cold in the hospital, and I thought about how it would feel in a hospital gown, in a cold, sterile bed that overlooked the construction of the new hospital wing. I picked the softest yarn I could find in my stash and held it up to my cheek; I imagined it wrapped around her shoulders. I picked a pattern that would require little thought and cast on a simple shawl. It began with just three stitches and grew reassuringly by two stitches at the beginning and end of each row so that it didn't only grow longer but also wider as I worried it, stitch by stitch, into being. Afterward, I found it in a box of things that had come home with her from the hospital that December. I don't think she ever wore it, but I wear it now, and it brings me great comfort. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKNxZEH1IsJg6IYrQBVojJJCm5GTykBafEJQgLVglP4XeHHcJq7q-9bdJhBP0J5LySPjTI4ngTav4NO8gAPj_1TmaKfx8HAQnQEAVa_I_qDMjZFyWB8ABuJStCBeTC7H2qfSG-jU-TM7Q/s1600/Shawl+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #7f6000;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKNxZEH1IsJg6IYrQBVojJJCm5GTykBafEJQgLVglP4XeHHcJq7q-9bdJhBP0J5LySPjTI4ngTav4NO8gAPj_1TmaKfx8HAQnQEAVa_I_qDMjZFyWB8ABuJStCBeTC7H2qfSG-jU-TM7Q/s200/Shawl+2.JPG" width="200" /></span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #7f6000; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Two years later, the air was cold and dry as I curled in the chair in the hallway, wrapped in my father's worn sweatshirt. However I tried, I could not warm myself. My knitting needles clicked as I knit row after row of soft blue alpaca, stopping periodically to hold it against my cheek and test how well it would comfort me afterward. Weeks before I had chosen the blues and grays because they resembled the ocean, where she had wanted to go for her birthday in November, 2011, the birthday she spent in the cold hospital room. When I packed hastily for my trip to the hospital, I needed something to knit, but I couldn't take any of the projects I had already cast on. They were to be Christmas gifts, and I couldn't knit all that sadness into gifts for other people. Instead, hour after hour I knit my mother's comfort into a shawl I could wrap around myself in the months to come when the cold and the loss and emptiness would be impenetrable. Although it makes my heart clench when I hold it against my cheek, that basic shawl, slightly too large because I was reluctant to let it end, helps me to remember that my mother would want me to live my life. She would want me to start my life over if I wanted to, to go to the beach, to take a nap, or read a good book. And so I have done these things; I take more risks, I step out of my comfort zone, I tell my son how much I love him. I wrap that shawl around me and revel in its comfort; I know she is with me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Prayer shawls have long been part of many religious affiliations. The Tallit in Judaism, the Mantilla in the Roman Catholic tradition, and Pentecostal prayer cloths are just a few examples of special clothing people have worn during prayer. Among fiber artists, the prayer shawl embodies the creator's thoughts and prayers for the receiver. Prayer ministries have formed for the sole purpose of knitting and crocheting prayers into comforting shawls for those in need physical or spiritual comfort. Shawls are begun, crafted, and given in prayer. In prayer ministries, the shawl may be passed around a prayer circle so that each person can add their own prayers, or stitches, to each shawl. </span></span><br />
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</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFe57vVQWHlwYzXgv2kbtob7S8zpuD6E-RqshyRssaEpk65yjTui1NtHIlXTQx6ro_wV9F8cX0lfW6-JuGGQHNw03A942iUuhbCjr7nsihlTRgGBxEBosIZEWeWbpEksU8sLf3Cc5PHqM/s1600/shawl+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #7f6000;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFe57vVQWHlwYzXgv2kbtob7S8zpuD6E-RqshyRssaEpk65yjTui1NtHIlXTQx6ro_wV9F8cX0lfW6-JuGGQHNw03A942iUuhbCjr7nsihlTRgGBxEBosIZEWeWbpEksU8sLf3Cc5PHqM/s200/shawl+3.JPG" width="200" /></span></a><span style="color: #7f6000;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Although I didn't realize it at the time, and it certainly wouldn't be traditional to knit one's own, I see now that these shawls, knit at the beginning and end of my mother's illness, were prayer shawls. With each stitch, I connected with my family, shared thoughts of my mother, imagined how we would rearrange the stitches of our life without her I wear them now for comfort; always cold, I have been even colder as I have reknit the void left behind by her passing. I receive a lot of compliments on these simple shawls; for now, I tell the sad story of how they came to be, but I hope that in the near future I will share stories about how my mother taught me to knit, about her aunt Rose who always made the most beautiful baby clothes, about the times that my mother and I shopped for yarn, or about her faith in my ability to knit socks. I think of my son, teaching himself to knit by watching YouTube, trying out double pointed needles, and becoming entranced by weaving. We are tied together, stitch by stitch, row by row, threads spun and plied from the past to the present, our future an infinity of combinations of colors and textures made from two simple stitches. Knit. Purl. </span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-3652250215598355072016-04-15T11:48:00.000-07:002016-04-15T11:48:00.656-07:00November, 2013: Into the LightI've come to believe that in the same way that I have "work friends" and "knitting friends" and "college friends" I also have "loss friends." They aren't necessarily people I hang out and drink coffee with, but we have connected at some core level through our experiences with loss. Most of us could use the hashtag #cancersucks to describe moments in our lives. My sister has a friend (a real friend) who I count among my "loss friends;" after losing one of her sons tragically to cancer (#cancersucks), she has dedicated her life to helping families who are undergoing traumatic experiences with childhood cancers. Because her son's favorite color was orange, Laurel believes that Myles speaks to her through beautiful orange sunsets.<br />
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It's probably a coincidence, but from the time my mother was hospitalized in November, 2011 for intensive chemotherapy, I have been witness to spectacular sunsets. Many nights while I was making the drive from Albany Medical Center to Amenia, New York, I had to pull over and watch because I was spellbound by the exquisite beauty in the skies. During that week in November, 2013, the sunrises and sunsets were breathtaking. From the wide expanse of windows in the hospice ward, each day greeted us with a glorious watercolor of crimsons, fuschias, salmons, corals, burgundies, vermilions, magentas, garnets, apricots, tangerines, peaches, cadmiums, amethysts, pomegranates, periwinkles, lilacs, lavenders, orchids, plums, and violets...as if it were necessary for us to drink up every color in the universe in that one moment. Nights drifted in reluctantly as the colors blazed and slowly muted into darkness; temporarily sated, we reluctantly let go of the day. Like <span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px;">Scheherazade, t</span>hey forced us to stop and just BE in the moment while they danced around us with their stories and promise of just one more day.</div>
