tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26564475665974599632024-03-04T20:49:13.082-08:00Down the Rabbit HoleMD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.comBlogger113125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-2313810555024375062020-09-08T08:40:00.001-07:002020-09-08T08:40:20.098-07:00<p><span class="cred"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7IpcuMkyQsURS4TJFhlfeFavSX2o19kdH1LnXaaXJo7vqwJrVEKwrskDrDW-s0i-QP7LX2F5pcQA-_S22xvqHkD0ORiOcdUKgvOh9DfMrNuBCgeKzTRMBi3G7ZVXjeWjWq_7_zckYZvI/s4032/IMG_4898.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7IpcuMkyQsURS4TJFhlfeFavSX2o19kdH1LnXaaXJo7vqwJrVEKwrskDrDW-s0i-QP7LX2F5pcQA-_S22xvqHkD0ORiOcdUKgvOh9DfMrNuBCgeKzTRMBi3G7ZVXjeWjWq_7_zckYZvI/w150-h200/IMG_4898.HEIC" width="150" /></a></b></div><span class="cred"><b><br /> </b></span><p></p><p><span class="cred"><b> Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.”<br />
As best stories sometimes come out of their authors’ fears, what do you
say for writing about one thing that scares you every day? For example,
what scares you today? </b></span><br />
<br />
I feel like nearly every day since becoming a mother, my life dictates
that I automatically do at least one thing every day that scares me.
Motherhood is one terrifying-as-fuck journey some days for real. I find
myself fairly well-rooted in the fear that I am screwing up , even on
the days when I grudgingly award myself an A- for parenting at the close
of a particularly productive trip around the sun.<br />
<br />
As my daughter rapidly approaches puberty, some days I am completely
overwhelmed by those fears. We get sidelined by epic shouting matches as
she seems compelled to argue with me over the most mundane things. It
seems we are destined to never agree on a wide spectrum of topics from,
"what shirt goes best with those leggings", or "why chicken nuggets are
still chicken" to "why one particular Hamilton cover is in fact, not Sia
but some other artist". Sadly, these are all very real examples drawn
from actual arguments. I blame our most irrational debates on
burgeoning hormones and on my patience and sanity, both of which have
been severely compromised in the wake of COVID.<br />
<br />
I try not to to think about the fact that she's not even a preteen yet.
The truth is that real emotional fireworks haven't started yet and that
thought fills me with a numb horror some days. I wonder how we will
make it through these coming years, she and I. The anxiety overwhelms me
at times and I have to take step back. I have to slow down. I have to
acknowledge that we have amazing moments still too. </p><p>For as much as we
may battle, she will still randomly take my hand in the grocery store,
unconsciously slipping her delicate fingers through mine. She still
prefers to sleep in between us most nights and we one of us will always
wake with her lithe body snuggled up against our back or her small face
pressed against our neck. As much as she loves time with her friends,
she seems content to settle back into time with us after returning from
play dates and sleepovers. The graceful and forgiving truth is that as
often as I have seen the budding adolescent in her these past weeks and
months, I have also had glimpses of the loving, dependent child she
still is in her heart and it gives me a beautiful respite from the fear.
</p>MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-81696096142012336572020-01-15T08:26:00.000-08:002020-01-15T12:12:26.009-08:00Doubt Digit Joy <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPcytdJM1J_IJTVVchENEvsAFWQd9nSqtnMwsKxTMddrs4_IAsogXpt9rqEXmW7286FMtJw9Zx8HXyeWAoREXqSlLD0I2yPZ5iRz-f-hVoPRs3QGUgaEnXlbPCnBjinCpSJ7ITqMLvN0/s1600/IMG_4055+%2528002%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="288" data-original-width="288" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPcytdJM1J_IJTVVchENEvsAFWQd9nSqtnMwsKxTMddrs4_IAsogXpt9rqEXmW7286FMtJw9Zx8HXyeWAoREXqSlLD0I2yPZ5iRz-f-hVoPRs3QGUgaEnXlbPCnBjinCpSJ7ITqMLvN0/s200/IMG_4055+%2528002%2529.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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Our little girl woke up this morning with a wide grin, ready
to embrace her double-digit birthday with open arms. She proudly flashed the crisp
$20.00 bill left under her pillow by the tooth fairy, informing me with unrestrained
glee, that <i>“she usually gets $5.00”</i> and <i>“she must have left me extra because
she knew it was my birthday!” </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She then
proceeded to get dressed in her school uniform, humming loudly all the while and
taking frequent breaks to gush over Lola who watched her with equally unrestrained
adoration. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Her mood might have been elated but mine felt far more
subdued. This birthday feels different. I do not feel ready to embrace the
double digits, the doorway to all thing’s “tween”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not ready for her to begin a new journey
that may have her leaving behind the childish trappings of her youth. I ache
with the bittersweet notions of those coming losses, those casualties of her
growing up…not far off now it seems to me as she marks this milestone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After depositing her, and her birthday donuts,
at the classroom door this morning, I found myself fighting back tears on the way back to my
car. As much as I want to share in her enthusiasm, I feel so much like a mother
on the brink of something I am not prepared for and it has left me feeling uncharacteristically
unmoored. </div>
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These days I am struck by all the small things that mark her
changing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While she still prefers to
clamber into our bed at night, she has begun going to sleep in her own room. She
has taken to wearing a sleep mask she got for Christmas. It has a wild, purple
zebra pattern that looks at odds with her little girl sleep smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I check on her to find that, even in sleep,
she has begun to straddle some invisible line between the child and the young
girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of her arms is wrapped tightly
around her stuffed horse Roo and the other is draped loosely around her dog Lola and
that flashy eye mask is firmly in place. </div>
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This week she asked me to paint her nails. She has managed
to grow them at last, in spite of barn chores and piano lessons. The nail polish I
had at hand was a perhaps a shade too dark for her, but she still brandished
them proudly. As far as I can tell, they are her only real vanity in the otherwise
athletic and unadorned style that she’s adopted as her own. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Last night at the barn she went about her chores as usual,
taking a break when a song came on she liked to “dance with Roo”. I had to
laugh at her antics, her silly made-up moves that garnered only the most casual
glances from her munching horse. Roo is growing used to his child, the one who
covers his soft nose with constant kisses and prattles about his stall, talking about
her day even though he is far more interested in his hay. Still, I see him turn
to watch her with his large brown eyes, his curiosity as clearly evident as his
affection for her. At times he seems to have this expression that says, <i>“yup,
that’s my kid…that weird, wonderful, chatty little being right there”,</i> and
I find myself in a complete and kindred agreement with our gentle gelding. </div>
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Watching her this morning, I found myself thinking<i>, “Yup,
that’s my child…that’s my silly, kind, smart, crazy, loveable, “on the verge of
something wonderful” …little being right there.”</i> </div>
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I don’t know how much longer she will believe in the tooth
fairy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know when she will retire
her stuffed animals or when I will stop finding her wrapped around me like a koala
in the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not know how much
longer she will break into those random fits of wild dancing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For now, I celebrate those things and I
feverishly document them…leave my testimonies in electronic ink so I will have them
always.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I might not be 100% ready
for double digits, I know I am more than grateful, more than blessed for the opportunity
to be part of it all. </div>
MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-15593136690607738872019-11-25T11:58:00.005-08:002019-11-25T12:26:32.587-08:00Leaving 9 Behind...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPqh3SWppyO8djC-0b01LZqb8xzQD_fp5Axy4wi-UCopJOjDNv1-9YpXrwqxqcJCnN6MytQMVs6V00B28cAMQr-P8TcrHMCm5CNHmGakyWiXj6Yw8IKbhYLaP_OA1YqlPdmlERiTaxF8/s1600/mini+me.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1203" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPqh3SWppyO8djC-0b01LZqb8xzQD_fp5Axy4wi-UCopJOjDNv1-9YpXrwqxqcJCnN6MytQMVs6V00B28cAMQr-P8TcrHMCm5CNHmGakyWiXj6Yw8IKbhYLaP_OA1YqlPdmlERiTaxF8/s320/mini+me.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Soon, very soon…my daughter will be in double digits. With
the start of the holiday season rushing in on the coat tails of Thanksgiving,
it will be here in no time at all. And while I look forward to celebrating her
10 year birthday, I do so with the familiar bitter-sweetness that has become a hallmark
emotion of being her mother. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Age 9 has been an eventful one. It has been a year full of
firsts. This year marked the first time she’s joined a team sport, playing for
our town soccer league both outside and indoor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the first year we have all come to learn the
delicate balance that comes with managing multiple after school commitments. This
will always be the year she got her first horse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a beautiful moment, witnessing her stunned
joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a surprise unlikely to be matched
by much else for many years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Age 9 also saw
her first pimple, and an abundant show of gratitude once I managed to camouflage
it with some of my “magic” cover-up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This year she began wearing those tiny bralets under her
clinging uniforms…a decision that was much more about laying the groundwork,
rather than because she really needed them just yet. It was also the time of “the
talks” about hygiene and the importance of washing her face….talks made all the
more imperative after that first major pimple appearance the same week as
school pictures. We talked also about a girl’s first period, something
hopefully that is a year or two off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She is still so much a child, but there are some signs and things can
change so rapidly and I want her to be more prepared than I was. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She is still shy, though she is beginning to open up to
adults she knows. I see her testing the waters by ordering her own food and
having more animated conversations with her soccer coaches on the sidelines. I
think she is more outgoing when I am not around, a dynamic I don’t fully
understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the same, I try to back
off more and give her some room to engage others outside the realm of her mother’s
shadow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is still so easily embarrassed
and I am always afraid to upset the balance of her world in some accidental
way. I am encouraged by her building confidence on horseback but dismayed with
how much she still fears getting hurt or failing at something. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find myself frustrated, watching her on the
field, dogging the ball or falling back when I know she has the speed and
skills to attack. I often ask myself,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> “How
do I encourage her to be more aggressive?” </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, I find myself asking, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“ but do I really want her to be more
aggressive?” </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter is, at her core, sweet and reserved. She mostly
plays her emotions close to her chest. At 9, she has developed this silly, funny
sense of humor that she really only reveals to a handful of family members and
her best friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her timing is spot on though,
and I think I have laughed out loud at her antics this past year more than any
before. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope double digits brings her
more confidence and more opportunities to share this wonderful, vibrant part of
herself with others. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I am convinced 9 year-olds have compromised hearing. I need
to repeat things four or five times before she “hears” what I am telling her
yet, she her ability to eavesdrop on my conversations is startling. It has
spawned more than a few arguments and shouting matches that have sent the dogs
dodging for cover. My husband has frequently had to step in, to remind at least
one of us, that they are an adult. My frustrations with my daughter however,
pale in comparison to my pride and admiration for her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have seen her push herself well outside her comfort zone
to achieve something she wanted. I have seen her rally after an injury,
stifling tears and tabling the drama to run back out onto the field or climb
back up into the saddle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has been
brave when she hasn’t really wanted to be. She has turned toward a challenge,
even as I see how much she wants to run back to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter is a nice girl. She is a good friend. She is
loyal and loving. At 9, she prefers the company of girlfriends but seems to also
enjoy the quiet and polite boys in her class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She seems blissfully unaware that, in the space of a few years, the boys
may start paying her a bit more attention. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even as my daughter stands, fussing with stray
ponytail hairs in the mirror and mugging playfully with her reflection, she is
completely unaware of how beautifully unique and lovely her features are. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have caught myself tearing up at how
beautiful she looks in some outfit she has casually put together, not realizing
how the color she’s chosen sets off those amazing sea green eyes or how the cut
and fit show the graceful lines of her slim silhouette. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is so physically different from me, that
it takes my breath away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth is, she
just takes my breath away…in the moments of her wild at play, in the midst of
her darkest mood, in the sweet silences of her sleeping…in all her movements
and motions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter at 9, might be my physical opposite but there
are ribbons of my own nature woven into her being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She seems to share my far ranging musical
tastes, adopting my playlists as her own on our car rides and during our time
spent cleaning or tending to Roo. She loves having people over, playing games
and spending time with family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has
greedily binge-watched some of my favorite shows with me, as interested in
Stranger Things or The Umbrella Academy as she might have been with some of her
more mainstream choices. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I’d like to say my daughter is a mini version of
me, a “mini me”, but in truth she is very much uniquely herself. She is a
wonderfully blended mix of her Dad’s quiet nature and summer-kissed caramel
complexion and my fiery temper and penchant for debate. My daughter is also prone
to goofy song and dance numbers, funny photobombs and bursts of manic storytelling.
