tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22518036433972967752024-03-23T16:22:05.565-04:00The Preppy Yogini<b>A blog dedicated to books, yoga, family, love and that eternal search for meaning in life....plus, some humor along for the ride. My thoughts are seldom in a straight line, so enjoy the curves in the road with me.</b>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.comBlogger250125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-3970341247112826212012-06-08T17:24:00.001-04:002012-06-08T17:26:11.767-04:0020 years from now....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5aB3E5fRc8BlBbsUKqi_OZfRZyg7_c7CKsYne9X7aT7oobUa6bbw2uFD7SIgDVdOwM1DVCDV898peGqWH01lfgyHwz-Z2k8AegYTOyzIMNBuDy0azZu1il4CfNyX0A6DMaa8UPvUxPxZL/s1600/blue.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/AVvXsEi5aB3E5fRc8BlBbsUKqi_OZfRZyg7_c7CKsYne9X7aT7oobUa6bbw2uFD7SIgDVdOwM1DVCDV898peGqWH01lfgyHwz-Z2k8AegYTOyzIMNBuDy0azZu1il4CfNyX0A6DMaa8UPvUxPxZL/s320/blue.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #4c4c4c; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Sans', Geneva, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 22px;"><i><b>“20 years from now you will be disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the one’s you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” -Mark Twain</b></i></span>
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<span style="color: #4c4c4c;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px;">The past months, two years even, have been such a time of growth and change and fear and moving on. It's been a time of letting go of what I thought my life would like and embracing what blessings I have before me now. It's not easy. It's scary. It's wonderful. It's dreadful. It's just life. And I'm darn thankful to have it. There have been moments. because of my health, that I've worried around the clock. There have been days I've been utterly grateful to have had those hours awake. Even if I was a nervous wreck, I was still thinking and wondering how, to quote Mark Twain, to 'sail away from the safe harbor'.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c4c4c;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px;">I've had a lot of fun with my <a href="http://thepreppyyogini.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Preppy Yogini on Tumblr</a> lately. It's given me the opportunity to just enjoy beautiful things...wonderful places, amazing ideas, fabulous quotes. I love the sharing of information, too. Because I've been fairly housebound for quite some time, it's afforded me the chance to 'travel', even if it's only in my imagination. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c4c4c;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px;">Imagination and ideas are powerful tools. They're even better when they express beauty, joy, hope and daydreams. I hope you'll come over and "visit" my Preppy Yogini "imaginarium" on Tumblr. I have no idea where I'll be in twenty years. I hope it's a place of health, a place of a beauty and a place of joy. In the meantime, I'll take those baby steps towards all of my dreams, even if means moving away from the safe harbor.</span></span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-66284109102549265472012-05-12T17:10:00.001-04:002012-05-13T08:19:46.426-04:00Because: A love letter to my children<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5dJAM5dHqwV9keZfGDSZiIiV_i225a3OxRGW8-fwlSNOJDcMxUulafmpLL1AlDoLN2Uoi67c8kUJvLYJsdbr7w_NDHEJsOqqVsLcGKRU073WYD_DQ5qvVhYRWJDy9fX2IxZZ9iFVzxcrJ/s1600/jcleaves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5dJAM5dHqwV9keZfGDSZiIiV_i225a3OxRGW8-fwlSNOJDcMxUulafmpLL1AlDoLN2Uoi67c8kUJvLYJsdbr7w_NDHEJsOqqVsLcGKRU073WYD_DQ5qvVhYRWJDy9fX2IxZZ9iFVzxcrJ/s320/jcleaves.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #330000; 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;"><i style="background-color: white;"><b>When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child. ~Sophia Loren</b></i></span>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #330000; 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; text-align: -webkit-left;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; 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; text-align: -webkit-left;"><b>Because: A Love Letter to My Children</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; 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; text-align: -webkit-left;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
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<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;">In the past year, my children, now in their late teens, began very seriously understanding their future potential. As their mother, I had always seen the gifts that lay deep inside them as individuals. I also saw the incredible strength they have together, as siblings so close in age. The joke in our household as always been: they are twins, just born two years apart. They each possess a powerful work ethic, an amazing sense of purpose and a fully defined view of self. They also are endowed gifts that are the opposite of one another. I respect their individuality. I love them fiercely. I am a Mama Wolf, and they are my cubs. I would do anything to protect them, to encourage them and to help them achieve their dreams. </span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">And yet, both children, at different times, have expressed a regret that I didn't "push" them more. As my son and daughter ventured out into the world without me, they saw the credentials that other kids have to be at the top of their 'pools'. My daughter wishes that I had <u>not </u>encouraged her to sail, swim, and work each summer. She has expressed a regret that she didn't, like so many kids, go to SAT camp the whole time. She now feels that she'd have gladly given up our Spring vacations to take AP exam cram session courses.</span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">My son, however, feels he did just fine in school and is content with that piece of his life. He wishes, however, that I hadn't encouraged him to golf in the summers, and play soccer and baseball each Fall and Spring. He wishes that I'd enrolled him in intensive skating clinics and that he'd been tutored so that he could have spent as many waking moments as possible on the ice. He wishes that he hadn't wasted so much time with other activities...wondering where he'd be now in his hockey career if he'd had no other distractions.</span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">My daughter is a wonderful student. My son is a fantastic hockey player. Perhaps they aren't exactly where they had envisioned themselves at this point. My daughter isn't yet the youngest woman to ever receive the Nobel Prize for Biology. My son hasn't yet been drafted to play Center for the Boston Bruins. They are working towards their goals, and I honor their ambitions. </span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">Therefore: this note is to them, my Sun and Moon.</span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">Because I love you, I not only let you have mud fights, I brought out the hose. I let you get as dirty as you possibly could and never once worried about bringing dirt into the house.</span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">Because I love you, I let you stage dramatic battles between G.I. Joe and Barbie, even if it meant finding tiny pieces of plastic ammunition for months afterwards.</span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">Because I love you, I let you bring a bunny into the house without my consent...and promptly fell in love with her because you did.</span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">Because I love you, my heart broke the first time yours did. I cried with you, both on the inside and on the out. I kept a prayer in my heart that you would continue to fall in love, and love would find you right back.</span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">Because I love you, I cheered loudly at sporting events, even when I had no clue what was going on, or who was winning.</span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">Because I love you, I let you wear your pajamas inside out the night before snow was predicted and then danced along with you when our district was announced for a snow day.</span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">Because I love you, I snuggled with you and watched The Lion King (over and over) with you like on rainy days.</span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">Because I love you, I let you just be kids...kids who built forts, who made sand castles, had sleepovers, roasted marshmallows. I wanted you to be kids who'd learn to water ski in summer and snow ski in winter. I let you camp in the back yard, build a tree house with your Daddy and made you picnic lunches to eat 'in the great outdoors'. </span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">Because I love you, I've encouraged you. I've subtly pushed you out of your comfort zones. You may not have noticed, but I love you enough to just helpfully spread your wings ever so slightly. And when it was time for you to fly? You just didn't realize your wings hadn't always been opened a bit...making the transition to fly that much smoother. </span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">Because I love you, I am not just encouraging you to continue on your journey. I'm encouraging you to soar.</span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">Because I love you, I am confident that you gained strength from just being normal, happy, laughing, playing kids. And, now I'm confident that you will be amazing adults. </span></div>
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<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;"><br /></span></div>
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<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;">In fact, you are already are. And I love you.</span></div>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-30652284749248582292012-05-11T14:38:00.001-04:002012-05-11T15:44:32.435-04:00What do you do?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4zetQRYVCQ7CgTexE-cXKX_Z7m4XrijTXQDoOxx3HQHOw14WurgYM8fcY5ZPOMigFkbL4JzKbiMNs7Em44HWeO5bc4OO576A9do4A-iO9_YRiX0p9coGIkvrlsA13UfjNTy3HtUnwK6x/s1600/mountain-top.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4zetQRYVCQ7CgTexE-cXKX_Z7m4XrijTXQDoOxx3HQHOw14WurgYM8fcY5ZPOMigFkbL4JzKbiMNs7Em44HWeO5bc4OO576A9do4A-iO9_YRiX0p9coGIkvrlsA13UfjNTy3HtUnwK6x/s320/mountain-top.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px;">"Pop quiz, hotshot. There's a bomb on a bus. Once the bus goes 50 miles an hour, the bomb is armed. If it drops below 50, it blows up. What do you do? What do you do? </span><i> "~ </i>Memorable quote from the movie, "Speed"<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have to admit that I'm a sucker for action movies, at least for some of the time. As much as I enjoy a period piece (usually starring Kate Winslet or Keira Knightly) or a romantic comedy, there is something about the adrenaline that comes from imagining yourself right alongside Bruce Willis in "Die Hard". You wonder if all of the the pieces in the puzzle will come together to make for a perfect heist and a clean getaway. You envision the perfect blend of cool, sexy, brilliant and quick mindedness to be with James Bond. In an everyday life of bill paying, parenting, housework, home maintenance and other mundane chores, being in a completely impossible situation, so outside the norm of driving kids to school, gives you the freedom to wonder how you would make the best decision possible, in the most extraordinary series of events, and all would be well in the end.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There's a great line in the movie, "Speed", in which the insane, resentful former cop, Dennis Hopper, is trying to extort money from the LAPD. In an unbelievable (or believable only in Hollywood) series of events, Keanu Reeves, plays the brash young cop willing to jump aboard a hijacked bus, filled with both hostages and explosives, in order to save the day. Save the day he does, of course, being 'our hero'. And yet, I couldn't help but wonder at Dennis Hopper's pop quizzes to the 'pup' of a newbie detective. He put Keanu Reeves' character into the position of making instantaneous decisions that impact not only his own life, but the lives of others.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When it comes to real life, it's awfully hard to make a decision on the spot for most people. I think that I can relate to the snap decisions of Hollywood's glorious heroes because I'm a snap decision maker myself. I'm a "go with my gut" instinct kind of decision maker. I rarely weigh options. I never make pro and con lists. I think about my choices for a nanosecond and I make up my mind. I rarely regret the decisions I've made...even if I have to acknowledge that the ramifications led to a learning experience. I recently read that more than 80% of American adults have a great deal of trouble making choices. These decisions can range from large ones (such as a potential spouse or the purchase of a home) or small ones (such as what to serve for dinner). I was flabbergasted by this statistic, and yet, I can appreciate that decision making is challenging. No one wants to make a mistake, and therefore, is stymied from moving forward. Any choice, this piece went onto say, is potentially wrong, and thus, decisions are put off indefinitely. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Both of my children had very big decisions to make this year, regarding their futures. I was on pins and needles for them both. I was <u>desperate</u> to know what their choices would be. They, on the other hand, were rationally, calmly and logically proceeding to eliminate what wasn't going to be a good fit, and factor in what would be the best option for their respective futures. I was wanting them to dive into the deep end of a choice, head first. Why? Because that's how I've always done it. I have learned something very important from my young adult children: waiting isn't the worst thing in the world...waiting can help a person solidify her rationale in making a decision or investigate his alternatives thoroughly before committing. I respect this process more than I can say. I just get itchy, living with the unknown...perhaps that's why I find it so easy to relate to the snap decision action heroes: they don't have to mull over colleges or cities. They just throw themselves into the action.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The past month has been a time of growth for all of us. I have learned to appreciate a more measured, analytical decision making process. I still am the impulsive one in the family, and probably always will be. But, I can appreciate a judicious deliberation now too. And yet, at the next fork in the road in my children's lives, I'm scared I'll turn into a virtual Dennis Hopper once again, and over the walkie-talkie, ask, "<span style="background-color: white; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px;">Pop quiz, hotshot. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px;">What do you do? What do you do?". </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">I'll just try very hard not to use explosives. </span></span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-75748225517594043662012-04-04T11:52:00.003-04:002012-04-04T14:07:52.507-04:00What was lost....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_o6pvTgUSCszr0GEUNHmIaR3cpfC_1twdonSWUijfDmqUfb31ROELXsE5WhkCUFNGNjGP3T4Hng0umsKc6Wc5HIzQMDZgpl6NjPwAgDU_khABY5uNroddILtfG0ewjMrXd1Sbq7iOyRdg/s1600/reflection.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_o6pvTgUSCszr0GEUNHmIaR3cpfC_1twdonSWUijfDmqUfb31ROELXsE5WhkCUFNGNjGP3T4Hng0umsKc6Wc5HIzQMDZgpl6NjPwAgDU_khABY5uNroddILtfG0ewjMrXd1Sbq7iOyRdg/s320/reflection.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white; 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; text-align: -webkit-left;"><i><b>You are as young as your faith, as old as your doubt; as young as your self-confidence, as old as your fear; as young as your hope, as old as your despair. ~General Douglas MacArthur</b></i></span> <br />