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In the days After, I have remained particularly sensitive to the comings and goings of each day's show of colors. We have moved to a new state, where we live at the top of a hill; during many of my drives to and from work or just watching from the many windows of our house in the country, my breath catches as I reflect upon the swirling pools of watercolors. I like to think that my mother is there with her own parents and sister, who she lost far too young, and with Myles, reminding us to stop to take notice of the world's magnificence.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjll7Vz5W7WvnFsm1WmmlmzRhfl1C7S-5-5G5ooufZjlmTezzTOyMbc98eRjlTDbIfJ81SvL9WOM91kuUaGg_jVFx2gKopcW1CIlWBGJqkGcMlUSiT0hb6n6bprhMzYOigfxXhBYkl2MSI/s1600/sunset+from+home.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/AVvXsEjll7Vz5W7WvnFsm1WmmlmzRhfl1C7S-5-5G5ooufZjlmTezzTOyMbc98eRjlTDbIfJ81SvL9WOM91kuUaGg_jVFx2gKopcW1CIlWBGJqkGcMlUSiT0hb6n6bprhMzYOigfxXhBYkl2MSI/s200/sunset+from+home.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN47iDb61zQrtyq4HswjLhtNArCVpEklWGnGhYF7Z3-6Jx_sG2EZ9aahgcUYlPNoxwODtPkfx0wKp5bGdU_XgMaMAak_io-43o4xTDhpgAWZph5dG5sXMfqwc9CmPK2FRGdSH8TrOm8Qs/s1600/IMG_6138.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN47iDb61zQrtyq4HswjLhtNArCVpEklWGnGhYF7Z3-6Jx_sG2EZ9aahgcUYlPNoxwODtPkfx0wKp5bGdU_XgMaMAak_io-43o4xTDhpgAWZph5dG5sXMfqwc9CmPK2FRGdSH8TrOm8Qs/s200/IMG_6138.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
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sunset in our back yard sunset at Duncan's school</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-57013918481291881662016-04-14T09:23:00.000-07:002016-04-14T09:23:06.395-07:00November, 2013: IntersticesThe next day, of so many days that would later blend into one, we were all still there. The day passed in a state of semi-normalcy as we went about the business of waiting. We took turns bringing back food, water, coffee, and tea. We updated friends. We cancelled work, and conference travel, and checked in with babysitters. We updated our children's teachers about the first substantial loss they were about to endure. We assured my father that he could go home to take a shower, and maybe even a nap. We assured my mother that although we loved her, and we knew she loved us, we would be okay. She could go, you know...if she was ready. <br />
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Our young friends were a little more occupied. Their people had come...I remember them as arriving like the family in Patricia Rylant's children's book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Relatives-Came-Cynthia-Rylant/dp/0689717385" style="font-style: italic;">The Relatives Came</a>, although far less festive. Families would arrive en masse in that place, with picnics and drinks and spiritual advisors; they chatted and caught up and had mini reunions and talked about how they really should get together more often, and not just for these sad occasions. Then everything would become quiet, as if they realized suddenly that they would not all be going home.<br />
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When night fought her way back in again, and we went around the corner for pizza, we bought extra to feed our three young friends, just in case. That night their grandmother came out and took them out for dinner. It was difficult loosening the grip on the comforting idea that my life was preordained, but I felt better knowing that they were not alone. Someone would need that pizza after all. There are times, when you are waiting, when you can summon up just enough energy to take care of the living, but there are times when you just can't. There was a great spirit of sharing in the hospice ward, the wing devoted to waiting for After. My nephew came that night, and although he could not bring himself to see my mother, his good-byes already having been said in his own way, it was calming to be wrapped in the comfort of the everyday that he brought with him...homework, play dates, school projects. He was a reminder that Out There, life went on.<br />
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My mother, in her stubbornness, hung on. We were all exhausted. It was the diametric opposite of sleepless nights spent in labor and delivery waiting for new life to enter the world. There were sleep deprived moments of dark humor. There was one long, dark act of the play unfolding where we begged her to stay. "Look," we implored, "We know we told you it was okay to go, but we also JUST told Dad it would be okay for him to go home to take a shower. PLEASE wait until he gets back. PLEASE. He will never forgive himself if you go now, and he isn't here. Then you can do whatever you want. Just hang in a little longer." I thought of the oldest brother of our young friends (or maybe it was even an uncle) who had made it in time and said a little prayer for all of them too.<br />
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With that day almost over, and the waiting continuing, the nurses brought us sheets and blankets, warm from the dryer. We settled onto two adjacent couches in the waiting room and napped under a sign that decreed "No sleeping in the television room." Clearly, we were not the first people to squat illegally since we had been so well cared for. Just as I drifted off, my sister poked me and motioned to the couches behind us, where the girl and her two brothers had stolen into our world of darkened waiting, like stray cats, seeking whatever small comfort they could find. My sister and I nodded silently at each other, acknowledging that sometimes the most you can do for someone is be there with them, in the moment. Waiting. Together.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-65091355382543944512016-04-14T08:14:00.001-07:002016-04-14T08:14:42.434-07:00November, 2013: Preordained<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">But first there is a story inside me that needs to be told. Its setting is a hospice ward, and it does not have a happy ending so if those things are a trigger for you, quietly step away. I won't be offended; I have been there too. It won't allow itself to be told in one sitting, and it won't unpack itself in tidy, even rows. It will pop up like the faded Polaroids you find in the back of the desk drawer. It will more resemble an angry ball of tangled, gnarled yarn, because sometimes life happens that way. I'll preface these entries with the title "November 2013" for people who can't go there with me If you do join me there, I thank you in advance. I didn't know I needed you, but I did. I still do; and needing people is perhaps the hardest thing for me to admit. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">There were three of them: A girl of about 14; her slightly older brother, who was about 16 or 17; and their younger brother, who was about 5. They didn't appear to have any adult supervision, and we assumed they were there for an older, distant relative, maybe a grandparent or great uncle. As the day passed in entire lifetimes, they did the best they could to entertain themselves, but they had clearly come, as we all had, in a hurried flurry of sadness, unprepared for whatever would follow. The youngest one was a tornado. The girl tried contain him, and the oldest floated between the two worlds of the hospital room and the family room, wanting to be a responsible man but with no clue about how to do it.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">As the sun went down, we realized that no one was feeding these children, whose family was consumed by loss. We invited them to eat our leftover Boston Market takeout; it wasn't much, but it was all we could offer. We did explain that the hospital delivered family meals at the end of the hallway, but I think they felt awkward searching them out. They made a feast of our leftovers and thanked us profusely. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">As the long, dark night settled around us, and our husbands had gone away to quietly pick up the pieces behind the scenes, in the way that they do, my sister and I sat on the floor working on a puzzle. The children crept closer and closer to us until they were helping us build the border. "We're sorry about our brother," the girl told us. "There's something wrong with his brain. He's pretty normal, but he has a lot of energy. He runs around a lot. He used to get in a lot of trouble in school, but now he takes medicine for it." In their rush to get to the hospital, their grandmother forgot his medicine, and now there is no one to go get it. We reassured her that we understood. My sister and I, both teachers of children with learning differences, blessed with AD/HD ourselves, also struggle to parent boys with AD/HD. It can be very hard, we commiserated. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Their life unfolded before us as we continued the slow and tedious process of putting the pieces back together. Their mother, like ours, had been sick, and although they had thought she was getting better, she really wasn't. Their grandmother was taking care of them, but it was a lot for her to handle, especially with the youngest one being so difficult, and with her trying to take care of them too. They had an older brother too, and they were waiting for him to come on the bus from New Orleans (Baltimore? Washington?) to take care of them, but they were all mostly worried he wouldn't get there in time, you know..And while the words to describe their mother's dying still hung in the air (no one can say the D word in a place so comfortably dedicated to waiting for it), she told us that they all have different fathers. They would probably not be able to stay together...you know, After...her older brother, the 17 year old, had no idea what he would do after he graduated. He was smart, you know, and could probably go to college, but there was no money and no one to help him. The oldest brother couldn't take them, and their grandmother was just too old. They just didn't know.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Eventually that night we all drifted apart, as the older brother became bored and faded into the glow of the television. The little one crashed in a heap somewhere in that way that little boys with AD/HD go from zero to sixty and then back again. And somewhere, a 14 year old girl rehearsed what would become her new role of trying to pin together the fabric of her family. My sister and I shook our heads in wonder that fate might have brought us here, in this exact place and time, to be here for these lost children. We all sat in the blue light of the dark room, waiting for the After. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-69948475448883005402016-03-25T13:27:00.000-07:002016-03-25T13:27:04.700-07:00Enter the NewSome time ago, when I began this blog, I was obsessed with knitting blogs. I fantasized that I would become the sort of talented knitter (like The Yarn Harlot) who would achieve a degree of fame and (much less degree of) fortune through writing. Nevertheless, I wanted to write, and I called my blog Knits and Nuts. I liked to knit and was a tad...um...unique. Quirky. Maybe even nuts. In subsequent years, when I found myself writing about any number of things, ranging from greener living, gardening, and travel, to parenting, teaching, dyslexia, ADHD, and reading, my sister-in-law pointed out to me that although she enjoyed my blog, I didn't write that much about knitting. Or nuts. <br />
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It was a valid point. And then it was a moot point because my life upheaved, and I didn't really write much about anything for at least 4 years during which Things Happened.<br />
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So this year, when I took on the 30 Day Writing Challenge (which I didn't finish, by the way), I realized how much I missed writing. I decided that I needed a fresh start, and I might as well fix that whole Knits and Nuts business altogether. In my non writing time, I spent a lot of time examining just what the common thread was; what were the common themes that compelled me to commit them to writing? I realized that they all had to do with my stepping out of the safety and security of my comfort zone and trying new things, some more radical than others. And so, about a year after turning 50, I took stock in how much newness I had brought into my life and how it had changed me. I may be older, but I'm learning to try new things, and that changing perspective has had profound effects on my outlook, my little family, and our life together. I hope you will join me as I continue to write about any number of things, ranging from greener living, gardening, and travel, to parenting, teaching, learning differences, dyslexia, ADHD, and reading. And knitting. And maybe even nuts. Welcome to Older Dog; Newer Tricks. Stick with me to learn more about where I've been and where I'm going.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-45265325136423068212015-11-13T15:51:00.000-08:002015-11-13T15:51:06.703-08:0030 Day Writing Challenge: Day EightBookish Tales of Love and Hate<br />