She is obstinate and argumentative, seeming to relish flexing her mental
muscles with me most of all. She is unabashedly affectionate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most nights she clamors up between us in bed,
insisting she wants to still fall asleep with us even though she’s almost ten. We
wake up to her most mornings with one of her legs cast across our bodies or her
arms around us, sleeping contently, as close to us as she can get. She will
still randomly take my hand when we are walking, or drape her arm around my
waist while we wait in line. She does these things almost unconsciously, undeterred
by the strangers and observers around us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She calls me Mother Bird when with her friends and Mamma
when it is just the two of us. She will thank me, sincerely and unsolicited
when I do something for her or buy her something she has asked. She will just as
readily storm off with an exaggerated stomping of her booted feet when I scold
or embarrass her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything in her current wardrobe is black, blue or gray
and all of it is devoid of glitter, ruffles or depictions of small woodland
creatures. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the dresses she selects
for herself, when forced outside her typical leggings and hoodies, are unadorned
and easily paired with cowboy boots and denim jackets by design. She is
developing a style all her own and it’s one that I secretly love on her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are a few months remaining until her birthday candles
number 10.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have enjoyed this 9 year
old version of her, even though I have spent most of this year feeling like she
was once again moving too quickly for me to keep up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her steps have been different than those she
took as a toddler when her racing, stumbling feet kept her just ahead of my
reaching arms, carried forward by momentum and sheer will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her steps away from me this past year have had
the measured, deliberate cadence of a young girl discovering the best parts of
herself to explore and expand her world. I am immensely grateful that, no
matter how far ahead I feel she is getting, at 9 she still always takes the
time to look back and assure I am still there….if and whenever she needs me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-6848671703104778812019-10-15T05:42:00.000-07:002019-10-15T05:42:00.542-07:00Trio of Demons <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FoaoAA1SUYMEEGVi9ebxRWxVH6HK-sv-U-fbBbx3AlWPsX6KdSyW0qB5lg27VP8qb_pa04iyJRv214aRdPzu1WRUHsqSsCEJqtc_AbQ0_McWoBw8MQWFoC-gEfWiyq2rSrDTAdIZ368/s1600/trio+of+demons.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FoaoAA1SUYMEEGVi9ebxRWxVH6HK-sv-U-fbBbx3AlWPsX6KdSyW0qB5lg27VP8qb_pa04iyJRv214aRdPzu1WRUHsqSsCEJqtc_AbQ0_McWoBw8MQWFoC-gEfWiyq2rSrDTAdIZ368/s200/trio+of+demons.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span name="myContent">Torrential rain had battered her window panes for
an hour before the storm had finally claimed her lights. Olivia
contemplated closing up and heading home but blanched at the thought of facing her tiny apartment, reheated Chinese takeout dinner
and yet another Friday evening alone. She recovered a book of matches
from the desk. She set about lighting the candles strewn about the shop,
chasing off the darkening shadows with a soft, sage and pumpkin scented
glow. It was better to be alone here in the shop when
someone...anyone....might brave the weather to dash in for a bit of a herbal
remedy or last minute curio gift. <br />
<br />
How many years had she run the place now? A decade? At least long
enough to see her once charming New England fishing village slowly morph into a tourist trap destination. Every summer season the crowds
advanced, taking selfies in her picture window and clambering onto the
monstrous whale-watching boats that leached poison into the harbor.
Olivia felt a bad mood descending. She grabbed a rag and began to pace
about the store, tidying up to keep her mind occupied. She began
organizing what she playfully nicknamed as the “shelf of evil”, a corner
curio cabinet filled with figures and occult-themed knickknacks that
the tourists seemed to love. She found some humor in that fact that most of the macabre figures had "made in China" stamped on tiny gold foil stickers affixed to their bottoms. She reached toward the back to retrieve a
particularly dusty sculpture. She drew it closer into the light of the
nearby candle and regarded the crude figure. <br />
<br />
It was a novelty take on the old adage, “see/speak/hear no evil” but
instead of the traditionally posed monkeys, this statue was a series of
three tiny, cinnamon-colored demons. These were stereotypical
characterizations of demons, complete with horns, cloven hooves and red,
pointed tails. The demons sat side by side with one covering its
eyes, one covering its elven-like ears and one holding both claws over its open mouth. <br />
<br />
Olivia set it down and stared hard at the trio of demons. What had been
their names? She could no longer recall. They had been a riotous and
nasty bunch for sure but, at least for a time and for a young, lonely
witch, they had been lively companions. The three demons had properly
tempted, cajoled and guided her in her dark pursuits but they had grown
insatiable. She had been unable to keep up with their demeaning
demands. They grown too hard for her to control. In the end she’d had to bind them. The statue had been a bit
of comical license on her part but it was oddly fitting. <br />
<br />
Astaroth, she now recalled the name, had been a biter. She still had
the white scars where he’d delivered a particularly violent bite as
punishment for not casting a spell on the local woman who ran carrier
pigeons. Astaroth had hated all birds but found the pigeons and their
keeper particularly abhorrent. He had encouraged Olivia to craft nasty
spells against her and her flock, and pretty much anyone else who
crossed his path. Olivia had come to believe he'd been jealous of their
wings, having been stripped of his own so long ago. <br />
<br />
Olivia picked up the figurine, trying to remember the time when she’d
spent those years learning from and tormented by the trio. Suddenly
another name popped free from her memory, Baphonet. Her eyes focused on
the demon covering its eyes. Baphonet’s eyes had been black, obsidian
pools. He could look into her and see whatever she was coveting but also
what she most feared. He had been the cruelest of the group by
far. He showed her all the nasty looks people had flung at her back,
showed her all the banter and teasing she managed to miss or ignore.
Those black pools delivered visions that turned her soul blacker with
every reveal. She remembered how long it had taken her wounds to heal and how much effort it had taken her to turn back from the darkness and
change her path before it had become too late. <br />
<br />
Mammon had been the last demon. In so many ways he had been her
favorite, as well as the most destructive of the three. The “hear no
evil” demon had been exceptionally skilled. Mammon had been the
insidious foe whispering in her ear, the voice in her head goading and
guiding her toward her own ruin. He was the cooing cajoler of her
nightmares. He was the one who urged her to act on her dark impulses, to
sever almost all her ties to the light. Mammon had made her an
instrument, and played her to perfection. He had been her nearly
constant companion, her most trusted friend. She could still hear his
syrup-sweet voice in her ears, promising everything she wanted; power,
acceptance, love, in exchange for being the attentive and mendable
pupil. She felt a familiar tug somewhere inside her. A phantom need
stirred and she heard faint whispers of a former life. <br />
<br />
Olivia abruptly pushed the figurine away. The three demons seemed to
flicker in the candlelight. She grabbed an old headscarf from a
mannequin and quickly wrapped the statue up in it, breathing easier as
the three demons disappeared in the folds of fabric. She placed the
figure away in a box under the stairs. She hadn’t wanted to replace it
on the shelf with the other items. <br />
<br />
The former witch breathed deeply of the healing sage-scented air. Those
three demons had been part of her old life, one filled with compromises
and broken promises, darkness and devotion to an evil that delivered her
only to pain and despair. In a last ditch effort to save her soul, she
had bound the trio and turned toward the light. What she had lost in the
bargain had been substantial, her strongest powers and her immortality.
Still, she knew she had chosen well even if sometimes it seemed as if
she had traded one type of loneliness for another. The demons slept and
while they did, the witch had become a healer. Today, the counsel she
listened to, the visions she saw, the actions she took were all
exclusively her own. She lived in the light and acted for the good.
Olivia had made her home a community that respected and appreciated her.
She lived a simple life, alone but not isolated or exiled. <br />
<br />
The lights in the shop suddenly flicked on with a snap, bathing
everything in fluorescent light. Olivia saw that the rain had stopped
and bodies where once again moving about on the street outside. She
heard the jingle jangle of the shop door opening. The Healer felt a
smile spread across her face as she stepped forward to greet her
customer. </span>MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-79902779213506895372019-09-23T07:16:00.004-07:002019-09-23T07:16:57.525-07:00Some days...<br />
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<br />
<br />
The hours are quickly passing before I have to make my business trip. As much as I worry about leaving, I also recognize how badly I need to get away and gain some perception. Over the last few weeks I have felt my footing slipping, my will to do anything, draining away. It all feels like too much effort to force myself into an existence when I feel so overwhelmingly invisible.<br />
<br />
I feel the need to slip into someplace where I don't expect to be seen or paid attention too. I crave a world where I have no expectations of my loved ones, my career or my ability to be heard and noticed. It is the expectations that crush me. If I did not set expectations, then I would not have to register the disappointments. I need a crash course in how to live life without expectations, for myself or for anyone else.<br />
<br />
I'm grateful for what I have in this life. I wish that felt like enough all the time. I wish my many blessings were enough to make me feel full and complete and successful at this stage in my life. Some days though, they are not. Some days all I see are the failings, all I feel is the loneliness and the tide of darkness slowly creeping up on me. Some days my accomplishments feel far too few and insubstantial and whatever ambitions I may have, seem to be overreaching. Some days I wish I had someone I knew would pick up on the other end of a late night phone call or be the voice that asks me, "am I okay?". Some days I wish I it wasn't so hard to feel seen.<br />
<br />
It is crazy that someone who feels so alone is somehow looking forward to spending time actually being alone. It is crazy that I actually find comfort in knowing I'm going some place where I will be actively ignored. Maybe its because for once, my expectations about people and situations will prove true and I won't be disappointed. For once, for the next few days, things will be exactly as I expect them to be.<br />
<br />
I think I might be in the middle of a mid-life depression or something. Maybe I have felt some of the losses this past year more acutely then I thought. I don't know. I just know I feel vacant, like a placeholder, not a real person some days. I feel robotic and pedestrian. I oscillate between rage and an acquiescing numbness. I feel like I want to shine but can only manage the weakest flicker, like some dying candle losing its battle with the dark. At least I am not manic, wildly swinging from joy to despair, but rather I'm stuck in the middle of the grays...all the shadowed hues. My days of vivid color are too few and far between. I tell myself this will pass, this stage of my life is just some mediocre plateau and eventually I will wake up. I will wake up to me, to the woman in the mirror. I see her at least. She isn't invisible to me. I think she's just lost. MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-37519199128460930322019-09-10T08:41:00.004-07:002019-09-10T08:44:18.097-07:00The Unintended Love <br />
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoPZeo2uKfuUIXVKrnv4e85vY5e1SrhWRRiKuzVE6eE_b8zcsXuX3lzxbzzgjRV4SZWb1SSqPIwwHhmvV2ZzMlN8QqRtp69nv13NLfUis-EmddWPbjMbWtbjmgFkM-3zbDGAjki44575E/s1600/roo+selfie+in+ink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="696" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoPZeo2uKfuUIXVKrnv4e85vY5e1SrhWRRiKuzVE6eE_b8zcsXuX3lzxbzzgjRV4SZWb1SSqPIwwHhmvV2ZzMlN8QqRtp69nv13NLfUis-EmddWPbjMbWtbjmgFkM-3zbDGAjki44575E/s320/roo+selfie+in+ink.jpg" width="240" /></a></i></div>
<br />
<i> </i><br />
<b><i>The love we do not intend is sometimes the love that saves us. </i>
</b>This phrase popped into my head as I was clearing out my emails and
contemplating writing for one of the many prompts littering my <big>inbox</big>.
These days my muse is a bit of a fickle bitch, so the fact that these
words suddenly came to me wasn't something I felt I should ignore. A
writer who is not actively writing needs to pay extra attention to such
divine inspirations after all.<br />
<br />
In many ways, as I think about it, this statement is one of my great
truths. I might not have intended to fall in love with my future
husband, but I did. At that time in my life, I can honestly say that it
was the love that saved me. My heart and faith had been mortally
wounded, dealt a death blow by back to back relationships that had worn me
down and left me feeling desolate.<br />
<br />
Then, unexpectedly and when I wasn't
even looking, he entered stage left and restored my hope. In many ways I
felt "saved" from taking up a permanent residence in all my familiar
dark places. <br />
<br />
And lately, there has been another unintended love that has supported that statement. <br />
<br />
Recently various cosmic forces, and one determined little sister,
combined to result in us getting a horse for our budding equestrian of a
daughter. <span style="color: black;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="spellRoo"><big>Roo</big></a></span>
is 12 year old, sorrel and white painted quarter horse cross that
stands about 15.2 hands high. He has a sweet disposition and will be able to grow with my daughter, they are about the same
"age" experience-wise overall. When the opportunity presented itself, I
knew relatively nothing about horsemanship. I was just starting to get
the hang of being a horse-mom though, toting her gear and fetching her
tack and using all the right jargon. I enjoyed our times at the barn and
her weekly riding lesson was something I had grown to love and look
forward too with the same enthusiasm as my daughter. Admittedly though, I
hadn't considered ever owning a horse of our own despite the lure of
empty and available stalls at my sister's recently purchased horse farm.
<br />
<br />
Yet, the opportunity arrived. I told myself I would be practical. I
told myself that while it might be inevitable given my sister's agenda,
it didn't need to be now and it didn't need to be this horse.<br />
Then, it happened. My daughter fell in love with <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="spellRoo"><big>Roo</big></a>.
Unexpectedly however, so did I... the very first instant he nuzzled my
shoulder with his big head and turned those big brown eyes in my
direction. Roo's owner is good people and she was committed to finding him a "soft place to land". I think she knew he would be my daughter's "heart horse", she might have even expected he'd also become mine too. <br />
<br />
For the first time in my life, I came to understand my sister's
connection to the animals that had always been part of her life. There
is something soulful about horses, some primitive connection that
resides in human beings, brought to life by soft nickering and their
sweet, grass-scented breath. There is something powerful about an
animal who can so easily dominate you, but is simultaneously so willing
to try to please you. There is a serenity and grace in these animals and something that borders on the almost mystical. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="spellRoo"><big>Roo</big></a><b>
</b> will always be my daughter's horse and she is very blessed and lucky to
have him. He will be a good companion, they will make a good team. He is
also however, the second unintended love in my life. He has, in many
ways, saved me...albeit in a smaller and more humble way than my
husband's love did.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="spellRoo"><big>Roo</big></a><b>
</b>has become the balm on an irritating day and the stream of sudden
sunshine on a cloudy one. He is the inspiration to spending special, companionable time with my
daughter and my sister, doing barn chores or training. These are hours
passed simply and without thought of anxiety, stress or strain. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="spellRoo"><big>Roo</big></a> inspires me to think outside my rigid boxes and harness bravery when I feel out of my depth. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="spellRoo"><big>Roo</big></a>
provides the unique opportunity to see my daughter developing
confidence and responsibility because he challenges her to believe in
herself, to push herself and to aspire to be stronger. <br />
<br />
I tried to explain it all recently to my husband, who to be fair, has not fallen in love with <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="spellRoo"><big>Roo</big></a>
or the idea of having this new 900 lb family member to care for. After a
long-winded explanation, I simply ended with, "he makes me happy."