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<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Today is one of those picture perfect, elusive Spring days in Maine. My family often joked that Spring in Maine was a "stealth" season....not making more than one appearance between Winter and the 4th of July. Thankfully, I was able to get outside and enjoy the milder temperatures to walk my two big dogs. Instead of the usual jaunt out of our neighborhood and scramble up the hillside, I decided to shake our destination up radically. I chose another neighborhood not far from ours. The dogs thought this was Mardi Gras and enjoyed all the new schools, the squirrels they had yet to intimidate and new spots to, well, 'visit'. It was great. I ran into a woman I hadn't seen in nearly two years with her dog. We stopped to visit, let our pets touch noses while we caught up.</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"I heard you'd been sick. I'm glad you're doing better, " this woman said to me.</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Me, too!," I smiled.</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then, really looking at me, shaking her head and making eye contact, she said, "You just LOOK so different. I never would have recognized you. But, at least you're alive. That's the important thing."</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Stunned, I said my goodbyes and staggered off, feeling punched in the emotional pit of my stomach. I realize that I don't look 30 anymore. I also realize that I don't look like the skinny yoga instructor I was just 18 months ago. I have a closet of clothes that are too tight and a mirror that shows every inch of of my body's changes, due to surgery and the following complications. I also see that every line on my face, the worries, the pain, the fears and the anxiety I've experienced. I'm not blind, nor do I live in a bubble. I understand what I've lost. I also understand it can never be recovered, given my new set of physical limitations, as well as my age. And my unexpected conversationalist was correct. My being alive is the most important thing. I am here. I am well enough to take Dakota and Murphy on long jaunts. I am excited for my daughter's prep school graduation. I am looking forward to my 25th wedding anniversary with my husband, my son coming home from Florida and my mother spending the summer in Maine. I have many blessings to count. I treasure each and every one of them. </span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And yet, this woman's comments did shine a spotlight on an issue that many women my age feel, cancer patients or not: we are no longer recognizable as the women we used to be. Oh, maybe some of us have pushed back the clock a bit and held off the inevitable. Maybe there are more magazine articles telling us that "50 is the new 30". The fact, however, is that time marches on. As Dolly Parton says, in "Steel Magnolias", <i>"And if you're not careful, it'll march right over your face!".</i> We may have been pretty, we have even been beautiful, we may have been sparkling, we may have been just breathtakingly, achingly young. We are no longer those dazzling girls. But, we have something pretty spectacular: we are here. We are wise. We are careful. We can see the bigger picture. We are creative. We are grounded. We are fabulous. But we still find ourselves in a tailspin when someone calls the 'smaller picture'..the one in the mirror...to our attention.</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Love handles? Crow's feet? Thighs that even Buddha would hate? Bah! Humbug. We are alive. Let the young girls have their moment in the sun. Let them enjoy it. They'll cross the bridge and join us here on the other side and say, "This is scary, but it's great." It really is scary. It's scary to not recognize ourselves. But it's much scarier giving in to despair. I'd rather be who I am...with the appreciation for all I've learned along the way...than be who I was. Pretty, or not. Therefore, we can tell those belles, coming across the path towards us, it *is* great.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">However, I still wish I could fit into my old jeans. Some days.</span></div>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-79394387250119117002012-02-09T16:43:00.001-05:002012-05-16T14:30:40.025-04:00And all shall be well...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">For a number of years, I've written a blog called The Preppy Yogini. Bits and pieces of this blog have made their way into various yoga and book circles. I feel incredibly fortunate to have had The Preppy Yogini be so well received. It's been a lifeline for me in many ways. I've met some incredible people through The Preppy Yogini and it has opened doors for me in ways I never could have imagined. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">And yet, as I wrote in a piece called <a href="http://preppyyogini.blogspot.com/2011/06/bohemian-sloth.html" style="color: #9966cc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">The Bohemian Sloth</a>, I've felt myself stepping away from my Preppy Yogini persona. I've spent the past 15 months battling cancer, and its physical aftermath, for the second time. No longer am I a yoga instructor. No longer am I particularly preppy. It's been a time of great changes in my life...in what I can do, in what I want to do and to what I will aspire. Blessed Julian of Norwich was an anchoress in the 14th century. She was quite literally walled into Norwich Cathedral. She had two windows: one opened into the cathedral, so that she could be a part of the worship in the church. The other window was outside. It allowed her to receive food (and I'm assuming, to get rid any waste). More importantly, it allowed her to speak with people, to pray for them and to be a part of their lives. She was a mystic and a little "out there" in her theology. And yet, she was also ahead of her in many other ways. She felt God's presence as a Loving, Kind Mother. Imagine that concept in the medieval world!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">While the idea of being walled up anywhere is terrifying from a claustrophobia standpoint, I have to admit that I felt some affinity for Blessed Julian for the past year. While I've done some traveling and I have gotten out of the house, I have also been home more than ever have. I've always been a doer, a mover, a goer and a 'be right in the thick of things' kind of woman. I've worked, I've volunteered, I've gone out to lunch with friends and noodled around art museums. I have spent more time in quiet contemplation, over the past year, than ever before. It's a heady thing. I've had to learn how to simply be in peace without anyone else to entertain me. I've learned so much in the past year...most of it having to do with meditation, harmonious quiet and silent images. I'm done a great deal of praying. I've read a tremendous amount, even for a bibliophile like me. I've come to appreciate the beauty in stillness in a way I never had before. I've always been an admirer of Blessed Julian, but I've come to understand her better...even in the smallest way...to know what it's like to simply be alone.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">My new blog, <a href="http://4allshallbewell.blogspot.com/" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">And All Shall Be Well</a><i>, </i><u style="font-style: italic;">will not be </u> a collection of my own life experiences and lessons from, as I had in<i> The Preppy Yogini. </i>It's my goal to write short essays that may be used in meditation, for inspirational reading, for prayer and for uplifting imagery. This won't be a running diary. Rather, it will simply be a tool for others to use in their quests. I like to describe myself an Episcopalian with dashes of Jewish roots and twists of Zen. I feel honored and blessed by Native American, Celtic and Norse traditions. <i>And All Shall Be Well</i> is most definitely written with God in mind and in heart. But, I'm hopeful that, whatever one's faith tradition, there will be illuminating pieces that will speak to many. I plan on drawing from many sources for my own inspiration.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">St. Paul wrote in Philippians, "<span style="background-color: #f9fdff; line-height: 21px; text-align: justify;"><i>Finally, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honorable, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things." </i>It's my hope that the pictures I'll paint with my words will uplift and will be worthy to 'think on'.</span></span> <br />
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<span style="line-height: 20px;"><span style="line-height: 21px; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i><span style="background-color: white;">(Note: I will not take down The Preppy Yogini, I've accomplished what I had hoped to..and will continue to update. But, I hope you join me as I work on <a href="http://4allshallbewell.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">And All Shall Be Well</a></span><span style="background-color: #f9fdff;">. Namaste, Peace and Thank you.)</span></i></span></span></span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-27416180613491863602012-02-04T14:24:00.002-05:002012-02-04T14:30:33.588-05:00Cottages<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6cGtSEVtKIbjkX47BF4mTyD2TL149h-fheu9ipE0FGxcMKAGh87FJiHgrUlI0ESyBjPiIFl3-9-TeLo9zRE78ASnBr4GRZIgOBRsHkgoHo7Z8xFB1HSiprm6Qt7oW028FBowmV9xytgc/s1600/Tiny+Cottage+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6cGtSEVtKIbjkX47BF4mTyD2TL149h-fheu9ipE0FGxcMKAGh87FJiHgrUlI0ESyBjPiIFl3-9-TeLo9zRE78ASnBr4GRZIgOBRsHkgoHo7Z8xFB1HSiprm6Qt7oW028FBowmV9xytgc/s320/Tiny+Cottage+7.jpg" width="252" /></a></div><b><i><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Better joy in a cottage than sorrow in a palace..." ~ Proverbs</span></i></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Every child remembers a favorite Christmas. For most, it's the year they received a bike under the tree. For others? A set of slot cars, a pair of ice skates or a trunk of dress up clothes. Yet others? It was that much dreamed of doll, GI Joe or set of puppets. I enjoyed most of those, without question. And yet, my favorite Christmas was the year I received a Holly Hobbie Play House. This wasn't a dollhouse...one to pretend to move my tiny doll family about. This was a small cottage sized playhouse completely made out of cardboard. It was adorable. It had trompe l'oeil design of an adorable cottage. Little did I know that my parents had, quite literally, stayed up all night putting it together. (And later on that day, they realized that they had disassemble the darn thing and put it back together in my room!) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Until we moved, I spent every waking moment in that playhouse. I brought pillows and blankets and enticed our dogs to come hang out with me. I read. I played house. I played school. It was my sanctuary within my sanctuary. I felt happy, safe, free to be creative and utterly joyful there. I never worried about needing to clean it (it was too small to really get untidy). I never thought I might lose anything or that things would just vanish. It was manageable. Additionally, it was just how I wanted it. No one helped me...I simply brought in there bits and pieces from around the house....a favorite silver frame, my books, the soft leopard blanket my mother had sewn, my father's lap desk (which served as the perfect actual desk) and a little antique trunk to hold my "treasures". It was the most essentially 'me' space I've ever had.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's no wonder that I've loved cottages ever since then. As an adult, I've been incredibly fortunate to have had a lovely roof over my head at all times. From my husband's and my first apartment to our current house, we've never been without the safety of shelter. Additionally, I've had some wonderful help from my mother with furniture and from my mother in law with painting each room. And yet, compromises are always made. Whether it's making do with furniture because it's serviceable, or finding the happy medium between what I find beautiful, and my husband finds too feminine, that majority of the spaces in my house are a testament to adaptation. Please don't misunderstand. I love my home, my husband, my children and our animals. But, every decision to change, or not to change, a space requires modification on my part. I am grateful, beyond measure, for the loving family I'm blessed with. However, I continue to daydream about cottages. Small, charming, folksy, shabby chic, historic, quaint, girlie and scrumptious...I've wanted "a room of one's own", thanks to Virginia Woolf, most of my adult life. Mine just happens not to be a room. My "room" is a tiny house of my own.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhME05NgHsyCtIsC1Y8p79CEkHZb5ibhQQ3ODbB-0laCsN3dWeEdRnU7VT-IgEt7PFHONxYk459XPufOmftbt_C__p1Aet74okea74ivFcX5hIz_XTEffe6LQw7zzQCaD6LCVhlVYBsOnSc/s1600/Tiny+Cottage+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhME05NgHsyCtIsC1Y8p79CEkHZb5ibhQQ3ODbB-0laCsN3dWeEdRnU7VT-IgEt7PFHONxYk459XPufOmftbt_C__p1Aet74okea74ivFcX5hIz_XTEffe6LQw7zzQCaD6LCVhlVYBsOnSc/s320/Tiny+Cottage+8.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I first came across<span style="color: #741b47;"> </span><i><span style="color: #4c1130;"><a href="http://thegrowersdaughter.blogspot.com/2010/07/tiny-cottage.html" target="_blank">this cottage in The Grower's Daughter</a>,</span> </i>I fell in love. A former hunting cabin, the cottage was renovated by a Wheaton College graduate, when her husband and she chose to downsize dramatically and moved into a wooded property with very little in the way of luxury. The cottage became a labor of love, a refuge and a sanctuary for the builder. As Wheatie myself, I related to the the builder's aesthetic sensibility, her taste and her desire. I love the way in which every nook and cranny is used. I am passionate about the white, Victorian-meets-Shabby Chic style. I love the roses. I love the chandelier. I love the sleeping loft. I love the pink. I love the lace. I love the doorknobs. I love the china. I love the little porch. I love how utterly immaculate everything is. There isn't dog hair all over the white draped furniture. There aren't hockey bags opened up on the porch. There isn't a gaggle of (however beloved) teenagers draped over every surface. There are no half finished glasses of juice everywhere. It's peaceful. It's dreamy. It's private. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'd love to have this cottage in my own backyard. I can imagine climbing into the bed (using a ladder I'd put on wheeled tracks), with a cup of perfect tea and a stack of my favorite books. I'd leave my cell phone back in my house. Although I would install indoor plumbing (unlike this dream cottage, that's a non-negotiable for me), I would keep this cottage just the way that it is otherwise. I'd eat things like cucumber sandwiches and sliced mango. I'd wear Victorian inspired dresses and sunhats. I'd wrap myself up in fur blankets when it would get chilly. I could write uninterrupted. I could sleep without being disturbed. I could hear myself think. It would be my own space. Just for me. No sweaty athletic apparel on the floor. No Ramen noodles left to congeal. No unending sports games on television at the loudest possible volume. No television at all, actually. It would be peaceful. Calm. Relaxing. Serene. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I realize this is a pipe dream. Even if such a magical abode just appeared, as if conjured, I know that it wouldn't remain perfect for long. My two dogs are immense and release enough fur every day to create a smaller animal. They'd be scratching to be let in within seconds. I know my husband, ever the space-needer, would be eyeing my cottage as a possible home for his lawnmower, plow and boat equipment. I'm sure my kids would lobby to make my cottage into the teenager hangout.While I'd be at the store, I'm sure I'd arrive home to find my charming decorations out, and the ping-pong table and TV in. Along with the iHome blasting music. My fantasy sanctuary would become doghouse, storage barn and media center the moment my back was turned. Maybe that's why it's best left a fantasy....I can keep it beautiful and perfect in my imagination in a way I'd never manage in real life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And yet...there's a perfect place under the pine trees that would be just dreamy. Do you think I can keep it a secret?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I feel truly, exceptionally and powerfully blessed. So many people have dropped me notes to wish me well and to encourage me over the past year. I have no idea what my life would be like, had my life's course not veered into unknown territory. However, one thing that I do know: I'm eternally grateful for those special folks who have reached out to me. I'm encouraged by your stories, by your thoughtfulness, by your willingness to get to know me and by the new friends I've made. In addition, you have all asked me some good questions. Rather than repeat myself, I've decided to do a Q & A segment on Preppy Yogini. I've done this on other blogs, but not here. So, I hope that I'm managing to answer most of your questions. If not? I plan on doing another one in time. Thank you again for all of your kindness and understanding.</span><br />
