tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91071824686004310632024-03-04T23:51:30.411-08:00My Seat on the BeachLearning to Let Go and FlowAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-42217668255149591862014-05-28T13:18:00.000-07:002014-05-28T13:21:12.567-07:00And Still I Rise<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPP8mIH-w7Rnmr27mFJP3l_UrJAIxW69PXqEVRpZKRcU4hCMp0BWpTCG78M_a0bCusOMr7Kb8vN0kvmAApRH4pCxvTgTH9yMUr6qmvlW5Di-B4hM-GwSsVuh4ME_f13rXxtcEs_bjKo9o/s1600/3503.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPP8mIH-w7Rnmr27mFJP3l_UrJAIxW69PXqEVRpZKRcU4hCMp0BWpTCG78M_a0bCusOMr7Kb8vN0kvmAApRH4pCxvTgTH9yMUr6qmvlW5Di-B4hM-GwSsVuh4ME_f13rXxtcEs_bjKo9o/s1600/3503.jpg" height="400" width="376" /></a>One of our universal mothers passed on today, but her spirit and her words are eternal! Several years <br />
ago, Mama Maya spoke here in Santa Cruz. I was not able to attend (thankfully, I had seen her throughout the Bay Area several times prior) but I did write a piece in my blog (2.28.2011).<br />
<br />
I am reposting it today.<br />
<br />
<i>Here
is my fantasy: Someone has invited me to dine with Maya Angelou before
she speaks here on Friday evening, March 18. Little 'Ole Me is going
to share a meal with a national treasure and one of the great voices
of contemporary literature. She is a </i><i>poet, educator, historian, best-selling author, actress, playwright, civil-rights activist, producer and director. </i><i>
After having a delightful meal where she has regaled her guests with
stories of her travels, I ask if I can tell a story about how one of
her early poems saved my sanity. She smiles and nods yes, and then
offer me a piece of her cheesecake. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
"It was in the the
late '70s, I was fresh out of Georgetown University and working as a
public relations specialist for a major pharmaceutical corporation in
New Jersey, not far from my home town.<br />
<br />
"As Goddess would have
it, I was the youngest member of the department, the only female, and
the only African-American. I worked with five seasoned PR executives,
and my supervisor, a young man named Paul, who had been with the
company for about five years, and recently had been promoted from the
position I was hired to fill.<br />
<br />
"One of my major responsibilities
included editing a weekly company magazine. On this particular summer
day, I had written an article about American students who had just
returned from traveling abroad as exchange students.<br />
<br />
"The story
caught my eye because I, too, had been an exchange student seven years
earlier and I was eager to hear about the experiences of the two recent
sojourners. One was an African-American young woman who had spent the
year in Japan; the other a white male student who had lived in Mexico.
Both had lived with families who had younger children. I can only
imagine part of the reason the parents chose to be host families to
American scholars was because they thought it would be an educational
experience for their children, as well as for the exchange students.<br />
<br />
"As it turned out, on this day, I was the one to get an education.<br />
<br />
"I
had received a packet of photographs from the exchange program and had
no trouble picking the perfect one to accompany my piece. The photos
of the young lady showed her dressed in Japanese attire (as was the
rest of her host family) sitting on the floor around a low table,
sharing a meal. The photos of the young man depicted him dressed in
blue jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers standing in front of a little Mexican
boy, who was on his knees polishing the American student's...sneakers.
Polishing his sneakers, do you hear me? On his knees, as the student
towered over him.<br />
<br />
"I was flabbergasted that the exchange program
would release a picture of a student in such an imperialistic pose.
Without question, I chose the photo of the other student to represent
the purpose and the spirit of exchange programs.<br />
<br />
"I expected the
PR men with whom I worked to see, as clearly as I did, that the picture
of the male student was bad PR. I was not prepared for my supervisor to
question my judgment. He did more than that. He told me that the
picture I had chosen, the picture of an African-American young woman,
could not represent an American exchange student living abroad.
'Readers might be confused about who is the American,' he said.<br />
<br />
" 'How is that possible? Everybody else at the table is Japanese!' I tried logic. 'Who else could be the American?'<br />
<br />
"
'Look at her. Look at her short hair,' he said, pounding her face in
the photo with his scrawny finger. "She could be African. How can
anyone tell she is American? Use the picture of the other student,' he
ordered.<br />
<br />
"Dizzy. I tell you no lie. I felt dizzy...and nauseous.
I had just received a heavy blow to my stomach, a slap to the face. My
eyes began to sting, as I ran out of the conference room to the ladies
room. The tears began to flow just as I slipped into the stall.<br />
<br />
"Had
this jerk just told me that a black student could not represent
America? Had he really just implied that a black woman's hair wasn't
representative of the good 'ole US of A? Was he really saying that a
picture of a blond-haired blue-eyed boy was more representative, even
if he was having a Mexican child polish his shoes?<br />
<br />
"Was he
telling me that I could not represent my country on any other soil? Was
he saying my experience in Denmark was not legit? Was this really
coming from a man of my generation, born and raised in the north, just
like me?<br />
<br />
"Had I spent0 six years of my education integrating an
all white private girls' school to confront this kind of bigotry in my
first corporate job? Had I spent four years of college at Georgetown,
fighting for recognition in a school that had only begun to accept women
just a few years earlier, to listen to this man dismiss my experiences,
and this young black teenager's experiences, as not being symbolic of
America?<br />
<br />
"I dried my tears, recovered my composure, reapplied my lipstick, and returned to the conference room ready to reason.<br />
<br />
"I
casually explained that when I lived in Denmark, I had a boyfriend,
Uffe, who was tall, thin, blond, and blue-eyed, and looked very much
like the exchange student in question.<br />
<br />
" 'This guy could be
Danish, for all I know. How would anyone who has traveled to Scandinavia
know whether he was Danish, Norwegian, Swedish, or...American? Besides,
what sense does it make to have your sneakers shined? Do we really want
him depicting American intelligence? This picture could quite possibly
work if the young man had been wearing shoes...leather shoes that might
have needed polishing. But this? This is a disgrace.<br />
<br />
" 'Believe
me. I was an exchange student. If we publish this picture in our
magazine, it will be an embarrassment to all involved. Better that our
readers have to pause to figure out that blacks, in this New Day, can
represent America, than to use that condescending photo."<br />
<br />
"I
used the same argument as Paul and I sat across from the Director of
Public Relations later that afternoon. Clearly Paul and I did not see
eye to eye, but I prevailed.<br />
<br />
"I have never, in 35 years, come
that close to losing it in my workplace. Of course, I was young, naive,
and on that day overwhelmed by the ignorance of the man to whom I
reported. It would not be the last time I would confront racism so
blatantly in the workplace. But it was the first time. And the first
time always hurts the most.<br />
<br />
"That evening, I went to a local
bookstore and discovered your recently released book of poems, in a
yellow jacket cover, entitled: <i>Still I Rise</i>. It saved my sanity
that summer as I mourned the loss of my innocence. Until that summer, I
believed that my education and background had prepared me to compete in
any arena. Now I knew others may not perceive me as I did.<br />
<br />
"I framed this poem over 30 years ago and it has adorned every office I have had the fortune to occupy."<br />
<br />
<i>Dear Readers, if you are not familiar with this "anthem," read on, read on. Right on. Right on.</i><br />
<br />
<h1>
Still I Rise</h1>
You may write me down in history<br />
With your bitter, twisted lies,<br />
You may trod me in the very dirt<br />
But still, like dust, I'll rise.<br />
<br />
Does my sassiness upset you?<br />
Why are you beset with gloom?<br />
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells<br />
Pumping in my living room.<br />
<br />
Just like moons and like suns,<br />
With the certainty of tides,<br />
Just like hopes springing high,<br />
Still I'll rise.<br />
<br />
Did you want to see me broken?<br />
Bowed head and lowered eyes?<br />
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.<br />
Weakened by my soulful cries.<br />
<br />
Does my haughtiness offend you?<br />
Don't you take it awful hard<br />
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines<br />
Diggin' in my own back yard.<br />
<br />
You may shoot me with your words,<br />
You may cut me with your eyes,<br />
You may kill me with your hatefulness,<br />
But still, like air, I'll rise.<br />
<br />
Does my sexiness upset you?<br />
Does it come as a surprise<br />
That I dance like I've got diamonds<br />
At the meeting of my thighs?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><i>Thank you, Mother Maya, you saved my mind.</i></b><br />
<br />