And, honestly, that is really just it. Whenever we walk up on his
paddock and he flicks his ears and turns in our direction, the worries
and concerns of the day just disappear. When I watch my daughter plant
kisses on his soft white nose, I feel grateful and blessed. My heart is
happy for her and also for him, to know the boundless, unconditional love of
a child. My heart is joyful to watch him run, moving with such freedom
and grace, but also to see him working with Jaden, seeking that shared conversation between horse and rider. Whenever I take a moment out of grooming him to step in close
and lay my head against his neck, breathing in the smell of him, I am
content and happy in this simple moment of shared affection. I can see
my reflection in <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="spellRoo"><big>his</big></a><b> </b>quiet, big brown eyes and it brings me a special peace. <br />
<br />
These days, when the crush of daily existence and the pressure of life gets
to me, that special peace is what saves me; saves me from rage, from
discouragement, from doubt, from the rut of routine. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="spellRoo"><big>Roo</big></a> reminds me that my life isn't just about work and bills and responsibilities, but also about things that bring my soul joy. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="spellRoo"><big>Roo</big></a> reminds me to take the moment to find happiness and peace in my life - even if I find them in the most unexpected places. <br />
<br />MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-68432335206930443642019-08-14T10:41:00.000-07:002019-08-14T11:09:42.751-07:00Rage, Hope and Horses <br />
The knowledge that I haven't actually written anything all summer long looms like a shadow over me. I suspect my absence from the world of
electronic testimony isn't solely due to a lack of free time. I suspect
it also may stem from fearing what would come out if I flung open my
personal "Pandora's box", releasing words and sentiments that might be
too toxic or too dark to process properly in a single blog entry. While I
have experienced great moments of joy in the last few months, I have
also had my share of doubt, rage, disillusion and disappointments...and
given my predication of writing without self-censorship or apology...I
thought it best to abstain until I had a better perspective overall. Or,
and this is probably the most true reason, the drive to write something
became as unbearable to ignore as my worry of offending some people
with what I had to say. <br />
<br />
This summer has provided many opportunities to discover things about
myself and about the people in my life and its given me a lot of
unexpected highs and, unfortunately some pretty big fucking lows too. I
have felt uncharacteristically isolated and lonely, but have also found
incredible joy and comfort in the re-discovery of old friendships. I
have felt the support and connection to some family, but also battled
with rejection and abandonment from others. It has been a summer of a
hard learning curve, one that has often brought me stress and
frustration, but also given me brilliant moments of feeling accomplished
and refreshed. At times I have felt both like the Phoenix, as well as
the smoldering pile of ash. <br />
<br />
This morning, as I let the dogs out, I felt the promise of Autumn in the
cool predawn air. I felt myself beginning to write in my head, found
my mind going through the mental dance of matching phrasing to
feeling. I'd held the words at bay too long and now they were coming,
rushing forward like the end of summer. So, here I sit, wondering where
to I should begin to start catching myself up. <br />
<br />
I supposed I should start with what is at the surface, the arsenal I
have at the ready. As it frequently tends to be, the top emotion in my
mental totem these days is frustration. I am frustrated with my
middle-aged body and its inability to do the things I ask it too. I am
often too tired, too sweaty, too unmotivated to do even one of those HITT
workouts that I so desperately need. I am frustrated by my 22+ year
career which seems to be going exactly nowhere very quickly. I am
frustrated by my limitations and even more so, the doubts I have about
being a good mom, a better wife. <br />
<br />
My level of frustration these days is matched only by my anger. I think I
give in to rage more than I should. I think some days I get up and put
on a "rage coat", and it feels too heavy for my personal climate. I know
I should shuck the rage, toss it off and enjoy life more but some days
it feels like its in my bloodstream, coursing beneath my skin, leaving
me hot and fevered. I find inspiration in anger. I have written so many
letters this summer in fits of rage. They are beautifully rabid works,
overflowing with toxic righteousness and resilience. I sometimes love
the "enraged and wounded" version of me best, as she writes with a
firestarter vengeance that both scares and excites me. I haven't sent
those letters. As angry as I have been, I haven't decided to torch all
my lost cities to the ground yet. <br />
<br />
It hasn't been all been about anger and frustration this summer though.
I've reached really far outside my comfort zones and felt rewarded for
the effort. I shed an old role or two and taken on some new
responsibilities. In a decision that some still consider highly
controversial, I became a horse owner. I am discovering, rather
simultaneously, that I know next to nothing about owning a horse and
also that owning a horse has gifted me with such unexpected peace and
joy. It is a wonderfully perplexing dichotomy. <br />
<br />
It is hard, so hard, to learn the basics about something so foreign to
me. I struggle, a lot. I'm terrified more often than I care admit to
myself. I sometimes laugh out loud about how clueless I am...but I also
have those moments when I do something right on my own for the first
time and I feel like a total rock star. Truth is, I love how hard I have
to work at it and when I feel like I've learned something, the sense of
accomplishment is something my life has been sorely missing for a long
time. I am filled with gratitude for the people who give so freely of their time and knowledge to be our patient teachers and guides on our journey of horsemanship. The truth is that while we got Roo for my daughter, our painted
pony has captured so much of my own heart too. The time I spend with Roo
and my daughter is like balm on all my sad and wounded places. I
imagine in many ways, he will become a special kind of muse for me in
the years to come. <br />
<br />
Lastly, for I'm nearly at the end of my blogging time allotment today... joy
has also been a consistent feature of this summer. Watching my daughter
blossom into a fierce and funny beauty under the blue skies and
sunshine, has been my greatest blessing. She is coming into herself in
delightful ways from making new friends at camps to discovering her own
tastes and styles. She has shunned dresses and headbands in favor of
shorts and anything sporty. She loathes anything pink. She frequently
hijacks my playlist to blast Queen or Imagine Dragons and spends her
free time face-timing her friends and snuggling with her dog. My
daughter still holds my hand, still wants to fall asleep between her
father and I whenever we allow it, and doesn't pull away when I reach to
hug her or mess with her hair. She believes in "armless" hugs for
everyone but Gramma Boop and her Dad, but most of the time still manages to
remember her manners in most situations. In her long legs and sea
green eyes , I get hints of the astoundingly beautiful a woman she
will be one day. In her boundless laugh and quirky smile, I see the fun
and lively teenager she will soon become. I am, as I have been since her
birth, incredibly amazed by all that she is and all I know she will do
in this life. <br />
<br />
There have been many times this summer that I have wandered out onto the
back deck and watched my husband mowing the lush green yard. His legs
are wrapped around his tractor and he looks lost in his task and in the
music in his headphones. He looks like a man in his element and watching
him, I've felt wonderfully blessed with him and with our home. I have
sat in the twilight of a July evening and watched the bats flying
circuits among the high, swaying trees, and felt humbled and grateful in
my soul. I have walked the acres of my sister's farm as the sun was
setting, felt its retreating warmth on my back, listened to her donkey
braying for his dinner and thought to myself....how life could be so
simply and so perfectly beautiful in some moments.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-576357089178976382019-04-11T09:15:00.004-07:002019-04-11T09:17:39.617-07:00Cracks in the Foundation<br />
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Some days I am surprised by the hurt that still resides inside me. One minute I am going about my life, living it as best I can. Then I am blindsided by something small that cracks the veneer. I am caught off guard when the most innocuous comment rips off the tiniest corner of my heart and causes me to bleed that toxin of disappointment and resentment again...that ripe, black cocktail I thought I had finally drained. <br />
<br />
Days like this I wonder if our wounded places ever really heal? We tell ourselves that we have overcome, we have risen above the trespasses against us. We have constructed a life we live in truth and we can no longer be dragged under the pain of our past. Then, you find out its all still inside you, like something insidious crouching in the corners of your soul. In that moment, you understand that damage can never be undone, only built upon. It will always be with you, forever weakening your foundation.<br />
<br />
I spent a lot of time traveling in Mexico when I was younger. I visited all the typical tourist places and a few that were decidedly more off the beaten path. It was the churches that made the most impact on me. I learned that many of Mexico's churches, from the extravagant, gold-trimmed cathedrals to the rustic village chapels, were built on top of indigenous temple and ruins. When missionaries moved across Mexico and began to convert the native tribes and nations, it was common for the new churches to be built directly on top of the tribal holy sites. It was as if these missionaries felt they could best eradicate the old deities and pagan beliefs by driving them into the ground. They thought that by burying them under the shiny new promises of their christian churches and their new, benevolent God, they would cease to exist for the people.<br />
<br />
It always struck me these missionaries, bent on converting the people to the new faith, failed to see what they were really doing. Instead of re-writing the narrative, maybe they were instead, forever trapping the past in the foundations of the future. In one place, far off the typical tour, one old church's foundation had begun to crumble and the earth had begun yield to the corners of the old pyramid lying underneath. In one section of the church, the ancient bricks had even been driven up through the floorboards. It struck me that those ruins were not gone, those gods and beliefs, not forgotten. It was all still there, residing under the feet of the believers. The old gods might all just be waiting, bidding their time to be excavated and brought back again. <br />
<br />
It is days like these that I think about those old ruins. I feel like that sometimes, like that church. I feel like my shiny life with all its promises and personal gains and achievements, might have just been built on an old temple of wounds. I wonder if it is there still, just waiting, and slowly poisoning my foundation one tiny, black crack at a time. MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-4030098814189515192019-03-26T08:29:00.000-07:002019-03-26T08:52:09.397-07:00Riding with the Wind...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
As a parent, there are a few of those milestone moments you know are coming down the pike. Some of them are terrifying to contemplate, like the onset of puberty and all those awkward talks you just know are waiting in the wings. Then there are those moments you look forward to with sweet contentment, like the day the training wheels come off their bike and they learn to ride. <br />
<br />
You think you know how it will go. There will be a few bumps and bruises but they will turn their little faces to you, ready to sop up all your sage advice and guidance. You will encourage and empower them and they will be determined and grateful. Then comes the reward, watching them glide away from you, the wind at their backs and their gleeful voices singing your praises for delivering them to this amazing new world. You have been their guide, their teacher, their hero. It will have been an amazing parenting win. <br />
<br />
When I pulled my daughter's bike out of the garage, I fully expected the experience to live up to my expectations. I eagerly waited for her to don her helmet and knee pads. I was so sure that this would be the Rockwell-esque version of the milestone I had dreamt about. <br />
<br />
Here is how it actually went down...<br />
<br />
As it turns out, my daughter would have been content to operate her bike with training wheels until she was ready to trade it in for a car. Needless to say, she took to the task of learning with barely contained resentment, barking at me each time she wobbled or got banged on the knee by the pedals. If I tried holding her seat, I was doing it wrong. If I tried giving her advice or encouragement, she frowned and snapped at me. Several times she broke into frustrated tears and more than once, I had to walk away from her as she bristled with child rage and hit me with a litany of excuses. <i>The seat was too high, too hard, too crooked. I was holding her wrong. The driveway was to uneven. </i>We finally decided to take a break. She abandoned the bike and her helmet in a heap by the garage and I went inside to nurse my disappointment.<br />
<br />
It was several weeks later before we tried again. The day was the perfect harbinger of an early Spring with a cloudless
cerulean sky above our heads and a warming sun on our backs. This time I had reinforcements, my husband took a break from the yard work to lend a hand. I warned him she was liable to be difficult, even a little mean as she struggled hard to master something she believed she should just "get right out of the box". Even with my warnings, he was surprised at the level of open hostility she directed toward the lesson, and us, as her repeated attempts to gain her balance met failure again and again. I could see the collapse of her confidence in her bowed head and welling eyes. My requests for "one more try", were met with deep frowns and groans but we knew we could not let her quit. As everything threatened to collapse, we decided to try another approach. <br />
<br />
This time we took it to the street, at least the straight strip of pavement consisting of 100 feet between our neighbor's mailboxes. The roadway was level and the path open wide in front of her, no turns or inclines. We told her to get her feet in position and just get moving forward. We encouraged her to keep going, even if she had to take her foot off the pedal once or twice along the way.<br />
<br />
After a few wobbly attempts, she managed to stay upright and pedal for about seven feet. I saw the first smile break at the corners of her mouth and the glimmer in her sea change eyes that signaled the return of a little of her confidence. She had done it, just for a few seconds, but it had been enough. I watched her rally then, engaging all her young grit and determination. She immediately dropped the attitude and began to really listen to our advice and encouragement. After a few moments, she was managing to go almost the full span between mailboxes, pedaling and maintain her balance and at last, she was really smiling.<br />
<br />
The last pass she made she cheekily told me to "watch out" in case she ran me down. Then, just like I told her she would, she was doing it, riding a bike on her own. Just as suddenly, we were those celebrating parents from a Hallmark movie or sappy commercial, bouncing on our toes and clapping in the middle of our street. Watching her riding away from me, the wind at her back, knowing she was smiling under that helmet and feeling accomplished... I had my milestone moment at last. It might not have come to me the way I imagined but when it came it was no less sweet. <br />
<br />
<br />MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-56168084755137583782019-02-14T17:36:00.000-08:002019-02-15T06:45:45.453-08:00Ordinary, Everday Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span id="goog_160579855"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What of the ordinary, everyday love?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does it have a place in the Hallmark-tainted
landscape of Valentine’s Day? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">If you are like me, you can spend literally hours pouring
over glossy, glitter embossed cards that drip with romantic musings and
passionate declarations that seem overdone and impractically over the top. Truth
is, this is a holiday that seems to be more for the young and newly minted kind
of love, that “first three months of can’t get enough of each other” kind of
love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get it though…that
kind of love is sexy and passionate, all red and pulsing with promise. That kind of
love moves some serious chocolate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
kind of love fuels lingerie sales and fancy, overpriced plated dinners. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Still…every day, 365 days of the year, all over the world,
there are people quiet living in other kinds of love that don’t get the
attention worthy of a glitzy holiday. Where are the cards that represent the
kind of love that settles in after years spent together, after raising
children?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kind of love that binds
partners and knits families together to weather all that life asks us to bear? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need cards that celebrate the everyday,
mundane things that show me I am loved and appreciated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need words that express my devotion despite
disappointment and my simple joy in sharing life with someone that I love and, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>frankly, that I tolerate above any other human
being on the planet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need a Hallmark
card that says, “Yup I would absolutely still choose you, choose this messy beautiful
life with you, over and over again.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Admittedly, that does not sound romantic. It would not make
most people swoon. It would not fill even one red and pink stained aisle at
Target.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, that is the truth. It is
sincere and it is heartfelt. It is practical and it is sustainable. It is the
lifeblood of any solid marriage or long term relationship and the foundation
for any family that endures. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I would love to have spontaneity and passion all the time,
but I am also blissfully happy to find out someone else has changed the toilet paper
roll or done the dishes to surprise me. I would enjoy date nights out under the
stars but I also crave those quiet nights by the fire, when we are all tangled
together under blankets watching a movie. Sometimes it is the moments when he
randomly laces his fingers through mine while we are driving, or takes a few
more minutes to cover me with the comforter before he leaves for work that move
me so much more deeply than those heated moments of our youth. I love that he
loves me when things are good, and loves me harder and more fiercely when they
are not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may not make for a flashy
card but it a blessing I am thankful for each and every day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</span>MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-44667564697674552832019-01-29T06:47:00.001-08:002019-01-29T06:59:58.107-08:00All Things Horse-y<span class="cplum"><b>30 Day Blogging Challenge<br />
PROMPT January 28th<br />
I had a different prompt in mind for today, but decided as it’s the last Monday of January, we all needed a little pick-me-up. <br />
Write about something happy in your life! What’s happened recently that
made you smile? What’s the last thing you laughed at?</b></span><br />
<br />
In order to fully appreciate this post, I'll have to divulge something
about my personal life. I am very close to my sister but and also very
different from her. We refer to ourselves as "city mouse" and "country
mouse". My sister lives on a 9 acre horse farm with a menagerie that
includes goats, horses, cats and dogs - so you can guess which one of us
is "city mouse". I frequently joke that I have nightmares of waking up
in her life, in some freaky Friday scenario that suddenly finds me
running her doggie daycare and boarding business - something I would be
ill equipped to do with my wardrobe of heels and pencil skirts.