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<ol><li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><i><b>How did you come up with the name "Preppy Yogini"? </b></i></span>I did blog piece on this very story about six months ago, called <a href="http://preppyyogini.blogspot.com/2011/06/bohemian-sloth.html" target="_blank">The Bohemian Sloth</a>. When I was doing my yoga teacher training, I was blessed with many fantastic instructors. Unfortunately, one was just hideous. He was a cross between Attila the Hun and the worst Kindergarten teacher ever. He made fun of people. He pushed students to the point of injury and he was simply a rotten person, let alone a terrible instructor. When I questioned his methodology, he spat out, "You're nothing but a preppy yogini". He meant it as the most derogatory slur imaginable. I wear it like a badge of honor now.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><i><b>You talk about Maine a lot. Are you from Maine?</b></i></span> Yes...and no. To a true, iconoclastic Mainer, I am not. I wasn't born here. Therefore, I'm from "away". But, I have spent many years here, first as a summer person growing up, and then with my husband and our children. I grew up in California and New York, and went to school in Rhode Island and Massachusetts, before moving to Europe for four years. I enjoy living in Maine, but I also love traveling to other places. I get itchy feet if I'm in one place too long.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span style="color: #351c75;"><b>What made you become a yoga instructor? How did you become one?</b></span></i> I had been practicing yoga for years before my first cancer diagnosis in 2003. I had three surgeries in just 7 weeks. It was tough! But, yoga was instrumental in helping me recover. When I was well enough, I resigned from my job in traditional education and studied at Kripalu and Gentle Spirit Yoga for my 200 hour R.Y.T. certification. I felt tremendously encouraged by own instructors and this inspired me to pursue my own path in teaching.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b style="background-color: white;"><i><span style="color: #351c75;">What's your favorite yoga style of practice? What do you recommend?</span></i></b> That's like asking a mother who her favorite child is! I have honestly enjoyed every form of yoga I've practiced. I believe that every class, regardless of yogic 'arm', has the potential to be fabulous for all levels. It really comes down to the teacher and her willingness to give of herself to her students. For beginners, I generally recommend classes that are Hatha based, or that offer Yoga Foundations. It's a great starting point.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><b><span style="color: #351c75;">You have mentioned being sick. What was wrong? How are you doing?</span></b></i> I'm doing much better! A year ago, I was slowly starting to walk around and drive again. Unfortunately, my Sarcoma based cancer returned. This time, my surgery and procedures were even more invasive...and I'm also 8 years older, making my recovery that much more difficult. The form of cancer I have is not treatable by radiation or chemotherapy. Surgery is my only option. I had some pretty intense setbacks, but I'm on the road to recovery again. It's just a very slow road. Think Los Angeles traffic at rush hour slow.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><b><span style="color: #351c75;">Why have you stopped doing book reviews?</span></b></i> I am still reading up a storm and look forward to writing reviews again on this blog. When I created <a href="http://ellensbookchallenge.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Ellen's Thirty Day Book Challenge</a> last Spring, I actually ended up reviewing more than 30 books, since I had an impossible time narrowing my list down. I burned out on writing book reviews for a while, as a result. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><i><b>I like your writing. Have you been published?</b></i></span> Years ago, I was published in<i> Parenting</i>,<i> Mothering</i>, <i>The Doula</i> and several other magazines aimed at that life path. I haven't been published since then. I hope to be again. I'm working on several different pieces...but all seem to be longer than magazine articles. I look forward to continuing my writing. While it would be an honor to be published, I truly write for myself and my own spirit. Anything beyond that would be fresh butter cream icing on a very dense carrot cake.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><b><i>What other hobbies do you enjoy?</i></b></span> Beyond writing, reading and yoga, I love design. I think I'm actually a frustrated art director in a yogini's skin! I also love animals...I have two dogs now, but have had horses, cats and one very special bunny during my life. I love good wine, scintillating conversation, travel and long walks on the beach at sunset. Seriously though...I really do love long walks on the beach at sunset.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><b><span style="color: #351c75;">Are you still teaching yoga? Can I join your class?</span></b></i> Unfortunately, my last surgery, the complications that ensued, made teaching yoga impossible for me. I am adjusting to a new definition of normal. If you're going to be in coastal Maine or the greater Scottsdale, Arizona areas, I'd be happy to recommend some amazing teachers. I am taking 3-4 classes a week again, and am enjoying the simplicity of being a student at this time.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><b><i>What's next for you?</i></b></span> I wish I knew. I really wish I knew! I have no idea. I do know that it's time to figure out who I'm going to be as a grown up. It would be nice if the universe sent out smoke signals to give me a hint. While I'm looking for said clues in the heavens, I'm doing a lot of volunteer work in my community. And drinking far too much tea. </span></li>
</ol><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thank you again. Best wishes. Enjoy. Namaste!</span></div>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-67059339123865511122012-01-26T12:42:00.001-05:002012-01-26T12:42:55.472-05:00La Belle Époque<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHeWJ512H40ab-hc4lRy51ux-Hjh_J2fuj4U-6NoSIbQR5_f3alIwvPnYwtJHw08e2fjMHrlvCNqmVo_WEbdljcvgs_IsiBmFRqy4ZKQflLZhVphizn9zHxw6BP-2OkDdYEaZzjpAk0wD3/s1600/Midnight+in+Paris+Movie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHeWJ512H40ab-hc4lRy51ux-Hjh_J2fuj4U-6NoSIbQR5_f3alIwvPnYwtJHw08e2fjMHrlvCNqmVo_WEbdljcvgs_IsiBmFRqy4ZKQflLZhVphizn9zHxw6BP-2OkDdYEaZzjpAk0wD3/s320/Midnight+in+Paris+Movie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; text-align: -webkit-left;"><b><i>The past is always judged by the present. ~ Neith Boyce</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I was a young girl, I was completely enamored of the past. I wanted nothing more than to move back to a simple time of simple pleasures. This interest was mainly kindled into a fire when I read the "Little House" books by Laura Ingalls Wilder in second grade. Using couch pillows and a sheet, I created a covered wagon and tried to enlist our German Shepherd and Border Collie into being my pretend team of horses to pull it. I daydreamed about log cabins, spinning wheels and calico dresses. As I continued to read, I fell in love with Colonial Virginia, when reading a biography of Martha Washington, Ancient Egypt from"The Cat in the Mirror" by Mary Stoltz and Victorian England following my lust for Jane Austen novels. I daydreamed about Ancient Greece and Rome, through books of mythology. I imagined life in Scandinavia as I mentally sailed along with Viking raiders around the North sea. I went on a spirit journey, reading about southwestern Native American rites of passage...envisioning my life amongst the Anasazi. The current age of my childhood seemed ugly, bitter, filled with anger and too fast a pace. I longed for a more quiet life, an uncomplicated life. I imagined restraint, gentility and honor in all the times past. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My new favorite film is "Midnight in Paris", which was written and directed by Woody Allen. "Annie Hall" this is not. It's one man's daydreaming past into 1920's Paris...the time of Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Pablo Picasso. It was the era of the great Left Bank artists, poets, writers, musicians, designers...the time of post World War I ex-patriot "Lost Generation" great thinkers and creators. The film is brilliantly created. Each night, at precisely the same spot on a side side in Paris, at Midnight, Owen Wilson's character is picked up in a vintage car and driven into the past, where he meets all of his idols. He experiences the era with which he identifies so closely. He is desperate to be a part of this time in history, when, in his mind, life was ever so much sweeter and so much more imaginative. "Gil", Wilson's protagonist, falls in love with the beautiful Adriana...a muse to the 1920's artists. As they stroll through the Paris streets each night, Gil finds the evenings to be both sublime and transcendent. He's actually living in his dream time and can't fathom anyone else not being outrageously happy. The pace of life, for Gil, is slower, more meaningful and far more beautiful. Adriana, on the other hand, ruminates on her own 'castle in the sky' period of history, </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">La Belle Époque, the late 19th century until World War I. It's no wonder..."The Great War" devastated the globe. As Gil and Adriana travel back in time to the 1880's, they come upon the famous artists of the day who dream about the Renaissance. Gil and Adriana have to decide; should each one remain in his, or her, own daydream, or return to their own present times?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The lesson of the film is quite simple: it's one thing to fantasize about the romance of the past. It is wonderful to appreciate those superlative individuals who help define an era, and help to create something completely new and original. It's quite another to run away from one's problems, one's dissatisfaction and one's melancholy by vanishing into a previous time...even if that disappearing is completely metaphorical. Each generation looks to the previous ones for inspiration and with longing. Every period in history has magically beautiful aspects to it. Yet, we forget, in our reveries, that each period in history has its own share of complications and horrors. No time has ever been perfect. Yet no time has ever been without hope. We exist, as human beings, somewhere between each of these states in our hearts and minds whenever we find ourselves living.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I continue to imagine life in past decades, in other places and spending my time in deep contrast to my present. I love to read, I adore movies and I treasure works of art and pieces of music...often from times and places different than Maine in 2012. However, the lessons I learn here and now are the ones that will create my happiness. I can take advice and admonishment from the past. But, I need to bring those into my everyday life. I find that I want to assimilate those past areas of simplicity, beauty, creativity and joie de vivre into my today, while still having a deep appreciation for the exceptional time I have the privilege of experiencing. As romantic as Elizabethan England might seem, it's awfully nice to have running water, excellent medical care and relative safety. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Daydreams are fun. They're a diversion from the mundane. They're a way to escape, even for a few minutes, from the stresses we are plagued with. The present, no matter how complicated and rushed, has the potential to be infinitely more wonderful than any daydream. Why? Because it's happening this very second. We can breathe the air, taste the food and hear the music. We can feel the snowflakes on our cheeks and smell tang of the ocean. As delightful as the past might seem, right now is what we're blessed with...and right now is pretty extraordinary.</span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-52507168489977287632012-01-20T10:15:00.003-05:002012-01-20T10:45:02.865-05:00Idea boards....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW1LwRSNzSq_dUyiBVGkfBk1CTHSuwjiI2bEnfCThG9RUApd3gcwnRwHmC1QaHpp6-IQefeFbb_MJfHLfYXJ-aosnCFtxMhpT-h8et7b24ZLsOCpGxnGPseI1n_cJ3HoaseEoGCFGtfHzb/s1600/design-inspiration-board.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/AVvXsEgW1LwRSNzSq_dUyiBVGkfBk1CTHSuwjiI2bEnfCThG9RUApd3gcwnRwHmC1QaHpp6-IQefeFbb_MJfHLfYXJ-aosnCFtxMhpT-h8et7b24ZLsOCpGxnGPseI1n_cJ3HoaseEoGCFGtfHzb/s320/design-inspiration-board.jpg" width="244" /></a></div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-left;"><i><b>The way to get good ideas is to get lots of ideas, and throw the bad ones away. ~Linus Pauling</b></i></span> </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: -webkit-left;">When I was growing up, my mother maintained a studio in every house in which we lived. If something struck her as inspiring, she'd pin it up onto one of her idea boards. Her idea boards overflowed, and she also maintained files to hold bits of thoughts. Some of these were fabulous quotes that she found intriguing. Others were cartoons from the New Yorker, or even whole articles. Most often, however, these were bits of fabric, photos or sketches to do with design. Mom was the art director for her family's paper goods company, and it was her job to coordinate between what was happening out in the world with her artists, and balancing that with her own sense of the creative process. As she moved into the hotel business with my father, she wore two hats; one was her continued vision for the paper goods company, but she was then also responsible for designing the spaces at my parents' Santa Barbara resort, both inside and out. My grandmother was the same way. She had ideas in design neatly organized in her sewing room...which doubled as her drawing room, sculpting room, painting room and craft space. Grandma was the most talented dressmaker and landscape artist I've ever known. And yet, she did these as hobbies for fun. I used to look at the idea boards of both my mother and grandmother and wonder how many of these bits of illumination would come to fruition. I loved how they looked...mismatched, yet compelling. They were a deluge of creativity, an avalanche of suggestions.I wanted to frame the boards themselves to keep in my room.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: -webkit-left;">Even though these boards were created to inspire art, they themselves, in my humble opinion were the art. The random gathering of home fashion pulled from magazines, postcards from extraordinary places, fabric swatches, old photographs, handwritten notes from friends and any number of surprising bits of vision. Some of these pinned pieces were to decipher; the gorgeous bedroom, done up in green and ivory, was obviously translated to mean a room to reinterpret...at least in feeling or individual pieces. The scrap with just a few words, the piece of frayed, worn out gingham or the restaurant menu were a bit harder to understand. I did know, however, that the creative process ran deeply, and that the tired piece of gingham might not be 'about' the tired piece of gingham. Rather, it could be a reminder of an event, whose memory would trigger a design different that the ratty fabric. Significance, I learned, in idea boards, often had less to do with what was up on the board exactly, than it did for what each piece signified. So, in many ways, the pin boards belonging to the most important women in my life were actually a view into the way their minds worked creatively. The items they pinned were archetypal. