tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82362102024-03-13T04:19:37.703-06:00On Bright StreetThere's no place like home.
There's no place like home.
There's no place like home.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger711125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-17315627061886468142018-07-24T09:58:00.003-06:002018-07-24T10:12:18.471-06:00Blessed honored pioneersYesterday was a workout, full of tension, anxiety, and release. As I was going to sleep last night, I had an inspiration: “Start the day with the morning devotional.” The idea is familiar to me, and in the past I’ve bookmarked it, but never taken action and made it a serious practice. This morning, on Pioneer Day, I made a start and a commitment to myself to work it in somehow, and already I’m pleased with how it’s shaping my day.<br />
<br />
Yep, I am a descendent of people who were “Mormon pioneers.” I’ve also come from people who pioneered in other times and places by surviving and stopping cycles of addiction and abuse; by embracing new faith and unfamiliar ways, and making strenuous journeys within the walls of their ordinary homes, rather than through the dust and miles of a wild nation. I’m proud of all the members of my families who’ve in one way or another pushed on, faced fears and darkness and resistance, and stretched toward the light of hope. I honor them today, and I’m grateful I took some personal time to sing and study and pray and reflect. I’m interested in making morning devotional a daily practice, even if it’s only for just a handful of minutes before the usual craziness of the day begins.<br />
<br />
To all pioneers, past, present, and future, I offer my respect and gratitude for your spirit of continuing and for your beautiful and imperfect courage. I want to be like you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-10292288879164137162018-06-18T22:20:00.000-06:002018-06-18T22:20:39.866-06:00Reasons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
1- Three cicadas came into my house this afternoon, on a stick brought home from the canyon by a happy hiker who shall remain nameless. “They’re on their way out,” he said, meaning out of this world, as in they’re near the end of their life cycle and they’ll soon be on their way to Bug Heaven. By this evening all three had defied the captor’s logic and gone off exploring in our house. This one was found, and we each took a turn holding him-her-they. The cicada resisted being taken outside and left in a tree and kept flying back onto Rob’s shirt. Finally, I encouraged it onto a green branch and it stayed. There are still two cicadas somewhere in my house.<br />
<br />
2- Watching The Incredibles 2, for free, in a lounge chair theater. I fell under the Pixar spell, as I always do. <a href="https://www.npr.org/2018/06/15/619253624/in-pixars-first-female-directed-short-a-dumpling-child-fills-an-empty-nest" target="_blank">The pre-show short, Bao</a>, had me in tears. The feature, of course, was excellent, such good storytelling and execution. It’s probably strange how much gratitude I feel for Brad Bird, but I love his vision, and his creative integrity. He and his collaborators add to the collective joy in this world. If I were counting up reasons to keep on living, I would put seeing Brad Bird’s films-yet-to-be on the list, and not too far from the top, no kidding. Thank you to <a href="https://smartystreets.com/" target="_blank">SmartyStreets</a> for letting Rob and me share some seats in your private Cinemark screening today.<br />
<br />
3- Clean water<br />
<br />
4- Mexican Coke<br />
<br />
5- Nice aunties and uncles who love Moxie<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-72189667982945075432018-06-18T14:03:00.000-06:002018-06-18T21:07:48.400-06:00True confessionsDo you live near me? Like, next door, or within earshot? If so, I want to apologize for the ungodly sounds that likely passed through the windows and walls of my home this morning. I had a breakdown, and it came out in wretched gut-emptying cries and screams, waves upon crashing waves of them. I could not hold them back. I’m sorry to anyone who experienced any part of it: Rob, and maybe unlucky you. In case you’re worried, Moxie was not present, and only saw a couple of my quieter tears fall before the real trouble began.<br />
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I don’t write this to make you uncomfortable, or to be an exhibitionist, but to be honest. I’d like to be able to go on like nothing happened. I’d like to think that nobody shared in the upset this morning, but since as I sit here by my window now, hearing a child’s little voice from more than half a block away, and the front door of a house being shut somewhere, and the rap of a hammer one of my distant neighbors is using to fix a thing, I can only imagine that my volume and vehemence likewise carried on the breeze, to my shame. </div>
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<br /></div>
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This is not a new feeling. Early on in my marriage, I had some deep issues rise to the surface and really shock me, and there were times when Vesuvian emotions erupted. Always there followed the burning fear that someone had heard me (or us) passing through my hell, and sometimes people did. The worry of it only compounded the terror and the shame of whatever I was going through. I could almost hear devils laughing at me and my distress, and my pain which had been so gracelessly broadcast to the world. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I am coming out of the worst of this now, and I’m trying to put myself back together. Moxie is playing in the shop with Rob while he works, and I’m locked in the bathroom, deciding to come clean, as it were. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
It got so bad today that I found myself hyperventilating, sinking, starting to black out. I lay down on the cold chipped tile of the kitchen floor and tried to slow my breathing and the pounding of my heart. When the hot lava had all been spewed out and its flow was slowing, I kept still there a long while, then fragments of prayer began to form in my head. I talked to God in broken bits of language about feeling lonely, disordered, ignorant, unskilled, and disconnected. A scripture came to my mind: “He hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him there is no beauty that we should desire him.” —Isaiah 53:2 That scripture is about Jesus Christ, the sweetest, strongest, and most perfected of us all! And yet He felt what I feel.<br />
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There wasn’t much else that came to me, except that as I lay there, recovering, I was reminded that I have words. Maybe they aren’t educated or imaginative, my words, but I have been given something of a gift of expression with writing. Their main purpose may only be therapy for me. Occasionally I know they’ve helped me share something of value with others. Words. There was no divine negation of the validity of my feelings, not a hint of correction. In the stillness, on the ground, I breathed and understood that I had two things going for me: I have a Brother who knows what I feel, and I have some words.<br />
<br />