Notably, she says the same exact thing about my life. Until recently, I
had no cause to explore my sister's rural and rustic lifestyle. I was
content not to ever know the true identity of the substances she ends
each day covered with. Then, my sister launched "operation Jaden" and
everything changed. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure why my sister waited until my daughter was eight to begin
her crusade. It might have had something to do with us moving closer, a
mere seven minutes from her new horse property. It might have just been
that she had bided her time with her only niece long enough. Whatever
the reason, last summer she gifted my daughter three weeks of horse camp
and subsequently opened her eyes and her heart to the world of horses.
My country mouse sister threw the gates to her world of fur and hooves
open wide and my daughter marched through, dragging her mom (with her
entirely inappropriate barn footwear) with her. Suddenly they were a
secret society of two, planning and plotting for a future strewn with
horsey things, weekly riding lessons among them. Just as suddenly, I was a barn mom, which meant I was
fully engaged in many, many things I had zero experience with. My
daughter attacked her learning curve with gusto and passion while I,
accepted my fate with as much dignity as I could muster. I bought myself
muck boots and dug in, trying to seem anything but completely out of my
element. <br />
<br />
Here is the thing...and the real meat of the prompt...I've discovered
that I like it. I've learned enough to know my way around the barn now.
Her Tuesday evening lesson is time I actually look forward to spending
with my daughter. I love watching her, acknowledging that she does seem
to have the natural ability as a rider that my little sister always
had. She is developing confidence and a real appreciation for the mental
and physical challenges of riding. She adores my sister too, and I love
the connection they share. I love that in so many ways, my sister has
become my daughter's hero. It makes my heart happy to watch them
together. <br />
<br />
It isn't just about my daughter though. <br />
<br />
Over the last year, I've grown to love this part of my sister's life,
this part we share with her. I love the horses, their dark eyes
reflecting something back about us all. I have an appreciation for the
ones that work hard, take care of their riders despite having their own
limitations. There is a special kind of grace about being with them,
these massive animals who outweigh our fragile human bodies yet trust us
to guide them and to care for them. There is an exchange of trust that
is connected to something in our souls and it moves and fascinates me.<br />
<br />
It brings me a kind of peace...the smell of the barn, the wide open sky
above the paddocks, the pounding of my daughter's mount in a rolling
canter. I enjoy the moments of tacking Sonny up before the lesson with
her, sneaking him peppermints to keep him cooperative in the colder
weather when he feels his years more. I love visiting my sister's own
horses, and the trio of Friesian babies that currently reside with her -
each of them mini black beauties that are all spunk and fire.<br />
<br />
We had
the task of feeding her horses while she was away on her honeymoon and I
grew to love the walk out to their pasture to drop their hay and grain
in those late October afternoons. They would see us coming, their
beautiful heads raised, expectant and welcoming of the meal and the
petting session we were about to bestow on them. Again, there is a peace
it brings me - similar in the way I used to feel slipping beneath the
waves in my dive gear. Similar but different, because I am more then an
observer in this world. This world demands my tactile engagement in a
way scuba diving did not. Horses want that emotional and physical
connection, those touches and words whispered in their soft, flicking ears. I
can see why people have horses, there is a quiet magic to them that
brings a certain kind of solace in its wake. Being with a horse is like a balm on those ragged parts of our soul. <br />
<br />
Recently we were bringing Sonny out of the lesson ring and paused to
clean the dirt from his shoes. Since she was stepped on early in the
year, this task is one my daughter continues to be leery of. It usually
falls to me to "show" her again how to get it done without getting her
feet crunched. I've gotten pretty confident about it now, I've come to
know how best to get Sonny to bend his leg up so I can clear out the
clumps quickly. I was demonstrating for my daughter again...how you have
to lean close against him, keeping your feet parallel to his. You
have to reach down and grab his foot, easing him with your body weight,
to life the leg and keep his body in balance. I must have been
demonstrating it with an air of authority because I heard her trainer
exclaiming, "wow Mom, look at you!", as she walked up behind us.<br />
<br />
I
honestly-to-God swelled with pride in that moment. I felt myself
smiling. Because, here is the truth, straight from a city mouse's
mouth...I like the way I've managed to learn this stuff. I like the fact
that I now own muck boots and can rock a head lamp with pride. I like that I
know how to tack up a horse and that I go home smelling like them. I
love that I can slip in mud or horse poop and not care which one it
actually is. I love that I know how to help my daughter zip up her half
chaps or that I even know what half chaps are! I love this little bit
of country mouse I found in me now. I love it...a lot. It makes me happy
in a way I never would have expected.<br />
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MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-64671085548293596612019-01-15T06:53:00.002-08:002019-01-15T07:02:26.950-08:00Age 9 - A Whirling Dervish Delight <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
This month my daughter turns nine. In keeping with tradition, and in my
ongoing effort to temper the bittersweet forward march of time, I like
to author at least one blog wholly devoted to marking the milestone of
her birthday. If I am to leave her anything of real value when I am
gone, it will be this ongoing testimony of an immensely proud mamma who
was fully invested in her journey and loved her in every second and with
every fiber of my being. <br />
<br />
This past year has been filled with trials..from the sheer physicality
of moving twice this summer, to our ever increasing battles over her
hair and clothes, to combating her near obsession with online games and
YouTube. We have started most of the mornings in this fresh New Year
with an argument about one thing or another. I have lost my mind over
her stomping feet, exaggerated eye rolls and disgruntled faces. It
seems we endlessly debate why leggings are not appropriate winter
attire. We battle. Sometimes it gets loud and the dogs, sensing an epic
throw down is looming, take off to hide upstairs until the storm passes.
<br />
<br />
Still, before our turn comes up in the drop-off line, we manage to sort
it out. Regardless of how angry she may be, she still shoulders her
backpack and leans in for a kiss before throwing open the door. These
days I find it is more about finding victories in the delightful
surprises then consistently winning arguments with her. Eventually she
listens to me…and besides, there are so many delightful surprises…<br />
<br />
She is becoming her own person and that person is most definitely not a
mini version of me. She is entirely something new and improved, a
hybrid of both her parents with a balance of our features and various
traits blending together in this beautiful new way – along with things
that seem unique to her. <br />
<br />
She is athletic and competitive in a way neither one of us ever were.
She is drawn to things that challenge both her body and her mind at
once, like obstacle courses and horse-back riding. I can see her mind
working as she puts her body through the physical paces, concentration
is as evident on her face as enjoyment is. She has become more fearless
in this environment, trepidation giving way to a growing confidence. I
can see pride blooming there as well, in that telling Mona Lisa smile
when her instructor cries out, “Yes, Good Girl!”, the moment she achieves
the perfect posture or executes the perfect transition or canter. <br />
<br />
Music continues to be something she is drawn too. She pushes back on
practicing piano but once she sits down and begins to coach the notes
from her instrument, I can see her lose herself. She started ukulele
lessons in school recently, and she has really taken to it. She talks a
blue streak about chords and likes to play me the YouTube tutorials they
use in class. She has asked for her own ukulele for her birthday this
year and I look forward to hearing her strumming away on those chords. <br />
<br />
Like mine, her taste in music is highly varied. She has a wide scope of
what she likes. For now, she gets by on my playlist but makes the
occasional request for me supplement it with a new song she has
discovered. For the most part, I enjoy her selections. They reflect
someone who listens with a critical ear and harbors a true appreciation
for musical composition, regardless of the genre. The other day on one
of our drives, “Under Pressure” came on the radio. I immediately turned
it up and began singing along, as one simply has to do in appreciation
for genius collaboration of David Bowie and Freddy Mercury. I glanced
at my daughter in the rear view and was simultaneously shocked and
elated to find she was also singing along in the back of the car. She
caught my eyes, and smiled back at me. It was a moment of kindred
connection, one of those delightful surprises. <br />
<br />
At her core, she is still that child that loves to snuggle. She still
prefers to fall asleep between us. Even when she goes to bed in her own
room, we find her wrapped about us come morning, one leg or arm draped
over us and her hair falling in sheets across our faces. The “I love
you’s” still come unsolicited, though not as frequently as they once
did. She will still take my hand in a parking lot or store. Randomly,
during a movie or in the throngs of deep sleep, I will sometimes
suddenly feel the slip of her hand – her long fingers lacing up with
mine. These are the moments I treasure most. <br />
<br />
She is magical in so many ways these days. Even in her stubborn fury,
her green eyes flash and pierce with a mysterious loveliness. Her
heart-shaped face has changed so much, it is hard to find a trace of my
own features there anymore. I see a version of her teenage father in her
lanky silhouette but she has a grace to her movements and a flavor to
her beauty that must hail from more distant ancestors. <br />
<br />
As she turns nine, our girl is still more reserved and quiet than most
girls her age. She still holds herself back, but less so. Her
confidence is growing and she engages more freely with those people she
feels most comfortable with. She readily chimes in on phone calls with
my sister or responds with unchecked giggles at her new uncle’s antics
and teasing. She tells stories and jokes. She asks for things she wants
and responds to questions from adults without my prompting her to
answer. She will occasionally surprise me by breaking into nutty
dancing in the aisle of home depot or quoting “Napoleon Dynamite” with a
deadpan accuracy. She still likes slime, unfortunately, but has showed
a renewed interest in things like painting and her pottery wheel. She
is creative but draws more pleasure from exploring the mediums than by
finishing the final pieces. Our daughter has an explorer’s heart. <br />
<br />
At nine, she is our whirling dervish, our musical student, our budding
equestrian. She is warm and loving. She is intelligent and she is
kind. She will not back down from an argument but she won’t hold a
grudge. You may wait half a lifetime for an apology but when one finally
comes it will arrive accompanied by a fierce hug and kiss and a
throaty, heart-melting, “I’m sorry Mamma.” And it is absolutely no
surprise that life with her is simply delightful. MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-50308897856554083962019-01-02T06:54:00.000-08:002019-01-02T06:54:12.619-08:00The Tactile Pleasures of Reading and There will Always be Laundry <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>"Blogging Circle of Friends " <br />
DAY 2236: January 2, 2019 <br />
Prompt: My grandmother always said that what you did on New Year's day
you would be doing for the rest of the year. What did you accomplish on
New Years day? Will you be doing it the rest of the year?</b><br />
<br />
Laundry...that is what I spent my New Year day doing...and most
certainly what I will be doing for the rest of the year and all the
years of my life to come. There will always be laundry...oodles of
mismatched socks, soiled doggie diapers, changes of barely worn clothes
discarded by my fickle daughter and sodden towels left on the floors and
draped over the backs of chairs. There will always be damp swimsuits
and grass-stained jeans. There will always be grease covered
sweatshirts and hairy, smelly doggie beds. It will never end for me. I
know this with a rare certainty. For the most part, I embrace the
chore. There is something satisfying from turning a heap of dirty,
soiled garments into a fresh, crisply folded pile of clean clothes and
towels. I feel accomplished once the various laundry baskets are
emptied and all the cleaned laundry is put away again. No matter that
the baskets don't stay empty, or that the dirty cast offs sometimes fall
just short of the basket's wide, easily accessible maw. This is my
task to bear, mostly because entrusting it to another member of my
household would certainly spell disaster; like the time my visiting
mother-in-law managed to shrink all three of my pairs of maternity
pants, or the time I found my husband had folded and put away an entire
load of laundry that was still damp. <img alt="*Smirk*" border="0" class="emoteZ" height="15" src="https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/e15/smirk.png" title="Smirk" width="15" /> <br />
<br />
So yes, this New Years..and all on those blessed ones to come...there will be laundry. <br />
<br />
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<br /><b>
"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" <br />
Day 1843 January 2, 2019 <br />
Prompt: "Open a volume and next comes fragrance: fresh, green and inky
if it's new or a bit dusty and aged like a grandfather's cozy den" Which
do you like better, new books or old books? </b><br />
<br />
This is a tough call. I have always loved the texture and smell of old
books. Near my new home there is place called the Book Barn that has a
seemingly endless series of rooms and outbuildings filled with books.