<i>Dear Readers: What are your favorite Maya Angelou quotes or poems? Click on the comment section and let us know.</i><span class="label-size label-size-1"><span class="label-count" dir="ltr"></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-444404816429419282013-02-13T18:38:00.000-08:002013-02-13T18:39:50.640-08:00The Gifts of Interpersonal Relationships<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWXXr6YBJYBMdmGrdz2UP-aKTCK0ZTUTekWlVLQCgTOGqPnzaSMo5VlAtFUrgISDT36fYQbOhdgqSRrDh_vuQVL2wKYOgzMN0HEh_b5updTpZkzqZjl2h7Tx8svrufbo4OKpZtj7t5Xb4/s1600/valentines-day-sale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWXXr6YBJYBMdmGrdz2UP-aKTCK0ZTUTekWlVLQCgTOGqPnzaSMo5VlAtFUrgISDT36fYQbOhdgqSRrDh_vuQVL2wKYOgzMN0HEh_b5updTpZkzqZjl2h7Tx8svrufbo4OKpZtj7t5Xb4/s640/valentines-day-sale.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">Our Spring Semester began three weeks ago and on the day of my first Interpersonal Communication classes, I asked the students to brainstorm a list of qualities that they seek in interpersonal relationships. We subsequently called it the Gifts of Relationships. Here are some of the qualities they listed:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">* Affection * Attention * Admiration * Appreciation * Acceptance</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">* Honesty * Time * Advice * Gratitude * Compassion</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">* Respect * Encouragement * Listening Ear * Happiness * Kindness</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">* Support * Loyalty * Forgiveness * Humor * Affirmation </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">* Empathy * Monogamy * Security * Commitment * Companionship</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">* Gentleness * Tenderness * Growth * Spirituality * Sex </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">*Shared Interests * Conversation * Safety * Friendship * Attraction</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">* Celebration of our uniqueness * Conflict resolution skills * Patience</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Now we will spend the rest of the semester discussing how <b>we </b>communicate these qualities, verbally and non-verbally, in our relationships with loved ones. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Oh, you thought we were going to spend the semester talking about how we can make our lovers, family, and friends fulfill these needs for us? If these are the qualities that you hope to see flourish </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">in your relationships, then you must open your channels and let them stream freely through you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">What? You think you might drop the class? Please don't. Keep coming back!</span><br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-47864008017772023942012-12-15T23:42:00.000-08:002012-12-16T00:25:55.164-08:00Let There Be Peace on Earth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqHpoRjs850KHSVbJDbU3fHPWWk_WScSvPIbMia17xXF2QmT-aLTmP2vWON0tQRjX5_SHm_7p9w-Qy-Btsbmyh2z3YtuxToti3mPx70rDFHHK41BoJorTayZkQkkjUNHcGVF7T-AaFKLc/s1600/dove-of-peace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqHpoRjs850KHSVbJDbU3fHPWWk_WScSvPIbMia17xXF2QmT-aLTmP2vWON0tQRjX5_SHm_7p9w-Qy-Btsbmyh2z3YtuxToti3mPx70rDFHHK41BoJorTayZkQkkjUNHcGVF7T-AaFKLc/s640/dove-of-peace.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>"Peace has never come from dropping bombs. Real peace comes from enlightenment and educating people to behave more in a divine manner." --Carlos Santana</i></span><br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>This past week was the week I taught a module on conflict resolution to my college students. Each semester, I start the lesson by asking students to write similes about this most delicate and difficult of interactions. I emphasize that a simile is a comparison between two dissimilar things, using like or as.</b><br />
<b>They are forewarned not to give me the typical "Conflict is like war. Someone's gotta win and someone's gotta lose."</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>They write quickly; often grunting, sometimes giggling. I notice a grimace here, a wince there. Here are some of the responses I received on Tuesday and Thursday:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Conflict is like mud wrestling. Everyone involved gets dirty.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Conflict, in a relationship, is like an inflated balloon. When too much pressure is put on it,</b><br />
<b> eventually it explodes. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Conflict is like a wild fire. It breaks out quickly, spreads even faster, and leaves destruction in its wake.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Conflict is like a thunder storm. Its loud and crazy, but afterwards, everything clears up. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Conflict, in a relationship is like shaking up a full can of soda and then cracking it open. It</b><br />
<b> explodes all over. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Conflict is like good porn. Eventually, everybody gets_____ (rhymes with mucked).</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Conflict is like a grenade. It can either blow up or turn out to be a dud.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Conflict is like a tornado. It destroys everything in its path.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Conflict, in a relationship, is like hell. Once you're in it, you can never get out. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Conflict is like a volcano. It erupts into a catastrophe that no one can halt. And it keeps flowing and flowing.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Conflict is like a balding tire. Just a little bump can make it explode. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>We were struck by the violent images and comparisons to natural catastrophes. Conflict, most agreed, is unpredictable, unmanageable, and destructive. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Next, we write similes for peace. The room becomes very quiet. The students search their inner landscape for a memory, a feeling, a glimmer. A few begin to write.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peace is like the ocean. It can be calm and soothing, but can turn choppy very quickly.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peace is like the rainbow after the storm. It is temporary but very beautiful. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peae is like a dream. It not very realistic.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"Why is this so difficult," someone breaks the silence. "Good question," I whisper and continue to hold the space for quiet reflection.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peace is like watching a baby sleep. All is well.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peace is like getting a Swedish massage at the spa. You can enjoy yourself in a serene state of</b><br />
<b> mind.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peace is like getting an A in a course in which you really applied yourself. You get out of it what you put into it.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peace is like a cold glass of milk: simply wonderful and refreshing.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peace is ike a bear hug: warm and inviting.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peace is like a comfortable bra. It stays in place, hold you up, and does not give you any problems.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peace is like a baby's laugh. It warms your heart and can change any mood into a positive one.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peace is like a lake: calm and tranquil.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peace is like cookie dough ice cream. Every part of it is blissful.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>* Peace is like hearing a child's prayer. Every little problems seems like nothing.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Every semester I tell my students that I can teach them about conflict resolution skills but I cannot jump start their willingness to use the skills. But this week, as I watched them struggle to conjure images of peace, I am asking myself: Is there more that I can do? In a public institution of higher education, can I teach my students how to communicate, to use Santana's words "more in a divine manner."</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-6549030704336968502012-09-30T21:02:00.002-07:002012-09-30T21:09:04.570-07:00Where Did September Go?!<span style="font-size: large;">I don't know. I swear, I don't know. But before October slides in, here are some of the photographs from our summer:</span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhk_-6RDQml6905RshVSZSM0qVa1Jq9wQNZN6nGvQVJ9dMF6x-HwpWiqeb2Z7qIm3qFwWpT6ytTIO8UIR0TMnujsty1Ow5hQ7k-AWW84_hPkr9vEyaCFy0K9nd5xYHpeeBoS3Af7mh4tI/s1600/DSC00555.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhk_-6RDQml6905RshVSZSM0qVa1Jq9wQNZN6nGvQVJ9dMF6x-HwpWiqeb2Z7qIm3qFwWpT6ytTIO8UIR0TMnujsty1Ow5hQ7k-AWW84_hPkr9vEyaCFy0K9nd5xYHpeeBoS3Af7mh4tI/s640/DSC00555.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We visited Mom Riz in Florida in early June. Here, she is seeing her great granddaughter on Skype for the first time.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnjCJs6DLzCBlQC2P3hLYo_Wlm9WhVf4d8V6iYs6SNNDTAYbQDUI-rfgQ0Fm7aos345vn-LjI_L-RTI262FMKSlkTz7IEvyAXRl58nrlCZNVBQYxpU0-EZMHOSnsUmJ7cyeT_j-M7hDRE/s1600/DSC00550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnjCJs6DLzCBlQC2P3hLYo_Wlm9WhVf4d8V6iYs6SNNDTAYbQDUI-rfgQ0Fm7aos345vn-LjI_L-RTI262FMKSlkTz7IEvyAXRl58nrlCZNVBQYxpU0-EZMHOSnsUmJ7cyeT_j-M7hDRE/s640/DSC00550.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I went home for my class reunion in May, Buddy and I went out to dinner with Charlene Green Taylor and her hubby, Gregory. The four of us love to share a meal.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3getHgRc6465YpH2tEBx_OVEnBx2B6HVp7JeUs0ZjgBBZMWrEoMtYxWGyTLkmQsHdz3OngEmy7XZPqTRNlcwcSBxWrJ1hdepbnvIPXZGcaGsgRLcMyy33jirpSATqgmgU8d0CT3sloQQ/s1600/DSC00594.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3getHgRc6465YpH2tEBx_OVEnBx2B6HVp7JeUs0ZjgBBZMWrEoMtYxWGyTLkmQsHdz3OngEmy7XZPqTRNlcwcSBxWrJ1hdepbnvIPXZGcaGsgRLcMyy33jirpSATqgmgU8d0CT3sloQQ/s640/DSC00594.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I was home in early June, Buddy, my female first cousins and I went to dinner and then to a Gladys Knight concert. She was inspiring! Here is (left to right) Tawanda Young, Barbara Young Reed, Marion Young-Sally and moi.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The following pictures were taken at a small family gathering in early August when our sister Tonia came for a visit.</b></span> <span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDx4VDP188HWVqHztBZLk7zgg6-rPyoHBZYcI8pinqCkK67KFiBLu_0HDZ2LHx1CKQBQKh88WwUUVpRpI2P0uyFz6h4nrvXzvZ3-vzwEHaOZQRQ_h5fmsim3d7JcID108bdECm-zRfAAs/s1600/DSC00640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDx4VDP188HWVqHztBZLk7zgg6-rPyoHBZYcI8pinqCkK67KFiBLu_0HDZ2LHx1CKQBQKh88WwUUVpRpI2P0uyFz6h4nrvXzvZ3-vzwEHaOZQRQ_h5fmsim3d7JcID108bdECm-zRfAAs/s640/DSC00640.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My siblings and I have not had a photo taken together in 13 years. This was long over due. (left to right) John Paul, Tonia, Dutch, me and Paula (front). I don't know what we were laughing at.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzC1DK9KL1Crs10n5e-R_26_ogdAMFAuy-X44dupoCwt9UG6_NI6YomRRGxHudRlIvRXQ9j0fyygwh2ZZ2WKvtqyAaJOEp437njT3jFnUUFEUbvH6RDsyuG_5uJgO8NaRvGeeDSUyh4lw/s1600/DSC00641.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzC1DK9KL1Crs10n5e-R_26_ogdAMFAuy-X44dupoCwt9UG6_NI6YomRRGxHudRlIvRXQ9j0fyygwh2ZZ2WKvtqyAaJOEp437njT3jFnUUFEUbvH6RDsyuG_5uJgO8NaRvGeeDSUyh4lw/s640/DSC00641.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9CjcdyId5C0DAc-E8jfL1StDVA-mDjSFeoPZEUkjOfFRskIpAIF_65FC3iZ2KBcqOKwEfi3tM1AcDiWDV8fDd9qScymS2REYzq5QKQNKqpHixfEzFWfI3OjxrWr_lKdb_qx6bLJjLpN4/s1600/DSC00597.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9CjcdyId5C0DAc-E8jfL1StDVA-mDjSFeoPZEUkjOfFRskIpAIF_65FC3iZ2KBcqOKwEfi3tM1AcDiWDV8fDd9qScymS2REYzq5QKQNKqpHixfEzFWfI3OjxrWr_lKdb_qx6bLJjLpN4/s640/DSC00597.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mommy and her namesake, Marion.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGulT2NNemRM1I3w9rziDKyz-1c32t3aqqo4Lp5w8H9Nrp2_eo0zp3Uc0MDgoaHVBb0ozfSHWLflYEfhfJdiGOTXfxpb-vp7ZKi3k_mupljhJ-m0AumM5wR1oit1kEIrMGAB-tUYdmok/s1600/DSC00657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGulT2NNemRM1I3w9rziDKyz-1c32t3aqqo4Lp5w8H9Nrp2_eo0zp3Uc0MDgoaHVBb0ozfSHWLflYEfhfJdiGOTXfxpb-vp7ZKi3k_mupljhJ-m0AumM5wR1oit1kEIrMGAB-tUYdmok/s640/DSC00657.