This is why I’m writing now, because it’s what I’m able to do. I hope you find something about this useful.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Who hath believed our report? and to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?<br />
2 For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.<br />
3 He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.<br />
4 Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.<br />
5 But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.</blockquote>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-55198575268981168672018-06-18T00:22:00.001-06:002018-06-18T00:30:59.372-06:00Three years and three months later<center>
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<br />
As Father’s Day 2018 comes to a close, I’m wearing earbuds while I read and write in bed, listening to my MaMuse station on Pandora. Rob is snoring softly beside me. Moxie is asleep in her own bed downstairs, having been carried there after catching the train to Slumberland from the parental bed station. I wish I were eating homemade pot stickers, the ones I added to the extended family pot luck earlier this evening. I’d never made them from scratch before—a keeper recipe.<br />
<br />
I miss the family I came from. I’m thankful for the dear people I’ve gained through marriage, adoption, and plain friendship.<br />
<br />
Look at this. I’m blogging again, Who’s really got time for writing? I certainly don’t, yet here I am. Seems like nobody even reads blogs these days. So I guess I’ll be talking to myself, mainly.<br />
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Foods of a day spent celebrating Rob and our dads:<br />
Shaved ice made from peach nectar<br />
Banana yogurt breakfast parfaits with squares of orange chocolate<br />
Rhubarb custard pies, one beautiful, and one that couldn’t make custard without the forgotten eggs<br />
Beef pot stickers<br />
Thai curry popcorn<br />
Root beer floats at church<br />
Pot luck at Ahma’s house and the plate of food I had to abandons<br />
A bag of Gin Gins for Rob<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-9967034781239632302015-03-20T23:30:00.000-06:002015-03-21T08:03:00.285-06:00Changing seasons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday, the last day of winter—<br />
Minutes after my forlorn little blog post, I was sitting on my front porch with Moxie, pausing after our stroller walk, when completely out of the blue, she projectile-vomited, twice, with a force so powerful I later had to clean the INSIDE of a closed wooden chest which holds our shoes. As I sat there in astonishment, at the epicenter of the spew, I stripped mucky Moxie down and yelled for help from Rob, who just happened to be in the house at the time. Careful to keep his feet on dry land, he laughingly reached across the gorge and rescued our little puker from the great puddle that was once my lap. He kept on laughing as he took her into the bedroom to change her diaper and get her comfortably pajama-ed while I took care of the damage. <br />
<br />
About the time I got the floor mopped up and the furniture clean I heard a loud exclamation. Still covered with barf, I ran in to find Rob hunched over a naked, startled baby Moxie on our bed, and pulling all four corners of her changing pad up around her. He was paralyzed. I knew exactly what had happened. "Geyser?" I asked. "She's in a pool of pee!" he cried desperately. "Grab something! Help!" I brought in a towel. We managed to make a less than devastating transfer; the bed only got wet on his side. Heh.<br />
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So this was a first—it was Moxie's first complex blowout. I know there's still room for another level of achievement, but hey, a 2-in-1 is impressive. And a funny way to conclude Mama's bout of personal melancholy.<br />
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Today, the first day of spring—<br />
I got the last paper, a medical form, filled out and signed and turned in to the agency. There's nothing more to do now except drive to the courthouse Monday with my people, pay some legal fees, stand before the judge and smile and cry as he pronounces us a legal family. WHAT!<br />
<br />
Moxie and I went a-thrifting, and found us each a good outfit to wear to court on Monday, and only spent $12. Hey!<br />
<br />
Rob and Moxie and I attended the annual Book Collectors' Conference luncheon at BYU. Rob prints their keepsake every year, and this year he also taught a workshop on lino cuts. It was nice to see some friendly familiar faces, and to introduce them to our little party crasher.<br />
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We three spent the afternoon together. We visited the South Valley pound and pondered dog ownership AGAIN, considered adopting a hulking backyard bunny that looked like a dalmation, and watched with great interest as a prison inmate and one of the medical staff chased down a hellcat that flew out of its cage when someone opened the door to refresh its water. Have you ever watched an angry cat go insane escaping and run up walls?<br />
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We went on a ramble down Spanish Fork way. First, we got hooked by a promising sign that said HUGE ESTATE SALE and gave directions. We drove and drove, following more signs in this series, and after about a dozen arrows and maybe that many meandering miles, we found ourselves in Woodland Hills, up against the mountain. A nice place, forested, with a beautiful view and some good houses. But the estate sale? Cruddy leather couches, an old Pfaff, lampshades and worn out Mormon vinyl lps: Osmonds, MoTabs, Carpenters. Lots of beige and plaid. We were duped! But it was fun anticipating the treasures we didn't find. And it was interesting exploring that area.<br />
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We found an antique store we hadn't been in for some years, bought a small cheerful treasure. Discovered that Moxie seems to like creepy old dolls. Anything with a face, maybe, but the antique dollies appeared to capture her interest most. What does it mean? We'll have to pay a visit to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/CatsCradleAntiques" target="_blank">Cat's Cradle Antiques</a> soon to test her tolerance.<br />
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Finished off our time with BYU Creamery burgers and fries then headed for home. Rob and Moxie were both such great company today. Our little girl was bright and in great spirits all day and we all laughed together a lot. The world is beautiful right now with all its blooming and bursting. The only downside to this kind of fun day is that it has to end—Rob has to work late, and Moxie is peeved that she is called upon to sleep. Oh well, still worth it. A few rounds of reading, singing, fighting against the zzzs, succumbing, waking, crying and yelling, and I got her settled, for the night, finally, with kisses and promises that we'll have another day in a few hours.<br />
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I worked on a project while my people both worked on their own, and at the end of my day, I dipped into my "creative account" and ordered two instruments online. If you're still reading this travelogue, can you guess what they are?<br />