Some of them are very old volumes, their covers mottled with mold. I
love looking at those books, imagining all the hands they've traded to
and from over the years. Then there is a this inherent joy with
cracking the spine of a new book, that fresh ink smell and the crispness
of pages not yet thumbed through. I love being the first person to take
a new book out of the library. It feels like a secret privilege of
sorts. I have never wanted an e-reader for these reasons, there is
something so tactility satisfying about reading physical books that you
loss with those electronic devices. MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-19909805468526994212018-10-17T06:47:00.001-07:002018-10-17T06:47:15.163-07:00Five Remarkable Books <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span class="corange">30-Day Blogging Challenge - Oct 17th <br />
Share a list of your top 5 favorite books and give us a short blurb on each.</span></b><br />
<br />
I have to start off by stating that these five are in no particular
order. I have always loved to read and over the years, I have found
that these five books have stayed with me the most among the hundreds I
have digested over the years. <br />
<br />
"Salem's Lot" was Stephen King's 2nd published novel and though I read
most of his work, this early novel has never been unseated as my
favorite. The novel takes place in Jerusalem, Maine. Writer Ben Mears
returns to his hometown to discover that the townspeople are being
systematically turned into vampires. It is wonderfully campy, borrowing
on all those original, "bump in the night" fears from one's nightmare
landscape. King's descriptive prowess is on full display here, making
even the most predictable scenes read with razor edge tension. It is a
classic good verses evil story that pits faith and conviction against
fear and corruption. <br />
<i><br />
<span class="cplum">“You have forgotten the doctrine of your own church,
is it not so? The cross… the bread and wine… the confessional… only
symbols. Without faith, the cross is only wood, the bread baked wheat,
the wine sour grapes.” Barlow, Salem's Lot</span></i><br />
<br />
Jim Lynch's "The Highest Tide" is an almost complete departure from my
first choice. It tells the store of Miles O' Malley, a thirteen year
old boy who battles insomnia by searching the tidal flats of Puget Sound
for exotic sea specimens to sell. It is at the same time, about so much
more. This is a coming of age story, set against the backdrop of a boy
who finds a mysterious creature on the beach at night. At the same time
Miles is making his discoveries, he is also dealing with the fear of
his parent's impending divorce and a man-sized crush on the girl next
door. At all times this book is sweet and sensitive but packs a really
meaningful and engaging story. Lynch's descriptive phrasing is broadly
appealing, especially for those who appreciate the ocean and its
creatures. <br />
<br />
<span class="cplum"><i>"A feisty entourage of purple shore crabs
scurried alongside the snail, their oversized pinchers drawn like Uzis. I
thought about grabbing the moon snail, but I knew that even after it
squeezed inside its shell like some contortionist stunt, it would still
hog too much room in my pack. So I noted where it was and moved on until
I saw the blue flash. It wasn't truly flashing, but with moonlight
bouncing off it that was the effect. I steadied my headlamp and closed
in on a starfish that radiated blue, as if it had just been pulled from a
kiln. But it wasn't just the color that jarred me. Its two lower legs
clung strangely together in line with its top leg and perpendicular to
its two side legs, making it stand out in the black mud like a blue
crucifix." Miles, The Highest Tide</i></span><br />
<br />
"Of Love and Other Demons" by the amazing Colombia author, Gabriel
Garcia Marquez, is the book that made me fall in love with words.
Marquez's prose is so breathtaking beautiful, I can only imagine how
much more compelling it would read in his native Spanish. The story is
about a young girl, Sierva Maria, who is bitten by a rabid dog. She is
sent to a monastery to presumably live out her days in isolation. She
meets and begans a relationship with a young cleric there named Father
Cayetano Delaura. It is a tormented love story that is ripe with
beautiful anguish. <br />
<br />
<span class="cplum"><i>And without giving his panic an opportunity, he
unburdened himself of the dark truth that did not permit him to live. He
confessed that every moment was filled with thoughts of her, that
everything he ate and drank tasted of her, that she was his life, always
and everywhere, as only God had the right and power to be, and that the
supreme joy of his heart would be to die with her. He continued to
speak without looking at her, with the same fluidity and passion as when
he recited poetry, until it seemed to him that Sierva María was
sleeping. But she was awake, her eyes, like those of a startled deer,
fixed on him. She almost did not dare to ask:<br />
"And now?"<br />
"And now nothing," he said. "It is enough for me that you know."<br />
</i></span><br />
<br />
Peter Straub was another author I discovered at an early age. His novel
"Ghost Story", was the first book that really scared me. It kept me up
at night, literally. There is such an amazing story that kicks off with
four men discussing the one tragic night and horrific mistake they all
have in common. It is a tale that travels through decades with
characters that climb right out the page and sit, waiting for you in the
dark corners of your room. Both this movie, and Salem's Lot were made
into movies...and neither film came anywhere close to being as good as
these books were. Aptly titled, Ghost Story, this is the one you will
compare all others too. <br />
From its ominous opening line, it grabs on and doesn't let go.<br />
<br />
<span class="cplum"><i>“What was the worst thing you've ever done?<br />
I won't tell you that, but I'll tell you the worst thing that ever
happened to me...the most dreadful thing...” Peter Straub, Ghost Story </i><br />
</span><br />
My final entry to my top five is one of my favorite authors...James Lee
Burke. While I have read all of his novels, "Tin Roof Blowdown" was my
first introduction to this master storyteller. No writer can transport
me to places better than Burke. His descriptive powers, in my opinion,
are unrivaled. His characters are teeming with life and vitality. This
particular novel kicks off with a shooting of two looters in the
immediate aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. This wasn't the
first book to feature his recurring characters or the setting of
Southern Lousiana, but it endeared Dave Robicheaux and his buddy Clet
Pursell to me forever after. Burke has expertly crafted their
characters and over the years, has given them lives that you can almost
swear must exist outside the pages of his books. I repeated find myself
reading a paragraph over just to more fully appreciate the care in
which he has described a particular place or feeling. He is an absolute
master of the craft. <br />
<br />
<span class="cplum"><i>"MY WORST DREAMS have always contained images of
brown water and fields of elephant grass and the downdraft of helicopter
blades. The dreams are in color but they contain no sound, not of
drowned voices in the river or the explosions under the hooches in the
village we burned or the thropping of the Jolly Green and the gunships
coming low and flat across the canopy, like insects pasted against a
molten sun." Dave Robicheaux, Tin Roof Blowdown. </i></span><br />
<br />
There are so many other books that come close to making the cut that I
can recommend. Like, Sara Gruen's "Water for Elephants", "Horns" by Joe
Hill, anything by Greg Iles...If you loved the show Stranger Things, I
would highly recommend you check out, "Summer of Night" by Dan Simmons. I
could go on but this entry is already pretty long and I surely must
have lost most of my readers by now...<br />
<br />
MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-59291253442035877082018-10-03T08:43:00.000-07:002018-10-03T08:43:46.947-07:00What She Remembers...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Admittedly I woke up in a bit of bad mood this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The day seemed it would be another
rain-soaked drizzlier like so many others before it. I was already fighting
fatigue and a blooming foulness when I signed on to yahoo news and saw the
headline about our President mocking Christine Blasey Ford.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some ways perhaps I was already primed to
have a bad reaction, I’m not sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Normally I avoid clinking on political links that seem overtly sensationalized
but, perhaps because I had myself been so recently triggered by Ms Ford’s
testimony, I went ahead and did it this morning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.yahoo.com/news/trump-mocks-christine-blasey-ford-mississippi-rally-012158576.html">https://www.yahoo.com/news/trump-mocks-christine-blasey-ford-mississippi-rally-012158576.html</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The US political machine, and Trump supporters near and dear
to me, often try to convince me that the liberal media loves to malign and
misquote him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to tell you that
the unfavorable opinions I have come to hold about our President are not due to
watching a biased news channel or listening to democratic senators take him to
task over policies and principles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No,
my opinions are formed exclusively and concretely by the words I hear coming
from his own mouth. They are formed by his personal actions, by his arrogance, and
by this, a seemingly default knee jerk reaction to rally his base and choose
his own political agenda and fragile ego over common decency and respect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I understand that he is supporting his nominee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will even allow that he feels an attack on
his nomination is perceived as yet another attack on him and his administration
by the Democrats and their political agenda. I will also concede that politics
are always at play especially in the high stakes arena of the Supreme Court
appointees. However, what kind of human being doesn’t watch Ms. Ford’s
compelling testimony and not acknowledge that indeed, something traumatic
happened to her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What kind of person sits
through her account, unmoved?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What kind
of father, son, brother, husband…ignores her obvious discomfort and distress at
recalling the details on an event that had so clear and profound effect on her
life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What kind of leader ignores the
pain of woman’s assault and questions her credibility to garner cheers on a
public podium for political gain? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are many details Ms. Ford does not remember, this is
true statement. It is the details she does recall though that tear and wound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She can remember some details with disturbing
clarity – the hand over her mouth, the feeling of being over powered, the
laughter. These are the details she can never forget. These are the memories
that haunt her, lie in wait for her in the dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are the details that had to be dealt
with professional help and dedication.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These
are the details that rise up in therapy like unwelcomed intruders. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are the details she had to work hard to
move past, to move on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is how it is with sexual assault. We might not remember
exact dates, we may be foggy on the timeline but we won’t ever forget some
things. Some details will come back over and over again, even when we have
never tried harder to pretend something didn’t happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some memories can always reside with us, buried
long ago with our shame and our fear, only to be unwittenly triggered by the
testimony of others. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could not tell you the date of my assault, even the day of
the week. I’m also a little foggy on the events leading up to it. I might have
had certainly had a drink myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
this day, I’m not 100% sure how the situation so quickly morphed outside my
control. However, I can tell you what I remember with startling, visceral clarity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can tell you how
the fear started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a slow burn in
my gut that blossomed into a panic that rattled against my ribcage when I realized
he was stronger than me and I could not get out from under him. I can tell you
how he tasted of stale cigarettes and popcorn and the way my fingers got
tangled in his blonde curls as I struggled against his advances. I can recall
the way he turned into a stranger, his body taunt and unyielding, driven by one
need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember the way I disappeared under him,
became a non-person with no voice and no power of objection. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He failed to hear or see me as anything other
than a vessel to pour his rage and grief into. I remember the abrupt release,
the dismissal and the almost immediate snoring that ripped through the room as
I scrambled for my clothes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can
remember the pain of it, a brutal rawness I nursed for days after and the numbing
fear that something inside me had been tore beyond repair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t remember the walk back to my own room, only that I
felt wrapped in a heavy blanket of shame with the hot whispers and his excited
keening playing in my head and my burning ears like an obscene soundtrack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember the self-loathing and the shame,
the guilt I placed on my own shoulders for being naïve and foolish. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember wanting to forget everything. I had
never wanted anything to disappear more than those minutes of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The reality of assault that President Trump doesn’t seem to understand
is that the details you fail to recall do not erase those you can. The fact
that you can’t remember dates or times, or the minutes leading up to an event,
do not render that event untrue, they do not disqualify the experience as
having happened. I don’t know if Mr. Kavanaugh is the one who assaulted Ms.