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: -webkit-left;">I wish I possessed the gene for creativity and style that my Mama and Grandma have. Grandma could see any couture dress in a store, look at it for a moment, and then go home and make it. Only better. Mama could gather up the most disjointed, unlikely group of furniture and textiles and create exceptional, eclectic and harmonious spaces. Me? I have no sense in either of these abilities. Both women could look at a blank canvas, and could pull forth a painting that seemed to have always existed from within. I can't even draw a stick figure. I have the utmost admiration for this potentiality. I lack depth perception, so I always pick out furniture of the utterly wrong proportion for any room. I can barely hem pants, let alone sew a dress. I can walk into a room I think is dreadful, but have no idea how to change it. Conversely, I can experience a breathtaking space, that just drips style and comfort, and yet be utterly flummoxed as to how to recreate it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Joking aside, it really is a fun site. You can create virtual pin boards online, maintained by the site...no glue, no cutting, no scrunched up napkins and no running out of thumb tacks. You can find ideas for everything from fashion to Fettuccine recipes and from puppies to painting. The boards begin with a few standard ones...'For the home', 'Food', 'Books worth reason'. The possibilities to create your own, however, are endless. You can borrow ("repin") ideas from other people. This isn't considered stealing, but is the basis of Pinterest! It's the sharing of those things that inspire us and is meant to be a public endeavor. You can also upload photos of whatever takes your fancy...using the handy "Pin It" tool...and thereby, share them with the Pinterest community. I've created a dozen boards so far...and none of them are even close to compete. It's an ongoing process for everyone...we keep virtually "pinning" as long as we choose to.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Pinning is great fun. Pinning does make the "pinner" feel much more creative. Pinning creates a new community. But, pinning is addictive. Don't say I didn't warn you!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But, please excuse me. I have an idea about an all black and white board. I must pin...</span><br />
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</i></span></span></div>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-80044212811307782592012-01-09T12:04:00.004-05:002012-01-09T14:12:46.973-05:00Broken<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9ygJMgFi2nutnhLjfiQkt9xVf6vxCrz9BnImmvnf3uqwQ02u_wro4H_3n1AJNRPbMZvYLsFTrXdHsGhBY0CQXVkujfw6tiuy5qnWX9lXAbrk0T_KTJzUI5qdkmB0OBEWG4u1mU_3B-eh/s1600/broken.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9ygJMgFi2nutnhLjfiQkt9xVf6vxCrz9BnImmvnf3uqwQ02u_wro4H_3n1AJNRPbMZvYLsFTrXdHsGhBY0CQXVkujfw6tiuy5qnWX9lXAbrk0T_KTJzUI5qdkmB0OBEWG4u1mU_3B-eh/s320/broken.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Broken:</b> <i>Adjective: </i>reduced <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; position: static; text-align: left;">to</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; position: static; text-align: left;">fragments;</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; position: static; text-align: left;">fragmented, </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; position: static; text-align: left;">ruptured;</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; position: static; text-align: left;">torn;</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; position: static; text-align: left;">fractured,</span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; position: static; text-align: left;">not</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; position: static; text-align: left;">functioning</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; position: static; text-align: left;">properly;</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; position: static; text-align: left;">out</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; position: static; text-align: left;">of</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; position: static; text-align: left;">working</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; position: static; text-align: left;">order.</span></span><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When my son, Josh, was a toddler, Cheerios's came out with a new twist on their oat cereal. Instead of just having the famous and signature "O", they also came out with "X's". It was cute. It was clever. It tasted the same and had all the same healthy reasons for putting the new gimmick on my shopping list. Josh, however, was duly horrified, as only an 18 month old can be. I thought it was so charming to put the X's and O's on the tray of his high chair. Josh looked at the cereal, looked at me, and then began precisely picking up the X's, tossing them off the tray to the waiting vultures (masquerading as dogs). With each flick of his chubby baby wrist, he'd say "Broken!". Nothing I could do would persuade him to even taste one. In his one year frame of reference, his beloved "O-eee-o's" were not supposed to look like that.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This was a parenting annoyance at the time. But, now, 19 years later, I can understand completely how Josh felt. There was a way that his neatly ordered world was supposed to be. He was accustomed to his snack looking a particular way. It gave Josh stability knowing what he should expect. His passionate rejection of the 'different' was not unlike how an adult might feel when her world is turned upside down. What Josh experienced as baby, on a much smaller scale, many of us discover, to our horror, as grown ups. "Broken" can mean a wide variety of things to us. It might be that a marriage fails. Or a family member dies. Or a debilitating, scary illness is diagnosed. It may be being downsized from a career. It could mean that our belief system is shattered, our hearts are crushed, our friendships aren't steady and our mind can't grasp the changes. Broken can mean that the worlds we work so hard to create for ourselves are in nothing more than a gossamer scarf, holding together the fragile pieces that fit together within the delicate folds. </span></div><div><span name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; position: static; text-align: left;"><br />
</span></div><div><span name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; position: static; text-align: left;">Over the past year, I've been exploring the concept of brokenness, as it applies to body, mind and spirit. This wasn't intentional. I had no choice in the matter of my body. Cancer is an all powerful, indiscriminate leveler, particularly when one has had the disease more than once. My strength through yoga failed me. I was physically broken, emotionally drained and intellectually flummoxed. How does a non-smoking, organic eating yogini get a rare form of cancer more than once? I was angry. I wanted to power through, to be the little engine that could", to deny that this disease would have any long term effects on me. I refused to allow myself to be broken. I wouldn't stand for it. How very wrong I was! How naive, and how foolish. I wish I could back in time. I wish I could take myself by the hand and say, "You will be broken. You will be challenged. Nothing will be easy. With every step forward, there will be two steps back and to the side. You will not reemerge the same woman. You will be different. You will be changed. You will be splintered. But, you will survive and create something new from the pieces."</span></div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoI1zbWwyEVGwnpSn5igtrbVQ16zA_rM_7K3XQeb4tSmuvQx1SsJP5zPoaONlAr6_G-sXDUVHYVUFpuDWU-0fDqBxK2ZC6_VRePbrCyVA2IRzdW9x9MjMfHzmLvof6MCw3wbDWOR6qGSB/s1600/mosaic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoI1zbWwyEVGwnpSn5igtrbVQ16zA_rM_7K3XQeb4tSmuvQx1SsJP5zPoaONlAr6_G-sXDUVHYVUFpuDWU-0fDqBxK2ZC6_VRePbrCyVA2IRzdW9x9MjMfHzmLvof6MCw3wbDWOR6qGSB/s1600/mosaic.jpg" /></span></a><span name="hotword" style="background-color: white; cursor: default; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; position: static; text-align: left;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After yet another setback last week, I wanted to cry out to the heavens, "Seriously?" But, I realize that there is still more for me to learn. There is always more for me to learn. Perhaps that's the lesson in all of this; no matter how well I think I've put the pieces back together, they seem to twirl out of my hands, crashing to the floor and creating even more fragments for me to contemplate. It's not the breaking that matters. Regardless of how I feel about it, I'm beginning to realize that the brokenness itself may very well be the lesson. It may be that I need to continuously learn humility; that I must deliberately look at each fragment and wonder what it has to teach me. It may also just be a crappy deal that I'm stuck with, and if I don't want to end up as a bitter, hate-filled old biddy, I'd better learn how to dwell with what is, rather than focusing on what is not.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Like a mosaic work of art, made from bits of shattered glass, I need to learn how to see the beauty in brokenness. I need to appreciate what is broken. Why? Because it's healthier than the alternative. One never knows: something exquisite may yet be created. I just have the humbling task of trying to discern what 'it' will be.</span></div>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-86760039956431974972012-01-05T16:02:00.000-05:002012-01-05T16:02:07.036-05:00It's a new dawn, it's a new day...<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mEo3gqMIhqM/TwYPlOVZAGI/AAAAAAAACJU/lNI5o8JwCEw/s1600/Dawn+is+beautiful-70558.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mEo3gqMIhqM/TwYPlOVZAGI/AAAAAAAACJU/lNI5o8JwCEw/s320/Dawn+is+beautiful-70558.jpeg" width="320" /></a><i><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">"Birds flying high </span><br style="background-color: white; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">You know how I feel </span><br style="background-color: white; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">Sun in the sky </span><br style="background-color: white; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">You know how I feel </span><br style="background-color: white; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">Reeds drifting on by </span><br style="background-color: white; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">You know how I feel </span><br style="background-color: white; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">It's a new dawn, it's a new day, its a new life </span><br style="background-color: white; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">For me </span><br style="background-color: white; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">And I'm feeling good" ~ Written by Anthony Newley, performed by Nina Simone</span></span></b></i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: left;">I've begun this blog piece three times before today. Each time I've sat down to write, I've been overwhelmed with emotion. It's silly, but I truly love the idea that each of us are given a chance to start our lives fresh every January. While I may be an eternal Party Pooper on New Year's Eve (who can stay up that late any longer?), I happen to adore New Year's Day. I'll take Beginnings over Endings with gladness. I know that this is mainly because I'm a bounding Labrador of Joy when it comes to starting new chapters. I love new books! I love new places! I love learning a new hobby! I love making new friends! I'm an ebullient starter of the au courant. I love being the first to try something unusual or dynamic. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: left;">Unfortunately, the flip side of this positive attribute is that I get bored easily and tend to say "The heck with it", if something becomes too inconvenient, too difficult, too repetitive or just plain too boring. I tried to learn how to knit. I was terrible. I've tried serious, elegant cooking classes. I burned whatever I touched. I have mangled multiple gardens. From herbs to flowers, I have come to realize that I simply have neither the gift, nor the patience. I have skis, a Pilates mat, a bicycle and water color paints. All are collecting dust in my garage. And yet, I began each undertaking with a jubilant bounce. What is it about trying something new that, when I hit a bump in the road, turns the novelty into irritation? Do I truly grow to dislike this endeavors or do I just quit too soon? Am I fickle or bungling? </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: left;">This year, instead of jumping to the head of the "I want to lose ten---okay, fifteen-- pounds" parade, I'm refraining from even entertaining the concept of a diet. In the place of taking kick boxing (which I am oddly drawn towards), I'm going to stick with my walking and yoga exercise pattern. Rather than sign up for classes in Russian, tap dancing or wine tasting, I'm going to take a realistic look at what I'm already doing to see which areas could use improvement. The "bright and shiny" has always had a Siren call to me. What I see as my goal for 2012 is to walk away from the new and towards improving the old. An expression my mother likes to use is that we're like monkeys: we're drawn towards the lustrous allure of unique and untested treetops. I'm the worst in our family in this way. I will drop down my 'nets and follow' what catches my attention. If it seems complicated, intricate and all-encompassing? All the better. It will be even more delicious to contemplate. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: left;">Therefore, my resolution this year is simple: nothing new. This concept alone is novel enough to me to get me out of the starting gate. A few years ago, I would have whined "But, that's so BOOOOOOORING.....". Now? I understand that if I'm going to be a grown up (and I think it's about time to start down that road), I'm going to have to behave like one. No more spontaneous trips to Hobby Lobby. No more daydreaming about learning how to snowshoe (this would be fine for another person...but I really don't like being cold. I just like the shoes.) I will leave all the brightly illustrated flyers my fingers itch to pick up right where they are. Since I'm a virtual Tasmanian Devil when I'm in the throws of a newfangled love with learning to go Vegan or weave willow baskets, I'm going to have to keep the barn door on any new interest closed. And locked. With armed guards ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. If not, I'll take a month's worth of Water Ballet classes only to remember that, despite my pretty new swimsuit, I dislike being wet and lack any sense of rhythm.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: left;">The new start for me this year is staying away from new starts. I am, instead, going to turn my energy towards my old starts and reevaluate them. I'll ask myself which ideas, from home maintenance to outside activities, really were successful, and which were a collossal waste of time and money. I'll meditate on being content with where I am, with what I have, with what I am able to do and who I want to spend my time with. Rather than race ahead, crazy legs, to a finish line I can't even begin to see, I hope to take this journey slowly, mindfully, intentionally and with deliberation. As a woman who acts first and thinks after, this is going to be a profound difference.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: left;">Just writing this blog piece makes me want to pull my hair out. I'm afraid that I'll be desperate to radically change my style, my house and my interests. I'm terrified that February will come around, and I'll immediately decide that I need to begin wearing 4 inch heels or have a hankering to learn how to smoke meat. The "shiny things" beckon. They call me to me, reel me in and then eventually lose my attention when the next shiny thing appears on the horizon. I know this isn't going to be an easy journey. I may whine. I might look wistfully at a golf course, wondering if I could learn to play. Yet, I'm determined that this is going to be my year of reflection and completion. I need to figure out what works for me, and what doesn't, if I have a chance at a balanced approach in the future.