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<span class="s1">I love books; I love the smooth feel of the paper under my aging fingers, the rough edges of the pages, the excited squee of a brand new book opening for the first time, the creaky but familiar ache of a beloved book being called into action for another round. They are like family members to me; selecting favorites and estranging the dysfunctional are as painful as gathering them into my lap with wine or tea are comforting. It is rare for me to discard a book before completing it because I feel they all deserve their chance at a loving family; it is equally rare for me to reread books for a similar reason - the time I spend rereading a book is time I cannot spend getting to know another, whom I might want to welcome into my world.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Reluctantly, I will admit to a few weaknesses. If pushed to select a single favorite book, I would choose John Green’s <i>Looking for Alaska</i>. At the time I picked it up, I had read and enjoyed a lot of young adult fiction. Nevertheless, <i>Looking for Alaska</i> affected me in ways I never expected from a young adult novel. John Green’s characterization brought boarding school life and main characters alive with such clarity and force that when the climax occurred, I felt as if I had been struck by a train. It is well known among Green fans that we don’t discuss plot in public forums in case we risk spoiling books for others so I can’t say too much, but it was nearly impossible to disconnect from the fictional world he had drawn me into and to remember that the characters were not, in fact, part of my real life. Later, I would discover that every John Green book would have that effect. His understanding and portrayal of the lives of adolescents is startlingly accurate.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I meant to select a young adult book and an adult book that I loved, but the old favorite who keeps nosing her way into my recollection is <i>Little Women</i>. It is a book I return to when life is difficult or celebratory. I remember being heartbroken at my grandmother’s death; my mother told me find a book I really liked and read it. Since then, I have reread Little Women at least a dozen times, variously relating to the strengths and weaknesses, loves and losses, interests and foibles of Amy, Meg, Jo, and Beth. At least one of their lives always brings me comfort and has a lesson to teach me about what is happening in my own life. They have traveled far with me in my 50 years, and their pages feel like fine Irish linen.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Among my adult favorites are almost anything ever written by John Irving - until he began to recycle his characters and plots into new forms that are interesting but not anywhere as engaging as their great grandparents. <i>The Fourth Hand</i>, for example, is the great grandchild whose eyes are the spitting image of great grandpa John. Even though his writing skills develop as you travel from <i>The World According to Garp</i> to <i>A Prayer for Owen Meany</i>, he becomes a little too comfortable when he reaches a certain age, round about <i>A Widow for One Year</i>. It doesn’t seem to matter though. Unconditional love is unconditional, and every single book he writes is welcome at my Thanksgiving table.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Similarly, Wally Lamb won me over with his ability to describe the painful but uplifting challenges of Delores Price, who has no reason to hope and every reason to give up but is bestowed with an unexpected, undeniable, lifesaving, spunkiness. Every book he writes is that best friend who becomes family, not because you share the same blood, but because you choose each other. It takes Lamb forever to write a novel so our visits are infrequent, but when you do meet up for coffee, it is as if you never spent time apart. Every. Single. Book. Genius.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The most memorable book I was forced to let go was <i>American Psycho</i>. Early on, not as a young adult but as a Young Adult, I enjoyed Bret Easton Ellis’ descriptions of the beginnings of adulthood, of how we make the transition to being semi-responsible people who live without our parents, hold down jobs, take on new roles, and experiment with our places in the world. But <i>American Psycho</i>? I just couldn’t. I have been told that the story is a tongue-in-cheek look at a sociopath rather than gratuitous violence, blood, guts, and gore, but I found <i>American Psycho</i> so disturbing that I had to kick him out of the house. I didn’t even try to find him a new home. I threw him away, in the garbage; relegated him to a life of homelessness, later to be glorified in an equally disturbing movie, that I also could not embrace as one of my own.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So, there they are; the four I can’t live without and the one I can’t live with; I remember where and when I was when I encountered each of them; their comings and goings are etched into my memory like my first and last memories of my loved ones; some perfect and some painful, but I would not be who I am today without having spent time with each of them.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-44528570835843829992015-11-09T18:13:00.001-08:002015-11-09T18:13:25.420-08:0030 Day Writing Challenge: Day SevenThe Tattoo That Wasn't<br />
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We had talked about tattoos, my husband and I, in that way that people talk about random subjects when they are getting to know each other; the "have you ever's," and "my favorite_________ is," all the way to the serious ones, like "how many children would you want to have?" We agreed about tattoos that were not against them, but neither of us would ever get one. We just wouldn't; it wasn't who we "were."<br />
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Shortly after my son was born, my husband announced that to honor the nine months I carried our child and the pain I went through in childbirth to bring Duncan into the world, he was going to get a small tattoo of a Keith Haring crawling baby on his ankle. And I, in that way that people who are women who happen to be ragingly full of hormones and also sleep deprived can do, completely lost my composure. In fact, I either threatened to leave or may actually have stormed out of the house, keys in hand, and gone for a drive, leaving Jamie with the infant son. There was screaming; there was yelling; there were floods of tears. Because...this was not who we "were." All I could see was that "we" had changed - that Jamie was now a person who got tattoos, and I was not - and that we had no future together. I was now a dumpy, boring, mother with no edge left to her, and my husband was a biker who was going to seek out the kind of woman who DOES get a tattoo; yes, I went to those extremes.<br />
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Afterward, when I had calmed down, I explained all this to him. I assured him that I would be fine with his Keith Haring crawling baby tattoo, but I still would not get one. He assured me that he would NOT be tattooing anything if I felt that strongly. Despite all our affirmations, we remain completely untattooed. We do, however, remain married, and we are both just edgy enough for each other.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-22017772737105201612015-11-07T18:36:00.001-08:002015-11-07T18:36:06.152-08:0030 Day Writing Challenge: Day SixAccidental Farmers<br />