Ford, but she seems to 100% believe he was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I can tell you first hand, the decades don’t erase the face of an
assailant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can tell you, someone absolutely
hurt that woman. I don’t need her to tell me how she got to that place to know
someone assaulted her there or that she was alone and she was afraid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t need the time or the date to know
that someone robbed her that summer of something she can never get back. My
heart breaks for the details she can never forget and there is nothing
political about a victim’s pain…ever. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-62534117476393039382018-08-16T11:35:00.000-07:002018-08-16T11:35:08.915-07:00Legacy of Words & Finding Hope <b>"Blogging Circle of Friends " <br />
DAY 2097 August 16, 2018 <br />
size:5}" “Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my
grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall
built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand
touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when
people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there." ~
Ray Bradbury<br />
Do you agree or disagree? If so what will you leave behind?</b><br />
<br />
Without question, I will leave my daughter my words. <br />
<br />
I have, it seems, always been writing in my life but the moment my
daughter became the seed in my soul, she also became my muse. I have
written about the joy of expecting her delivery, the trials of being a
new mother and struggling to find balance as a working mom. I have
written about the incredibly vulnerability you feel bringing a life into
the world and of the fierce and all-consuming love that makes you both
terribly afraid and immeasurably happy all at once. I have written about
my daughter's growth, about her amazing milestones, our battles and all
those sweet moments that made my heart melt.<br />
<br />
I continue to write about her, marking her years with all the insights I
can about who she is and what she is like at her various stages and
ages. Her aggravating love of slime is forever immortalized in my my
blogs, as is the lovely character of her laughter and the summer she
fell in love with horses. I try to capture all her burgeoning beauty,
grace and personality that seems to come at a rapid fire pacing I feel I
can barely keep up with. My hope is that one day she can read through
all my entries, all my stories and blogs and see how I saw her at age 3,
age 7, age 18...and that this might tell her something about herself,
about the woman she has become and most importantly, about how she was
the absolute world to the woman who raised her. <br />
<br />
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<br />
<b>"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" <br />
Day 1703 August 16, 2018 <br />
Prompt: Hope.<br />
I had hope. It wasn't much hope but it was a little. Then it turned out
to have a thousand pieces, Scattering it in all directions. Hope for the
best, expect the worst. When is the last time you felt all hope was
lost but things got better? </b><br />
<br />
There have been many moments when I have felt hope scattered around me
like so much broken glass. There were times when the darkness was so
close to pulling me down that it seemed I could not draw enough breathe
into my lungs to live another second for myself. Even in those moments, I
must still have held onto hope because I did breathe. I did find a way
to get back on my feet. I think I wanted so badly to know a different
life, I wanted to be a different woman. I did not want to cower forever
or live a life when I could not tell the difference between passion and
violence. I wanted to love in another color besides red. I think I had
hope even then, when a weak man's rage had me curled into a frightened
ball at the base of my stairs, that this would not be my life and that
it would get better...that I would love better and find someone in turn
who did the same. I remember staring at my bloody fingertips and
thinking, "someday it will be me or him, and I will have to chose me".
Those words seemed so impossibly loud in my head and thinking them gave
me hope, and that hope eventually gave me the strength to do exactly
that. <br />
<br />
Hope is this amazing thing that resides in our souls...quietly waiting
until it is needed the most. In those dark times, it can be the light
by which we find our way out. <br />
<br />
"Hope is a thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the
tune without words and never stops at all" Emily DickinsonMD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-66386526064430370202018-08-08T09:07:00.001-07:002018-08-08T09:11:49.714-07:00Jaden's Summer of Ponies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There has likely never been a summer when I have needed to write more
and in a twist of cruel irony, have never had less time to do so. <br />
<br />
We moved this summer. It has been a challenge in several, largely
unanticipated ways. The unforgiving summer humidity coupled with
adapting to a new home with a host of issues, has strained every
relationship I have at some point. I'd like to say that with each room I
"finish", we are settling in and feeling more at home but some days,
that seems to be merely sugar-coating it. I know that we will reach a
point when we no longer feel overwhelmed and things will become easier,
more natural. I look forward to those days with the kind of hope
reserved for much larger things in life. For now, I try to go day by
day. I try to see the positive, I try to appreciate the progress we are
making. I look for the things about this summer that are undeniably
joyful. <br />
<br />
Jaden is having a remarkable summer. She has grown into a leggy,
outspoken girl who has discovered a myriad of new loves and abilities.
Like a greenhouse flower, she has blossomed amid the heat and humidity,
seemingly unperturbed by the dog days of a summer running a bit too long
in the tooth. A surprise week at horse camp has radically transformed a
unsettled summer into an adventure. She has fallen in love with horses
and with trailing her Aunt Becky through her world of ponies and
puppies. Jaden has become the child my sister always dreamed she'd
convert from Barbies to show horses and trail rides. The first day of
pickup at horse camp, I discovered my fastidious daughter covered from
her head to her toes in grime and horsehair, smiling a 100 watt smile
and looking as happy as I have ever seen her. <br />
<br />
So, a week in horse camp as turned into three thanks to the generosity
and stubborn persistence of a favorite Aunt on a mission. Each morning
she pulls on her riding tights and laces up her paddock boots. She grabs
her helmet bag, a present from her Aunt, which houses the pretty pink
riding helmet and riding gloves, and heads into the barn. It has to be
unbearable hot most days and the smell is...well, let's just say that it
is not my cup of tea, and still she pops out of bed like a daisy, eager
to get the to barn and get her pony tacked up. I get videos of her
lessons sometimes and I can hardly believe its the same shy girl,
posting proudly in her saddle and urging her mount into the rolling
canter she loves. I am proud of her and immensely happy to see her bond with my sister as she has this summer. MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-75789463444352754212018-08-08T08:28:00.002-07:002018-08-08T08:28:51.808-07:00Bat Houses & Butterfly Wings <br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" <br />
Day 1695 August 8, 2018 <br />
Prompt: "Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it turned
into a butterfly." What are your views on this? Write anything you want
about this. </b><br />
<br />
These days I feel far more like a terrestrial garden slug than a
caterpillar, nevermind a butterfly. Moving twice in as many months has
left me drained. It has been an incredibly humid summer and the
unforgiving weather has felt like a plague. Settling into our new home
has been rough going. At times it has felt like a depressing treasure
hunt where you find delightful little problems like shoddy plumbing and
carpentry work around every corner. Some days it has been a challenge
to find the beauty in the home we had so readily fallen in love with.
We have made progress on fixing the showers, waged war on the ants, even
made a kind of peace with the resident bat who comes and goes from one
of the outside window eaves. I tell myself it a few short weeks that
bat will move on to warmer climates and when and if he returns, we will
have installed a far more suitable bat house for him as an alternative.
We are making progress. We are adapting to our new life, our new home
but it has been surprisingly difficult some days. <br />
<br />
I don't feel like a butterfly although the transformation sounds like
just the sort of miracle I could use. I've struggled to find time for
myself, for those improvements I desperately need to make. I need to
build back in an exercise routine, meal prep and self-care regime. I
need to fix my hair, attempt to grown my nails again...and at least
start shaving my legs with some regularity again. Moving has been
all-consuming. I hardly feel like myself in a house where everything
feels strange and new. I try to be grateful for the potentially
wonderful home we are making, remember how blessed we are...I try to
find the positive. I try not to get overwhelmed. I try to remember to be
patient and know that things take time. I try to be the caterpillar
looking for that perfect limb on which begin my new life with wings. <br />
<br />
<br />
MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-60558907399497230492018-07-09T08:15:00.002-07:002018-07-09T08:16:09.809-07:00Work Ethics & Truth Telling <b>"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" <br />
DAY 1665 July 9, 2018 <br />
Prompt: “Examine your words well, and you will find that even when you
have no motive to be false, it is a very hard thing to say the exact
truth, even about your own immediate feelings.” George Eliot<br />
Why is telling the exact truth so difficult? Your thoughts…{/i}<br />
</b><br />
<br />
Telling the exact truth takes a lot of courage, because truth can be
painfully hard to hear for some. I have learned valuable lessons about
family and loyalty through some of my own truth-telling, lessons that
still leave marks...like wounds you thought healed that suddenly flare
up and fester. I have always written without self-censorship and while
the old adage may say, "the truth will set you free", it will also often
isolate you and leave you exposed. That is the risk and one I have come
to understand too well. These days however, if I feel pressed to blog
or write about something to process it or just to better understand my
own perceptions, I find myself taking a pause. I don't want to write
purely from a place of anger anymore. I give myself a few days then I
try to articulate my feelings, try to express myself as candidly as
possible. In the past I have gone back and re-read a piece and thought
that it sounded more angry than I might have intended it to. I don't
ever want to totally white-wash the anger out, or censor the truth but I
also don't want to lose myself completely in it either. I run the risk
of being angry a lot, of turning my writing into a tool to lash out
rather than what it should be, a tool to process my emotions and
feelings. So...I take a step back, I take a breath...I "examine my words
well" and make sure that what I am committing to electronic ink is the
most honest version of myself that I can, the person who doesn't give in
solely to the hurt and the anger, a person who reflects rather than
simply reacts. One last word about truth...it is always 100% perspective
- what you believe is your truth is personal and you should never have
to apologize for how you feel or how you perceive someone or something.
<br />
<br />
<b>"Blogging Circle of Friends " <br />
DAY 2058: July 9, 2018<br />
Prompt: Work Ethic. Write whatever you want about this subject. If you have a favorite quote share it.</b><br />
<br />
I have been working for most of my adult life, starting pretty early on
in my father's business. I was the kid that always wanted to go to work
with him, taking on menial tasks...more of a mascot than any real help
around the office. Over time though, that interest developed into a
career which as times, can be more consuming than might be advisable.
It is what I grew up around though, my father was never really not
working...<br />
There wasn't a family vacation where we didn't spend some time standing
outside a phone booth in the blazing hot Florida sun, or after the
invention of cell phones, following my Dad around like little ducks as
he talked with the office with one of those big, white, early
Motorolla's pressed to his ear. As a business owner, my father was
always working, rarely inaccessible in those early years. It is only
now, after decades of near constant work, he is taking more true breaks,
he actually feels like he can step back and let others step in and
handle things more. Still, the moment something heats up, or goes
wrong...he's right back. He is hands-on, even at the age and level of
success where he could be retiring, he rarely shows signs of slowing
down. I'm not sure my father is the retiring type...he's worked his
whole life, how does one turn that off? To me that is work ethic...to
give what's needed and more to the job and when it is your own business,
to be there for it when it needs you most. I'd like to think the man
raised me the same way, to understand that kind of dedication to the
work. <br />
<br />
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MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-48491017412530068572018-07-06T12:08:00.000-07:002018-07-06T12:22:54.986-07:00Ella's Lion <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<b> "Blogging Circle of Friends " <br />
DAY 2056 July 6, 2018 <br />
Use these words somehow in your writing- enchanted, twilight, fireflies, rose, carousel, lion, and tinman.</b><br />
<br />
The old porch fan rattled and buzzed each time it completed it's wide
arch rotation, an offending interruption to the otherwise soft summer
evening soundtrack. Ella quickly padded across the porch in her bare
feet and switched it off. She returned to her swing and curled her long
fingers around her still steaming mug of <b>rose</b> tea. She watched the <b>fireflies</b>
painting brief and brilliant patterns of light all across the wide open
field. The haystacks stood like silent sentinels against the darkening <b>twilight. </b><br />
<br />
Ella sat back, feeling for just a moment, a bite of pain in her stomach
that took her breathe away. It was fleeting spark but she knew it would
be back. Soon Ella knew she would need to swallow more of the little
white pills to keep the pain from radiating through her guts, stretching
its cruel fingers through her joints and delicate organs. The pain was
getting harder and harder to contain, certainly an unwelcome but not
wholly unexpected side effect of the cancer. Ella tried not to think
about the pain now. She focused on the sweet chirping of the peep frogs
and the gentle rustle of the tall grasses as the night breeze picked up
and raced across the fields. Ella leaned her head back and closed her
eyes. She soon slipped into her memories...<br />
<br />
A much younger Ella raced through the gates of the tri-county
agriculture fair. As she ran, her long dark tresses flowed out behind
her, the only feminine thing about the rail-thin girl in the dirty
overalls and duck boots. She was immediately assaulted by the smell of
cinnamon sweet fried dough and fresh spun cotton candy, her favorite
treats. She barreled past the tempting vendors all the same, heading to
the carousel. They always set it up dead center of the fair and there
was always a line. She heard the carousel's rousing tune before she saw
it, rising up like an mirage from the dust and grime of the fairgrounds.
<br />
<br />
Ella was enchanted by the <b>carousel</b>. It was an antique marvel of
engineering and art. Instead of horses, the carousel was made up of wild
animals imported directly from the plains of Africa. The animals were
beautifully crafted, the mahogany creatures painted and polished to a
high glossy sheen. The elephants had tusks that looked like real ivory
and the giraffes gazed at you with deeply soulful eyes. The hippos were
comically wide, their wide mouths open revealing fat pink tongues.