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There they are, our parents, Marion and Vernon Rowe, married 63 years!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh91nVXgIU0-MxWm7K3sogwq1K85Db92HtEDUsovUkSzeE_9fRRp0AdvyJ4p0EKTJ5YHWLDzwnsTO1wwLs1qLk08AX-rr46O8z1gcBJLMive6dbcD0tEA985aWiqCwxBziOCtOmX-0qZzQ/s1600/DSC00664.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh91nVXgIU0-MxWm7K3sogwq1K85Db92HtEDUsovUkSzeE_9fRRp0AdvyJ4p0EKTJ5YHWLDzwnsTO1wwLs1qLk08AX-rr46O8z1gcBJLMive6dbcD0tEA985aWiqCwxBziOCtOmX-0qZzQ/s640/DSC00664.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daddy and Buddy, Palsy-Walsies!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKA0xAZ-wnFaQzmrsT5xyXNat37FQsceswngqzUJ90ylDFbtOBrviIiCoFg9FftX0hO2Y_ROWdyKwURbw3SaPvXkLC2aBY5TiTQA73U6vqLCJbdM56puk8EOMrBpDtr-L2pB1_SW1N_1I/s1600/DSC00622.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKA0xAZ-wnFaQzmrsT5xyXNat37FQsceswngqzUJ90ylDFbtOBrviIiCoFg9FftX0hO2Y_ROWdyKwURbw3SaPvXkLC2aBY5TiTQA73U6vqLCJbdM56puk8EOMrBpDtr-L2pB1_SW1N_1I/s640/DSC00622.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Paul and his wife, Fran, enjoy a giggle.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0CPHTWkcrdQUndhyphenhyphenq-XkUXQ6xJ6CwrIS9pzagQEKS5kow-Rc1UG3CL0gp2evcD78675NWcgvcirY3Z3g9s58uJuS404BAYBLajI9gctD7osVNXwABmNn5E2JaRi97vwjk2qqtiyJowzk/s1600/DSC00628.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0CPHTWkcrdQUndhyphenhyphenq-XkUXQ6xJ6CwrIS9pzagQEKS5kow-Rc1UG3CL0gp2evcD78675NWcgvcirY3Z3g9s58uJuS404BAYBLajI9gctD7osVNXwABmNn5E2JaRi97vwjk2qqtiyJowzk/s640/DSC00628.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is my niece Monica and me. Hey Moni, this is a great picture!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJAYxrQ8icj-G8zCjFqilUCGWDfyIAw_NiXwtgV2R-FhlBKaYe6ai_z9c8lJUVIGJvVSL1ANFgShDunkSpTiev5FeDFOamEbQRk2_6sYlFTURg8Jn7VCngZC-fK8dnGZKW0MgNG2oyzU/s1600/DSC00629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJAYxrQ8icj-G8zCjFqilUCGWDfyIAw_NiXwtgV2R-FhlBKaYe6ai_z9c8lJUVIGJvVSL1ANFgShDunkSpTiev5FeDFOamEbQRk2_6sYlFTURg8Jn7VCngZC-fK8dnGZKW0MgNG2oyzU/s640/DSC00629.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buddy with my mom and cousin, Jevon Thompson.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOM6eQYCvQzuYBkfUnafEzU-kaKdfulMxD4r82bfyI7nBJFk53NINJJigb6VJQVDgunZDfMvpdQ7Bqa1ceuXPnLUIcHZImdETgzC7ZrI1T4_naM0eAgPZUrI1e8L4E4nm1zC2tK011bJ8/s1600/DSC00619+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOM6eQYCvQzuYBkfUnafEzU-kaKdfulMxD4r82bfyI7nBJFk53NINJJigb6VJQVDgunZDfMvpdQ7Bqa1ceuXPnLUIcHZImdETgzC7ZrI1T4_naM0eAgPZUrI1e8L4E4nm1zC2tK011bJ8/s640/DSC00619+(3).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buddy and me...what a tender love.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Towards the end of our vacation:</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<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/AVvXsEiMBuNUsgPrIQvDKORjobc4G-P-7aVxXNk4WPqnzGpSWOdup0GfgDga6eow2208MoDHGii4C3VQysjVshRjczFlIoYtC698nmHSZDrZPxZqXBqkgsee0HP9bAyk_T6yluiX4jwZVtK2sYM/s1600/046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBuNUsgPrIQvDKORjobc4G-P-7aVxXNk4WPqnzGpSWOdup0GfgDga6eow2208MoDHGii4C3VQysjVshRjczFlIoYtC698nmHSZDrZPxZqXBqkgsee0HP9bAyk_T6yluiX4jwZVtK2sYM/s640/046.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The baba Danielle came to see Buddy for his birthday. Here she takes him for a walk.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT605I1uFDkEuxnGC9PR5GIv4LVXngFYD1UDLb9oF1m6F8_20MWfj-GY_mc0HuREgCVM7zOnYTmQJngzLSRo6EkrPgFwQ5DYNArnMCKFQdpczSgg3Fe4wS4I8zOR9uv64tLRV4p995-pc/s1600/038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT605I1uFDkEuxnGC9PR5GIv4LVXngFYD1UDLb9oF1m6F8_20MWfj-GY_mc0HuREgCVM7zOnYTmQJngzLSRo6EkrPgFwQ5DYNArnMCKFQdpczSgg3Fe4wS4I8zOR9uv64tLRV4p995-pc/s640/038.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">. Look at 'em. They both talk with their hands!<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-22067506239157190922012-08-02T07:46:00.002-07:002012-08-02T10:38:39.697-07:00Alls Well That Ends Well<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2wCz6TSfEfuR7JBNlEQFXNn8_tzqzJjMvs4vTdpLkMtyYhpI8qH65iFcLio1Up_kYcd2djvVzOMsjMrwrgDP2F9b-8z4FYw1Bdrensa_zQ1tJLZe5gtyKAK3lCTAGfRZGn5sF2EFR6Y/s1600/IMAG0071+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2wCz6TSfEfuR7JBNlEQFXNn8_tzqzJjMvs4vTdpLkMtyYhpI8qH65iFcLio1Up_kYcd2djvVzOMsjMrwrgDP2F9b-8z4FYw1Bdrensa_zQ1tJLZe5gtyKAK3lCTAGfRZGn5sF2EFR6Y/s640/IMAG0071+%282%29.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Two
weeks ago today, I was in the John Wayne Airport (Orange County, CA)
preparing to fly home from a wonderful visit with my younger sister,
Tonia. </span></span></h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">My
flight was delayed by four hours. (I still get to airports two hours
early, so actually I sat in the terminal for six hours!) Yea, you got
it: I sat in Orange County for six hours waiting for a flight that would
land me in San Francisco in one hour and 15 minutes (approximately.)
Five days hence, I would be in an airport again, flying home to Buddy in
New Jersey. The irony did not allude me: I could have flown home to my
Sweetheart in the amount of time I waited just to return to San
Francisco Airport.</span></span></h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Of
course, I spoke to Buddy several times throughout the wait, and he
reminded me to breathe and relax, telling me that when I finally arrived
home, all would be well.</span></span></h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> When
I landed in San Francisco, other mishaps followed. I struggled to get
my luggage off the carousel, only to find the handle on my roller bag
stuck. The driver of the long-term parking shuttle dropped me off in the
wrong part of the lot and I had to drag my luggage to the car.
Thankfully, I did have enough gas to drive the hour-and-a-half to Santa
Cruz, but when I arrived home, I was exhausted, aching, and cranky.</span></span></h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> I
paused a moment before I got out of the car to thank God/dess for a
safe trip home, and then I began to haul my stuff up the outside stairs
to my second story apartment. </span></span></h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Half way up, </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
heard a voice from the balcony say:
"Hello, Sweetheart," and there stood my hubby, Buddy. He had flown in
several days earlier, while I was in Los Angeles, to surprise me and to
help me prepare my affairs before flying to New Jersey for the month of
August.</span></span></h6>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxQY5a8LJ93EGapY5pWx2ajPB1RlOYq1e46tWHKiHvwIb7vB10ONdgwG90eT2vsWef2KIgFQbygl6io0qxQnHITZN9aBSIQKq3d0f120rMn4txyhuuZ8sarFm6ZQsD4MLExRC9zIU85bA/s1600/DSC00264+%282%29.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxQY5a8LJ93EGapY5pWx2ajPB1RlOYq1e46tWHKiHvwIb7vB10ONdgwG90eT2vsWef2KIgFQbygl6io0qxQnHITZN9aBSIQKq3d0f120rMn4txyhuuZ8sarFm6ZQsD4MLExRC9zIU85bA/s640/DSC00264+%282%29.jpg" width="492" /></a></div>
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<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> I thought I was seeing a mirage! That's My Buddy.</span> </span></h6>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-79677161555561232622012-07-04T19:58:00.002-07:002012-07-04T20:03:06.694-07:00Happy Birthday My Seat on the Beach<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzu6ljevjT2_9GFOmeowyKkq6PocKaBTuOs4vSFwa90dzzKWkjMeJVLFamiX1HdmfLxE64mWhgy6nKiYb0nkn07iMGfaPibYPsvCjGfXLXsFWZRpgE7pdmDLdaZnQWYg25Y4hgujr2bEI/s1600/Fireworks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzu6ljevjT2_9GFOmeowyKkq6PocKaBTuOs4vSFwa90dzzKWkjMeJVLFamiX1HdmfLxE64mWhgy6nKiYb0nkn07iMGfaPibYPsvCjGfXLXsFWZRpgE7pdmDLdaZnQWYg25Y4hgujr2bEI/s640/Fireworks.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Four years ago today, I started the blog: My Seat on the Beach. It was a cathartic exercise in helping me to work through the angst and and anxiety of divorce. On Valentine's Day of 2008 my divorce was finalized. We used a mediator to guide us through the California divorce process which dictates that communal property (anything gained during the marriage) must be split 50/50.<br />
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The best resolution we could reach involved a 50/50 split of our belongings--which included my ex receiving half of my retirement fund, and my paying him alimony for a limited number of years. Had we litigated, I would have been required to pay more alimony and, most likely, for his lifetime.<br />
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Starting this blog helped me maintain my emotional and spiritual equilibrium during the early post-divorce years. I disciplined myself to write a blog each week for that first year during which I learned to rest in the comforting, protective arms of God/dess, and to commune with nature and my creative spirit.<br />
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Some of my favorite blog pieces are from the first year--especially my first blog, Hail to Pippi, an ode to my earliest heroine Pippi Longstocking. <a href="http://myseatonthebeach.blogspot.com/2008/07/hail-to-pippi.html" target="_blank">myseatonthebeach.blogspot.com/2008/07/hail-to-pippi.html</a> I didn't know it then but that first blog post helped set the tone for my divorce recovery. Life is an adventurous journey and I want to face it fearlessly, just like <span style="color: #3366ff;">Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Ephraimsdaughter Longstocking, </span><br />
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Happy Independence Day!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-69794248058644170482012-06-05T08:30:00.000-07:002012-06-05T08:31:53.907-07:00What a Difference a Year Makes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRTnkrmBp2v3qe6d017hurju4l1rUutiPcJKhiWiypc9rwWWwG9vMUEIMeEMt5wW8HIN5bouauU0tRz03qLoYootanh86BPyFQu8vvd0aJuWb5aaOni7UAvMCxApTBnbv6FNnSQwTgB5Y/s1600/baby2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRTnkrmBp2v3qe6d017hurju4l1rUutiPcJKhiWiypc9rwWWwG9vMUEIMeEMt5wW8HIN5bouauU0tRz03qLoYootanh86BPyFQu8vvd0aJuWb5aaOni7UAvMCxApTBnbv6FNnSQwTgB5Y/s400/baby2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is Danielle at three-weeks-old.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSkv-6l63a1Mq-HOmdQjWKYYIdQhZq71AkxyxQNxZR35VTbXulheMWtOuatXZe6WbCF4fgeZUE0HEMDuSRxDEzOBzr0wdTRHxSzvTVf2db9zvzD24bJfw1jEk9V-hJwS2Na7dRtLGk3EM/s1600/156494_3582581676361_1027785087_3170911_211643025_n+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSkv-6l63a1Mq-HOmdQjWKYYIdQhZq71AkxyxQNxZR35VTbXulheMWtOuatXZe6WbCF4fgeZUE0HEMDuSRxDEzOBzr0wdTRHxSzvTVf2db9zvzD24bJfw1jEk9V-hJwS2Na7dRtLGk3EM/s400/156494_3582581676361_1027785087_3170911_211643025_n+%282%29.jpg" width="232" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is Danielle and her parents, Justin and Desiree, at her One Year birthday party.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">She is Ms. Pretty-in-Pink and an amazingly happy child. God bless her.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-8672647412887387242012-05-11T16:34:00.000-07:002012-05-11T16:34:22.918-07:00Our Magnificent Moms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>Mother's Love</b></span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Her love is like an island<br />