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I find all people fascinating really. If I channeled the time I spend each day examining people and trying to understand how and why they do the things they do, I could probably hold down a part time job. However, this is only a 30 Day Writing Challenge so I have to limit myself. For a number of years now, I have been fascinated by Josh Kilmer-Purcell and Dr. Brent Ridge, the Fabulous Beekman Boys. I first learned about the Beekman Boys in 2009 when I watched their show on Planet Green. The premise of the reality show was that Dr. Brent Ridge and his writer husband Josh Kilmer-Purcell, both New York City residents, bought a farm in Sharon Springs, New York. While Brent stayed on the farm trying to make it financially successful, Josh commuted from the city for weekends. They are a charming couple of gentleman farmers whose early struggles with farm life and trying to hold together a long distance relationship provided good entertainment. Eventually, their efforts made the farm self-sustaining, probably through Josh's experience with public relations and Brent's brilliant ideas for producing and marketing goods manufactured with goods from their farm at Beekman 1802. It didn't hurt that they won The Amazing Race...and that they have a good relationship with Martha Stewart.<br />
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I WAS easily drawn in by their reality TV show, The Fabulous Beekman Boys, but what really caught my interest was the idea of contemporary, small town farming. Having read Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Mineral, I was already interested in the idea of living more closely to the land. I read Josh and Brent's books and watched all the episodes of The Fabulous Beekman Boys and then set out to read everything I could find about small time farmers. I devoured books about urban farming: Farm City, by Novella Carpenter, who went so far as to raise pigs in downtown Oakland; My Empire of Dirt, by Manny Howard, who attempted to raise chickens and meat rabbits in his backyard in Flatbush; and The Accidental Farmers, by Tim Young. <br />
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Although I am far from owning a farm or living off the land, I am proud that these investigations have led me to be more thoughtful about the food I feed my family. I've certainly written a lot in this blog about our CSA adventures, my attempts to reduce the processed food my family eats, my dedication to reducing the amount of meat we consume, and my passion for investing my money whenever possible in local farms. Recently, I enjoyed a heartfelt conversation with "my" farmer, a mile down the road from my house, about her mixed feelings about her new baby piglets. Although they were cute as a button, she was torn because she knew that they would soon be orphans. We talked about the ethical burden of choosing to eat meat, but how important it is to know that it has been raised kindly and gently and lived a nice life. We were both close to tears about the piglets, but we're not ready to stop eating bacon. I stop in at Sport Hill Farm at least once a week to buy as much of my produce as I can before I hit Stop and Shop; almost everything Patti sells is grown on her farm. She sells some products that are grown elsewhere, but she only sells products from farmers whose practices she knows she can stand behind. This food consciousness makes me feel secure about what I am feeding my family and myself. I love investing my money in a small, local farm rather than factory agriculture.<br />
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It seems silly to attribute this journey to a reality TV show, but Josh and Brent's engaging and humorous portrayal of farm life helped me recognize that there are other ways to live, that a simpler life, closer to the land, is a possibility for any of us. I haven't followed their post-Amazing Race adventures as closely, but from time to time I enjoy seeing what's new in the lives of the gentlemen farmers of Sharon Springs. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-53923418355709626042015-11-05T18:04:00.000-08:002015-11-05T18:04:47.801-08:0030 Day Writing Challenge: Day FiveA place where I would live but have never visited...Alaska<br />
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Alaska knows that it challenges me. The long winters and the prospect of days where the sun never makes an appearance are formidable. I once read a book about basketball in Alaska (not my sort of book at all but it was well recommended for young adults) that depicted the difficult lives of adolescents and their struggles to participate in competitive sport in a world where roads close for months, and teams are forced to travel to their competitors by plane. I once watched a reality television program about Alaska that focused on a family-owned plane company that transported people to and from areas where roads become impassable. These possibilities - the perpetual night, the roads that close for months on end, the foods that are unavailable for months at a time - should be warning signs; however, they intrigue me. They describe a way of life completely foreign to me, where life is forced by the cold to grind to an almost imperceptible stop, because wouldn't life be simpler in Alaska anyway?<br />
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I suppose that is what draws me to Alaska - the open simplicity; humanity is forced to accept that nature is bigger and bolder than anything we can dream up. The glaciers, the Northern Lights, the Grizzlies...they are spectacularly not man made, yet they are astoundingly foreign. The wide open spaces call to my introvert soul and whisper dreams about solitude and silence that can be found nowhere else. There is a life in Alaska where I would be myself out of necessity because my nearest neighbors would be miles and miles and miles away. The colors would be richer and the smells crisper, their edges tinged by frost. One day would fade slowly into the next, and time would stand still. I would learn to do without. My impulsivity would be forced into inaction. There would be nothing left but to be.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-34757785418536784752015-11-05T17:14:00.000-08:002015-11-05T17:14:15.613-08:00Not Day Five<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All this writing has me thinking about writing. I guess that's the point, but it's also making me think a little about writing poetry. I wrote this one as a sample for a presentation about using poetry in multisensory structured language lessons. It's a list poem, but somehow, despite my intervention, it turned itself from a list into a poem.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What’s in my book bag?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One flat cereal bar from Trader Joe’s; A Pumpkin Walked Into a Bar,</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">it calls itself.