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: left;">The new dawn of the new day rises beautifully every morning. We're given a chance to begin fresh and, for most people, to start with a clean slate. My slate this year just won't be a clean one. It will be a messy one. My job will be to turns my eyes away from the glittering, untried slates and to refocus on finishing the many tasks on my well used slate instead. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: left;">Maybe next year I'll get a clean one. </span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-66030832617029010592011-12-27T10:10:00.001-05:002011-12-27T10:15:09.788-05:00Putting away childish things...<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FKv1De0EixU/TvnSswAy5oI/AAAAAAAACIk/2N-a0JC-1pA/s1600/Packup1-fb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FKv1De0EixU/TvnSswAy5oI/AAAAAAAACIk/2N-a0JC-1pA/s200/Packup1-fb.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="background-color: #f9fdff; color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: justify;"><b><i>When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. St. Paul, I Corinthians 13:11</i></b></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">In many places one of the biggest holiday events, particularly for charitable foundations, is the "Festival of Trees". At these gatherings donated Christmas trees are auctioned off to help raise money for new cancer wings to a hospital, an addition to the animal shelter or to help a terminally ill's child's 'wish' come true. Each tree has a theme. I've seen "The Nutcracker Suite", with mice, ballerinas, snowflakes, flowers and a Nutcracker tree topper. I've adored the "Baker's Dozen"..a tree completely decorated with miniature baking implements; roller pins, tins, tiny tubs of flour aprons and recipe books. I thought, given that I live at the ocean, the always stunning "Beach Lovers Delight", embellished with shells in every shape and size, was magical. Each tree had another unique, carefully planned symphony. When I got home from attending these beautiful parties, I'd look over at my funny, goofy, random tree and see a cacophony of mismatched ornaments and cringe.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">As tempting as it was for me to chuck my ridiculous, mismatched collection of Christmas decorations, I could never seem to part with them. I have a few stunning crystal ornaments that catch the light and reflect it throughout the room. I have the little gold colored church bauble, that my husband and I gave to our wedding attendants, as party favors. Mixed are the reminders of our children's births, a cable car from San Francisco, a Saguaro cactus from Arizona, a glass blown Eiffel tower, little hockey skates, tiny skis, ballet shoes and trains. We have a Darth Vader that, when plugged into a Christmas light bulb, says, in that raspy James Earl Jones voice, "The Force is with you young Skywalker, but you are not a Jedi yet". That expression has greeted me each time I've turned the tree on for the past 15 years...because my oldest was a Star Wars fanatic when he was very young. There is the elegant Tiffany engraved ornament hanging next to my schlocky German Shepherd angel. A carefully glittered snowflake shimmers like diamonds, just above the incredibly tacky snowman bell. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">If I were to continue to peruse my tree, mixed in with all of these tokens of my married life are the ornaments of my childhood. When I first got married, and moved to Germany, my mother gave me the box of these ornaments as a way to bring my past along with me. Knowing I wouldn't be home for the first Christmas of my life, she wanted me to have "home" wherever I was. So our moves to Wildflecken and Idar-Obersten, Germany, Lawton, OK and then back to Camden, Maine, all brought my treasures along for the ride. None of these are valuable in the monetary sense. But each one reminds me of being a little girl. I have bells with my parents and my names on them. and somewhat tasteless 70's ideas for Three Kings crowns. I have some 'once adorable' mementos of buying my 'yearly ornament' at Gervasoni's on State Street in Santa Barbara, following our annual trek to go see "The Nutcracker Suite". Going to Gervasoni's was a tradition my best friends, our mothers and I had. Figuring out which ornament to pick was nearly impossible, as the usual flower shop was transformed into a winter wonderland. And yet, each year we managed to find the perfect one. And I still have all of them hanging on my tree.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The most raggedy of all of ornaments (and that's saying something) is a half bald, woe begotten duck, made out of puff balls and wearing a ski hat. </span></span><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">This is the oldest ornament I have, and it made the long journey of my childhood from San Francisco to New York to Santa Barbara and then on to Maine. It wouldn't even suffice as a decent dog toy. Still, it's my favorite. For reasons I can't fathom, when I was tiny I named him "The Chickie" and the Chickie he's remained to this day. I still pull him out from the boxes each year and greet him as I would an old friend who has been on this long journey with me. He's seen it all: the year I turned 5 and had chicken pox and ended up lying in bed wearing my new ice skates and trying to hug my sled. He was present in the afterglow of my seeing my first Broadway show, my becoming a horse crazy tween, my cousins and I sleeping under the tree to "catch Santa", my falling in and out of crushes, and my first true heartbreak. When my then new husband was away for months at a time, and I'd get the ornaments out by myself, the Chickie would remind me that I could connect my Christmases of years past with my present. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Today I'll begin the process of de-Christmasing my house. I'll bring out the boxes in which to place the garland, fold up my burgundy tablecloth and remove the holiday paraphernalia. I will begin to take the ornaments off my tree, one by one. I will carefully look over each piece and decide if it's time has come to meet the rubbish bin. It's not an easy call. Some do actually break. With two exuberant, immense dogs, for whom the tree is nothing more than a fun object into which to crash, I've lost my share of glass balls. Others just looked worn and tired. I know that it's time for them to go...and in doing so, to make room for new pieces of new memories. Yet, it's tough to say goodbye even to the worst of the lot. By saying to them, "You look just awful. I can't have you on my tree any longer", it's as if I'm losing a part of my own Christmas memories. I'm the furthest thing from a pack rat. If anything, I tend to purge our house prematurely. When it comes to Christmas ornaments I've had for 40 years, however, I'm a hopeless nostalgia keeper.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">I've resolved to let go of many of these ratty bits of fabric. The plaid covered bell, with places that are so bald Styrofoam can seen underneath is going to the trash. The assortment of Santa looking ornaments, that have always seemed a creepy to my daughter, will be donated, since they're in good repair. The snowman that I myself think looks a little demonic can bite the dust. The others, who resemble nothing in particular but just seem boring, dated and devoid of sentimentality, are out of here. Harder to release are the dodgy ones that evoke childhood memories. I know it's time. I know they don't add any character to our tree. But I think of my late father, whom I adored, when I put up the now shabby lobster boat. I remember my Grandma when I see the falling apart little doll she once sewed for me. And then there is The Chickie. My friend. My amigo. My traveling companion. I realize that I'm an adult and, to paraphrase St. Paul, it is time to put away childish things. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">I'm just not quite ready yet.</span></span></div>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-1760518182361433502011-12-14T09:16:00.003-05:002011-12-14T09:25:56.985-05:00Rolling with the Homies<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCOQYA3huKS9e4dCnCBpbz4uUT1xNr-xkcGZ8kKwqZM-NdF-jb8z1nvr1JRlWJW5i_uyh1h5EjL1x252-5BVuTVlv6_6baEgKoHBf_PXvXjJZhbD1776HL0ZTVe67qMBbCu17Gvi2rabH/s1600/man-wheeling-hospital-bed-007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCOQYA3huKS9e4dCnCBpbz4uUT1xNr-xkcGZ8kKwqZM-NdF-jb8z1nvr1JRlWJW5i_uyh1h5EjL1x252-5BVuTVlv6_6baEgKoHBf_PXvXjJZhbD1776HL0ZTVe67qMBbCu17Gvi2rabH/s200/man-wheeling-hospital-bed-007.jpg" width="200" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; 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;"><b><i>Life is too short for traffic. ~Dan Bellack</i></b></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; 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;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What a difference a year makes! I can only look back and reflect now, because enough time has passed for me to take the full measure of all that has happened. I count my blessings every day. I take nothing for granted. I am immeasurably appreciative for the people who have been so good to me. I am deeply indebted to my family, who have been courageous in the face of my fears. I am thankful for the chance to recreate my life anew.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Tomorrow will mark the one year anniversary of my major cancer surgery. One year has passed since I was uncertain about what fate would have in store for me. Would my tumor touch major organs? Would it have metastasized? Knowing that my form of cancer doesn't respond to chemotherapy or radiation, surgery was my only hope to keep it from spreading further. Where would it have insinuated itself? I went into surgery with my mom, my husband and my daughter, Caroline, as my support system with me. Caroline was amazing. She got a kick out of my joking around with my pre-op team and surgeons. She was there for me when I swore like a sailor getting that darn Heparin shot...which by the way, hurts like hell, but prevents blood clots. We held hands, we thought positive thoughts, we laughed, we cried a little and we just spent that hour before my operation together...in the pre-op 'stall' at Maine Medical Center in Portland. Hers was the last face I saw before I was wheeled away. Hers was also the first face I saw when I woke up and was wheeled into my hospital room after the procedure. That beautiful face, with those adorable dimples, was my touchstone that day.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmY_GQppILo-EgRXW80ruqmjtn_ugWfAbgy0l2axVG5vhgDz_-qJXzA3kNS0CFNnm9DUbW54J6-AKjFIuyjY0EtVDzcBgEk0XJmNpxjrSmSWm64o-2NE6KR18TpjXBbMBJbh1I8QX5tP2f/s1600/Business+Woman+Driving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmY_GQppILo-EgRXW80ruqmjtn_ugWfAbgy0l2axVG5vhgDz_-qJXzA3kNS0CFNnm9DUbW54J6-AKjFIuyjY0EtVDzcBgEk0XJmNpxjrSmSWm64o-2NE6KR18TpjXBbMBJbh1I8QX5tP2f/s200/Business+Woman+Driving.jpg" width="200" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's only fitting that Caroline and I will share another adventure tomorrow. I'm picking her up from prep school for her last Christmas break before she graduates. We will have another "cruising" experience; albeit a much more positive one this time. Instead of rolling into surgery, we'll be rolling home to Maine. I can't wait. Caroline and I have established a tradition during the 4 1/2 hour trip to and from her school in western Massachusetts. We sing as loudly as we can. Since I tend to flub up words, and can't carry a tune to save my life (pun fully intended), I am a constant source of amusement to my daughter. I insist that my lyrics are correct, and if my tone is a bit 'pitchy', well, it's all part of the fun. We belt out show tunes (I have passed on my passion for Broadway musicals), pop songs and, this time of year, Christmas carols. I once had Caroline nearly rolling on the floor laughing when I insisted I could speak Hindi, when I went through my Bollywood phase, thanks to the "Slumdog Millionaire" soundtrack. She made me realize how tame my generation's music was compared to today's rap lyrics. We laugh, we sing, we tell stories, we catch up, we think positive thoughts, we share and we just enjoy being in each other's company once again. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In some ways, December 15, 2010 and December 15, 2011 won't be all that different. I'll be with my daughter. We'll be talking, day dreaming, venting and just basking in the gratitude of having each other. However, we will be much more lighthearted this year. We still have our worries. We still have issues we're concerned about. But, we have many wonderful memories that are ahead of us. A year ago, we were so entrenched in the present it was hard to see the future. Today, we're happy that some mysteries still await us. I'm glad to be sharing it with Caroline. Not only is she my daughter, but she's my 'homie'. There's no one I'd rather "roll with".</span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-80752833495887120702011-12-12T08:50:00.000-05:002011-12-12T08:50:37.407-05:00Happy Holidays from our family<table cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" border="0" bgcolor="#ffffff"><tr><td><a href="http://smilebox.com/play/4d6a67794f4467784d54453d0d0a&blogview=true&campaign=blog_playback_link" target="_blank"><img width="386" height="303" alt="Click to play this Smilebox greeting" src="http://smilebox.com/snap/4d6a67794f4467784d54453d0d0a.jpg" style="border: medium none ;"/></a></td></tr><tr><td><a href="http://www.smilebox.com/?partner=smilebox&campaign=blog_snapshot" target="_blank"><img width="386" height="46" alt="Create your own greeting - Powered by Smilebox" src="http://www.smilebox.com/globalImages/blogInstructions/blogLogoSmileboxSmall.gif" style="border: medium none ;"/></a></td></tr><tr><td align="center">Customize your own <a href="http://www.smilebox.com/" target="_blank">digital ecard</a></td></tr></table>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-45293919236402827362011-12-08T09:10:00.002-05:002011-12-08T09:17:58.348-05:00Writing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIB_lJU4OVvXqVyqT7EkRuBZA5TE6RKBIe9fMs2rYaXBHAnJI_jaS5JGuydrdxDmKgJQp-sEgb0ebnWKQWau246OIo4sI-pN9FtCe3IFmIgBKEokm81angA2TKMOWkku6zFCPWjCKundU/s1600/LadyByWindowWriting.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/AVvXsEhFIB_lJU4OVvXqVyqT7EkRuBZA5TE6RKBIe9fMs2rYaXBHAnJI_jaS5JGuydrdxDmKgJQp-sEgb0ebnWKQWau246OIo4sI-pN9FtCe3IFmIgBKEokm81angA2TKMOWkku6zFCPWjCKundU/s320/LadyByWindowWriting.jpg" width="276" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; 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;"><b><i>We should be taught not to wait for inspiration to start a thing. Action always generates inspiration. Inspiration seldom generates action. ~Frank Tibolt</i></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; 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;"><b><i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; 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;">The most common questions I'm asked, when people inquire about my blogs, revolve around where I find my inspiration. People want to know if I make notes when special events pop up, and if I have a special writing ritual. Do I write for a certain number of hours each day? Do I only write in the morning? Do I keep a journal? What incites me to put pen to paper (or rather, fingers to keyboard) when a thought pops into my head? Do I pitch anything, or do I keep it all? In short, how do I do what I do? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; 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;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; 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;">The short answer is "yes" to <i>all </i>of those queries. I do make notes, when I think about it. I do<i> prefer </i>writing in the morning, though I don't have a time minimum or maximum, and if the muse descends at 2 am, I'll write then. I do keep a journal, although it's mainly written in shorthand notes that even I have trouble deciphering. I'm inspired by art, by books, by my family, by the circumstances in my life, by exercise, by rest, by food, by friends, by music, by films, by nature and by just about everything else in the world around me. I write whatever is on my mind, and if I think it's not ridiculous, I'll keep working on it. If I think it's dreadful, I'll delete it. I like writing with a cup of coffee by my side, but it's not absolutely necessary. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; 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;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; 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;">The next question, after the "how do you write?" curiosity, is the bigger one: <b>"Why do you write?". </b> This is the far more complicated posit. I've always written. From the time I was very young, before I had the power of spelling at my disposal, I created little books with drawings on each page. I was able to tell the story to the viewer. Writing has been my medium of choice for communication. I'm an abysmal talker and tend to babble when awkward silences fall. I can't think of the right things to say during countless situations, and therefore, end up with my foot in my mouth, having spoken exactly the wrong thing. I wish, far too frequently, that I could recall my words, just as a fisherman might reel in a line that's been cast astray. Words, once spoken, can never be taken back. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; 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;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; 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;">When I write, I feel as if my voice is the way I want it to sound. If I make an error, it's an error that, at the very least, I've given some consideration. The written word provides me the ability to convey my thoughts in an edited, contemplative manner. I can delete. I can enhance. I can recreate. I can discover that a tangent is far more intriguing than the original idea. I can let go of all ubiquitous strains, or I can embrace them. By writing, I can learn what I'm truly thinking and where my heart indeed rests. It gives me a window into my soul, my psyche and my subconscious. I learn more about myself, by reading my own writing, than I possibly could in any other way. Writing, for me, is much like meditation in this way. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-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;"><i style="background-color: white;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-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;"><span style="background-color: white;">Sharon O'Brien, author and noted Willa Cather scholar, wrote "</span><i style="background-color: white;">Writing became such a process of discovery that I couldn't wait to get to work in the morning: I wanted to know what I was going to say." </i><span style="background-color: white;">I quite agree with her. When I sit down to write, the words often take me by surprise. I'm just as excited to see what my fingers type as I would be to sit down and read a novel by another writer. It's a fascinating process to me and I'm often amazed by what emerges. I might sit down with the inspiration for one piece, and another seems to flow right out. I'm always interested in what I'll say next because I learn and grow each time.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-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;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-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;"><span style="background-color: white;">"Why do I write?" is the big question. "Because I must" is the answer.</span></span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-12018608814456060182011-11-02T15:37:00.000-04:002011-11-02T15:37:49.228-04:00The Thankfulness Project<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">A little over a year ago, I tried the "October Dress" project. It was tough, but I managed to come up with a new and inventive (some days more than others, however) to explore wearing a simple black dress every day for a month. This Spring, I participated in the 30 Books in 30 Days project. I enjoyed this one because, as a lifelong bibliophile, I was able to stretch my imagination to narrowing down those books that have been most special to me.</span><br style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">In the challenge I'm taking on this month, I'm exploring a subject very close to my heart: thankfulness. Gratitude is something sadly lacking in our culture. In this era of "what's in it for me?", people are far more inclined to think selfishly, rather than altruistically. People seem to still want whatever is 'next and new', rather than what's 'here and now'. Additionally, few of us rarely take time to truly appreciate those blessings, big and small, that occur in every day life. I'm as guilty of this as the next woman.</span><br style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">As a two time cancer survivor, I'm deeply appreciative to even be here, writing this blog piece. And yet, I get incredibly grumpy if I feel 'slighted' or maligned. I've felt personally picked on by the universe. Why? Cancer twice does put a bit of a monkey wrench into my sense of fairness. Factor in that I am an organic eating, non-smoking, (now former) yoga instructor, and that I also had a nearly lethal variant of E-Coli in between these two cancer battles. We all have our challenges in life. Mine have simply been more visible to the outsider. I've learned that life is rarely fair. But it can still be beautiful.</span><br style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">It's my hope that, with this blog, I'll stir up a little goodwill in my own heart...and maybe help others to do so, as well. So, on Day 1, what am I thankful for? The inspiration to write all of this out, and the medium in which to do so. Please join me at my new site <a href="http://ellenisthankful.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">30 Days of Thankfulness</a> or begin your own quest for gratitude.</span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-82099308666725017322011-10-30T12:29:00.001-04:002011-10-30T12:34:41.652-04:00The Unexpected<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8OOcNMtn7Mb27QRVrZRjji8uTUjTgGTgqk2pmYR5oyvu0tcbqVX52S25bzxUlCruT_Q4K3n8fKeW95mvf84zvKJEdQIjM8ItrOaDlalN7ACaphxKFsIzaAs6Nyk6yrmUvcmLYElvla6gZ/s1600/snowpumpkin.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/AVvXsEg8OOcNMtn7Mb27QRVrZRjji8uTUjTgGTgqk2pmYR5oyvu0tcbqVX52S25bzxUlCruT_Q4K3n8fKeW95mvf84zvKJEdQIjM8ItrOaDlalN7ACaphxKFsIzaAs6Nyk6yrmUvcmLYElvla6gZ/s320/snowpumpkin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><i><b>“Most people want to be circled by safety, not by the unexpected. The unexpected can take you out. But the unexpected can also take you over and change your life. Put a heart in your body where a stone used to be.” ~ Ron Hall</b></i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">When I'm traveling to other parts of the country and tell people that I live in Maine, I usually get the same reaction. It's one part "I'm so sorry...you poor thing!", and another part "How pretty it must be there in July!". These comments generally drift into an anguished sympathy asking how I can possibly function with 'all that snow'. To the outsider, living on the coast of Maine year round seems as if we residents go into a 'bubble' from October to June. These folks imagine that we're mole people, tunneling our way underground to have an entire civilization away from the cold. No one can fathom that we lead completely normal lives. Kids go to school. Adults go to work. We go to the market, to the movies and to restaurants. We don't hibernate. In fact, for many of us, winter is pretty nice because the crowds are less and the gatherings are more intimate in the places we socialize. Yes, it snows. But, we deal with it. We have the occasional snow days (to much laughter and joyful dancing). We have to shovel. But, it's life...and frankly, we're just used to it. It's simply not a big deal. It's the expected, and it generally begins after Thanksgiving and before Christmas.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Halloween has always been our last 'outside' blast of fun. In our little town of Camden, there are a couple of streets that get all the Trick Or Treat traffic. There are police blockades set up so those little Fairy Princesses and miniature Supermen can walk safely without cars. For teens, the village green has become a 'somewhat' sanctioned location for the annual shaving cream fight. It can get a bit rowdy, but in general, Halloween in our Maine town is akin to a small version of Mardi Gras. It's all in good fun. There are always a few 'bad apples' who try to ruin it, but it's a traditional night of merriment and joviality. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">The big storm that hit the northeast was a huge surprise! We've lived in Maine for twenty years and, not once during that time, did we ever have a "white Halloween". It definitely put a damper on what many people, especially young people, were planning for their holiday. Will tiny Ladybugs or petite Firefighters have to wear snowsuits over their costumes? Will the shaving cream turn into a snow ball fight? We just don't know. Jack O'Lanterns are buried all over New England right now. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">This snow storm has really struck me as incredibly metaphorical for the challenges I'm facing in my life right now. I do have a diagnosis. I do have some answers. I don't have a way to fix the broken problems with my body right now, here at home. I'm nervous about how to repair my terrified spirit. I'm constantly waiting for the 'other shoe to fall' once again. An October snowstorm sums up, quite neatly actually, the way I feel about my life. I had expected lighthearted joy and received unforeseen melancholy. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">What the "October Snowstorm" metaphor has taught me is to find the eye of the hurricane, and to rest in that bright spot as much as possible. In between some dreadfully painful and invasive neurological tests, I was able to go out to my favorite restaurants with my mother and 'aunties'. While my husband has been looking for a new career, we've had the luxury of wonderful time spent just the two of us. The unexpected is terrible. But, it's taught me another lesson: I've learned to never get too 'comfortable' in any situation. Why? Because that comfort can easily turn into complacency. We can be so satisfied in our current circumstances that we allow contentment to override the possibility great changes. We can also become dreadfully set in our ways. "October Snowstorms" teach us to remain open to new situations, and also to learn to react effectively when massive changes hit. Most of all, the unexpected can be a drill in living in the moment and a reminder not to take our current lives for granted.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">One of the pleasant parts of my recent health complications was my trip to Arizona, where I was blessed to find a doctor who could diagnose my problems. However, this exceptional woman wasn't the doctor I had flown 3000 miles to see. The expected neurologist was great...not only was he a nice man, but he was a premier doctor at the most highly rated neurological center in the country. And, he was completely stumped by my case. He felt it was "just one of those things that might go away on its own". This didn't help me with my pain level or ability to walk. The doctor who ultimately aided me was recommended by one of my mother's best friends. The doctor is an MD, a Princeton educated doctor no less, who also has studied Eastern medicine. She a tiny office in a tiny town in Arizona. She was the first person to ask me when my ability to walk became a problem, listened to the results of all the traditional tests I'd had (which she'd assured me that she would have ordered) and then proceeded to help me using acupuncture, chiropractic work and other 'alternative' methods. Had I not flown to Arizona, I never would seen this doctor...and she wasn't the health care professional I'd expected to help me. I still have to find 'help' here in Maine, but just having the diagnosis of a compressed spine has made a huge difference.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">October Snowstorms come out of the blue. We don't expect them, and we certainly don't feel, when we're in the midst of one, that we can learn anything by the blows we're dealt. And yet, these 'come out of nowhere' experiences also have blessing of pushing us out of our comfortable territory and into exploring new horizons. My mother has a great illustration for this:<i> "Make plans, but always have your running shoes by the door." </i> I get that now. I appreciate that now. I live by that now. The only difference is that I make my plans, but keep my Uggs by the door. I think the same concept works.</span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-46350049632893929432011-10-19T18:23:00.001-04:002011-10-19T18:52:35.518-04:00BalloonsAs I sit in the tranquil, zen-inspired-by-way-of-Tuscany, courtyard of my mother's house, it's easy to slow down, breathe and count my blessings. The past month has been a hectic, frenetic blur. From one doctor's appointment to the next, then dealing with health insurance and still trying to barrel my way through pain...it's been overwhelming. <br />
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I have felt a bit like the girl holding a giant number of balloons. The balloons lift her up off the ground and she's completely stuck: if she releases the balloons, she will plummet to the ground. If she keeps holding on, she is letting those balloons carry her further away. Additionally, the winds are dictating where she will wind up. The girl has no voice in her journey. She is, quite literally, along for the ride. None of her options have happy endings.<br />
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However, I've slowly been coming to discover another outcome...one that doesn't involve a crash into the side of a mountain. If I think of each of the trials, tests, struggles and roadblocks as balloons, I can release them one at a time. I'm able to create the image of a Cerulean blue balloon as the vast amount of radiology I've had. I can then imagine it in my hand...and can then simply let it go. It's gone and I don't have to worry about it anymore. I can do the same with the shimmering teal balloon that may be my surgeries, the deep burgundy for the loss of my yoga career and the pearl grey one for my heaviness of heart. <br />
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One by one, I can let them go. It's not all at once. I am not dropping my hand without making sure that I'm able to watch each individual concern float away. It's just a way to allow myself to<br />
come down from this worrisome, unknown place slowly, gracefully and at my own pace. <br />