In life's ocean, vast and wide.<br />
A peaceful, quiet shelter<br />
From the wind, the rain, the tide.<br />
'Tis bound on the north by Hope,<br />
By Patience on the West,<br />
By tender Counsel on the South<br />
And on the East by Rest.<br />
Above it like a beacon light<br />
Shine Faith, and Truth, and Prayer;<br />
And thro' the changing scenes of life<br />
I find a haven there.<br />
-<b> Author Unknown</b></span><br />
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<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/AVvXsEgSl0WBqDhoky7YN0KE-dPxEATZQbYFz2CC2rfUS5cX2eXbm9pdtvPPEptQSvB2WFP71hzada1lJY93kcMOWqyPL4gRZHTPohZx5P_iuxLlnb-1okPWIDr-7AJRBGuaKq6JyAWpTwrh42w/s1600/shot_1316980628875.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSl0WBqDhoky7YN0KE-dPxEATZQbYFz2CC2rfUS5cX2eXbm9pdtvPPEptQSvB2WFP71hzada1lJY93kcMOWqyPL4gRZHTPohZx5P_iuxLlnb-1okPWIDr-7AJRBGuaKq6JyAWpTwrh42w/s640/shot_1316980628875.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom Rowe and Danielle </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2jcMeAp3FEjvuYhrthyd-jD7070oCSM0BjR3Cch8GjtPs86PcRSEKL_M60FG1Z3M7WiHlWjIbyf6hO5PhynybcI1JcgpuSHkFT5vWyir01mpfiP8CM9Pz5B0EA81c7b0vYfcrFgdLy0Q/s1600/2012-01-15_15-38-20_895.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2jcMeAp3FEjvuYhrthyd-jD7070oCSM0BjR3Cch8GjtPs86PcRSEKL_M60FG1Z3M7WiHlWjIbyf6hO5PhynybcI1JcgpuSHkFT5vWyir01mpfiP8CM9Pz5B0EA81c7b0vYfcrFgdLy0Q/s640/2012-01-15_15-38-20_895.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom Rizzio and Me</td></tr>
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<br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">Happy Mother's Day</span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-92051928947211198852012-04-18T19:27:00.000-07:002012-04-19T23:33:18.686-07:00Do You Procrastinate?Recently, a week before a major speech assignment was due, a student raised his hand in class and asked, "Teacher, speak to us of procrastination."<br />
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In the beginning of the semester I shared with my students this riddle:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6nQoYAdhLQuJOu6-R6LTaKSh3srR8XW7ww_GrAHYg-7Lap4J835JwetLzRIi08BMSyiMn7LVcAKCLTxAQPTLxa8haEI2lx8-YX1214a2PNc4Oe4JtmVMJNaJ7hXB22uo3-4N5fsZ_38g/s1600/elephant-mouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6nQoYAdhLQuJOu6-R6LTaKSh3srR8XW7ww_GrAHYg-7Lap4J835JwetLzRIi08BMSyiMn7LVcAKCLTxAQPTLxa8haEI2lx8-YX1214a2PNc4Oe4JtmVMJNaJ7hXB22uo3-4N5fsZ_38g/s400/elephant-mouse.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<i>Q: How does a mouse eat an elephant?</i><br />
<i>A: One bite at a time.</i><br />
<br />
"If you only think of the end product--giving a speech--it may seem mammoth, overwhelming, impossible. <i> </i>But if you break the assignment into small pieces, like the mouse did, in <i>X</i> amount of time, you will accomplish the task," I explained.<br />
<br />
Forewarned is forearmed, right? Not really. Unfortunately, many of my students arrive at the doorstep of higher education with no time management skills. Even with the best intentions, many sabotage themselves because they lack self-discipline.<br />
<br />
So, to help my dear student understand how to "break it down" into small pieces, I told him this true story.<br />
<br />
"The year after my former husband left our marriage, I was in a panic because I had not filled out income tax forms in over 15 years and I was afraid of making a mistake. Every time I thought about tackling my taxes, I would have heart palpitations and I would start seeing black dots before my eyes. My stomach would do flip-flops and my heart rate would increase. (Classic signs of a panic attack.)<br />
<br />
<br />
"I was afraid of making a mistake which I had once done. And that error resulted in a steep penalty."<br />
<br />
"So what did you do?" The student was paying rapt attention.<br />
<br />
"As soon as I received the tax forms," I smiled remembering my strategy, "I counted how many lines I had to complete. Let's say there were 50 lines. I then counted 50 days, added on 10 more days...just in case, and then I filled out one line per day."<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiByinGU3MOptj1RtGr4N-Pmrla75Z4NMbLmmDvaqigdD_02cmDWqZb2giWAVu67cqH5M87FW81jITcqPINhA3kbhkyaMXGsn1j0yMjzdRD4BkG1-FVe67NMld-SFXEdpYtsnihWhLfsYE/s1600/draft_lens1847939module148603020photo_1299014145babies-clipart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiByinGU3MOptj1RtGr4N-Pmrla75Z4NMbLmmDvaqigdD_02cmDWqZb2giWAVu67cqH5M87FW81jITcqPINhA3kbhkyaMXGsn1j0yMjzdRD4BkG1-FVe67NMld-SFXEdpYtsnihWhLfsYE/s400/draft_lens1847939module148603020photo_1299014145babies-clipart.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
"Really?"<br />
<br />
"Indeed, I did. Its called 'baby stepping.' You break your task down into tiny, non-threatening steps. While facing the necessity to do my taxes was intimidating on its face, when I chopped it up into teeny-weeny steps, it became a non-threatening 10 minutes task. Well before April 15, I had faced my biggest fear and <br />
and 'handled my business'--without stress."<br />
<br />
I finished my story with another riddle: <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEUypXsHuHVUdrV856NJOK8B0EwR4e8KsudTnK1EAb3xOVvy0MXDqr-bzLrxqdsMuD7_ss4toFHM14wEjIdfuQRUtDPiyfTnxBdLVBZw1fczmNhVN1AXf-KtLDzxKULYfS3hJ1CzlET8A/s1600/termite-eating-house-pestcemetery.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEUypXsHuHVUdrV856NJOK8B0EwR4e8KsudTnK1EAb3xOVvy0MXDqr-bzLrxqdsMuD7_ss4toFHM14wEjIdfuQRUtDPiyfTnxBdLVBZw1fczmNhVN1AXf-KtLDzxKULYfS3hJ1CzlET8A/s320/termite-eating-house-pestcemetery.gif" width="320" /></a><br />
Q: How the do termites eat a house?<br />
A. Inch by inch.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-74480131382805314812012-04-01T13:36:00.000-07:002012-04-01T13:36:27.982-07:00Danielle Goes to Grandpa Buddy School<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI63BOd_279e5T7Cy9BvChzfAQw6w57DgjBhGllz-qXXWzpV9JpPGMuTSXOcG0-CVzC4_Q6q1b3Lc8K3yftqWWewYgbgFO-l9VB8Lz7QSlnA8wPhlxtZW8ADSiD3asU5woGU0EipQlJ98/s1600/2012-03-24_16-44-34_607+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI63BOd_279e5T7Cy9BvChzfAQw6w57DgjBhGllz-qXXWzpV9JpPGMuTSXOcG0-CVzC4_Q6q1b3Lc8K3yftqWWewYgbgFO-l9VB8Lz7QSlnA8wPhlxtZW8ADSiD3asU5woGU0EipQlJ98/s640/2012-03-24_16-44-34_607+%282%29.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Ba-Ba recently turned 10-months old and officially entered Grandpa Buddy School. Here, she is practicing belly-chuckles, prompted by her Grandpa's many faces. Her Mom and Dad, Desi and Justin, say Danielle is at the stage where, if she enjoys something, she wants to do it over and over again. We all oblige her because her unadulterated joy is contagious.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">From the day her parents announced her conception, Buddy has been planning the things he will teach Danielle. In Grandpa Buddy School, one essential skill is Nose Picking! From the looks of things, she is a quick study.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1P6FxSj0A0JaPEdvV9BNTrLAwK0C7pbJ-HKhrw1b3p6aRYj87vi5aDe_1kSWm0lnmYNAELzCON8wFA3jrKwInb7EelzJie3omf9TMOuy1wkTkr4sM7okOu_HNbXaYXzazJ1x8dXKKl4/s1600/IMG01133-20120324-2117+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="516" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1P6FxSj0A0JaPEdvV9BNTrLAwK0C7pbJ-HKhrw1b3p6aRYj87vi5aDe_1kSWm0lnmYNAELzCON8wFA3jrKwInb7EelzJie3omf9TMOuy1wkTkr4sM7okOu_HNbXaYXzazJ1x8dXKKl4/s640/IMG01133-20120324-2117+%282%29.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">.I wonder: What's next?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-42865423182373018632012-03-09T12:37:00.000-08:002012-03-09T12:37:48.819-08:00What is it about cats and the full moon?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwZHCRBoM7gsi_FLVTGoxkzPlW7LGc57UKrcrZjw1vIngaxvkYYXpcc5fQFV-J9lyMzM8OtwFYdQe9Tsw4YiM0ubgnj99I-e1LrW0-eoLQQOnTe_C73WEYVUYcAOKEb-mKHfkf1235Iw/s1600/moon_cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwZHCRBoM7gsi_FLVTGoxkzPlW7LGc57UKrcrZjw1vIngaxvkYYXpcc5fQFV-J9lyMzM8OtwFYdQe9Tsw4YiM0ubgnj99I-e1LrW0-eoLQQOnTe_C73WEYVUYcAOKEb-mKHfkf1235Iw/s640/moon_cat.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Its a full moon and I miss my cats, Mookie and FuBu. Before our family was busted up (I had to move quite unexpectedly and my new landlord would not allow new tenants to have pets), the cats and I would sit outside together on the nights of the full moon. I would sprawl out on my back atop the picnic table and watch the moon and stars while Mookie and FuBu would spread out on the lawn. We loved this monthly ritual. Many times they would not want to come in. Moon drunk and mellow. How I miss my cats.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-41579932196711124902012-02-14T08:04:00.000-08:002012-02-14T17:50:17.859-08:00The Un-chocolate, Non-floral Valentine's PresentI just barely avoided a two-cart pile-up in my local grocery store yesterday afternoon. A man and a woman collided while making a mad dash for the same Valentine's Day bouquet. Last I saw them, they were at the check-out counter sharing a laugh over the perils of last minute gift shopping.<br />
<br />
I sprinted off to the produce section to find bean sprouts for this evening's salad, all the while contemplating<br />
what would be the perfect Valentine's Day present for all our loved ones, no matter size, age, or gender. By the time I'd reached my destination, I had thought of one of those "gifts that keeps on giving" ideas.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">It's not a purchase; but, rather a practice.</div><div style="text-align: center;">It is not tangible; yet, it can be felt.</div><div style="text-align: center;">It is not a feeling; it is a skill.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> Without it, we cannot nurture ourselves or our relationships.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm talking about patience.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosp1bVybnhqi734SvPo6oEoBTF6sCClT8TKCgVE2FUm4uTwxET8vu2AXQBqRaQgRmD4CIlbqTG39jVk_6jtJBh8Vxz4gHdNNm12f7T3ysT3rZOV3SlsEA_cYsdOUHRga7cjbScwYUSDg/s1600/sprouting5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="467px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosp1bVybnhqi734SvPo6oEoBTF6sCClT8TKCgVE2FUm4uTwxET8vu2AXQBqRaQgRmD4CIlbqTG39jVk_6jtJBh8Vxz4gHdNNm12f7T3ysT3rZOV3SlsEA_cYsdOUHRga7cjbScwYUSDg/s640/sprouting5.jpg" width="640px" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">Psychiatrist M. Scott Peck, in his book, <i>The Road Less Traveled</i>, says, "Love is not a feeling; it is an act of will." So it is, too, with patience. We choose to practice patience; we don't wait to feel patient. If we did, many of us would never develop the skill. Patience is one of the tools/skills that enables us to build, nourish, and sustain healthy relationships. Without it, we can be consumed by disappointment, frustration, resentment, and an attitude of superiority. On the other hand generous doses of patience help our relationships bloom.<br />