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Four dead batteries, 3 rechargeable and 1 that isn’t.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A highlighter cap, mysteriously alone.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">17 scattered paper clips.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Two folded and grubby dollar bills.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Adaptors for 3 different MacBook Pros.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Father’s Day cards never mailed; lost, replaced, found, and lost again.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A photograph of my 3 year old framed in a heart.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A guardian angel that carried me through devastating loss.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One key to a new life, gently used.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-18953897385711428322015-11-04T18:58:00.002-08:002015-11-04T18:58:28.412-08:0030 Day Writing Challenge: Day Four<u>10 Interesting Facts About Myself</u><div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I was born in Columbus, Georgia, but a</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">s a military child, I lived in many places.</span></span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I always wanted to be a writer, until I wanted to be an architect, and then a computer programmer, and then a psychologist, and then a teacher/teacher trainer. But maybe later? A counselor or psychologist...or a writer. Probably not an architect.<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I spent 3 years living in Japan.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I don't like bananas, but I love artificial banana flavor.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I have an embarrassing passion for Hello Kitty. Probably that Japan thing.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I own a lot of yarn. I don't knit nearly enough to justify all this yarn.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I was named after a street, which was the first thing my mother remembered reading.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I once touched Kevin Bacon on a dance floor in a small town in New York. 1 degree of Kevin Bacon;-)</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /></span><div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I named my son after a Shakespeare character as well as all my pets. After Daniel the Striped Tiger and before Yeager the Mini Panther (who I didn't name), there were Juliet, Rosalind, Ariel, and Sebastian.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I was born on Valentine's Day, and my initials are TLC. I used to hate these two facts, but now I love them.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-43675411646942029012015-11-03T17:09:00.000-08:002015-11-03T17:09:13.289-08:0030 Day Writing Challenge: Day ThreeMy first love and my first kiss?<br />
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There were moments when I thought they were the same. At the time of the kiss, I didn't even try to convince myself that I loved him. I barely knew him. I was the embarrassingly old age of 16, and he was a worldly 18. I was star struck, and the things he liked about me were things that I didn't know yet how to like about myself. The kiss lured me in like a siren's song, but I never really loved him. I tried to love him; I tried more times than was fair, and in the end, when I tried to make him hate me so that I could walk away, I had to do the breaking. The kiss was not that great in retrospect, but it was at night, in a car, with a boy who was older than me, and I was overwhelmed by the discovery that the world was so much bigger than I expected.<br />
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My first love took me by surprise. I didn't want to love him. I was too complicated. There were other men I wanted to love me, but none of that was worth the effort. I didn't know how to be that woman who would go out and make that happen. But this one cleaned my car off in a blizzard. He made me art work. He shared music that made my heart want explode out of my body. I could NOT. I would NOT. Love him. I was the embarrassingly old age of 31, and he was...um...younger than that. And I was too complicated. I was just too. I did my best to scare him so that he could walk away. I would NOT love him. And then I did. The things he loved about me were things that I didn't know yet how to love about myself, and that faith lured me in like a siren's song. Then he walked away because we both wanted different things. But we didn't. And then we did. By that point, we knew of no other way to be than together. We liked each other too much not to be friends, and as friends, we had to do the right thing by each other. So we did. And now he cleans my car off in the snow, puts air in my tires, and packs lunch for our son. The things he loves about me are things I'm still learning to love about myself, but each day I am overwhelmed by the discovery that my heart is so much bigger than I ever expected. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-63450755412584081622015-11-03T16:10:00.000-08:002015-11-03T16:10:22.079-08:0030 Day Writing Challenge: Day 2<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">"I called your mother. She'll be here in 15 minutes."</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I must have been six; I was in Kindergarten, the land of required naps, and it was nearing Easter. I had thrown up at school, which would later become my litmus test for whether or not to miss work. (No vomiting? No fever? Get over yourself.) She arrived in a yellow Checker taxi cab; my father had our single car at work. It was early spring and drizzly though I remember a light coating of snow. We arrived home at our house in either Texas or Illinois...and ate soup and grilled cheese in a kitchen that is one of the two rooms I remember from that house. I watched the afternoon sunlight pour into my bedroom, where I lay unsleeping. My most vivid memory is the realization that I would miss that day's art project, the decoupaging of tissue paper onto an egg shaped piece of construction paper for Easter. I was heart broken and realized I would have done anything to be back in school. My mother reassured me that we could do the project at home. But we never did. I returned to school the next day.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Despite my disappointment about the art project I never completed, my memories of that first sick day are of warmth and security. I still spend so much time trying to be all the things that everyone expects of me that it is impossible for me to choose self-care. It is a struggle I have always faced, whether it dates back to early ADHD or anxiety or simply personality. Yet, there is a complete calm that falls over me when I am finally forced to succumb to the illness and allow myself to be cared for. On that day, curled up in bed in the middle of the day, watching the dust motes float in the sunlight, I knew that my mother would come to me; she would be there for me to ensure that I had everything I needed, even if she had to take a cab to get to me.