tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14404294835863296042024-03-13T03:37:17.877-04:00Press Pause/Deana Graham Photography. . . pressing the pause button to look more closely and see the stories.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.comBlogger207125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-12231696960015118082013-10-19T10:32:00.001-04:002013-10-19T10:32:10.021-04:00Real living and sweet giggles . . . what you get when you mix 2 little boys and a handful of puppies.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I could not pass up the chance to photograph these sweet pups, and I was delighted that we got a grandson and his buddy to come play, too!</div>
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If there is anything more magical than the sweet interactions between these little creatures, I'm not sure what it is!</div>
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I love these smiles.</div>
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I love these sneaky faces!</div>
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And I adore the ways these young ones know how to close out the rest of the world and focus on this moment. I wish you could hear them laughing!</div>
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I love taking photos like these and hoping that pressing pause on these moments will help their memories stay fresh.</div>
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I like imagining these little guys as old men, showing these images to their grandsons - and laughing a bit at the remembrance.</div>
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Might do us all a little good to dig deep and harness a bit of the playful spirit that must be inside us somewhere.</div>
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Maybe we should romp around with a new puppy or roll in the grass on a sunny day or laugh and laugh and laugh with an old friend. </div>
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Maybe we just need to find the puppy or notice the green grass or pick up the phone and call the friend. </div>
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We may not be as good at it as these guys . . . but we can do it.</div>
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Throw some worry away today.</div>
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Look into the eyes of something good today.</div>
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Forget about the grown up stuff, </div>
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even if only for a moment. </div>
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Ahhhhhh.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">You can view the whole session at: </span><a href="http://deanagrahamphotography.com/p302842769">http://deanagrahamphotography.com/p302842769</a><br /><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-14383777692933705832013-04-30T13:39:00.000-04:002013-04-30T13:39:03.168-04:00The Sadie Lecture Series continues . . . from under the lampshade of doom . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sadie speaks to me. Well, not in so many words. Well, not in any words, but she is constantly teaching. I like it when I remember to learn. </div>
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One morning last week was much like most mornings - pretty great, actually. We had dropped off the kids at school and were running errands. Sadie was overjoyed to be riding along, resting with the hum of the engine and feeling the warm sun beat down on her head. Often she shows 'overjoyed' with a good nap. (She's easy to read.)</div>
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We stopped off before home at the enchanted forest near our house. That's what I call it, because it is way too beautiful to be called a vacant lot and because it is very fun to know (even if no one else knows) that I visit an enchanted forest every day with my dog. There are flowers and signs of long ago life there for me and there are smells and grasses and space for Sadie. We really like it.</div>
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You get the picture. It was a great morning. </div>
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We got home and began the rituals of the early day - the trash, the mess, the laundry, the usual. As I was gathering the trash to take to the street, Sadie was cut by something (I've never been able to find) right under my nose. She yelped once and then ran along as usual. When we got inside, though, I realized she was very different. She was nervous and hurting. A further glance found the blood along her leg, and I knew we had to go to the vet. </div>
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Bother. Expense. Pain. Distraction. We both thought our thoughts about the inconvenience of this whole escapade and we both remembered how awesome our little morning had been just minutes before. Bummer.</div>
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We went to see the nice vet. They took care of sweet Sadie. They stapled the cut on her leg; and even though stapling doesn't sound like a nice thing to do, I rested assured that she was in good hands. The vet went over the drill. She explained what I'd need to do, when we would come back, what medicine to take. We had it. Sadie stopped shaking for the first time in a couple of hours when she got safely back in my arms and we headed home. </div>
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That's when Sadie started teaching.</div>
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She glanced at me from the back seat and assured me that everything was all right. She showed me she wasn't shaking anymore and she got comfortable. I learned.</div>
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She hurt a bit, but she got back to her main activity at home - sleep. Sadie is a perfect, world champion sleeper. It is a marvel to behold. She does it well. </div>
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I learned as I watched her reevaluate her situation and figure out a way to do what needed doing. </div>