<br />
Before I finished shopping for the day, I visited a nursery and purchased a plant to symbolize my commitment to practice patience. A tender sprout, just like us. It is now on my windowsill with a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson: <br />
<br />
"Adopt the pace of nature, her secret is patience."<br />
<br />
So, if you are scurrying around today looking for a present, purchase a sprout, and write a lovely note promising to show your love by slowing down and being more patient.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-62134496656511964762012-02-01T20:41:00.000-08:002012-02-01T21:16:25.370-08:00Nikki Giovanni: Nikki-Rosa and Ego-tripping<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: large;">I just found out that Nikki Giovanni will be the keynote speaker at tomorrow's Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Convocation in Santa Cruz. Once again, I will miss seeing a mentor-in-my-head, to borrow a phrase from talk show host, Wendy Williams. Last year, Maya Angelou was in town to celebrate National Women's History month and I missed her, too, because I teach several nights a week.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiVbqoCrbT1y3idijLks8W-JjlTjQfMrkHP8qduMqZi74YTUTO2oS2zNMkpXMVtrdJez40bxfyxozuTKxnemDm9w-5LMAE-BBUzfumvV2SBgdUE5jidl00qGLagV1QmpNCoUM4LtJjbQ/s1600/i_can_fly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiVbqoCrbT1y3idijLks8W-JjlTjQfMrkHP8qduMqZi74YTUTO2oS2zNMkpXMVtrdJez40bxfyxozuTKxnemDm9w-5LMAE-BBUzfumvV2SBgdUE5jidl00qGLagV1QmpNCoUM4LtJjbQ/s640/i_can_fly.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I walk in the footsteps of these two women, both of whom are world renowned poets, writer, educators, and social activists: I've loved them both since my teens. Their powerful way with words critically shaped my future dreams.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Nikki's poetry exploded into my life in the early '70s with the release of the album <i>Truth Is On Its Way: Nikki Giovanni and the New York Community Choir</i>. I get chills and goose bumps just thinking about Nikki reciting her poetry to the back drop of the magnificent young voices singing some of my favorite gospel music. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In the mid-sixties, a handful of black students from my town were selected to integrate private schools in the state. You can believe me when I tell you, we weren't studying Nikki Giovanni in our English classes. Or, perhaps, I should only speak for myself. I was hungry to study black women writers, yet at the girls school I attended, they did not appear on my required reading lists. (The only piece written by a black author ever formally assigned was <i>Manchild in the Promised Land</i> by Claude Brown. If I recall correctly, my eighth grade English teacher had gone to school with him.) </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I was on my own to find the literary influences that would speak to my soul.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In my senior year of high school, two of us nerdy black private school kids, Richard Harris and myself, drove into the New York City to hear Nikki and the choir perform at Lincoln Center. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">She was, and still is, a tiny woman with a searing presence. She was like a meteor, bright and hot. Here, let me give you a taste.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Nikki-Rosa<br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/dClTHcoPIXM" width="420"></iframe><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Ego-tripping<br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/j2pDZYDdYP8" width="420"></iframe><br />
</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-25244595816719576342012-01-16T13:32:00.000-08:002012-01-16T13:32:49.386-08:00Time for Review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtQZ9OgIevQmt0gAVlChIQlxu1HthCjs5ikp75EZke-UC-HMRM30WQZBwVCbRpvxu96btdq8hzqqkYAI5JYqMAiaPrQmyMJtujPushRGdrbmgGsYVdv0hocj-LalN53zwngdTsOCcSZA/s1600/dr-king.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtQZ9OgIevQmt0gAVlChIQlxu1HthCjs5ikp75EZke-UC-HMRM30WQZBwVCbRpvxu96btdq8hzqqkYAI5JYqMAiaPrQmyMJtujPushRGdrbmgGsYVdv0hocj-LalN53zwngdTsOCcSZA/s400/dr-king.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">If we are to go forward, we must go back and rediscover those precious values - that all reality hinges on moral foundations and that all reality has spiritual control.--Martin Luther King</span> <br />
</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-65576139461045001982012-01-09T08:12:00.001-08:002012-04-01T13:11:43.446-07:00What Is This???<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/AVvXsEh4vbq_HBOKbJhj6JcppKNJQevGobbYfGMkj6FEwV84A3KAebbmXmqsKK1MivDUMm7SsjoFAy3BJfZ5KByoMuYWq2MizTz-7uR9ss6jAwvCUiMAYifOGJ1ii8uqcc1DiVqKZP_Jl_PqerA/s1600/DSCF0672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vbq_HBOKbJhj6JcppKNJQevGobbYfGMkj6FEwV84A3KAebbmXmqsKK1MivDUMm7SsjoFAy3BJfZ5KByoMuYWq2MizTz-7uR9ss6jAwvCUiMAYifOGJ1ii8uqcc1DiVqKZP_Jl_PqerA/s640/DSCF0672.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Danielle discovers Buddy's nose.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif; font-size: large;">The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. <span style="font-size: small;">--Albert Einstein</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-75057661722177904002012-01-01T15:17:00.000-08:002012-01-01T15:17:47.605-08:0012 Communication Resolutions for the New Year<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr align="center"><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO1yZzxa8hn9HS1uz2BMTCKMBHgYEpk2_-kG4rkImv99RH4I8wB0qthyphenhyphen4Yl7e0MCjHmgRN3XjBSomPd5wSY2OatXxwzi1pb_T0f4MJpe9MqTU0hPmlG41rrnNUzsAbnxKdaqaTkdRO2_k/s1600/Happy+New+Year-charlie+brown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO1yZzxa8hn9HS1uz2BMTCKMBHgYEpk2_-kG4rkImv99RH4I8wB0qthyphenhyphen4Yl7e0MCjHmgRN3XjBSomPd5wSY2OatXxwzi1pb_T0f4MJpe9MqTU0hPmlG41rrnNUzsAbnxKdaqaTkdRO2_k/s640/Happy+New+Year-charlie+brown.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alone, all alone,<br />
Nobody, but nobody<br />
Can make it out here alone.<br />
<i>-- Maya Angelou</i><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">A large percent of our New Year's resolutions revolve around improving physical health: "This year I will lose weight." "I'm finally going to stop smoking." "Tomorrow, I am going to join a health club and exercise three times a week." These are all admirable goals, but for a moment, I would like to focus on the health of our interpersonal relationships.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;">For those of you who intend to improve your relationships with loved ones, may I offer twelve specific communication goals. (Try one a week or one a month.)</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;">1. Be the first to listen. </span></b><span style="font-size: small;">Listen with interest, listen without interrupting, listen without thinking about how you would like to respond. Listen with the purpose of gaining greater insight into your loved one.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: small;">2. Practice the skill of validation. </span></b><span style="font-size: small;">This is one <b>verbal</b> skill connected to effective listening. It entails acknowledging another's feelings without judgment. "I can hear you are disappointed with me." "I feel your sadness." "I see you are frustrated with your boss."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>3. Give your undivided attention to the person with whom you are communicating. </b>This is one of the greatest gifts you can give. This year, declare that multitasking is out and committed, focused attention is in when it comes to your relationships. Avoid trying to do other things when you are listening and talking with a significant other, especially your children.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>4. Own your own feelings rather than blame others for what you feel. </b>It sounds like this: "I feel angry when..." versus "You make me feel..." An accurate expression of an emotion just takes three words: "I feel<b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">(name the feeling.) One reason we have difficulty identifying our emotions is because we have a limited feeling vocabulary. Maybe this is your year to expand yours. Additionally, it is sad to say that many of us would rather attack, blame, and guilt-trip than take responsibility for our own emotions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>5. Rather than label others, factually describe behavior instead. </b>Here is an example: Instead of labeling your partner as "cheap," you might say: "I noticed the last three times we went out to dinner, I paid the tab. I would appreciate it if you would pay for dinner when we go out on Friday."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>6. When you find the volume of your voice is rising and your rate of speech is increasing, pause, slow down, and whisper. </b>Accept no excuses. "I can't help myself. That's just what happens when I get upset," is a way of rationalizing impolite behavior. Self-control is a virtue.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>7. Replace the word "should" with the phrase "I would like," or "I could." </b>"You should get home earlier in the evening" becomes "I would like you to come home earlier in the evening." "I should have done better on my math test," becomes "I could have done better."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>8. Stop commanding and ordering; rather, make requests. </b>Do you know what distinguishes an order from any other type of statement? When you start a sentence with a verb, you are ordering. "Stop pouncing on me the minute I walk into the house" can become "When I arrive home from work, I need some quiet time to decompress. Can you give me 15-minutes of alone time before you start telling me about your day?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>9. Daily express appreciation and gratitude to those with whom you share your life. </b>Being polite and courteous goes a long way in valuing and honoring others. "I appreciate that you did the grocery shopping today." "Thanks, Honey, for doing the dishes (bathing the baby, buying take-out for dinner.)"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>10. Celebrate! </b>No matter what mood you are in, try your best to celebrate the accomplishments and joys of your loved ones.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>And, now: Buddy's Bonus Resolutions</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>11. Always warn your significant other when you are about to "poot" in public. </b>Does this need further explanation?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> </b><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>12. Take a chance on love. Follow your heart.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>HAPPY NEW YEAR! </b><br />