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But for now, all balloons are on hold, so to speak. I have my feet planted on Terra Firma. My arms were getting tired from holding onto all those strings. It's good to rest. I can pick them back up later.<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO8dSkIJL3pLygwmwxI0Ot6gZmDyF-0RfmUNFI5BYg00A_EMqtfZ2voiTUDzMJZPbVlCtkUuwaNf-oNQP1ZgDGpWcKOULBSBYvw4Bypo1rfrT9BbLct5vcbbeazkAm_McO02Lr7jXuBpku/s640/blogger-image-1369278761.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO8dSkIJL3pLygwmwxI0Ot6gZmDyF-0RfmUNFI5BYg00A_EMqtfZ2voiTUDzMJZPbVlCtkUuwaNf-oNQP1ZgDGpWcKOULBSBYvw4Bypo1rfrT9BbLct5vcbbeazkAm_McO02Lr7jXuBpku/s640/blogger-image-1369278761.jpg" /></a></div>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-60002299789746468032011-10-10T20:33:00.004-04:002011-10-10T20:42:11.153-04:00Indian Summer<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZlh-uBZvtV9vHf2BPSdbfy-OevHCR6XmRBkjD5_xN28sAK9xSrfixVIUgQEDz5tW169wNYcJ8ySVmj2qWHzVxF-vPFTl9EWd8p4R4sBe07-zlTvCd0Ldt1Grxg1cYvSiTjYx7YUdK_RXa/s640/blogger-image-833879303.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZlh-uBZvtV9vHf2BPSdbfy-OevHCR6XmRBkjD5_xN28sAK9xSrfixVIUgQEDz5tW169wNYcJ8ySVmj2qWHzVxF-vPFTl9EWd8p4R4sBe07-zlTvCd0Ldt1Grxg1cYvSiTjYx7YUdK_RXa/s320/blogger-image-833879303.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><b>"I think it pisses God off when you walk by the color purple in a field and don't notice it." Alice Walker "The Color Purple" </b></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">One of the greatest joys of living in New England is the change of seasons. I look forward to the magic that each new time of year brings. In part, I think this isn't so much of a case of disliking the current time as it is an eagerness for what comes next. It's great fun to pull out my sweaters every Fall...just as it's a great relief to put them away every summer.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My father, a lifelong Northeast resident, enjoyed our move to California...up to a point. The first few years, I think he managed to "suffer through" being a Santa Barbara resident. However, the bloom was off the Banksia rose (and the orange blossoms, hyacinth and nasturtium), when he bought (and wore) a t-shirt that said "Just another sh%*^y day in Paradise". Other people might have found that statement to be witty and ironic. Dad was dead serious. He missed the snow. He daydreamed about Autumn leaves, Nor'easters and waking up to the crunch of first frost on the lawn.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This year, however, I'm soaking up every bit of the glorious Indian Summer weather. I'm basking in the glow of hazy, breezy afternoon sun. I'm finding incredible peace in just celebrating October temperatures in the 70's. Why? There is just so much unknown on the horizon. In less than one week I'll be in Arizona, consulting with a new neurological specialist. I've run through my meager medical options here and must head to a center that can offer me help, answers and a plan of action. So, I find myself with a lack of enthusiasm for the changing seasons this year. I still love Fall. But I just want to hang onto the present, pleasant days I'm having now.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As exciting as it is to take out that box of warm clothes, I realize how much time I've wasted looking too far ahead. For now, I'm content to just remain utterly thankful for Indian Summer. It's as if I've been given a reminder to stop and notice "the color purple"...especially if that color comes with a glass of iced tea next to the hammock.</span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-14630753255697756922011-09-30T11:12:00.003-04:002011-09-30T11:23:01.586-04:00Awake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1Acs4TQS7adviFsjoH9kbB2G5z3xOF5MEHQAeJM-g_NEWC69YPG4yYXAjUredd_I16ligvzKrKIQNw8y9MFvzCovPs69C3Q9P5JVfkNZJMc3cXxiOGLbZs1gex7x1pa-WVhN-FIn693x/s1600/sunshine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1Acs4TQS7adviFsjoH9kbB2G5z3xOF5MEHQAeJM-g_NEWC69YPG4yYXAjUredd_I16ligvzKrKIQNw8y9MFvzCovPs69C3Q9P5JVfkNZJMc3cXxiOGLbZs1gex7x1pa-WVhN-FIn693x/s320/sunshine.jpg" width="279" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;"><i><b>A brahmin once asked The Blessed One:<br />
"Are you a God?"<br />
"No, brahmin" said The Blessed One.<br />
"Are you a saint?"<br />
"No, brahmin" said The Blessed One.<br />
"Are you a magician?"<br />
"No, brahmin" said The Blessed One.<br />
"What are you then?"<br />
"I am awake."</b></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;"><i><b>~ Zen Lesson</b></i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">While I was lying prone in bed last week, I came upon this lesson former yoga teacher training books. I'd first read the quote about 8 years ago, just as I was beginning my R.Y.T. program. I found it to be enlightening, encouraging, helpful and compelling. I was excited to become a yoga teacher! I knew that I'd be "living what I love" in my new career. The extraordinary concept that I could actually get paid to practice yoga, and to share it with others, was still a novel concept to me at that time. I studied the wisdom words by everyone from Moses to the Buddha to Thomas Merton. My program of study was especially wide ranging. Not only did I learn an incredible amount about anatomy, but I also apprenticed in the 15 most common forms of yoga practice. It was both overwhelming and edifying, and unnerving and revitalizing. I had phenomenal teachers and surprisingly nasty ones. I met lifelong friends in my classes, as well those who took competition (in a 'supposed to be non-competitive' atmosphere) far too seriously. Through all of these lessons, over my 8 months of study and practice, I kept coming back to this first lesson: I asked myself if I was "awake". I felt, at that time, that I was. Every cell in my body told me that I was finally waking up from my lifelong trance-like slumber.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Now that I'm older, more jaded and, hopefully, a bit wiser, I've learned how unconscious I am most of the time. My thoughts of being awake, 8 years ago, are laughable in their innocence. What I had envisioned to be a "one time alarm clock moment", even a 'born again' experience, was simply not the case. I think that, regardless of one's religious beliefs or personal practices, the art of being awake isn't a singular event: it's a lifelong goal for which to strive. I can't possible undo decades of absent minded and heedless practice overnight. In our culture of repetition and unconscious habit, it's tough to remain mindful in everyday life. I seem to operate on auto-pilot through much of my day. Before I'm even aware of it, I'd gotten up, made breakfast, gotten the kids to school, taken the dogs for walks, done the errands, paid the bills and even taught a yoga class, all without consciously being aware of these actions. Living mindfully aware, in the present moment, requires a great deal of practice, I've discovered. I tend to get so caught up in daily routine that my sense of being 'awake' slinks into the background.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">I'm no longer a yoga instructor. Unfortunately, my surgery last December made that career impossible to continue. However, I have discovered a bit of a tough lesson: even being a yoga teacher did not make me immune to falling into daily amnesia. I often taught six classes per week, in addition to my other 'jobs' as mother and wife and committee member and volunteer. My daily practice and classes simply were added to my 'to do' list. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">It's my hope to find a bit of time each day to "wake up". I'd like to have my reflections and prayers become more than my 'wish list' of 'wants'. I would to get out of bed each morning not just stumbling towards coffee, but as a conscious experience of the new day being the precious gift it is. I truly understand my ignorance of 8 years ago as a wistful enthusiasm. I just hope I can poke that same hopeful, eager, but exhausted woman I was back then. Perhaps in my gentle (or even forceful) nudges to my psyche, I can revivify that former earnestness, but temper it with cautious awareness.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">The alarm clock has gone off! I'm awake! But I'm learning that waking up is easy. It's staying awake that's much more challenging.</span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-73715014277937591392011-09-26T09:56:00.003-04:002011-09-26T13:26:11.891-04:00Too much of a good thing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fdKUrfG6iieCHgXfi24Kl-pIdlWUOVjwGNbvRFJ-Xtja6XlqXKYx0m-Fi7zm49Z7eG6N8WNEa6I6UdDPwAo-1SU7tBR1fzo7hXmhVvkiAaWCtHn5KsEMynKNRJzaDJ4a1sdx02Pw15yt/s1600/bed.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/AVvXsEi5fdKUrfG6iieCHgXfi24Kl-pIdlWUOVjwGNbvRFJ-Xtja6XlqXKYx0m-Fi7zm49Z7eG6N8WNEa6I6UdDPwAo-1SU7tBR1fzo7hXmhVvkiAaWCtHn5KsEMynKNRJzaDJ4a1sdx02Pw15yt/s320/bed.jpg" width="231" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><i><b>"Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?" ~ William Shakespeare, "As You Like It", Act IV, Scene 1</b></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; line-height: 21px;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">There are very few things in life I like more than curling up in bed. A cup of coffee by my side in the morning, or tea in the evening, my book, my snuggly dogs, a rainy day and my Netflix account....it just all makes for sheer bliss for me. No amount of temptation can lure me away from the coziness that is my favorite space. To quote my cousin Lori, "I love my bed so much I could marry it." </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">However, I have learned that even a sloth like myself has limits. Last week I had a lumbar puncture. The old fashioned way of referring to this procedure is a "spinal tap". Dear sweet heavenly radishes, but it was dreadful. After being reassured countless times about how simple, and painless, a maneuver like</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"> this was nowadays, it did not go well for me. Apparently (and in the 'who knew?' category), I do not have easy access to my spinal column. This is in part just how my body works. It's also thanks to my badonkadonk, which gives me a sway back. Regardless, a ten minute job turned into at least half an hour. And, I was left with a Post Lumbar Puncture Headache. This isn't a lousy "let me take some aspirin" headache. Oh, no. This is a "could someone be so kind as to remove my head from my body?" headache.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">In order to avoid more invasive hospital cures, I was advised (even ordered) to take to my bed. I needed to lie completely prone (i.e., no beautiful, elegant pillows propping me up) for a couple of days. I was also advised that caffeine would be beneficial. Despite my pain level, I thought, "Hallelujah! I can do this! Lying in my bed all day long drinking coffee! That's my skill set at last!". I mused, "Finally! A treatment I was born to do!". </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">However, I quickly learned that this activity is, well, just awful. Not only am I used to sitting up while drinking said my caffeine sources, but I'm also accustomed to being able to move about when I feel like it. Despite my marked propensity towards procrastination and sloth, I did have nagging feelings about all the things I wasn't doing. The laundry was getting done! The kitchen hadn't been wiped down! If I forgot something at the other end of the house, it was a "no soup for me" moment.The dogs might be able to go outside through the dog door, but the pitiful way they kept bringing me their leashes showed me that their imprisonment wasn't any more fun than mine. While I did have my friend introduce me to "Dr. Who" on Netflix (a fabulous distraction), I really wanted to go into town. Even though my neighbor went to the farmer's market for me and brought me fresh vegetables, I wished I'd been able to go with her. I missed being with my family in southern New England. In short, the bloom was off the rose. My bed no longer represented a delicious sanctuary. It had become a prison with lovely pillows....pillows I could not use, by the way.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">I'm up once more. It's slow and gingerly movement. I'm keeping an eye on the headache from hell. I have to monitor my time up and my periods of rest. I now find myself daydreaming about doing things like climbing mountains in Tibet or a safari in Africa. Just like the child who, when caught eating cake when she wasn't supposed to, and then being told to eat the whole thing, I have find I've lost my appetite for cake. Or, in my case, lying in my bed.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">But, the hammock is looking positively captivating.</span></span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-62317930650830517562011-09-20T08:20:00.007-04:002011-09-20T09:26:52.851-04:00Nobility and Humility<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58WX3h9xiF00LdPEGapIA-aMIdrd0aQZ2yZygDabGadyGn8xcFzyfgUOvm3Chi8Sx8Bxoot2LTu_VVzYWchfxjyn68WDoOqfUWckJmiajUDOoQo-8fRFSD-CkfhIXPVbe02sg26WuVZMb/s1600/princess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58WX3h9xiF00LdPEGapIA-aMIdrd0aQZ2yZygDabGadyGn8xcFzyfgUOvm3Chi8Sx8Bxoot2LTu_VVzYWchfxjyn68WDoOqfUWckJmiajUDOoQo-8fRFSD-CkfhIXPVbe02sg26WuVZMb/s320/princess.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">"Whatever comes," she said, "cannot alter one thing. If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it. ~ "A Little Princess", Frances Hodgson Burnett</span></span></b></i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We have had a challenging month or two. My health has gone from adequately recovering from my December cancer surgery to being in debilitating pain. I have suffered through complex neurological issues that have not only taken all my strength to muddle through, but my dignity, as well. My husband, who has always been a hard working provider for our family, has lost his career. We went from looking forward to spending an extraordinary year planning out our next steps as recent "empty nesters" to just worrying about what the next day will bring. I wait from moment to moment, terrified when, and where, my next bout of seething pain will strike. I am deeply concerned about the unpredictability of our financial situation. There are times I want to be impatient, snappish, angry, bitter, jealous and downright mean spirited. I want to smack the hands of the nurses who can't start my IV's (after three tries). I want to kick the shins of the doctors who don't meet my eyes while telling me "We just don't know" about my medical saga's answers. I am seething when I see less qualified, and less competent, people who are still working in their same positions...and who want to buy bigger houses...when I worry about how we're even going to pay to heat ours.These are not thoughts I'm particularly proud of. In fact, I'm ashamed to be such a grumpy, churlish shrew. For better or worse, I'm exhausted. I'm too worn out from pain, from worry and from fear to be concerned about the social niceties.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">Yet, when I think of the woman I want to be "when I grow up", this is not she. The woman I want to imbue is not a despicable harpy. She is a noble, kind, humble, loving gentlewoman. The "fully realized" Ellen of my imagination is about as far as I can travel from my current state of resentful harridan. Somehow, I need to make this transition from one of angry terror to one of gracious acceptance. It isn't easy. If I'm not physically in pain, I'm emotionally distraught. I do realize, however, that it's up to me to rise above these present circumstances and move into being the woman I choose to be. One of my mother's favorites quotes, from St. John of the Cross, keeps coming to my mind again and again: <i>"I am not made, or unmade, by the circumstances in my life, but by my reactions to them". </i> If I judge myself in this light, I am thoroughly abashed. I have allowed myself to be 'made' by the circumstances in my life...both the good and the bad. I have taken pride in areas which were really no more than good fortune. I have basked in the glory of praise. Because I allowed myself to get caught up in believing I was 'made' by the good circumstances, I know that it's no wonder that I have been 'unmade' by the poor ones. I am ashamed. Mea culpa.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">I believe that this is my chance to grow up at last.I need to let go of letting my situation dictate how I feel. I must "put the ways of childhood" behind me and move into adulthood. The inspiration for desired transformation, ironically, is from my one of my favorite children's books, "A little Princess" by Frances Hodgson Burnett. The protagonist, Sara Crewe, shows exceptional courage and strength as layer, by layer, her carefree, beautiful life is stripped away from her. She's left with nothing, quite literally. And yet, her angelic, compassionate, noble soul shines through. It doesn't matter if she's wearing the latest fashions from Paris, or the rags of a street urchin. Sara Crewe, even as a fictional character in a child's book, embodies the woman I hope to be. She is unfailingly kind. She is loving to those who are wretched to her. She is generous with what little she has. She is altruistic, accepting, satisfied and humane. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">Therefore, I've set my goal: I want to be a princess. Not the spoiled, nasty type that one sees on "reality television"...no, I want to be a princess 'on the inside'. I may be in pain. I may be embarrassed. I may be frightened. I may be living with an unspeakable number of unknowns. But, I can be kind. I can be loving. I can remember that if I behave in a way that shows strength, courage, gratitude, peacefulness, acceptance and joy, perhaps that will come true. As Sara Crewe pointed out: it's easy to be noble when everyone knows it. The challenge comes in creating that gentle nobility within myself that is immovable regardless of what happens to me. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">I won't be wearing a tiara. I have never owned a pair of Manolo Blahnik's. My wedding did not take place at Westminster Abbey. Yet, I can be a princess all the time. Perhaps, if I think about how a princess should behave, when confronted with adversity, it will be reminder to emulate one.</span></span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-62987173623631300452011-09-11T18:31:00.003-04:002011-09-11T18:38:58.306-04:00The End of Innocence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-j7GjXOs-Pc1h3Fj62mnw9BNXamZm5qN_MPiRth7oaly7AFR0q-XRKVkaKO9eJOvCqR0ZFz0m8kOh5OAlzSNDiE5nhlaI5NckR_BLcHCqgC5j_GyhJiZwzZUGMeI_IJp1wyx7fGZByGS-/s1600/mother+readingJPG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-j7GjXOs-Pc1h3Fj62mnw9BNXamZm5qN_MPiRth7oaly7AFR0q-XRKVkaKO9eJOvCqR0ZFz0m8kOh5OAlzSNDiE5nhlaI5NckR_BLcHCqgC5j_GyhJiZwzZUGMeI_IJp1wyx7fGZByGS-/s320/mother+readingJPG.jpg" width="296" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><b>Somewhere back there in the dust, that same small town in each of us. I need to remember this. So, baby give me just one kiss. And let me take a long last look, before we say goodbye. Just lay your head back on the ground. And let your hair fall all around me. Offer up your best defense. This is end of the innocence. ~ Don Henley and Bruce Hornsby "The End of Innocence</b></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">September 11, 2001 began as a beautiful day. The sun was shining. The leaves on our large Maple tree were just beginning to turn. We could see the brilliant yellows and reds outside our kitchen window. I was still homeschooling my children, who were 9 and not quite 7 years old respectively. We were curled up on the couch in our family room, reading "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe". Josh and Caroline begged me to postpone their math lessons to just allow for one more chapter. "Aslan is on the move, Mom! We can't stop now!", they said. I realize that those two sets of beautiful brown eyes were both serious in their earnest request for more reading. I also knew it was partly a ploy to postpone multiplication tables. I was okay with that.<br style="clear: left;" /><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">The phone rang just after 9:00 am. It was my friend, and fellow homeschool mother, Jennifer asking if I had the television on. Jen wasn't any more likely to be watching TV on a school day than I was. We took our jobs as homeschool teachers seriously. But, I heard the tone in her voice, and still couldn't comprehend what she was telling me. How in the world could a plane have crashed into one of the Twin Towers? It was with horror that the children and I watched the events unfold. What we thought must surely have been a terrible accident initially, clearly took on much larger meaning for the entire world.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">It was the end of innocence for our nation, I've heard it said. No longer were terrorist attacks limited to unfathomable bombs going off in Israel or India. Our oceans to the west and east couldn't protect us with their natural barrier. We were no longer the citizens of a country who had to travel to foreign lands to protect ourselves. We needed protection here at home. Europe bears the scars of war from within the last 60 years. So does most of Asia. We had now joined the unwanted society of countries at war.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">Because I'm not a politician, or journalist, or in the military, I can't speak for a world perspective. I didn't see the carnage first hand. I didn't lose a loved one or a colleague on September 11th. But, as a mother, I know what our family lost: its innocence. Until that time, my family flew several times a year with ease. My biggest concern was having enough items in my carry on bag to entertain Josh and Caroline for our trips. My only fear was that we'd run out of things to do and someone would melt down in public. After September 11th, our trips changed in tone. My children saw me pulled out of line and searched almost every time we flew. I explained that it was for all of our safety that folks were searched randomly. "Is it so that we don't hit a big building, too?", my daughter asked the first time this happened, "Don't they know you're a Mommy?". I tried to think about how to illustrate the concepts of fairness, equity and impartiality. It was hard to do when my children just wanted to go visit their Nana, and were afraid to fly.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">As it turns out September 11, 2001 was an end of innocence for our family in other ways...in aspects that had nothing to do with the terrible events of that day. This was, ultimately, the last year I would homeschool the children. They both went on to doing extremely well in school. They loved their peers and were successful in their classes. They gained independence by leaps and bounds every year. I am exceptionally proud of both of them for their diligence and leadership, both in the classroom and outside of it. But, I still missed the sweet quality our days together had once had. It was the last year before I was diagnosed with cancer the first time. My life was never the same after my first cancer digagnosis. I would find myself revisiting this chapter time and again. I would come to the understanding that no matter how well I take of my body, it can betray me with illness. My husband was working in a job he loved, with people he admired, during this time. Although his career would take another decade to end, I look back on 2001 as the time in which my husband was working in a capacity he most enjoyed. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">Obviously, things haven't been all bad since that September 11th. We've continued to travel, to grow, to learn, to laugh, to cry and to explore. We have had outstanding years and utterly dreadful ones. We have known profound joy. We have experienced deep sorrow. Ten years is a long time, but it's also the blink of an eye. I am thankful for every day I've had since the terrible tragedy occurred. If nothing else, the terrorist attacks taught me to appreciate life all the more, to hold my children a little closer, to hug my husband every day before he leaves for work, to call my mom and tell her how much I love her.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">Back on the homeschool couch, on September 11th, I used the remote to turn the TV off. I pulled a blanket over Josh, Caroline and me, and we read another chapter from the Chronicles of Narnia. Then, we read the chapter after that. And on, and on, until we finished the book. We may have skipped math that day, but I believe that time spent reading was vital. After all, Aslan was on the move.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">As a student of yoga for the past 12 years, my master teachers have often encouraged us to find our 'happy place'. Nearly every book I've read, and every instructor I've had, has described this internal location as more of a void than an actual dwelling. Because I'm far too visual a person to just go into nothingness (though that's the ultimate goal), I initially imagined an all white room with nothing but two simple chairs. It was more "the Matrix" than the void, but it worked for me. I was able to use this conceptualized, somewhat blank, visual mantra for a while. I could even feel a nurturing, conjured up sage talking me through the meditative technique.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">I'd listen to my fellow yogis and yoginis with envy (another bit I'm supposed to detach from), as they described slipping out of themselves during meditation or Shavasana. They talked blissfully about shedding their selves and just leaving all ideas of Place for a while. It sounded liberating. It sounded delicious. It sounded impossible for me. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Much as I tried to even let go of my quite white room, I found that I went the other direction. Instead of leaving it completely behind and just allowing my mind the freedom of nullity, I'd somehow, unconsciously, made that releasing impossible: I began to decorate.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">My white room was too, well, white for me. So, I warmed it up with a deep red on the walls, some natural sunlight and a fireplace. I realized that no happy place could be could be complete with floor to ceiling bookshelves. I'm nothing else if not a reader so, of course, I needed some comfortable furniture on which to curl up and read. As much as I love wood floors, rugs really do help make a space feel cozy. Honestly, they should be Persian rugs...after all, I'm going for fantasy, and frankly, the many-colored-designs really do create a focal point in a room. What about art? I need art! Art is beautiful! How can I live without art? Up on the walls art goes. And so on. While other yoginis are contemplating the sound of their own breathing, I'm debating window treatments and the merits of French doors over pocket doors. I've gone so far as to think about making a pergola with a fountain just outside on the patio. Though, in fairness, I'm somewhat stuck between mossy brick or sleek flagstone.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Obviously, I'm very far from mastering the concept of a happy place, at least how it pertains to yoga. I understand the letting go of attachments, enticements and temptations of this world. I just really love to decorate. And I love comfort and beauty. I've come to my own realization, or perhaps it's a justification, that my happy place can be my dream room. I feel safe there. I feel the ability to let go of "House & Garden" moments to just explore how I'm feeling "deep down true". I may not be one with the universe, but I am away from my cares, my worries, my fears and my indignities. Perhaps I do focus too long on the merits and shapes of topiary plants. But, perhaps that's just what I need right now. Maybe I need to think about throw pillows and cozy blankets to get me out of my pain filled head and my despair over our lives' complications at this moment. I beat myself up over my lack of ability to conjure up the empty void. Yet, I'm coming to the realization that what I may need now isn't a void, but a space that's filled with light, peace and comfort.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Professor Dumbledore once said to Harry Potter, "Numbing the pain for a while will only make it worse when you finally feel it." I had a yoga instructor tell me something very similar recently. However, when we're on complete overload, I do think we need a little numbness now and then.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Mine just happen to come with choices in upholstery.</span></span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2251803643397296775.post-58099898060705120092011-09-05T10:52:00.003-04:002011-09-05T10:57:12.637-04:00Laughter through tears<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK-AXAX6ANXuPxrIRtI75MZtGNDvunGrSc9i_hFcodzDMeUfVMFYhTyF7aDlFZTDEy072py0ehDO-d3VZgKN0VEJnDNTmnDUpjAJKWIeYnmN4Rr7WMGtS5MTdjJRUvAid1Nv2mPyXEbZAU/s1600/rainy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK-AXAX6ANXuPxrIRtI75MZtGNDvunGrSc9i_hFcodzDMeUfVMFYhTyF7aDlFZTDEy072py0ehDO-d3VZgKN0VEJnDNTmnDUpjAJKWIeYnmN4Rr7WMGtS5MTdjJRUvAid1Nv2mPyXEbZAU/s320/rainy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." ~ Dolly Parton as Truvy, in "Steel Magnolias".</span></i></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There's an absolutely wonderful short film by European filmmaker Christine Rabette entitled <i>"Merci"</i>. In this exceptional 8 minute movie, not a word is spoken. Emotions, however, are conveyed with powerful imagery. The scene opens with an underground rail system and moves into a Metro car. The riders are nearly colorless...bland, beige, drab and downtrodden. Every face has a frown upon it. Every eye is downcast. It's a gloomy, depressing scene. The viewer feels the degradation, the monotony and the bleakness of the lives of the riders.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At the next Metro stop a smiling, robust, jolly man steps onto the train. Despite his grin, no one meets his gaze. He begins to chuckle, at first. Then guffaws. The train riders look aghast initially, or even disgusted. Yet, his laughter is infectious. Before long, the woman next to him is laughing along with him. The serious, stern riders further away begin to smile to themselves. Within an instant they, too, are giggling. A moment passes and the entire train is filled with optimistic, joyful mirth. As the Metro pulls into another stop, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1CNwwNUmbc">The Laughing Bodhisattva</a> departs. But he leaves behind a much happier car.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For the past few weeks, I've felt quite a bit like the discouraged riders on that subway. One situation after another has left me depleted. Once again, I'm unwell. Although we don't have a diagnosis yet, I'm in nearly constant severe pain and am suffering from other ailments. It's been extremely difficult to get a doctor to return my calls. In the hospital, it was nearly impossible to find anyone to even really listen to me. They were simply too busy to meet my gaze. In a sense, those health care professionals were riding on this same sad Metro car along with me. Additionally, my husband just lost his job. More than that, he lost his career, due to downsizing. He's a well educated, hard working man and has always been employed. This blow has also been extremely demoralizing...not to mention that it's terrifying in this economy. My heart has been so heavy, it's been close to breaking for good.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yet, I had my own personal Bodhisattva appear, in canine form, this morning. My dog, Dakota, is a rescue. She's a beautiful Shiloh Shepherd. She came to us with many fears and has slowly been emerging from her personal troubled subway ride. As Dakota has gained in confidence, a mischievous sprite has taken form. I woke up to find her snuggling with me in bed. This isn't surprising. Dakota is very cuddly. What was unexpected, at any rate, was that my entire bed was covered in toilet paper. Not only was Dakota wrapped up like a mummy, but my other dog, Murphy (a Newfoundland-Golden Retriever mix) also was quietly bearing the binds of his wrappings. My lamps were covered. My robe, next to the bed, was covered. Somehow, my Kindle was completely wrapped up in its own package, as was the remote control to the television. There was toilet paper from headboard to the end of my bed, draping us all in a cocoon. It was as if I woke up in a canopy bed made of toilet paper. Miraculously, none of it was really broken. It was all looping, long, entire rolls. And, I'd slept through the entire construction. My crimson and gold bedding was lost in a sea of white. Seeing through the curtains of toilet paper, I saw two beautiful, mirthful eyes. Dakota had been waiting for me to wake up.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Although Dakota couldn't begin laughing herself, I knew that this was her gift to me. Her sprightly, goofy antics were the medicine I needed. I laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Dakota got up and rollicked around with the now destroyed toilet paper castle. She jumped. She whirled. She nearly pulled me out of bed with her merry shenanigans. I loved every second.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Are our problems solved? No. Do we have any answers to the fearful question we face? Also, no. But Dakota gave me a precious treat: the ability to look at the present moment with joy in my heart. When you think about it, isn't that what we all need? Life isn't about the long term; it's about loving each day as if comes, finding the bright spots and steering your course towards them. It's also about laughter through tears. If we can't laugh during our times of trial, then we won't see the miracles that are right in front of us...even if those miracles are created by a dog with a penchant for toilet paper.</span>Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339881374158189795noreply@blogger.com2