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It was a good first day of a new season. It feels like a party when the world begins coming to life. Makes me want to sing. Or make <i>something</i> sing.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-61060929701788882422015-03-19T18:42:00.001-06:002015-03-21T00:41:06.509-06:00Mothers need mothers<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">I have gotten a later start than some on mothering, but my hope and plans are to keep myself clear-minded, able-bodied, and strong enough to love well for a long, long time to come. If Moxie has a child herself one day, there will be times when she cries for her own mother's comfort and wishes for familiar relief and support, and maybe perspective. I want to be able to give her that relationship, in the flesh. I want to remember what the good times and the hard times feel like, so she'll have an empathetic friend in me. Even if she doesn't have a child—of course! But right now I'm having specially keen grandmotherly visions because I miss my own mama so much. I wish she would come walking through my front door. Mothering is kicking my butt. Yes, I love it. It shreds me some days. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-76360671277018544352015-03-17T23:30:00.000-06:002015-03-18T01:18:34.759-06:00Around my heart in 181 daysThis is fun:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.timeanddate.com/date/duration.html">http://www.timeanddate.com/date/duration.html</a><br />
<br />
I always liked playing with calculators. My folks bought me a fancy one for high school that did all sorts of great higher math tricks, plus it could spell—it was during the time when it was a popular game to make words out of numbers. Did anyone else do this, or am I the only one who geeked out making a Texas Instruments Scientific say HELLO?<br />
<br />
Key in 0.7734 and turn your calculator upside down. See? Fun. Sadly, this probably won't work with your smartphone, but if you can find an old calculator in your parents' junk drawer, you can teach it to say words like <i>hillbillies</i>, <i>legless</i>, <i>oozes</i>, and—hey!—even my name, <i>Geo</i>.<br />
<br />
Here's a list of possibilities to get you started:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.presentandcorrect.com/blog/250-words-you-can-spell-with-a-calculator">http://www.presentandcorrect.com/blog/250-words-you-can-spell-with-a-calculator</a><br />
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So there's this beautiful baby in my life—my ladyfriend, my small woman, my seedling, my Mighty Mox, my daughter. I wake her up in the morning and she smiles hilariously. I spend the day feeding and caring for her, teaching her, playing with her, and trying to solve the great puzzle of mothering, and she accepts many of my efforts. I sing her to sleep at night, poor little thing! She practices talking (through a megaphone?) in the middle of the night. She is a funny, intelligent, delightful creature. And today she turned six months old! That's 181 days! I've been there for every one so far. She's circled my heart countless times since September and I am bound, captured. It's joy to love this child and to watch her become herself. I do not have words to express the depth of gratitude I feel for the opportunity to be a wife and mother. I'm glad my husband and I are making this journey together.<br />
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Next Monday morning, Rob and Moxie and I will go to court and be able to finalize this adoption. We thought we were going to have to wait till late April, but we just learned that we can shave a month off that expectation. Standing before the judge will be a small moment, but one that changes history for all of us, forever.<br />
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This is a great age, six months. There's so much discovery. I'm amazed at the rapid, solid way little humans grow and learn. Moxie's projects today were, with my help, practicing pulling herself up to sitting and balancing, and, without my help, finding new items to snatch while playing in her walker. Yesterday it was just a dish towel that hung on the fridge door. Today it was the dish towel, an outgoing box of thrift store donations, magazines, books, and her daddy's bathrobe. Luckily, I got to the bathroom garbage can before she did. I'm surprised to have to start babyproofing so early, but hey, it just means she's becoming capable and independent, right? Naps and spoons are becoming more familiar. Drinking (or something like it) from our water glasses, and tongue-scrubs are favorite fascinations. Nose-wiping results in thrashing wails, but the nose-sucker, now that's entertainment. I give her a chance at the piano most days, while she sits on my lap. Today she attacked the keys with enormous enthusiasm, giving them her best pounding yet and throwing her whole little force into making those sounds. She likes to dance with me and ride around on me, supervising and grabbing at whatever I lay my hands to. She gets excited about books as well and would like to devour them.<br />
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This is typical; all babies do these kinds of things. But HOW INCREDIBLE IS IT THAT I, OF ALL PEOPLE, GET TO BE HERE, EXPERIENCING THIS. My mind is forever blown and I want to savor all of it I can.<br />
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I can't count as high as my amazement. I'm going to need one powerful calculator to help me add up all the good words: <i>belle</i>, <i>bibs</i>, <i>blesses</i>, <i>bliss</i>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-44860494098745340392015-03-17T01:03:00.000-06:002015-03-17T01:04:56.106-06:00I think I want to blog again. Is it okay, to start again AGAIN? I've let seven months pass without a post. Is this finally a dead blog? Should I let it rest in peace? Do I need to move away from Bright Street and find myself some new digs? I mean, I am a mother now. I AM A MOTHER, PEOPLE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I'M TELLING YOU?<br />
<br />
Neither do I.<br />
<br />
This is a blog post. I am blogging. Maybe I'll blog here a while longer, or maybe soon I'll give you directions to a new home for some of my words.<br />
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Meanwhile, three things:<br />
<ol>
<li>Armed with a bulb syringe you CAN win battles against bubbling baby snots. </li>
<li>Something about dividing your meal with an unexpected guest feels a little sacred.</li>
<li>How did it get to be 1:00 in the morning? No wonder I'm tired. </li>
</ol>
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Tomorrow my baby girl turns six months old. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I'M TELLING YOU? I AM A MOTHER, PEOPLE.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-78460204805582453952014-08-16T23:18:00.003-06:002014-08-16T23:35:52.940-06:00Surprises<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVRV__jWUd9zphQCflaB25RrooOpXJx6zZQVfN6widMIWBDj7J8vBnilib_rAkevLNUvdm5KFNjIkjczQbHFmQnWNC8QWEDut9eTrMY_3ekMdoKdKmlVYHt5_MSM7o2-41HShLw/s1600/blogger-image--1416501902.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVRV__jWUd9zphQCflaB25RrooOpXJx6zZQVfN6widMIWBDj7J8vBnilib_rAkevLNUvdm5KFNjIkjczQbHFmQnWNC8QWEDut9eTrMY_3ekMdoKdKmlVYHt5_MSM7o2-41HShLw/s1600/blogger-image--1416501902.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Surprise #1: Happy balloons & a mysterious note.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5p9zZ6HMAhy5Qw_1Pn79gWayWg47Cv6KcH96CAVJ_9hLmIEARmHif4Mvj3zZaT9LFWMEPDgcQ5QA6Np0S3lU_L9qqqtyS6DuL1ntdip6yrwNk3JfL2hFNwcHqOqnT-y5x0WKxQ/s1600/blogger-image--836478259.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5p9zZ6HMAhy5Qw_1Pn79gWayWg47Cv6KcH96CAVJ_9hLmIEARmHif4Mvj3zZaT9LFWMEPDgcQ5QA6Np0S3lU_L9qqqtyS6DuL1ntdip6yrwNk3JfL2hFNwcHqOqnT-y5x0WKxQ/s1600/blogger-image--836478259.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fess up, you mysterious note-writer. <br />