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</tbody></table>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-88572480247513221702011-11-24T21:57:00.000-08:002011-11-25T15:47:45.092-08:00Happy Thanksgiving!<div class="verses"><ol><span style="font-size: large;">Happy Thanksgiving, my beloved readers. Today, I am thankful to Johnson Oatman, Jr. who penned the song below, "Count Your Blessings," based on 1Thessalonians 5:18. I learned this song early in my life and remember liking its bright tune and optimistic lyrics.</span></ol><ol><span style="font-size: large;"> Unfortunately, during life's bumps and bruises, I adopted the</span><span style="font-size: large;"> view that optimists were naive, at best; but more likely...just plain deluded. Consequently, I became a realist: one who deals with facts and concrete reality, and I pshawed the hopeful ones, the ones who "walked by faith, not by sight." </span></ol><ol><span style="font-size: large;">Five years ago, when I started paying alimony to my former husband, this lively tune began to sing itself to me.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> At that time I was worried that the financial obligation of alimony would send my life into turmoil. </span></ol><ol><span style="font-size: large;">I was angry and resentful that not only did I have to pay alimony for the next fours years but I also had to give my former partner half of my retirement savings. (California is a communal property state.) </span></ol><ol><span style="font-size: large;">Chaz was disabled and had not worked for five years; so, in essence, he didn't have anything <i>to</i> split. In the material sense, I was being screwed...or so I thought.</span></ol><ol><span style="font-size: large;">I was torn by the battle within. I felt betrayed, wounded, and angry. And I was righteously indignant. <b>How dare he leave ME...AND take half of my money? </b></span></ol><ol><span style="font-size: large;">One day as I was fuming, the lyrics of that old Vacation Bible School song, "Count Your Blessings" came to mind:</span></ol><div class="document lyrics"><div class="verses"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE0EeTL55j-D0ePKJooSKrIdIuXl-fjHQVJY6Xyzg8J204NpL7L6R2J1rUsFqMqhe0eyCoFcgxdGGKz_S6Ar-OrX0CrpqkgAZ6KvQ5d7BpyFKTKzEDKr_0hN5Iiq81VVsyG-GhEZfH5z8/s1600/thanksgiving_hand_turkey.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE0EeTL55j-D0ePKJooSKrIdIuXl-fjHQVJY6Xyzg8J204NpL7L6R2J1rUsFqMqhe0eyCoFcgxdGGKz_S6Ar-OrX0CrpqkgAZ6KvQ5d7BpyFKTKzEDKr_0hN5Iiq81VVsyG-GhEZfH5z8/s400/thanksgiving_hand_turkey.png" width="316" /></a></div><ol><li class="first"><span style="font-size: large;">When upon life’s billows you are tempest-tossed,<br />
When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost,<br />
Count your many blessings, name them one by one,<br />
And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done. </span><ul><li class="refrain"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="refrain">Refrain:</span><br />
Count your blessings, name them one by one,<br />
Count your blessings, see what God hath done!<br />
Count your blessings, name them one by one,<br />
*Count your many blessings, see what God hath done.<br />
[*And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.]</span></li>
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<li><span style="font-size: large;">Are you ever burdened with a load of care?<br />
Does the cross seem heavy you are called to bear?<br />
Count your many blessings, every doubt will fly,<br />
And you will keep singing as the days go by.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">When you look at others with their lands and gold,<br />
Think that Christ has promised you His wealth untold;<br />
Count your many blessings—wealth can never buy<br />
Your reward in heaven, nor your home on high.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">So, amid the conflict whether great or small,<br />
Do not be discouraged, God is over all;<br />
Count your many blessings, angels will attend,<br />
Help and comfort give you to your journey’s end.</span></li>
</ol></div><div class="notes"><div class="first"><span style="font-size: small;">* Alternate text</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div></div></div><div class="verses"><ol></ol><span style="font-size: large;"> When the song "reappeared," I decided to latch on to it every time I felt a moment of anger, betrayal, doubt, fear, or resentment. I woke up counting my blessings, my mental screen saver throughout the day was set on "Count Your Blessings," and I went to sleep counting my blessings. Yes, this required discipline.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In about 18 months, I was able to not only write those checks without debilitating emotions, I was able to write them with faith and peace.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">During the past five years, I have certainly learned that my "God will supply." I paid off my debts, even while paying the alimony, and this month I wrote the last check to Chaz. In that time, I also learned that, with God's help, I could actually manage my mind, rather than have my mind manage me. And, today, that's the blessing for which I am most grateful.</span></div><div class="verses"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div class="verses"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div class="verses"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div class="verses"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div class="verses"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div class="verses"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><ol><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></ol><ol><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBZ0HWWMkfVlvK0nuoFwramvYeAkSnHpdVmEmPLFuPR-_LB3bsnQLl5MIq-bMb-zGZQkS1WE9fGSol_OYHeQlvEtuPuAGJXmW9Jeeu0mn17-sbzuvPC1TcfJwEWO3z2Ec701ZqVE-nTIM/s1600/thanksgiving_hand_turkey.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a></span> </ol><ol></ol></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-73345108885989047362011-10-19T16:18:00.000-07:002011-10-19T16:20:47.192-07:00Summer Memories--Part Deux<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiheVFNNBQFyrZlcmrok5bdJgPg8ikNUqbCIxtwczv6n199TYridUw3D9QWyO6CC2eWui1XtdCrAdXaaA8fbgADmHu-4YS9XxbfefTPwV2L-44Lo3FRRljWibe3nEx5a-nODQz8YekaggE/s1600/DSC00157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiheVFNNBQFyrZlcmrok5bdJgPg8ikNUqbCIxtwczv6n199TYridUw3D9QWyO6CC2eWui1XtdCrAdXaaA8fbgADmHu-4YS9XxbfefTPwV2L-44Lo3FRRljWibe3nEx5a-nODQz8YekaggE/s400/DSC00157.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Several days after MandM's anniversary gathering, Buddy's sister, Lynda, and their Mom came to town to celebrate his birthday.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-MNWmZbDOySCyFSz2J984h6Y5QIPdlY3N28sl_73tInsk-qqd__TxczJ4UTd_pqVaGNEYvkAUqap89MpzCJH8oFpaFUEhscLCl7ihOuUxQqF2tPZGolJsWus8ckN7WaX7V_I36mE-eHs/s1600/DSC00158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-MNWmZbDOySCyFSz2J984h6Y5QIPdlY3N28sl_73tInsk-qqd__TxczJ4UTd_pqVaGNEYvkAUqap89MpzCJH8oFpaFUEhscLCl7ihOuUxQqF2tPZGolJsWus8ckN7WaX7V_I36mE-eHs/s400/DSC00158.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We picked them up at Newark Airport and swept them away to Parsippany.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UiuNvCxs0g6P289-J89vDIStPVjIBsmxnjBPbCQSVOxPeR8KObolbhC6ZW0yfKy6c3XeIkt78otG1NNhpq93skCgMo-yniLemZ6-KxqAXzjHa8wNT7a_D5xCgV932oJts8ofBpRxE6U/s1600/DSC00177.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UiuNvCxs0g6P289-J89vDIStPVjIBsmxnjBPbCQSVOxPeR8KObolbhC6ZW0yfKy6c3XeIkt78otG1NNhpq93skCgMo-yniLemZ6-KxqAXzjHa8wNT7a_D5xCgV932oJts8ofBpRxE6U/s400/DSC00177.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Family and friends gathered to celebrate the wonderfulness of our Buddy. These are Buddy's best friends, Joe and Janet Ciccone.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOAjhijcG2kslAaNHvYAsDDEYV29T2vApJ7Mwwf0FepEFUHQUrZMSnRyNpY08aQJTO3Hl2PCWldSrfChKHWCMi3ux3LeBcL_EZrPwxpi43RsUQDP6w6yxjEBEx_gcNrNS2IX4bqpYABLQ/s1600/DSC00173.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOAjhijcG2kslAaNHvYAsDDEYV29T2vApJ7Mwwf0FepEFUHQUrZMSnRyNpY08aQJTO3Hl2PCWldSrfChKHWCMi3ux3LeBcL_EZrPwxpi43RsUQDP6w6yxjEBEx_gcNrNS2IX4bqpYABLQ/s400/DSC00173.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And this is Nicole McManus, Joe and Janet's daughter, with her husband, Jeff, and their son, Louie. Nicole is Buddy's goddaughter, and her birthday is the day after his.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie3UGaPgYs3I961zchmetFkIk4pJsVV_qT1rcHVJumhwx7PbIUQpWSg3l9Ob31o6YogLPrj-mfBp2J_hdPA0wHnsntsurZgfq25TXpSvICjeP1hP3AZOcFfL8ReeJjaAS30ex0MArdlFY/s1600/DSC00208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie3UGaPgYs3I961zchmetFkIk4pJsVV_qT1rcHVJumhwx7PbIUQpWSg3l9Ob31o6YogLPrj-mfBp2J_hdPA0wHnsntsurZgfq25TXpSvICjeP1hP3AZOcFfL8ReeJjaAS30ex0MArdlFY/s400/DSC00208.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"> The next day, we raced to Philly (to beat Hurricane Irene) so Mom Riz could meet her great granddaughter. Here she is with Danielle, her dad Justin, and his dad Buddy. (Mommy Desi was not home when we took this photograph.)</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIZEIzvVMbdU41R_L0EePHx6SkS666jiCQdAbqXAv8ZuIJSG2PgImp-tAAc43_ekcLvvQ3dRntV2j_GmXQfyEEgQpEjJZ7nlXAJX19b3aqMOILP6dY_181yJaKElvrwnfFzasK22Bj57k/s1600/DSC00191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIZEIzvVMbdU41R_L0EePHx6SkS666jiCQdAbqXAv8ZuIJSG2PgImp-tAAc43_ekcLvvQ3dRntV2j_GmXQfyEEgQpEjJZ7nlXAJX19b3aqMOILP6dY_181yJaKElvrwnfFzasK22Bj57k/s400/DSC00191.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The entire Rizzio family has a great sense of humor, and here, Lynda and Danielle share a laugh. They had just met!</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWB8f09CHWdrRRxlAN4yLyc48hCHdobIv33P3JXQaHrglnZg99XpDUB6GPnUcxhTKAsMdQaE_QezDadNGL1quDbx_s6A_xRdMULHRP4zHishSCyDuEijjqEp7MPAc-y9SKfi_IQOPRzxA/s1600/DSC00212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWB8f09CHWdrRRxlAN4yLyc48hCHdobIv33P3JXQaHrglnZg99XpDUB6GPnUcxhTKAsMdQaE_QezDadNGL1quDbx_s6A_xRdMULHRP4zHishSCyDuEijjqEp7MPAc-y9SKfi_IQOPRzxA/s640/DSC00212.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Don't expect Mush and Slush to be in Cali this Christmas. We plan to be in Philly with the Baba.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-67718877195768129232011-10-01T19:30:00.000-07:002011-10-01T19:56:20.823-07:00Summer Memories<span style="font-size: large;">Its October first. Where did September go? How about August for that matter? I'm still wading through pictures from the latter part of the summer.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVuXLUws8JZQLEkz7DGhaIPPUS__pVJ8ARLif4ExqieYbv-enVEHJS1v-ppW3P1ti03qZJDw6Q4YeHtLyARgXV2hG9YX_yAL5jH9kLEz5SHS9nhMv6vLZEz5j8JuzeqijI9fywZnnDL4/s1600/DSC00132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVuXLUws8JZQLEkz7DGhaIPPUS__pVJ8ARLif4ExqieYbv-enVEHJS1v-ppW3P1ti03qZJDw6Q4YeHtLyARgXV2hG9YX_yAL5jH9kLEz5SHS9nhMv6vLZEz5j8JuzeqijI9fywZnnDL4/s320/DSC00132.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">First, I moved in the beginning of August. Buddy and my younger brother, John Paul, came out to help.They are the most caring and protective men in my life.