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Then came the really hard part for me. After twenty four hours, I had to remove the bandage and put on the awful, cruel lampshade. Uggghhhhhh. This implement of misery that I had laughed at when I saw it on other dogs wasn't funny at all when I had to be the one to snap it into place around her neck. </div>
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She was scared to death. She ran into walls constantly. She thought she was being threatened from both sides. She looked hard into my eyes and willed me to explain why I had done what I'd done. She was miserable. I was miserable. </div>
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She taught me more, though, when she quickly forgot I did it to her. She doesn't hold onto bitterness long. She doesn't keep score. She went on with her life. </div>
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It was hard and uncomfortable and strange, but she did what she needed to do. She bumped into every wall she passed for at least three days. She had trouble eating. She constantly thought something was after her. It was hard to watch, but I kept learning. </div>
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Sadie was long past wondering and worrying about why it happened or who did it to her. She was well into living the life she lives. She had to work hard, but she made it all work. All of her usual routines had to be adapted a bit. She did that. I learned. </div>
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She is a good teacher. She keeps on showing. </div>
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We are a week into this thing. Some call it a 'lampshade.' Some call it the 'dome of doom.' And others laugh and call her Queen Elizabeth or Laura Ingalls Wilder. She's fine with all that. She doesn't like it, but she has made it work. She didn't ask for it, but she is dealing with it. </div>
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I know when the dome of doom gets removed. I know that she only has three more days. That's not information she is privy to, but she's all right anyway. She makes it work. She teaches. </div>
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She does more 'walking the walk' than 'talking the talk.' She's a great teacher. I'm sure I miss a lot of lessons out there for the taking, but I'm mighty thankful when I recognize them. </div>
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Sadie leads on from inside the dome of doom . . . </div>
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teaching us about things that we know but forget to remember. </div>
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I'm thankful. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-34778712933381231782013-04-10T14:18:00.002-04:002013-04-10T14:18:41.699-04:00The Wednesday Pop - vol. 8 . . . it's about a benchIt's good to be back with <i>The Wednesday Pop</i>! <br />
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I want to tell you about a bench . . . not just any bench, but a bench that sits outside of a house in Atlanta. It's at a bus stop, actually. It's a bus stop bench, and it gets used over and over again each day. <br />
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The folks who sit on that bench, as they wait for the bus before their long days or after them, have no idea why the bench is there. They just know that it provides a respite in a sometimes cold world and that it is there for the sitting. <br />
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I love the story of the bench. It tells a grand story of why my Dad is so special. <br />
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Before I tell you all about the bench, you must know that I am blessed with an amazing father-in-law, too. No one is more fortunate than me in the <i>in law </i>department. My father-in-law, <i>Grandaddy, </i>is (among many other things) a very talented woodworker. Some time I'll tell you about the fun we have in his <i>barn </i>and about some of the magic he has created with wood. He's not just genius at wood-working, but he's also generous. Fine crafted wood pieces, made by him, are all over the place; gifts of him to many family members and friends and friends of friends. He has made many folks happy with his sweet gifts.<br />
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My family is no exception. They have many times been the recipients of Grandaddy's wooden treasures, and his handiwork graces their porches and backyards. <br />
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A few years ago, my Dad (Pop) made a request. He isn't quick to ask for things, so I took notice. He asked Grandaddy if he would build a bench that he could put in front of his house at the bus stop. Of course, Grandaddy obliged and the dark brown bench was constructed. My interest was piqued.<br />
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Dad got the bench and made plans to secure it with cement on the other side of the sidewalk in front of his house. (I must admit that one of the parts of this story I like best is that he didn't ask if it was okay - so uncharacteristic of him!) He marched to the street side, armed with his new bench and a bag of <i>Quickcrete </i>and set about attaching the sidewalk and the bench to each other for eternity. Done. <br />
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A zillion souls pass that bench every day, and I imagine that they never wonder about the bench. Many people sit on the bench each day. They might be walking along and perch there for a short rest or they might be anxiously waiting for a ride to the next part of their day. Either way, the bench is part of their day. The bench is there to help. <i><b>The bench is always there, always waiting quietly to hold them up when the way gets hard</b></i>. <br />
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When I see the bench, I marvel at what a perfect symbol it is of my Dad. It illustrates how he works. <i>He saw a need. He figured out a way he could help. He made it work. He made sure that the help would be there, always, whenever someone (anyone) needed it. He quietly went about making a difference without anyone knowing it was done. </i>That's how he works.<br />