We've been analyzing your handwriting and love your dry humor. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5Ay-WIR1TXoEDIMMB3-XVubkkSGLvNzoSFaIBnbsc4dvSLf6Y9n5WXZrEcdPgsj1mrcMBKvqFm9hPh9AuIZfUCvNE_tuvoBmbE68_iuHMoxtO2zwEH0jKBYVfFV7P2ED37g7Wg/s1600/blogger-image-461949845.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5Ay-WIR1TXoEDIMMB3-XVubkkSGLvNzoSFaIBnbsc4dvSLf6Y9n5WXZrEcdPgsj1mrcMBKvqFm9hPh9AuIZfUCvNE_tuvoBmbE68_iuHMoxtO2zwEH0jKBYVfFV7P2ED37g7Wg/s1600/blogger-image-461949845.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Surprise #2: There's a porta-potty parked in front of my house. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Surprise #3: Pretty flowers and a thoughtful note from friends.<br />
Thank you, Bairds! </td></tr>
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Not pictured: The nicest surprise of all—going for a drive in the Uintas with Rob and enjoying three more hours with him than we'd planned together today. Gosh, I've been missing that guy lately. Work, work, work. </div>
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A nice day. Thanks, everyone. Except for you, construction workers. I wish you'd move that porta-potty.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-1308555144767844992014-08-16T00:28:00.001-06:002014-08-16T23:34:00.494-06:00My angelsI quit my opiates cold turkey yesterday to get my head clear enough to prepare for the arrival of baby Moxie (her placeholder name till we find something permanent). Today I woke up hurting and sick and it was hard to come to life. As I lay in bed , trying to sort myself out, I got a call from my little nephew, F. He's getting into a real groove with FaceTime lately and it's fun. Last night he had his first awful migraine—they run in the family—and today he felt headachey but better. It was nice keeping each other company a while. I love my nephews and nieces.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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Early this evening, two of my nieces, the littles, came over and climbed into bed with me. (I didn't spend the whole day there, just most of it.) We talked about Moxie. They had questions. They wanted to see a picture of Moxie's biological mama. D., the older of the two little girls, said to me, "For every loss there is a gain." Isn't that a great thing to remember? And very true in this case—here I am, recovering from a hysterectomy that I didn't want, and VOILA, here comes a baby that I do. I try always to pay attention to my nieces and nephews. They are all such good people, and often wise.<br /><br />Moxie's bio mama wants her to grow up around blonde children so she'll blend in well. WE'VE GOT IT COVERED!<br /><br /><div>
I invited the girls to toss out suggestions for a baby name. A. thought of several names, most of which already belong to other beloved cousins. But she also said Rose, which set us off brainstorming flowers. I pulled The Language of Flowers down from the bookshelf and D. and I perused the possibilities while A. played one of my ukes and wrote a song—<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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Lyrics:<br />Living in the west. <br />Make a lamp. <br />Make a tent. <br />Sleep well. <br /><br />She added two more verses later—<br />I like to hike.<br />I like living by myself.<br /><br />A. serenaded us and then D. and I settled on naming the baby Bluebell Speedwell. So there you have it!<br /><br />After dinner with family, D. wanted to braid my hair—always a great activity when you find yourself with a pokey convalescent who'll do nothing but sit still for you. D. made me a fishtail—<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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Am I not a mermaid? I'm a lucky auntie, at the very least.<br /><br />I was also blessed today with a grownup visitor—my beautiful friend, Nancy. It's a rare treat to get to spend an hour with her. Her visit was a light to me and a lift, and I realized while she was talking that I've had a great ministering of angels—earthly angels—recently. Probably the other kind too. Other friends have come In person or have written loving words. A few family members have come too. These have checked in after my surgery. They showed up after I made the big announcement yesterday. They bring baby accoutrements, cheer, happy tears, sometimes laughably sober hospital faces, food, friendship and interest. I love their good energy. I love them. They don't think of themselves as angels, I imagine, but I do. And the same goes for Rob; he's an angel of mercy, the <i>goodest</i> of them all.<br /><br />God bless my angels. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-31805050773763886152014-08-14T09:16:00.001-06:002014-08-14T09:17:11.837-06:00Welcome to our worldSomething wonderful has happened, is happening, will happen. Rob and I have made a new friend. She is bright and funny, good-hearted and brave, kind, communicative and beautiful. I loved her the first moment I saw her, and even a little before that. This young vibrant woman is pregnant, and has chosen Rob and me to be the adoptive parents of the baby girl she is carrying. And we have said yes. <div><br></div><div>This child is due to arrive September 21st, but there's a good likelihood she won't wait past the end of August. We would appreciate any prayers and good thoughts you can send thisaway, to help our friend through the homestretch and beyond, and to help us prepare for and receive this unspeakably lovely gift. </div><div><br></div><div>We just wanted you to know. </div><div><br></div><div>And happy anniversary to us. August 14th—it's an auspicious day, as friends told us years ago. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-68442750212858376662014-03-23T16:02:00.000-06:002014-03-23T21:07:35.939-06:00Diviner<div>
Seen at church today: During the sacrament hymn, a young family, arriving late, entered the chapel and hunted for an open pew. The little son, trudging along in plaid flannel, wore gold star stickers that covered the entire left side of his face. </div>
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I noticed another young family seated to my right. Their tiny girl charms and breaks my heart every Sunday with her moon face; she's like a mini version of a dear friend of mine. With all my heart I want this little woman to have a happier, safer childhood than my friend did. Today Moon Face was wearing glistening golden moccasins. They were magical. </div>