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVBmOni-fpmns_an2zRrTjJ8qrdFKG9OVE7gmpOXd0M1udpfwNIK6sfsRBAFfhbj1RsvmY3WPOkbSSgBpE9Bf2AmuVqFYb_Lw-HJtHDM6xW5V0iV0P16VJbKDwfYU9xeZ4V0kVdmKGrjg/s1600/DSC00133.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVBmOni-fpmns_an2zRrTjJ8qrdFKG9OVE7gmpOXd0M1udpfwNIK6sfsRBAFfhbj1RsvmY3WPOkbSSgBpE9Bf2AmuVqFYb_Lw-HJtHDM6xW5V0iV0P16VJbKDwfYU9xeZ4V0kVdmKGrjg/s320/DSC00133.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Next, both my sister Tonia and I flew from California to New Jersey to celebrate my parents' 62 wedding anniversary. Look at them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Friends and family came from all around to pay tribute</span>. <span style="font-size: large;">Including:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My cousins Tia, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Lorraine, and Tawanda.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My cousin Randy and Buddy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Moi, Richard Harris and Sherry Davis Ruffin (We go way back!) </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Richard, Buddy, and Glenda Blackwell.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Stay tuned. Next week: photos of Buddy's birthday, and Mom Riz's visit with her first great grandchild. </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-44077177982158632102011-07-04T23:10:00.000-07:002011-07-04T23:33:59.260-07:00The Big Cosmic Push<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIfoSxdtWgcsyfiJgSesO4wI7YD_UQEeGcc114q2nEoRvrkQw72QbyZrsJ9kUoJ2XOn7MdBvnzHzy_E-LwFrc__QaJXhx8b9ewAB2fkRFxxmpFOukFnEz_IVZBvt6lMuVSL2yImDFtxs/s1600/fireworks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIfoSxdtWgcsyfiJgSesO4wI7YD_UQEeGcc114q2nEoRvrkQw72QbyZrsJ9kUoJ2XOn7MdBvnzHzy_E-LwFrc__QaJXhx8b9ewAB2fkRFxxmpFOukFnEz_IVZBvt6lMuVSL2yImDFtxs/s400/fireworks.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Firecrackers are popping, the dogs in the neighborhood are howling, and I'm packing books. Why? Because I've just received the Big Cosmic Push (BCP) and I'm moving in three weeks!<br />
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During the Spring, I had been thinking: "Hmm. I finish paying alimony to Chaz at the end of this year, how will I now use that money? (Answer:<i> Restoring the portion of my pension he took when he left.)</i><br />
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But more importantly, how will I celebrate the completion of this most unpleasant financial obligation? I contemplated a vacation. Nah. Juvederm injections? Lol. A silent retreat? Not gonna happen! Nothing I considered seemed meaningful enough, so I placed the thought in my inner meditation room and went about my business.<br />
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In early June, I returned to the East Coast Love Nest for two weeks to hang out with Buddy and to meet The Baby Danielle. I had a wonderful, loving time. Never checked my home phone for messages while I was away. (I don't rely heavily on my cell phone because I don't like being available 24/7.)<br />
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When I arrived back home, there was a message stating that the owners of the condo in which I lived planned to return to Santa Cruz and wanted to move back in their home. (A sign of the economic times.) I had six weeks to find a new place.<br />
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I call this phenomenon the Big Cosmic Push. You're moving through life fairly smoothly, finding some joy in every day, tolerating the irritations, when WHAM! Life punches you in the face "outta nowhere." That's what happened five years ago when Chaz announced, eight weeks after having back surgery, that he no longer wanted to be married and would be leaving in three days. I remember I felt like I had been hit by a car going 60 miles-an-hour. For months, I felt like I was moving zombie-like through big wads of wet gauze, unable to see or feel even an inch ahead of me.<br />
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Then one day, I was aimlessly flipping through channels, when I stopped on a rerun of ER. Two doctors were sitting on a bench outside of the hospital. They were discussing one doctor's problem when her companion turned to her and said: "What if this didn't happen <b>to</b> you? What if it happened <b>for</b> you?"<br />
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That's an enlightening way of re-framing things. It presents the option of feeling victimized by life or choosing to acknowledge there might be an omniscient being--the big cosmic pusher--working on your behalf. I have since tried to practice that perspective in all of my affairs--even when I couldn't see up ahead.<br />
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This time around, I recognized the BCP quickly. Having to uproot and move to a new space, well, its happening <b>for</b> me, not <b>to</b> me. And it is the kind of demarcation I need as a sign post for this major transition. I'm actually moving from the place I had once inhabited with Chaz. Its about time. <br />
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So, as the final firecrackers send their colorful sparks into the sky, I'm celebrating the next phase of my life!<br />
On this 4th of July, I am tempted to say: "Free at last, free at last."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-10407484994803273402011-06-21T08:57:00.000-07:002011-06-21T09:14:32.564-07:00New Jersey Update<span style="font-size: large;">I recently spent two great, action-packed weeks back east with Buddy, family, and friends. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmqmxYzekGGAJxtPWUo90KVlSG2bKXUczq1pgAZ4jSznnpIglUduvrdKupgjNmjqqjglM0IxGD2y4wxcNErIsSvTKUWU5eki0L1aySkuaC0_Pk-jiuP5iNDHge38yNfFIX0tHqmDDqmQs/s1600/KCRDMR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmqmxYzekGGAJxtPWUo90KVlSG2bKXUczq1pgAZ4jSznnpIglUduvrdKupgjNmjqqjglM0IxGD2y4wxcNErIsSvTKUWU5eki0L1aySkuaC0_Pk-jiuP5iNDHge38yNfFIX0tHqmDDqmQs/s320/KCRDMR.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">* We visited Danielle, Desi, and Justin, in Philly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">* I had a three-hour dinner with my friend Audrey whom I have not seen in 20 years. (Thank you Facebook.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* Dined with Father Gus in Philadelphia. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* I, unfortunately, did not visit with as many friends as I wanted to. Next time!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg05oJUymy6VLL5CYZISGCDZY_O82Ww9zkKNi3VHz4_TXWn_CMvjHt84AOTH6EiMqljx-HYZ-761Q-EChDabtmaAvRe0tfLq1RUMPZwf5OdP_ozLAqOBHibgTKIPdn8PRjO7LN-22QxUEU/s1600/George+S.+Lassiter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg05oJUymy6VLL5CYZISGCDZY_O82Ww9zkKNi3VHz4_TXWn_CMvjHt84AOTH6EiMqljx-HYZ-761Q-EChDabtmaAvRe0tfLq1RUMPZwf5OdP_ozLAqOBHibgTKIPdn8PRjO7LN-22QxUEU/s1600/George+S.+Lassiter.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">* My brother John and I attended a memorial for our former family doctor, role model, mentor, friend, and confidant, Dr. George S. Lassiter. It was a fortuitous coincidence that I was home at the same time as Georgie's service. His children, Naina, Nyan, and Milan, each in their way, paid special tribute to their Dad. It was an inspiring event.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-BwEZqv6lMV1FTDlw2vdZyZzN6BlZs68iAGvaKLwq8orRbEalQcsqST8zvdfL7lfPpIRQA2RL_RAQrDZ-XhhdKcRe4WFqpvay_b8UY9LgTigVv1f7DamjoLMWHNKp50l5UDrqtPKSGY/s1600/017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-BwEZqv6lMV1FTDlw2vdZyZzN6BlZs68iAGvaKLwq8orRbEalQcsqST8zvdfL7lfPpIRQA2RL_RAQrDZ-XhhdKcRe4WFqpvay_b8UY9LgTigVv1f7DamjoLMWHNKp50l5UDrqtPKSGY/s320/017.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">* We celebrated an early Father's Day with my Mom and Dad by </span><span style="font-size: large;">going out to dinner and drinking lots of sangria. That same evening my brother, John, and his wife, Fran, joined us to celebrate their third wedding anniversary.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">* I had a nice breakfast outing with my older bother, Dutch. <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Photo of John, Moi, and Dutch during Christmas three years ago.)</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">* I also fell twice while trying to do an O.J. sprint through the San Francisco Airport! Laptop, carry-on bag, and bag-to-be checked flew out of my tenuous grasp. I was certain there was a Candid Camera crew not only following behind me, but also placing invisible obstacles in front of me to cause my falls, which they then joyously caught on camera.This fibromite must find a better way to fly. Any suggestions?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">* The cherry on the top? Once again ensconced in my cozy home back in Santa Cruz, I listened to my phone messages and casually opened mail on Saturday morning. Lo and behold, while I was away, I received 60-day notice that I must move because the owners of the condo want to return to Santa Cruz and move back in.</span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">* Of course, by the time I actually received the notice, it really was a 50-day notice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">* Summer school started yesterday. I am teaching two four-week courses: 1) Interpersonal Communication and 2) Oral Communication.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, my friends, keep me in your prayers as I traverse the next leg of my adventurous marathon of a life!</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-73865270921963079482011-06-13T18:29:00.000-07:002011-06-13T18:38:02.786-07:00YaYa Meets Danielle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_1086425904"></span><span id="goog_1086425905"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span id="goog_2029335349"></span><span id="goog_2029335350"><span id="goog_1825907737"></span><span id="goog_1825907738"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, I've been turned to slush. Just call Buddy and me Mush and Slush!</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: large;"> If one feels the need of something grand, something infinite, something that makes one feel aware of God, one need not go far to find it. I think that I see something deeper, more infinite, more eternal than the ocean in the expression of the eyes of a little baby when it wakes in the morning and coos or laughs because it sees the sun shining on its cradle.-- Vincent van Gogh </span><br />
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<span id="goog_2056803350"></span><span id="goog_2056803351"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-60437174646996386262011-05-30T16:24:00.000-07:002011-05-30T16:28:06.409-07:00So Many Books, Too Little Summer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggA9gbSMPC_ikGv4MOXRjjKgOzN3Q4rkM6qvNMg8nZst3qk_eEF-ooymaPAyPKplnVIIvEeszSOdFGO30sAHpuJnQ2Q4AXazOZj45KP3is-RDixK5y1XJzGoRMcwhEPLVNGeMAd_Y9GnM/s1600/now-for-more-summer-reading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggA9gbSMPC_ikGv4MOXRjjKgOzN3Q4rkM6qvNMg8nZst3qk_eEF-ooymaPAyPKplnVIIvEeszSOdFGO30sAHpuJnQ2Q4AXazOZj45KP3is-RDixK5y1XJzGoRMcwhEPLVNGeMAd_Y9GnM/s400/now-for-more-summer-reading.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Happy Memorial Day. The Spring semester has just ended and I have finished the odious job of assigning final grades.<br />