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The bench is there, as I write this. I wonder who sits upon it now. I wonder what their day is like or what they are worried about or if they have smiled much today. I don't know any of that. <br />
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I do know that the gift of that bench is constant and that it represents the love of two quiet men, who silently go about making their world a better place. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-56812256713105625842013-04-01T12:29:00.000-04:002013-04-01T12:36:05.174-04:00Missing Sweet JeanToday is the birthday of my amazing mother-in-law. We haven't been able to hear her infectious laugh or have long talks with her in her den in over four years, but we think about her every day. I doubt many people are as lucky as I was when it comes to in-laws. I hit the jackpot, to be sure! <br />
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Tim's mom, Jean, (mostly referred to as Nanny in our house) quit suffering right before Christmas in 2008, but there are little pieces of her everywhere. I couldn't have loved her more if she were my own Mom, and I thank God for allowing us to be family. <br />
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I wrote this just after she died, and it seemed a fitting tribute for her birthday. <br />
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: white;">In December the world changed. We lost our “Nanny”, and everything seems different now. There is a welcoming smile and a fun laugh and two twinkling eyes that are no longer present here, and so the world is missing something special. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">It is hard for me to believe that I have only known Tim’s mother for eleven years, for it seems that she has been part of my life always. I remember the day I met her, but I don’t ever remember a time that I did not feel close to her. Somehow, upon meeting Jean Graham, you knew that you were known, that you were welcomed and that you were loved. I am forever changed by that knowledge, and I thank God that my children knew that, too. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">While we begin to figure out life without Nanny, I have spent hours and hours remembering my favorite things about her, my funniest recollections, and my favorite memories. I remember exact moments – like the sound of her voice when we called to say that we were engaged or her entrance into the hospital room when Molly was born, coming out of her heavy sweater, handing over her purse, running to the bed and saying, “Give me that baby!” But I remember predictable moments, too, that happened again and again. I know the wide-eyed look, as she peered over the back of her chair when we entered the back door, and I hear her saying, “Come in the house.” I remember the look in her eyes and the feel of her hands as she settled herself, and told me just where to put the baby in her lap. I remember the laugh, again and again, and I remember so many fun times around the table playing whichever game we happened to be playing at the time. I remember her patience with my children – that she had as much time as needed to wait for them to figure out a card game or to trample dirt through the living room or to take half of the kitchen ware into the yard to make “pies” and “cakes.” I will forever remember that everyone in town, it seems, called to check in with her daily, and I hope I can always hear in my mind the way she said, “MmmmmHello” as she answered the phone. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">What I will miss most, though, is harder to describe, and I suspect that many others will miss the same. What I will miss most is the unspoken understanding that I shared with her. It is not easy to explain, but it was very easy to feel. From the moment we met, I felt that we shared some special secret, some special way of knowing what the other was thinking. I treasure the talks we shared, the looks we exchanged and the times we could not stop laughing about things that probably were not even that funny. So often, I had the sense and the assurance that she knew what was going on with me, what I was thinking, what I was wishing. I treasure the simple moments we shared in the living room – I was always on the couch and she was always in her chair – and it was always easy. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">So that, I guess, was one of her greatest gifts to us all. She made things easy. It was easy to be known by her, it was easy to be loved by her, it was easy to be comforted by her, and it was easy to feel happy with her. I am forever changed by her and by the love and the life that she and Granddaddy built together. It has been easy to be their daughter-in-law and one of the great blessings of my life. There will never be a time that I don’t miss Nanny, but I am thankful for all of the pieces of her that I see in my children and for the times that Tim sounds just like her. And every now and then I smile, hoping that she is laughing in the middle of the best game of “Hand and Foot” ever. I love you, Nan</span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-90663655222940228902013-03-25T13:56:00.001-04:002013-03-25T13:56:21.979-04:00What I now know about dealing with 12 and 13 year old girls . . . Excuse the unplanned hiatus from the blog. I appreciate your patience. A stomach flu that slowly and systematically snuck its way through our family and a couple of epic birthday parties got me a bit off track. Perhaps I'm always a bit off track - thus the blog!<br />
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Whatever the case, I'm delighted to be at it again. <br />
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We are in a confusing era at our house. Things don't seem quite as cut and dry as they once did. <br />
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When a diaper is dirty, it's relatively obvious. When someone is crying, you can bet there is a problem. When a baby throws up, it's time to stop feeding. You get the point. <br />