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And it settled into my heart, this big thought, this marching order: Search for the gold. I had the impression that every person in the room, and not in the room, had gold inside. Many times it's a treasure that's buried deeply, seemingly beyond discovery, its value concealed, but it is there. My job is to find that gold, to see it and help others see it—this was the message that came to me.</div>
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Wouldn't you think that by now, in my middle years, I'd be done wondering what I'm to do with my life? But I do wonder. It changes, and I want to know and keep my knowing fresh and new. So maybe this is part of my answer: I'm a gold diviner, a dowser of worth. Plenty of satisfaction and job security in that kind of work.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-30730710138553744352014-01-12T08:36:00.001-07:002014-01-12T21:32:16.763-07:00Make(r) meI'm so glad to have had a day of rest. My first thoughts this morning were about being a maker. The word is taking me over—I love it! My mind hasn't fully wrapped itself around Divine Parentage, but I do believe that I am a child of God and somehow I was made to become a maker. <div><br></div><div>My early prayers centered on this inborn power, this trust—making, creating. It's compelling stuff. I want to make—the bed (for a change)! Breakfast! Friends. Love—in all its meanings. Space and environments. Sanctuary. The list is long. What I don't want to make are purchases—I want no imaginary debts accrued and no strings attached when I make, when I give. Making has the potential to be its own reward. It's a power, but one which loses its strength if used to manipulate. Trying to buy favor or affection, and hoping to obligate someone, for instance, both fly in the face of honest making and cancel out the joy of it. </div><div><br></div><div>What a wonderful mysterious thing to have been made in the image of the Divine. What an enlivening challenge to wake up and realize I have right now to carry on that lasting and heavenly purpose, to choose to remake myself moment by moment in that same eternal image. It was done for me in the beginning so I could become a maker myself, a chooser, a builder, under the kind guidance of a loving Creator. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-36721980064515608322013-11-26T11:53:00.001-07:002013-11-27T07:08:13.205-07:00"I perceive that ye are weak"This morning when I woke up, I made an agreement with myself to stay in bed till I'd spent some time with the scriptures. This is an area of my attention that's gone lacking recently, and I feel a difference—layers of a certain kind of loneliness and vulnerability creeping in. So, I plugged in my SAD light for the first time this season, aimed it at my face and opened the Book of Mormon—a double-whammy of light intended to brighten my spirit. <div><br></div><div>I read a passage from 3 Nephi 17, which is part of the story of Jesus' visit to the ancient people of the American continent. I picked up the story at the point where Jesus is wrapping up a full day of teaching and is saying goodbye—he's scheduled to check in with the Father and then continue teaching elsewhere.</div><div><br></div><div>He tells the people, "I perceive that ye are weak, that ye cannot understand all my words which I am commanded of the Father to speak unto you at this time. Therefore, go ye unto your homes and ponder upon the things which I have said, and ask of the Father, in my name, that ye may understand, and prepare your minds for the morrow, and I come unto you again." A few concepts leap out at me in the 2nd and 3rd verses. </div><div><br></div><div>WEAK. These people aren't strong in understanding and can't take in all at once the abundance that's available to them. The Lord gets that and has a plan to kindly help with that weakness. I share their weakness, and feel grateful to be similarly treated with patience, understanding and encouragement. </div><div><br></div><div>HOME. The first thing to do is go home. Where is home? What is home? Is it a place? Is it a condition, or a mindset? I feel at home when I'm in quiet places that are nurturing and restful to my mind—out in nature, the temple, the library—but usually the strongest feelings of home come to me in my own house, my shared space with Rob, my personal creative sanctuary. It makes sense that retreating to home would be the first step in remedying weakness. </div><div><br></div><div>PONDER. The next step is to meditate, examine, use my own powers of perception and reasoning and give them a workout. Sit with a teaching I've received—live with it, try it on. Imagine, reflect. Practice and watch. </div><div><br></div><div>ASK. Two heads are better than one, especially when one of those heads is all-knowing and all-loving. There are times when I resist this dynamic, but when I am thinking clearly I appreciate that learning and growing stronger calls for steady conferences with the Divine. Asking questions is vital, as are praying for understanding and listening for guidance with an open mind and heart. It takes work to do this thoughtfully and sincerely, but it becomes a simpler process when I'm willing to set aside my fears, doubts, agendas and control and open myself to new ideas and change. </div><div><br></div><div>PREPARE. Processing and applying what I've learned prepare me for receiving more and makes me stronger. Committing to show up and to study prepares me. Taking care of my physical, mental, social and spiritual health prepares me. Optimism and gratitude prepare me. It's my responsibility to make my own preparations and greet the Savior each day that he comes to teach and strengthen me. And He shows up for me in one fashion or another every day that I live. </div><div><br></div><div>Enlightenment comes slowly, but to follow this pattern is to displace ignorance and error over time, and it's a beautiful process. Knowledge just can't unfold in a single day. Strength comes and is maintained only through consistent effort. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm glad I started studying again this morning. I'm expecting good things. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-66988545425831275002013-09-24T23:18:00.000-06:002013-09-25T00:20:17.625-06:00Thirteen good reports<ol>
<li>smiling black chihuahua, river-wet, disheveled, delighted</li>
<li>two olive-skinned boys in flannel, cautiously looking for a hidden fishing spot</li>
<li>sweet grassy horse breath</li>
<li>swerving to miss pedaling over wooly bears and grasshoppers</li>
<li>beautiful toothless woman working at the gas station who gave me a free coffee cup and cold water</li>
<li>September light filtering through trees </li>
<li>skin as solar panel</li>
<li>evidence of primal sidewalk chalk screams</li>
<li>going back for the $10 I forgot in the self-checkout machine's change slot, and some honest soul had turned it in to a cashier</li>
<li>writing our gratitudes at lunchtime</li>
<li>Casey Bowen's handmade soap</li>
<li>watching friends succeed at acting, directing and doing</li>
<li>THIS:</li>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-86598863164059541822013-09-24T09:40:00.000-06:002013-09-24T09:44:51.255-06:00I'm back and I'm supersized!<div class="tr_bq">