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Now for one of my greatest pleasures...the creation of my summer reading list. Every Memorial Day, I gather all the index cards, bookmarks, Post-Its, and notebooks on which I have recorded book titles, and devise my reading list for the summer.<br />
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This year, I'm doing it in a rush because I'm also packing to return to Buddy for several weeks before summer school begins. So here, in no particular order, is my Summer 2011 list:<br />
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1. The Help Kathryn Stockett<br />
2. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks Rebecaa Skloot<br />
3. Pope Joan: A Novel Donna Woolfolk Cross<br />
4. Water for Elephants Sara Gruen<br />
5. Reading Lolita in Tehran Azar Nafisi<br />
6. No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency Alexander McCall Smith<br />
7. Of Thee I Sing: A Letter<br />
to My Daughters Barack Obama<br />
8. Mother Theresa: Come Be My Light Mother Theresa<br />
9. My Freshman Year: What a Professor<br />
Learned by Becoming a Student Rebekah Nathan<br />
10. The Particular Sadness<br />
of Lemon Cake Aimee Bender<br />
11. The Twelve Steps of Forgiveness Paul Ferrini<br />
12. Change Your Brain,<br />
Change Your Life Daniel G. Amen<br />
13. The Happiness Project Gretchen Rubin<br />
14. Wherever You Go, There You Are John Kabat-Zinn<br />
15. God Is Not a Christian Desmond TuTu<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwvmIW8LdOUMCAEGYl0ZQHWJAl8OCvNdJcJrrn6bVbcQTODnzrA8NYZz5qWDjcD3y9_FLUTlJEnrNBnQ7xZTPlozPGPocckaQC2I8hRr6T4r58DHXtZYdCpsmIM6R9nfKwoFEjVbIPi-M/s1600/summer-reading1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwvmIW8LdOUMCAEGYl0ZQHWJAl8OCvNdJcJrrn6bVbcQTODnzrA8NYZz5qWDjcD3y9_FLUTlJEnrNBnQ7xZTPlozPGPocckaQC2I8hRr6T4r58DHXtZYdCpsmIM6R9nfKwoFEjVbIPi-M/s400/summer-reading1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> I'd like to know what you are planning to read<br />
this summer.<br />
<br />
1) Click on the Comment section of this blog and<br />
send me your reading list.<br />
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2) Email me your reading list at:<br />
YaYa@myseatonthebeach.com<br />
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3) Send your reading list to me at YaYa <br />
Bowman's Facebook page.<br />
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I would love to publish your submissions<br />
throughout the summer.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-42783122481758496732011-05-23T17:39:00.000-07:002011-05-23T19:43:47.395-07:00Mush and Slush<span style="font-size: large;">. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Meet Danielle Marie Rizzio, Buddy's first grandchild, our first granddaughter. (Desi is her Mom; Justin is her Dad.)</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFIb-jd_Ag8j4ttu0vSLzUp_V_jI4u_2ogi1Jc56zoklfCSEePFfX4nIhY7PKzASFnq13ZcZ8v10hb85L4wkgxpk8700pcWoM_ZtR4VjyKbusWz2Cdi0QmUCebqGbhm3FSGLi8nXRTAg/s1600/GetInline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFIb-jd_Ag8j4ttu0vSLzUp_V_jI4u_2ogi1Jc56zoklfCSEePFfX4nIhY7PKzASFnq13ZcZ8v10hb85L4wkgxpk8700pcWoM_ZtR4VjyKbusWz2Cdi0QmUCebqGbhm3FSGLi8nXRTAg/s640/GetInline.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">She has turned Buddy to mush. Mush, I tell 'ya!</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpdE-mvC23DTniM9Ee4c60NZoSiGe6VuiPCGx21Ryhn9qBJfA-JHpl92qGCK4ha1NXSVbvp4kfR_wa1SL8H9pY-OYlQ85mVBKyT9cBLkggp5J9F6SynvP30j1POp8-Z1ejt2Zhn8oktnQ/s1600/GetInline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpdE-mvC23DTniM9Ee4c60NZoSiGe6VuiPCGx21Ryhn9qBJfA-JHpl92qGCK4ha1NXSVbvp4kfR_wa1SL8H9pY-OYlQ85mVBKyT9cBLkggp5J9F6SynvP30j1POp8-Z1ejt2Zhn8oktnQ/s640/GetInline.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He is enamored with every girgle, every burb, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">every hiccup, every passing of gas. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He is agog with every toenail, fingernail, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">and every tiny eyelash.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He reports her kneecaps are smaller than his thumb, her diapers, smaller than his hand.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAHuIeTfUSsCv-jBJTdPAT780jmdRxWHrqRKkAZD_hIEPrTEDCyigdG2PuAfMdvSxS5opdZRoOu5rhty9E7dLmOxJv_nuAdtAFc0eFSfG6KCbZpLg8FIaFA5ObP5tBiBxzwobnSqjbneY/s1600/GetInline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAHuIeTfUSsCv-jBJTdPAT780jmdRxWHrqRKkAZD_hIEPrTEDCyigdG2PuAfMdvSxS5opdZRoOu5rhty9E7dLmOxJv_nuAdtAFc0eFSfG6KCbZpLg8FIaFA5ObP5tBiBxzwobnSqjbneY/s640/GetInline.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Look at those eyes. Look at her hair. I fully expect to be reduced to slush when I meet her in 12 days.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hey, maybe she will grow up to call us, her Rizzio grandparents, Mush and Slush! </span><br />
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<span id="ecxrole_document" style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"> <div></div></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11818272181255091335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107182468600431063.post-61541514047962803382011-05-16T22:48:00.000-07:002011-05-17T09:55:26.064-07:00Twilight<span style="font-size: small;">Its that time of day when the sun has descended below the horizon, but the sky is still reflecting light; the transitional period of day, sung about in the first stanza of the children's poem/prayer/song by Sabine Baring-Gould:</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Now the day is over,<br />
Night is drawing nigh, <br />
Shadows of the evening<br />
Steal across the sky."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: small;">I have just finished reading my quota of students' research papers for the day; my brain is fried. Its time</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> to consider what I will have for dinner but I can't think straight. Little whimpers dribble from my lips.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> FuBu jumps in my lap, ever ready for some petting. Now that is something I can do: its automatic,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> takes very little thought, while it provides a quick payoff. Our breathe slows down into deep inhales, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">slow exhales. FuBu begins to purr, and I can feel my head, neck, and shoulder muscles begin to relax.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">The breeze from the afternoon has turned into twilight wind. The leaves on the eucalyptus trees are </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">rapidly twisting, or perhaps they're doing the boogaloo! But you should hear the trees. They creak. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yes. They sound like the loose floor board in Grandma's attic. And they moan just like that</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> missing "uncle" your childhood active imagination believed lived locked in a secret closet </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">on Granny's top floor.</span></span><br />
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</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Its going to rain, I can smell the ocean, and the seagulls are circling and squawking overhead. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">FuBu and I are happy to be in the house, safe and warm. As I listen to her contented purr, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am reminded of the twilight time of my childhood. It was the time of day I felt most unsafe, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">unprotected. You might say I lived in a constant state of fear.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">My family lived in a too tight apartment over my father's funeral home. In the basement was my</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> mother's laundry room, where the household freezer resided, my father's workshop, where he made </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">cabinetry in his spare time, the embalming room where he made his living, preparing</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> the dearly departed for their final stage of departure, and our playroom, right next to the room </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">where my Dad drained blood from corpses and replaced it with embalming fluid. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">My little sisters and I dreaded twilight. As the sun began to go down, and my mother began to prepare</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> the evening's meal, she would ask one of us politely to go downstairs to the freezer and retrieve packages </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">of frozen vegetables. I can hear the sing-songy voice, even now: "YaYa, would you like to go downstairs and </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">get some spinach for dinner?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">"No, Ma, I wouldn't." (Thought it, never said it.) So, I would begrudgingly walk down the front stairs, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">into my Dad's office, where I would pause, sit on the couch and talk to myself. "There is nothing to fear, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">you can do this." I would take a big breath, hold it, and run past the dead person laying "in rest" in a casket </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">in the very next room, open the door to the basement, race down the stairs, past the embalming room, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">where I could hear the pump extracting bodily fluids, race to the freezer, grab the first four packages of frozen</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">vegetables I could put my hands on, hope they were all the same vegetables, and retrace my steps </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">back up the stairs. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">There I would pause again, take another deep breath, pray that I could sneak safely past the dead person, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">most often someone I knew, and race back up the stairs to the kitchen. If I mistakingly picked up </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">two packages of frozen spinach and two packages of frozen string beans, I would have to </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">descend those stairs again and rectify the problem.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Yes, twilight is an eery time of day for me, even now. So when I feel very anxious about it, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hum this children's hynm.<br />
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