Nothing could have been more exotic to a farm girl from the Midwest and
she would ride it several times, every day the fair was running. Ella's
favorite though was the African lion. There was only one of those, a big
male with a russet colored mane and broad back and massive paws. He
looked so alive, the incarnation of all the power and might one would
expect from a king. She loved the lion and there was little that came
close to the joy she felt slipping onto his smooth back and wrapping her
fingers around the leather halter looped at the beast's neck. <br />
<br />
Ella reached the spindly gate of the carousel, alarmed to see she was
pretty far back from the front of the line. She watched the other
children hand their tickets to the attendant and gleefully charge up over the
sides and clamoring for their animal of choice. Several children began
to bicker over the camel and Ella saw one little girl struggling to
climb the lion's flank. Disappointed, she stepped aside when she
reached the front of the line explaining to the stoic attendant that
she would wait for the next ride. He looked down at her and shrugged with a
<b>tin man's</b> indifference, and left to check that the riders were
all properly seated before putting the carousel into motion with a palm
punch to a large red button. <br />
<br />
Ella rode the carousel that day a record sixteen times before her parents
made her go home. It would be the last year the carousel came to the
fair, having been replaced the very next fair by a shoddy operation with
dully painted horses sporting wide eyes and gaping mouths that Ella
thought looked macabre. These new horses bounced under the riders who
reached for tiny gold rings and they swirled past. She never rode that
carousel. Oddly, it held no magic for her. <br />
<br />
The rising pain brought Ella to the the surface, trailing her fading
memories like a gossamer wake. She opened her eyes and found her tea was
cold and the night had fallen like an inky curtain. She slowly sat up,
the pain now a hot cinder in her side. Ella pulled herself to her
feet, gritting her teeth against the agony. It made her light-headed and
her vision blurred. She rubbed at her eyes and her knuckles came away
with a coating of hot tears. Then, off in the distance, she caught of
glimpse of something through the veil of water in her eyes.<br />
<br />
She limped
down off the porch and into the yard, straining to get a better look at
the thing that was impossibly perched on the edge of the farthest field.
Ella's heart rallied even as her brain told her in no uncertain terms,
that the thing was absolutely not that magnificent carousel from her
youth. But, as Ella drew closer, she saw that somehow, indeed it was the
very same one. Her ears began to pick out that familiar lilting tune and there,
yes, right there as he'd always been, was the lion. Her lion.<br />
<br />
Ella
barely registered the pain now, it was as if it was fading, giving her
space to breath again. <br />
<br />
With an energy that surprised her, Ella rushed the last few yards to the
gate. She swung it open and stood, looking at the beautiful beast with
his flaming mane and soft eyes. Without a moment's hesitation, Ella
swung herself up, onto his broad back. She pressed her cheek against his
cool smoothness, closed her eyes and felt the carousel begin to slowly
move. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br />
"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" <br />
Day 1662 July 6, 2018 <br />
You've met three people on your way to do an errand. They're all talking
about something they overheard but are positive you're the reason it's
happening. Are they right or wrong? Weave us a tale about the three
people and yourself and whatever is happen</b><br />
<br />
Christina felt the frown forming despite her best efforts to keep it at
bay. She knew the three women were talking about her. Not for the first
time that day, Christina cursed the small town with its limited
resources and its one and only, tiny pharmacy. It was hard to avoid
people in a town this size, the very reason she had left for the big
city with its legions of bustling strangers. There had been an absolute
certainty she was going to run into someone she knew on the brief dash
into town but here she was, annoyed to find it had happened after all.
Despite her mother being a bit of a recluse, she had been well-known in
town and the rumor mill was incredibly small but efficient here. <br />
<br />
One of the women had clearly been appointed as emissary. She made her
way toward Christina, rearranging her features into a mask of sympathy.
<br />
<br />
"We were all so sorry to hear about your Mother. She was such a nice lady. You look just like her!" <br />
<br />
Christina bit back an acidic response and only nodded, allowing the
woman to rub her bicep awkwardly for a few moments before she spun back
to her troops. The pharmacist called her name and Christina rushed up
and snatched the bag and dashed out of the store. <br />
<br />
What could she have expected? Of course her mother's death would be
fodder for the people she lived, or mostly, lived among. Though Ella has
been private, most people had known about the cancer diagnosis and of
her stubborn refusal of treatment. They had all known she preferred to
live out her days in the farmhouse among the fallow fields her family
once tended, despite the doctor's advice and Christina's agonized
pleading. <br />
<br />
Two nights ago, Christina had gotten the call she had long dreaded. Her
mother had been found, inexplicably at the far edges of the family
property, just lying in the field. She had passed away sometime in the
night and by all accounts it had been a peaceful passing, even though
given the late stage of her disease, she must have been suffering in
considerable pain. The man who found her told Christina she had looked
like she was sleeping, dreaming the most wonderful of dreams. Her plain
face rendered beautiful in death by an oddly childish smile. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-21969714134098778272018-04-30T11:17:00.000-07:002018-04-30T11:19:33.584-07:00The Truth in Renovation - Circa 2012, Reflected on 2018 <i><span class="selectOk">I first wrote this piece in 2012, and today as we listed the house for sale I take a moment to reread these thoughts and find the sentiments are that much more poignant today. I realize that I am only more emotionally attached this home today, having spent more years here and made more memories. I have loved watching my daughter playing in the backyard with her friends and reading a book in pool of afternoon sunshine. I have loved the smell of coffee filling the kitchen on Sunday mornings while I made breakfast and listened to NPR, the dogs at my feet. I've loved every peaceful hour lying back in a lawn chair watching the drama of our resident bird community play out high above my head in the boughs of our massive maple tree. I have watched storms whip past the windows and felt the security of my sturdy old dame, with her plaster walls and seeping stone foundation. I don't know how long it will take to sell, I'm prepared at least, to have a few more months in which to wrap up our renovations and say our goodbyes.</span><span class="selectOk"><span class="selectOk"> I am grateful that this life has given me the
chance to see this house, not for the pain and fear it once housed, but
for the life and love that has filled its rooms. </span> </span></i><br />
<br />
<span class="selectOk">The Truth in Renovation - Feb 2012</span><br />
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<td align="left" class="norm">This past week we relocated the entire
brood to do some much needed renovation work on the old house. We had
made a difficult decision to spend our limited funds on home
improvements rather than taking off to some sunny, semi-tropical
destination on the theory that we would get far more out of our money
that way. While my father's house wasn't on the beach in Fort
Lauderdale, it was still more luxurious than our home and far more
well-equipped. Jaden enjoyed being under the same roof as Grampa and
took full advantage of his unlimited attention whenever possible. Fatih
spent the days working on refinishing all wood floors on the first
floor, repairing some plaster damage and repainting the stairwell and
painting the great room. This past Tuesday I got my first real look at
all his hard work. It was an amazing transformation. <br />
<br />
My decision to keep the house after my first divorce was one born of
need rather than want. I had needed a project, a mission to divert my
attention from the fallout of an ugly failed relationship. I had always
loved that old house but it came with a boatload of memories, most of
them bad. Still, I moved in. I planned to bury those bad memories in
new paint, throw out all the yard sale furniture and fill in the
fist-sized holes myself. The process by which I re-invented my home was
very challenging and healing. And while gutting rooms and knocking
through walls was very cathartic, new paint and fancy new decor will
only go so far to change your perception of a space. It was still a
place that had seen to much pain, sheltered too much shame. When I met
Fatih it was always my plan to sell and find a new space to build our
lives together. Then we were blessed with the birth of our daughter and
the decision to sell was put on hold while we adjusted to life with our
precious newborn. We converted one of the spare bedrooms to nursery
and told ourselves we would stay put until Jaden was walking. By the
time our little girl was taking those first few steps, the recession had
squashed the opportunity sell and upgrade. Suddenly the list of all
those repairs and improvements seemed unavoidable...it was time to get
cracking. At least we could improve our space and enjoy it until
conditions again became favorable. So the plan was set, we would start
with the floors and walls and go on from there. <br />
<br />
I walked back into our home Tuesday night and I realized two things simultaneously...<br />
<br />
First, I love this house. I love sweeping openness of the floorplan,
made even more impressive with the shiny new wood floors with their
depression-era pattern. I love the high ceilings,arch ways and wide
rooms, made even brighter with the soft new paint. I love the character
of this home and the integrity of its original construction. <br />
<br />
Secondly, and this is the most important thing, I love that we have made
a life here, the life I share with my husband and daughter. And while I
know that eventually we will all move on to a quaint neighborhood in
the country, the memories that I will associate with this old house
belong to us now. It has been the pulse and heartbeat of our existence
here that have truly managed to cleanse this space of those bad memories
in a way that remodeling and renovation never could have. The spare
room at the top of the stairs will always be my daughter's first room -
the peaceful place I sat so many nights, rocking and dreaming of what
the child I carried would be like when she finally arrived. The stairs
will be the first ones she learned to climb. I will remember those
floors because they will be the ones my husband coaxed ageless beauty
from on his own hands and knees. That kitchen will be the one where I
made the meals my daughter never ate and the place where all our parties
seemed to begin and end. Those walls and rooms will be the ones that
witnessed all the amazing human drama of our growing, loving family. <br />
<br />
One day, when we do leave, I know I can stand in the center of that
home, close my eyes and hear the echoes of my daughter's laughter. I
know when we do move away, this home will be remembered as our family's
first...and only that. I can not begin to describe how grateful I am
for that truth. <br />
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MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-25206484959358440202018-03-19T07:06:00.000-07:002018-03-19T07:07:13.760-07:00Female Poets and the Mantas of Indonesia<b></b><br />
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<b> </b><br />
<b>"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" <br />
DAY 1553 Prompt-- March 19, 2018 <br />
Prompt: The Polish poet Adam Zagajewski said that in his country,
“poetry killed communism.” Do you think poets can be the forerunners of
social change, and if so, how are they managing to bring such
revolutions about?</b><br />
<br />
I have never been a poet, even my most lyrical prose would not qualify
as poetry however some of my favorite literary works are, in fact,
poems. There is this incredible power in words and nothing seeks to
reveal that better than a well-versed poem or passionate piece of spoken
word. I believe people read poetry with a higher level of attention, a
type of reverence that gives poets a unique platform to influence public
opinion, raise awareness and even bring about social change. This feels
particularly true of female poets who use poetry not simply as form of
artful expression but as a rebellion. In some places in the world where
women do not have a voice, their words are a brave act of defiance.
Throughout history and all over the world, female poets lend their
voices and tell their stories and people listen. <br />
<br />
They craft their poetry from war torn countries and their words provide
the narrative for the haunting images of dirty, bloodied children of a
brutal conflict. <br />
<br />
An excerpt from Najat Abdul Samad's poem, "When I am Overcome by Weakness"<br />
<i>"I bandage it with the steadiness of a child’s steps in the snow of a
refugee camp, a child wearing a small black shoe on one foot and a
large blue sandal on the other, wandering off and singing to butterflies
flying in the sunny skies, butterflies and skies seen only by his
eyes."<br />
</i><br />
Their words testify to the struggle of being female, of being a minority in a country that comes painfully slow to change. <br />
<br />
Maya Angelou's "I Rise", is story about the pain of the past, the
challenge to find one's place in a world that is often hostile and
unforgiving. Her refrain, however, is one of hope and victory and
easily lends itself to becoming an empowering mantra for all those who
are opposed and oppressed in this world. <br />
<br />
<i>"Out of the huts of history's shame<br />
I rise<br />
Up from a past that's rooted in pain<br />
I rise<br />
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,<br />
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.<br />
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear<br />
I rise<br />
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear<br />
I rise<br />
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,<br />
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.<br />
I rise<br />
I rise<br />
I rise."</i><br />
Still I Rise by Maya Angelou<br />
<br />
In my opinion, female poets are better than most at taking a moment in
history and shining a stark, unforgiving light on it. I think Halsey's
poem, "A Story Like Mine", serves as a brutal examination of the reality
behind the #metoo movement. It is a testimony but also a call to
action. <br />
<br />
<i>"What do you mean, this happened to me? I'm supposed to be safe now. I
earned it. It's 2018, and I've realized that nobody is safe 'long as
she is alive, and every friend that I know has a story like mine, and
the world tells me we should take it as a compliment.<br />
It's Olympians and a medical resident and not one f*cking word from the
man who is president. It's about closed doors and secrets and legs and
stilettos, from the Hollywood Hills to the projects and ghettos …
Listen, and then yell at the top of your lungs. Be a voice for all those
who have prisoner tongues."</i> An Excerpt from "A Story Like Mine" by Halsey<br />
<br />
All great revolutions that spawn true social changes have many champions
and I believe that brave and powerful female poets number among them. <br />
<br />
<b><br />
"Blogging Circle of Friends " <br />
DAY 1950: March 19, 2018 <br />
Prompt: It's Motivational Monday, write about some good news that
motivates or inspires you in your life, your town, your state, your
country, or go to Good News Network or some other website and share some
good news that interest you.</b><br />
<br />
Some days I am harder pressed to find good news in the daily fodder of
this twenty-first century life. I'm pleased to learn there is a "Good
News Network", a positive collective that exists to catalog the stories
not often given airtime or ink. I am encouraged by the stories of
efforts to clean garbage and debris from the Galapagos beaches and
marine reserves and the company converting cigarette butts into useful,
recycled materials. Even thought these stories might not get the
international attention they deserve, it gives me hope to know they are
out there, doing something to combat the abuses we inflict on our planet
and its resources. <br />
<br />
I think its important to find hope in the victories, even the ones that
might seem to measure small on a global scale like the successful
conversion of indigenous Indonesian's from manta hunters to manta
rangers. The dedicated efforts by conservationists and marine
scientists and the willingness of the people to listen has pulled a
magnificent animal back from the brink of extinction. Indonesia has
managed to learn what so many other countries fail to see, that a
resource might actually be worth more when protected and conserved.
Their manta industry has successfully converted from a dwindling,
depleted consumption-based system to a wholly sustainable eco-tourist
economy. In at least one corner of the world, people have come together
to solve a problem and improve, not only their individual well-being
but the conservation of a species and its place in the world's oceans.