This neglected blog of mine has been trying to coax me back into the writer's seat. I've gotten pretty bummed out by Facebook and internet haps in general, and think I need to revisit my own little corner of the web, dust off the ol' keyboard and make this place habitable again. </div>
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I've got a backlog of subjects to explore, but the sunshine's so beautiful and I've been indoors too much lately, so a bike ride seems like the thing. What I will do is share a quick recipe before I pedal off into the morning light. </div>
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I made this up last week as a survival technique, following an enlightening allergy test which left me—a long-time smoothie lover—dairy-less, banana-less and sugarless (among other things). This smoothie is not as sweet as you might be accustomed to, so you may wish to add some kind of sugar. I've noticed that when I'm off sugars for a while I rediscover the more subtle flavors of foods, so I actually like not sweeting everything up, but hey, no judgement. Do what ya gotta do to make your breakfast work.</div>
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Talk to you again when the sun's finished with me. </div>
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<i>BRIGHT STREET SUPERSIZE SMOOTHIE</i></div>
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<i>1 cup frozen peaches, berries or other fruit</i></div>
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<i>Put frozen fruit, almonds, coconut flour and chia seeds into your blender. Add enough milk to bring the level of the mixture to 3 cups. Add optional items to taste. Pour smoothie into a ridiculously large glass mug from the dollar store and enjoy. Serves 1 to overflowing.</i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-47377146154791514042013-05-14T10:57:00.000-06:002013-05-14T11:00:20.274-06:00Thank you notes: blow dryer heating element failThank you, blow dryer heating element, for dying as I was getting ready to go to the DMV:<br />
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You reminded me to slow down and enjoy a cool breeze (on every setting).<br />
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You offered the illusion that I had lots of hair to dry.<br />
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You laughed at my vanity.<br />
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You protected the delicate balance of the universe by ensuring that the ancient tradition of unfortunate driver's license photos continues.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-6588747877470654242013-01-11T22:00:00.003-07:002013-01-11T22:01:41.917-07:00Climbing, clean<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Brutal day, excellent day. A serious climb. There's so much to say, but I feel deeply quiet now at the end of it all. More tomorrow, maybe. </div>
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But there is this: Thanks, Diane O., for praying to keep me safe on the road to Salt Lake and back. I'm giving you some of the credit for the fact that our meeting was canceled and we didn't have travel, but instead were able to join our incredible neighbors at the temple. Way to represent, Diane!</div>
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I'm going to my sleep tonight grateful for love, and for the renewal of my belief that no one is forgotten. Not a soul at any time or in any place is forgotten. All are known by name and by heart, and loved.</div>
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The rest can wait. Goodnight.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-36168889212689268872013-01-10T22:25:00.000-07:002013-01-10T22:25:15.968-07:00It's oh snow quiet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-36411259880268883052013-01-09T21:48:00.000-07:002013-01-09T21:49:17.388-07:00Peace and paradox<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-6428148509434191402013-01-08T09:30:00.000-07:002013-01-08T23:20:03.427-07:00Trifles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Holy Scriptures describe God's children as sheep--lost, found, wandering, black, etc.--but I've always related more to goats. </div>
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Apparently, some goats identify with other species. Not sure where that leaves me. </div>
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So, I wasn't planning an extension of yesterday's hair piece (ahem)--it was just a whim to snap and post those silly shots--but I got quite a few comments on Facebook, either in favor of my would-be shaved head or in the true spirit of nix. I wasn't implying that I'd look great with an all-out buzz. Frankly, I've got the wrong head shape for such a 'do (or should that be a 'don't?). I'm sure of this because I study bald heads. Also, I'm not in pursuit of making a statement. Plus, it's the coldest winter I've ever known in Utah, and that causes me to want to stay as well-insulated as possible.<br />
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Sure, a 100% committed buzz cut is something I've always wanted to try, for the experience. Hair is wonderful but awful too in a way. I itch to ditch the vanity and fuss of it all and see what it's like to be temporarily free of the stuff, with the option of course to quickly grow it back, through all its painful transitional stages. (Oof!) Admit it--haven't you also been curious about what it would be like to be perfectly streamlined? What, no? Really?<br />
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I could wear a wig. Is that weird? My mom and grandmother played around with wigs. Big tall beehives back in the day. Wiglets. And giant hats. Stuffed hats. Turbans. Headwear. I could love that stuff too. You've missed out on a lot of fun if you haven't gone with your girlfriends to either a wig shop or a hat shop or both and tried on some outrageous looks. You don't have to shave your hair off to enjoy that either. But what if it was critical and you had no hair, and you weren't just funnin'? Would you go for a demure natural look, or would you try for electric attention?<br />
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What I didn't bring up (or even intend to) yesterday, but some of you already know, is that from time to time I have to deal with bouts of alopecia areata, or as I call them, crop circles. It's an auto-immune disorder connected to nothing else, at least not so far as any doctors can tell. When it flares up, it takes my hair out in patches. Sometimes the patches are small and occur in places where they don't create too many problems... unless you consider the treatments I receive as problematic. I get shots. Lots and lots and lots of shots, a syringe poked repeatedly into my head. My thin trusting scalp! Is that a problem for you? Hurts me like Murder. I become Dr. B.'s human voodoo dolly.<br />
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It's been, what, two years since the last circles filled back in? I can't remember. But I was beginning to get really comfortable and believe that maybe my body had decided to be finished attacking itself. But, nope. I had a flare up last fall and it's gotten worse and worse. I now have a strong line of crop circles crossing me like a headband; it's odd the way it's organized. I think it is some kind of sign to aliens and my abduction must be imminent. The crop circles are deconstructing me and claiming acreage quickly. Already the holes like to shine out from beneath my locks, and I keep having to move my part so I don't scare the neighbors. If it keeps going this way, pretty soon the crop circles will give me a new and freakish hairline. I'm not eager for that.<br />