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ironically, Jamie's parents took care of Duncan last week while we were away at a conference. Just hours after we had left the house, they were called to pick up Duncan from school because he complained of a stomach ache. He didn't seem particularly sick when they brought him home, but they sent him to bed to rest after a lunch of soup and grilled cheese. He was sad to have missed building a candy trebuchet in his engineering class that afternoon, and I reassured him that we can make one at home. Jamie and I agreed with his parents that the far more important issue was Duncan testing whether or not the system would work. He needed to know that the "Grandma and Grandpa unit" would pull through in case of an emergency, and as he proudly told us afterward, it did. The school reached the right people through the right channels; Grandpa navigated the sick pickup process all the way to the nurse's office, and Duncan had the security he needed to get through the rest of the week without us. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">When I truly need it, I will crawl under the heavy blankets, in the middle of the day, and watch the dust motes dance in streams of sunlight, like fairies, and remind myself that if I let go, my loved one's will catch me. Whatever I am forced to give up (these days it looks more like independence decoupaged onto control and self-reliance) is worth knowing how it feels to be completely cared for; they will come for me.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-13125173652673213842015-11-01T18:26:00.004-08:002015-11-01T18:26:48.841-08:0030 Day Writing Challenge: Day OneI picked up this 30 Day Writing Challenge on Facebook. I've been waiting for months for a good reason to restart this blog, and while this might not be the most exciting way to get writing again, it is at least a beginning.<br />
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So let's just jump in, shall we?<br />
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<u>Day One: Five Problems with Social Media</u><br />
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1. Social media can be one huge time suck. There are myriad benefits of social media, and I am sure I'll detail them later; however, it is remarkably easy to be drawn into a world that takes on greater importance than one's own life. It's difficult to turn it off and walk away. I often wonder what I would do with the time I waste on social media. Knit more? Read more books? Write? Enjoy my family?<br />
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2. I've seen a lot written lately about how social media can contribute to depression because it is so easy for us to compare ourselves to others and leave ourselves lacking. This is a tendency I already have - the propensity to be self-critical, and social media gives me yet another a mirror to hold in front of myself to criticize my every action.<br />
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3. Social media makes it easier for people to say things to others that they would be unlikely to say in person. It provides a sort of buffer between real life and fiction; it gives us a wall to hide behind. I have fallen prey to such digital extroversion myself but have also seen it in others. It distances us from our words so that we feel it is our right to say anything.<br />
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4. We risk opening our lives to an invasion of privacy that we would otherwise guard against.<br />
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5. It is increasingly well documented that too much screen time can negatively affect us in many ways, including disruptive sleep patterns, contributing to sensory overload, and preventing us from engaging in more mindful activities. Although social media is certainly not the only culprit, it does provide us with yet another reason to spend time on a screen rather than interacting in our own real lives.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-64200416874677656192013-03-12T08:11:00.001-07:002013-03-12T08:11:33.268-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
What's in Your Stash?</div>
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(I apologize for the mediocre camera photo. The weather has been so gloomy lately that I can't take a decent picture anyway.)</div>
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<span class="s1">Lately, I’ve been finding that I have things to say...things to say...to knitters. I spend a lot of my Facebook time talking about knitting, posting my works in progress, and apologizing to the nonknitters, who take it in stride and enjoy the quirkiness of knitterly language. Then I remembered. I have a blog for that!</span></div>
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<span class="s1">When I first started this blog, I honestly believed that I would write about knitting. I was a novice knitter at the time, but I enjoyed reading a lot of knitting blogs. It made sense to me that I would want to write about knitting too. In a fashion that I would call typical, my interest in knitting waxed and waned over the years, and the number of posts about knitting was minuscule. I have enjoyed writing about myriad other things, such as my parenting experiences and my attempts to live a more ecological, sustainable lifestyle. Lately, I haven’t written much of anything (even though I wanted to), and I hadn’t knit much of anything either. Then, at New Year’s, I resolved to “knit the stash.” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">If you are not a knitter, you are probably in the wrong place...then again...you may have landed here to read about my adventures with kohlrabi or life without paper towels. “The stash” refers to a knitter’s library of lovely yarn purchased over the years. Sometimes, it is yarn purchased for a particular purpose - that hat that I plan to knit Aunt Bertha. Sometimes, it is yarn that has been donated or given to the knitter. Sometimes, it is souvenir yarn; the hank of Berrocco I bought on vacation in Cape Cod; whatever I bought because I couldn’t afford the Swan’s Island when I was in Camden, ME. Some knitters, the kind who have REAL knitting blogs, and podcasts, and vlogs, have garages full of yarn; odd balls for scarves, 20 skeins for sweaters, 20 for an afghan. I probably have about 2 large storage bins of yarn that is “stashed” (see...sometimes word origins are so obvious) in various places throughout the house (and not in storage bins, obviously, that would be too orderly). It doesn’t matter how much yarn is in a knitter’s stash, however; it is always simultaneously too little and too much. It takes up space, we are not actually knitting it, and it evokes feelings of guilt. But we enter a yarn store, see something lovely online, run into some locally sourced homespun at the farmer’s market, and suddenly we don’t have enough yarn. We. Need. More. It is a knitter’s Murphy’s Law that s/he will find the perfect pattern but lack both the yarn and needles necessary to knit that pattern. Patterns for the yarns in the stash, obviously, are impossible to find.