Recently Indonesia proudly declared itself the world's largest manta
sanctuary, good news for the manta and good news for us. <br />
<br />
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MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-63472324547175130752018-03-05T08:41:00.000-08:002018-03-05T08:41:15.042-08:00For My Daughter, Age 8<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
My daughter celebrated her 8th birthday over two months ago and this one
felt just a bit harder for me than the one before. At age 7, she
still had seemed that shy, quiet child who wanted me to walk her to her
classroom each morning and follow behind me like a shadow everywhere
else. The transformation between age 7 and age 8 was something I had not
fully been prepared for. It seems that overnight she has discovered
the joyous fun in reading graphic novels, the scientific discoveries of
slime and geodes and the finer points of picking just the right outfit
and tinted lip balm. She is still shy with adults, but she is loud
everywhere else. She sings and dances with abandon and often performs
with a silly, wanton joy. Yet, she becomes embarrassed to the point of tears if she hears me telling <u><b>anyone</b></u>, <u><b>anything</b></u>
about her. It's as if she is our secret firefly, you can catch
her sparking brightly but briefly, if you know where to look. <br />
<br />
Age 8 has brought eye rolling and a new streak of defiance to our
negotiations. She argues, I believe, just for the sport of it. She pans
refusal for almost everything I suggest she try. She doesn't like what I
pick for her to wear and hotly contests any adjustments I insist she
make to outfits she assembles. She can be aggressively stubborn. At age
8, she has tapped into a new sense of drama. A recent visit to the
doctor for her annual flu shot treated her father and I to an almost
Oscar-worthy performance where we might have assumed she was about to
have her arm amputated without anesthesia. Each injury, no matter how
slight, now seems to be accompanied by copious tears and irrational
claims that, "you don't care when I get hurt." <br />
<br />
Despite the challenges, age 8 has given us the opportunity to see her
reach out and seize opportunities to do things she really enjoys. She
has found her voice, found new levels of confidence. Without much
prodding, she will play piano now for friends and family. She is clearly
proud of her burgeoning skills and I'm happy to see that music is still
so much part of what she loves about her world. She is one of the few
girls in her ninja warrior class, a fact that does not seem to make her
self-conscious in anyway. I can see sparks of a competitive nature in
her. She likes to be the last one to release her plank during warm up,
likes to know her time is that much faster each run at the obstacle
course. She makes it up the warped wall in one take, but still freezes
at the top. She says its the drop that scares her. She describes the
feeling of gravity acting on her limbs as an unwelcome and uncomfortable
intrusion, something she feels she can not control. We watch her,
perched on the edge of the wall, her small frame tense with the desire
to jump, only to back herself down. I ache for her and for myself, not
knowing how much to push her past her block. <br />
<br />
My daughter has always managed to forge wonderful friendships. One of
the best things about this age is discovering that she has continued to
grow into a loving and loyal friend. She has never forgotten those
special friends from preschool and she reserves a portion of each party invite list for those friends she may not see every day,
but still counts as part of her little circle. Her delight at seeing
their faces, at sharing experiences with them, warms my heart beyond
measure. She astounds me with her kindness, her limitless expressions of
love toward her besties at school. She adores her friends and her book
bag bleeds a regular stream of crayola-stained testimonials that prove
they adore her back. Age 8 brought the very first friend sleep over, a
play date that picked up Friday after school with her very best friend
and ran straight through the next mid-morning. They stayed up far too
late and got up way to early but the house was filled with their playful
giggles and running feet. After they had finally dropped off to
sleep I crept into her room to check on them and found them, heads
pressed together, faces soft and serene in sleep. Physically they are
polar opposites and they looked like a sweet composition in
cinnamon and sugar. It made me think of my first sleepover with my
bestie, whom I still treasure to this day and I felt happy for these two
the special bond they have forged. <br />
<br />
Age 8 has given me such bittersweet moments. I have been so proud of
her, surprised by her sudden fierceness, delighted by her antics and
frustrated to tears by some of her habits. I have discovered pools of
her slime in the rugs, her hair and on the dogs. I have lost hours of
my life collecting discarded clothes from her floor and rehanging them
in her closet. I have caught a glimpse of her applying lip gloss in her
room, her face a mask of concentration. I saw the little lady in her
suddenly gaining on the child - and it wrecked me for hours. I am not
ready for so much that I see coming but I am so excited to see her
becoming her own beautiful all the same. <br />
<br />
One day this past month, I had a rare day off with her. We went to the
mall to do some shopping together. At some point, she surprisingly
slipped her hand in mine and we walked through the mall hand in hand. I
was very conscious of that moment, it felt crystalline and rare. I had
to fight down the lump in my throat. I was filled with gratitude that at
least at age 8, my daughter still wanted to hold my hand in public. Before that moment, I don't think I had been so sure. As I
listened to her happy chatter, I felt blessed in the knowledge that at
that moment, there wasn't anyone else she wanted to be with more than
me.
<br />
At age 8, she is my fierce little firefly, my bright spark of light in my wide night sky. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image Courtesy of Firefly Bookstore</td></tr>
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<br />MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-32755606735872795682018-03-01T07:27:00.000-08:002018-03-01T07:27:07.164-08:00A Butterfly in Spring and Gillette's Ode to Holmes<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtygIa31aX5Z3tNLhxECz8oij642QjXXMJ8JOMPm0yrfBFarCHDFleEXza1DC9GidpdL3aMZArk1RJpO59OIMbUz4AHgMSlEM-GHNOz5ZQEv3wiqvDUtCQTDpCQjKenoc_19jwaIp8c1M/s1600/butterflies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtygIa31aX5Z3tNLhxECz8oij642QjXXMJ8JOMPm0yrfBFarCHDFleEXza1DC9GidpdL3aMZArk1RJpO59OIMbUz4AHgMSlEM-GHNOz5ZQEv3wiqvDUtCQTDpCQjKenoc_19jwaIp8c1M/s200/butterflies.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image courtesy of Pinterest</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
<b> "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" <br />
Day 1535 March 1, 2018 <br />
Prompt: "The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time
enough." Rabindranath Tagore Write about butterflies and spring. </b><br />
<br />
Yesterday afternoon brought sunshine and the trill of spring birds.
Today, in my fickle part of the world, these balmy temps will give way
to a Nor'easter bringing rain and snow. As New Englanders, we have all
grown accustomed to a cautious optimism when it comes to the arrival of
Spring. I found myself believing for a few short hours, that Winter had
turned the corner. I half expected to see the fresh green points of
daffodils breaking through in the yard and even checked for buds on my
early blooming lilac. The latest news report sobered me quickly. The
weather man somberly presenting a map in which my town sat squarely in
the wide blue swath indicating 3-6 inches of snow. This has little to
do with the Tagore's quote of course...but butterflies always bring
Spring to mind and here, we are all very preoccupied with that
particular season. <br />
<br />
I think the sentiment behind Tagore's words are that the life of the
butterfly might be brief but it is full. After all, how many creatures
get to experience a transformation that allows them to life two lives to
fruition, both terrestrial and aerial? A caterpillar toils about for
the first of its life, grounded and plodding. Then, then brilliant
design of its life cycle allows it to emerge, reborn with wings. The
butterfly's world is suddenly all air currents and fragrant blooms. It
is granted a new life, one that is fleeting but free. Last year my
daughter and I watched a painted lady butterfly float slowly to the
ground. My daughter gently picked it up, marveling that it has just
died there in our yard, almost the moment it's body made contact with the earth again. I'm sure the butterfly lives every moment
silhouetted against the sky, grateful for its beautiful and brief
existence.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_AulIjI-SEreXVMhQ07mMr3QBOg6m3YxBd1cqYjN7SvxuBlWHiz23Ifwz2ThHnOIiZ01E9wtcybpuz7r7rmapSYYml_TSeIrLi-Wy5-IOVmVaFscZN_6GOdusKhlV2UWVVi2sBahRv0/s1600/gillette+castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_AulIjI-SEreXVMhQ07mMr3QBOg6m3YxBd1cqYjN7SvxuBlWHiz23Ifwz2ThHnOIiZ01E9wtcybpuz7r7rmapSYYml_TSeIrLi-Wy5-IOVmVaFscZN_6GOdusKhlV2UWVVi2sBahRv0/s200/gillette+castle.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from Wikipedia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<b>"Blogging Circle of Friends" <br />
DAY 1932 March 1, 2018 <br />
On this day 1890 1st US edition of Sherlock Holmes (Study in Scarlet) was published. How do you think like Sherlock Holmes?</b><br />
<br />
I would have to admit that I have much more in common with Carroll's
Alice than Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. The fictional detective was crafted
with an almost unnatural intelligence and intuition. He also used
morphine and cocaine, to the extent that he has been repeated portrayed
as an drug addict. The traits certainly make him an interesting, if
unrelatable character for me. <br />
<br />
Oddly enough, my state has a strange connection to Sherlock Holmes.
William Gillette was an actor who realized considerable fame for playing
Sherlock Holmes on the stage and in early silent films. In 1914,
Gillette began construction on what would later become Gillette's Castle
along the Connecticut River. It is an odd structure that I've always
thought resembles a sand castle melting under an incoming tide. The
grounds are impressive however with trails that meander through the
woods and often break into clearings with amazing views of the river
valley. It is a state park now and you can tour the castle and its
trails almost year round. There are references to Sherlock Holmes all
around the property, including the sign out front that bears a typical
likeness to the pipe-smoking investigator. <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="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGCCZovNda-6gaCn1qygtDTmstTh4GBEe7AhCZ04rguI9OXTZ6r-Uu82iSdnWKrIYemGOReDy2oCS_KBL2CA9F9xpKgS5rm5HIP9tVjpzQi2-BvM5JaLldw2MJNQ9FiI2Kcr96Bv1IWs/s1600/NV06GilletteCastlePD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="650" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGCCZovNda-6gaCn1qygtDTmstTh4GBEe7AhCZ04rguI9OXTZ6r-Uu82iSdnWKrIYemGOReDy2oCS_KBL2CA9F9xpKgS5rm5HIP9tVjpzQi2-BvM5JaLldw2MJNQ9FiI2Kcr96Bv1IWs/s320/NV06GilletteCastlePD.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from Wikipedia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2656447566597459963.post-52318213122130603022018-02-23T08:10:00.003-08:002018-02-23T08:10:58.260-08:00Those Angry Days of Living with HS<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a fury inside of me today that I am trying to quell
with seemingly copious amounts of Motrin and coffee. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today it feels like my pain is more than just
topical in nature. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is hot anger
running through me and this anger feels like a new, unwelcomed component of
dealing with my HS. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m beyond
irritable. I am unapologetically short-tempered and intolerant. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since my diagnosis in my early thirties, I have lived by the
rules of prevention and pain management. I have gathered what remedies and
suggestions I could from the forums and tried not to be frustrated by the lack
of real medical support. My dermatologist called it an “orphan disease”,
abandoned largely by the medical profession. Until you are dealing with an
agonizing flare up, the true nature of that term may allude you. What it really
means is that there is nothing out there to treat you, no cream or ointment,
not oral medication to drive the painful boils back down once they erupt. There
is nothing you can take medically to control the HS, to keep it locked in remission.
There is no cure. You just have to deal…deal with the pain and with the
knowledge that it can take you down at any time, triggered by stress, by weight
gain or just by the whims of a stalking disease that resides in your genes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most days I avoid this tide of anger and frustration by counting
my blessings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe that I am one of
the lucky ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My HS outbreaks so far
have been limited to my upper body and with the exception of the one in my
neck, and my resulting scars are largely invisible to others. This is not the
case with many people. HS can be severely disfiguring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boils that erupt, those cysts that become
infected and eventually rupture cause bad scarring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have seen images of young men and women
with puckered tracks of scarlet scar tissue running down both sides of their
groin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is this most intimate invasion
of the disease that leads to isolation and depression for so many. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most days, I remember those images and the stories of the
people in the forums, and I feel ashamed of the anger. Today though, I’m feeling
furious with my body, with its inexplicable ability to manufacture these
horrible, ugly nodules that burn and throb and swell to an impossible size.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today I want to scream. Instead, I stock up
on the large size band aids and take the antibiotics that will only speed me closer
to the inevitable rupture of my skin and the formation of another scar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The antibiotics don’t make me feel better, in
fact, the doxycycline tears up my stomach but there is still that small chance
that it will stop the inflammation before it progresses to that awful end
stage. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a chance, according to
my epically hopeful primary care doctor, that it may attack the inflammation
and help the cysts drain and alleviate before rupture – saving me from more
scarring and the general unpleasantness that comes with those ruptures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she can hope, I suppose I can try to be
hopeful as well. Hopeful and less angry...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With all of the truths I have come to understand about HS, I
am most thankful for the diagnosis. Being able to give a name to the affliction
I suffered from for so long in the dark, was honestly the best thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With diagnosis came the opportunity to
explore the research, the remedies and treatments that were available to me.
Being diagnosed suddenly gave me the important reasons for this very unreasonable
disease. If you think you or someone you know might be suffering from HS, this
is the best, most informative and straight forward site I have come across:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.nobsabouths.com/what-is-hidradenitis-suppurativa">https://www.nobsabouths.com/what-is-hidradenitis-suppurativa</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you suspect you may be suffering from HS, see a doctor,
start with getting diagnosed. Find what works for you, because it’s different
for everyone. Give yourself those angry, furious days…but always go back to
hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
MD Mauricehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00467110001203313681noreply@blogger.com0