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So, you see, sometimes I just want to beat this thing to the punch. Fine, alopecia, you want to eat my hair? Then I'll shave it off and deny you the pleasure. Or something like that. I don't want to lose my hair, especially after the great bob I got before the holidays, but I'm getting tired of fretting and waiting.<br />
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There's also the knowing I have that when my hair does finally begin to grow back, it will come in like a prickly crown, exactly where the cursed empty headband is right now! Oh, that will be a special time. It'll be what I call a real bob-killer. I will have no use for Shep Salon. At that point, either no hair or a micro-'do will be the only styling options that will make sense.<br />
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Or, hats and scarves and turbans and wigs. Here we are again.<br />
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To buzz or not to buzz? And when? Those are the questions.<br />
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I don't want to be stymied by setbacks. There's necessary recovery time involved after every disappointment, but one of my life's intentions is to never let myself become stuck in dissatisfaction or regret. If a cake falls, I shake my fist but then I cube up its good parts, layer it with whipped cream in a pretty dish, and serve an unapologetic trifle. The oven breaks, so I learn to make stovetop breads good enough to keep on making them once the repairman comes. (Mary, the recipe is coming, just for you.) These are little ways to practice making graceful identity shifts.<br />
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It's tougher with the personal bits and pieces of me. If I am seized with a depression and my spirit sinks low, it's harder to figure out how to make the emotional equivalent of trifle, though I'm always testing recipes. If I lose my hair, no matter now much I've claimed in the past to want to disentangle myself (ahem) from vanity, how do I compensate, and who am I then? I mean, what if this time it doesn't grow back, or what if the disorder takes the whole lot (it can happen)? Yeah, it's only attacking my looks (and perhaps my body temperature), but I would be a big liar if I said I didn't care about that.<br />
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It's not about a temporary buzz cut. It's not even about alopecia. It's about identity. Who am I? Who do I think I am? What will I do and who will I be if what I'd planned for or just assumed would happen falls through? Maybe ultimately it's not about identity either, but it's about patience and a willingness to do, rather than be.<br />
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I may be onto something, or I may have just talked myself into a nonsense corner. I think I ought to take a vacation from my own thoughts for a while, maybe watch some Netflix.<br />
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Anyway, I hope that if I'm a goat, I can be glad of whatever voice comes out of me, and if I make chicken sounds and others laugh, I hope I can laugh with them. If aliens abduct all my hair, not just long enough for a few strange haircuts, but for good, and my eyebrows too, I hope I can get some kicks out of wearing a wild wig and snatching it off by turns to startle the general public. I hope I can knit myself some fabulous options. I hope I can afford to commission some artist to landscape my head like a brave new world.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RJ_00jZPww0/T-BF2CZAUMI/AAAAAAAAAfs/ONqwMTq1pdE/s1600/Knitted-hair-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RJ_00jZPww0/T-BF2CZAUMI/AAAAAAAAAfs/ONqwMTq1pdE/s320/Knitted-hair-6.jpg" width="226" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From: <a href="http://hairisforpulling.blogspot.com/2012/06/knit-wigs.html" target="_blank">Hair is for Pulling</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jwbhBLQCVmw/T-BF1SNnbFI/AAAAAAAAAfk/nM11bKK_y2s/s1600/Knitted-hair-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jwbhBLQCVmw/T-BF1SNnbFI/AAAAAAAAAfk/nM11bKK_y2s/s320/Knitted-hair-2.jpg" width="226" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From: <a href="http://hairisforpulling.blogspot.com/2012/06/knit-wigs.html" target="_blank">Hair is for Pulling</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-37092813861840435102013-01-07T18:29:00.000-07:002013-01-07T18:29:46.805-07:00Might shave itReally, I might. <br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-47657700469865013562013-01-06T23:00:00.000-07:002013-01-07T00:06:16.972-07:00Cross-eyed and scrambled<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A long good day. Zzz.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-16698809699252946142013-01-05T22:10:00.001-07:002013-01-05T22:38:20.033-07:00O, tidings oven comfort and joyOur oven quit just in time for the holidays, refusing to heat above 95 degrees. I spent December experimenting with crock pot and stovetop baking. Experienced a couple of epic fails, but I did manage to make some tasty tin can yeast loaves; a right appetizing little birthday cake for my sister-in-law, Amy; and what will henceforth and forever be one of our house specials: a terrific and versatile white wheat stovetop bread that can be savory or sweet or stuffed. I'm pretty proud of my first-world survival skills. I did no Christmas baking this year, but on the upside, that did simplify my life.<br />
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Still. When a repairman came to my house a couple days ago and fixed the oven, it didn't take me long to warm up to it again (har har). Two mornings in a row now we've had celebratory Swedes for breakfast, another of our favorites. (Scroll down for my recipe.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0yMRLXGe6Uspp8grckVD__AVIRZEF9vZSe7YSPxjH5v4SwGchyphenhyphentZwCDer00ITUQmmmCPKb8kpkatHX43ow7frMtxP7YFkZKw-QYZEISwimcEj2KDgAqyaOJ9MtEN7V5cDG7XaA/s640/blogger-image-1974965902.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0yMRLXGe6Uspp8grckVD__AVIRZEF9vZSe7YSPxjH5v4SwGchyphenhyphentZwCDer00ITUQmmmCPKb8kpkatHX43ow7frMtxP7YFkZKw-QYZEISwimcEj2KDgAqyaOJ9MtEN7V5cDG7XaA/s400/blogger-image-1974965902.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swedes: Make this.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP2YYHFMbRQs3qfS7pOy9Gs9hXzqFWl20Tkj14AMrGO-HnIWh1naV67BuJaprN1ChqkLm49HGTZad97RQt95Kbq4OAM4E2st0g4x54y6VKuKOZJFuYkUkFm9-tVAj2Ss70kncoOQ/s640/blogger-image-1167580035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP2YYHFMbRQs3qfS7pOy9Gs9hXzqFWl20Tkj14AMrGO-HnIWh1naV67BuJaprN1ChqkLm49HGTZad97RQt95Kbq4OAM4E2st0g4x54y6VKuKOZJFuYkUkFm9-tVAj2Ss70kncoOQ/s400/blogger-image-1167580035.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smother like this.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAfbgNtxS3QbKUpa9OtHdn-HYI9OB9LorSJtfo6-BXQFISqgSsmD7PblMC8vvEP9Alxavz0E-KUUjBRxMXnkSvdRynm5ebA6pgt0_qkHPLSwkXT5HFS5RmnCYY6ZMQnJHHmJqDbw/s640/blogger-image--223171258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAfbgNtxS3QbKUpa9OtHdn-HYI9OB9LorSJtfo6-BXQFISqgSsmD7PblMC8vvEP9Alxavz0E-KUUjBRxMXnkSvdRynm5ebA6pgt0_qkHPLSwkXT5HFS5RmnCYY6ZMQnJHHmJqDbw/s400/blogger-image--223171258.jpg" width="299" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Experience joy and renewal.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIC9EltzxKHcNzDTUqxE4h3u8Xj28HzY8s-N3jvFDzGOF5HSFc2q1rSN2ug233X05O0MTQNKj0H9X6oSR9sl0jcokDzPvowkvBBlISq0zJ41ZATJjpwOyQ51iXG5IlamCjOuf-iQ/s640/blogger-image--1700010214.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIC9EltzxKHcNzDTUqxE4h3u8Xj28HzY8s-N3jvFDzGOF5HSFc2q1rSN2ug233X05O0MTQNKj0H9X6oSR9sl0jcokDzPvowkvBBlISq0zJ41ZATJjpwOyQ51iXG5IlamCjOuf-iQ/s400/blogger-image--1700010214.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now you're ready to smile at the world.</td></tr>