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">My resolution to knit the stash involves several goals. One of them relates to Christmas gifts that may or may not happen, but so far, it’s happening! The others are more transparent. I enjoy knitting; it calms my brain, it can challenge me or reassure me, and it keeps my hands busy so I don’t eat as many Goldfish crackers. Therefore, I should do more of it. My third goal for knitting the stash is to reduce the amount of yarn in the house, which leads, naturally, to goal number four, which is to save money by knitting the yarn that is already in the house. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">So far, I’m about 1 for 4 with these goals. I have been KNITTING! I have not only begun projects but FINISHED THEM! Some of them will stay close to home (an ear flap hat for the boy, bright orange fingerless mitts for me) and others (Sh!) have gone straight into “The Christmas Box.” As I completed projects, I got some of my knitting mojo back. I’m a little more comfortable challenging myself and trying new things. That little bit of lace at the top of the fingerless mitts? LOVED it! The hole-y, messy thumb gussets in my orange mitts? Learned from! Now I think the thumb gusset is one of the most beautiful, ingenious inventions in the knitting world. (Knitters are saying “You should try socks again...” I know. I will feel exactly the same way about turning a heel). Knitting makes me happy; I like to do it, look at pictures of it, read about it, and listen to podcasts about it. I’m so happy to have it back in my life. If you are a nonknitter, you are probably thinking that I am making wild progress in working through the stash. Well, no. The more I knit, the more the stash grows. A new pattern needs new needles and new yarn. The yarn I have? Not right for anything. Will I give it up? NO WAY! It’s perfect! Knitting things for people? Score. Getting yarn out of the house? Not so much. Saving money? Ha ha ha ha ha. Um. No.</span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-81938368090240409732012-05-07T17:42:00.000-07:002012-05-07T17:42:19.144-07:00Love Is Cage Free EggsUsually, my husband and I do our grocery shopping together. It may sound like a waste of time, but it works for us. He keeps me honest and somewhat frugal, and I remember to buy things I've forgotten to add to the grocery list, like sweet potatoes and juice boxes. On Sunday, Jamie went shopping alone; we had returned from a weekend away, and Duncan was exhausted, strung out, and asked to stay home. Sometimes, it's eye opening to see what he brings home when I am not around to influence his purchases. This week's revealing item was cage free eggs; those cage free eggs spelled love.<br />
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If you're landing here for the first time, you need to know that I have spent the last several years slowly, steadily, determinedly encouraging my family to reduce their impact on the environment. We joined a CSA, stopped using paper towels and napkins, and committed to packing waste-free lunches. I stealthily joined the Meatless Monday movement and stretched my flexitarian lifestyle to include meatless Tuesday. I made it a practice to bake my own bread for our weekly grilled cheese night and started making soup instead of buying it in cans. We took a hard look at our recycling practices and endeavored to be the best recyclers we could be; we started composting. We've made a lot of changes, and we know now that we have a lot to go, but we work at it every day.<br />
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Working on our food choices has been a long adventure. Ultimately, I'm trying to feed my family more local food, less processed food, and less but more humane meat. It is not a perfect world, but we try. I have been buying most of our meat from the farmers' market or from a local, organic farm; when I can, I buy eggs from the farmers' market or I buy the most local options available in the grocery store. This weekend, Jamie returned with two dozen cage free eggs. I know they cost more; I'm sure he doesn't understand why I care about the chickens, and I'm not going to launch into a diatribe about the lives of the typical, "factory" laying chicen. But the truth is, I DO care about the chickens. Jamie could have bought any eggs. We had a rough week; I wasn't going to complain about his egg choices. He may have to live with my choices, particularly in what we bring home from the grocery store, but I don't believe it's my business to criticize his. Nevertheless, there they are. Cage free eggs. He had heard my concern for the lives of the chickens, the healthfulness of the eggs, and the carbon footprint of our food.<br />
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To you, they may just be eggs. Cage free eggs in biodegradable cartons. To me, they're love.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-82555159806379867682012-05-07T17:04:00.002-07:002012-05-07T17:04:55.691-07:00No ApologiesThere will be no apologies; no excuses. If I were to decide to explain my absence, list the myriad things that were assigned a higher priority, or in any way attempt to make a justification for my time away, I might never come back. I want to be back...so let's jump in.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15992343814509119016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4657722621338375565.post-90972020688646016332011-09-14T17:47:00.000-07:002011-09-14T17:47:02.189-07:00Back to School!I have a lot of summer left to write about. You know me well enough by now to know that it may or may not happen. I hope it does because there were a lot of lovely things in the second have of the summer. For now, though, I thought I'd give a quick update about Kindergarten. Duncan started a week ago, and things have been going well. Three of his friends from Little Professors are in his Kindergarten class, which helped the transition a lot. Each day I have asked him if he learned any of the other kids' names; each day he says he has not. Today, however, he told be he made a new (nameless) friend, and then I watched them walk into school together, hand-in-hand. He's enjoying the "specials" (art, physical education, music, library, and something called "project adventure"). He claims that he hasn't "learned" anything, but I'm not sure I trust that assessment. Tonight at dinner we were playing "what was your best thing that happened today" and "what was the worst." To the latter, Duncan responded "Nothing." I asked "So there was nothing today you didn't like?" "No," he reassured me. I think that's a great statement about how Kindergarten is going!<br />
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First day pictures: <br />
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