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Do you think the old lady readers make me look like a librarian?</div>
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Also. Here is proof that the age of miracles has not passed. Behold, the stovetop birthday cake (but please ignore the DIY ghetto cake stand):</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimKkfut0f_FaWs2qIsJ1RtFmMnTSty5ibnPRm0sekVbLwqzZRrPJMnY4CDpHnQH5r899W3OUrqy7_RD3wuUL3djigJMFHqb7CtaIEWVvLkPzEeqO2jUG2W2pX5v-r595TvuEotNA/s1600/stovetopcake.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimKkfut0f_FaWs2qIsJ1RtFmMnTSty5ibnPRm0sekVbLwqzZRrPJMnY4CDpHnQH5r899W3OUrqy7_RD3wuUL3djigJMFHqb7CtaIEWVvLkPzEeqO2jUG2W2pX5v-r595TvuEotNA/s400/stovetopcake.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looks good enough to eat.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9c5BYui8au89rhExvEYUN6YNG_4Tu1NPJWArnWYOfZKvcpeNdcp20orfzu9Xyw4gef9lllxoT4TVawQh2sZCzqKKAvsFJiG-HK27n3kqb9Cox1UtQeMq_PCP04llI1PzjFvnGg/s1600/stovetopcakehispta.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9c5BYui8au89rhExvEYUN6YNG_4Tu1NPJWArnWYOfZKvcpeNdcp20orfzu9Xyw4gef9lllxoT4TVawQh2sZCzqKKAvsFJiG-HK27n3kqb9Cox1UtQeMq_PCP04llI1PzjFvnGg/s400/stovetopcakehispta.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hold me candle, tiny dancer.</td></tr>
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<i>GEO'S SWEDES (SWEDISH OVEN PANCAKES)<br /><br />This thick, custardy “pancake” is my favorite breakfast to make for my family or when company comes over. It dresses up easily and becomes an elegant meal. People often ask how complicated it is to make and are always surprised to learn that the process is almost entirely hands-off. The magic happens in the oven. Though I typically tweak it, the recipe I generally use as a guide originated with Kim Carlson from the Culinate Kitchen collection online.<br /><br />2-3 Tbsps butter (when counting calories it also works to just use cooking spray in the pan)<br />2 cups flour (I like it best with 100% whole white wheat, or ½ whole wheat and ½ unbleached)<br />¼ cup sugar (brown is also lovely)<br />1 tsp salt<br />6 large eggs<br />4 cups milk (I typically use rice milk, but any kind will do, and of any fat content)<br />fresh lemon juice<br />your choice of toppings: brown sugar, raw sugar agave nectar, pure maple syrup, honey, Nutella, berries or other fruits, jam, etc. (a favorite combination at our house is lemon juice, brown sugar, and blueberries or homemade jam)<br /><br />Place butter in a 10” ovenproof frying pan, preferably cast iron, or coat it lightly with cooking spray, and place pan into oven. Preheat oven and pan to 375 F. Combine remaining ingredients in a deep mixing bowl and blend well with an electric beater or a whisk. When oven has reached 375 F, remove hot pan and pour in batter. Carefully return pan to the oven (it will be full) and bake for 50 minutes. Check to see whether the center is set. If not, continue to bake, checking every 5 minutes. When the pancake is set in the center, remove from the oven and let rest 5 minutes. Serve warm, and any other toppings you desire. NOTE: Low-fat milk is plenty rich for this recipe.</i></div>
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P.S. Happy birthday, Anneliese! I wish we lived close enough for me to make you a weird cake too. xo</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236210.post-268027513649701112013-01-04T23:30:00.000-07:002013-01-05T01:13:01.647-07:00Mother bear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghYNqk4ORlfgpHV0k-5vP_uNnZCzL0UWyjzYpvB4ylOeeDQSXT4hAXFWUTrn-F4ikwD3o0CYVJy5-IaVcjaj_hJdRlwS0Q8DUBOySjbALel42SpbT2cqJIJnd2KXHOknfKCmRtlQ/s640/blogger-image--861087300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghYNqk4ORlfgpHV0k-5vP_uNnZCzL0UWyjzYpvB4ylOeeDQSXT4hAXFWUTrn-F4ikwD3o0CYVJy5-IaVcjaj_hJdRlwS0Q8DUBOySjbALel42SpbT2cqJIJnd2KXHOknfKCmRtlQ/s400/blogger-image--861087300.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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It may be too soon for you to tell, but I'm doing a daily photo challenge, <a href="http://captureyour365.com/category/idea-list/" target="_blank">CY365</a>. It's fun to have a go at the prompts; I feel free to interpret them as loosely as I like. Today the prompt was FUR. I had an image in my mind, a shot of one of our microphones with the blimp--the fur cover that acts as a buffer against wind. The day took on a different shape than I'd anticipated and I never got that picture. </div>
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I did, however, snap this quick image while bouncing and entertaining a new little friend today. I don't know how her mama would feel about naming her here so I'll just call her Peach Noggin. She herself had a kind of soft electrified fur on her head. As for me, today I was keenly aware of my furry sense of mother bearness. Peach Noggin's mama, whom I will call The Phoenix, and I share a mutual friend and we met while supporting this dear friend during a particularly rough trial. </div>
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The Phoenix and I took to each other quickly that day. She told me about her years of suffering terrible abuses at home and in a circus of foster homes, before she finally sought and won her legal emancipation as a minor. She's tough and loving and honest, a great soul. Put out by the stories of unkind, unhealthy people, I told her that, sheesh, I'd be willing to adopt her myself and she accepted the offer with enthusiasm and good humor. Today she drove 3 or 4 hours total just to come and visit, to meet her new dad(!), and to show off Peach Noggin, who very obviously has a beautiful big soul like The Phoenix. </div>
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Why isn't it the least bit weird to have a person who's a quarter of a century old calling me (mostly, tentatively) Mom, or unabashedly referring to us as Peach Noggin's new gramma and grampa? We haven't been married THAT long! But what a purposeful piece of sweetness. I feel guided to these relationships and I embrace this new chance to love and protect, fiercely. </div>
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Don't let me catch you messing with my cubs, if you know what's good for you. Not these cubs nor any of my others.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5