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None of that applies to dealing with preteens, though. None of that helps at all. There is nothing - nothing, whatsoever - that is clear in these 'tween years. There are no rules. There is no facial expression that alerts a parent to an approaching problem. There is no omen as to mood shifts. There are no signals. There are no rulebooks. It does not make sense! <br />
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The children we once knew have left the building. I hope they return. I really liked them!<br />
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<span style="text-align: left;">My short span of 'tween parenting has left me sure of one thing; it's impossible to believe I acted this way. Thank goodness I never jumped from one pole to the other in micro-miliseconds. Whew.</span><br />
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Child-rearing does, indeed, take a village. I love the village concept and I'm a card carrying believer. We must help each other through these wilderness years. <br />
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And so, my friends, I hope this helps. I offer you this - what I now know about parenting 'tweens:<br />
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The end. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-82226113578918551662013-03-08T11:01:00.003-05:002013-03-08T21:40:15.687-05:00List 42 - Surprises from Nicaragua . . . <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This week's list will be a few more memories - surprises - from my trip. I'll finish up (well, maybe or maybe just for now) my reflections on this awesome week in Nicaragua. I guess we're never really 'finished' with learning from a dive into a new world. <b><i>I believe little pieces, memories, faces, stories, moments stay with us forever - changing us into new people, tiny bits at a time</i></b>. That's good stuff. <br />
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Nicaragua was definitely 'good stuff.' I spend a lot of time reminiscing about those I met and what I saw and learned. I find myself searching for ways that I can assimilate what I learned with the life I'm part of here where I am. <br />
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For now, though, here are a few of the moments that surprised me most:<br />
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1. I was surprised when I arrived at the <i>Youth Ranch </i>in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Estero_Padre_Ramos_Natural_Reserve" style="background-color: #999999;">Padre Ramos, Nicaragua</a>, and I took in the beauty.<br />
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2. I was surprised when we spent the day in the dump of Chinandega and I watched the young, living in the depths of poverty, share what they had with others. I watched them reach for an orange and then turn and give it to another. I saw them treat each other with a kindness towards each other that I couldn't believe. <br />
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3. I was surprised by the colors of Nicaragua. I loved the brightly colored buildings, the spectacular hues of the natural surroundings and the brightness that I saw with every turn.<br />
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4. I was surprised by a night on the beach that I'll never forget, with folks I had only known for a couple of days. One night, tired from the day, a few of us wandered down to the beach. We wanted to spend some time looking up at the stars in a place where the lights of progress don't interfere with the darkness. The sky was spectacular - stars sliding across the arc above us, as we listened to the splashing of the waves. Our necks tired and we finally decided that we'd just 'get yucky' and lie right down on the sand below. I'm so glad we did. The warm sand immediately comforted us and all got very quiet. After a few minutes, my friends, Terri and Mona, began to sing. They sang mostly hymns and old time church songs. It was a moment. It was a feast for the senses. After a while, noticing that I wasn't singing, one of them asked me if I knew the songs. Of course I knew the songs, but I was busy enjoying the gift of the moment. Their music and all that was happening around me was one of those good surprises that don't come around very often - or maybe they do, but we don't always notice them. I'm thankful for the surprise of that night, those stars, that warm sand and two friends who sweetly sang.<br />
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5. I was surprised by the feeling I got the many moments that I felt another beside me and looked down to find that a precious little one, who I already knew well or I had not yet met, had moved beside me and quietly reached up to grab my hand as we walked along. I can often be a fan of personal space; but on this special trip, I was thankful for the many ways that the fine people of Nicaragua are free to <i>hold on </i>whenever they want. <br />
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6. I was surprised at the times that animals - farm animals - roamed casually through a house during a conversation and no one but me thought anything of it!</div>
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7. And, I was surprised when the 'zip line guy' turned me upside down before the second zip. Whooooooooooooo!!</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-66971985640766168442013-03-06T10:47:00.000-05:002013-03-06T10:47:59.938-05:00The bread lady, the dollar store glasses and why I know that humor needs not share a language . . . Still talking about the fantastic trip, folks, but <i>The Wednesday Pop </i>will return! I want to tell these Nicaragua stories while they are filing past in my brain. I want to do justice to the awesomeness I witnessed. Thanks for hanging in with me.<br />
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What do the bread lady and dollar store glasses and humor have in common? What's a bread lady? All good questions, my friends. Here goes . . .<br />
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In Padre Ramos, the lovely village on the northwest Pacific coast of Nicaragua where we were staying, people would amble by from time to time. Sometimes it would be precious children carrying buckets to gather water who would travel back by toting their heavy buckets back home. Sometimes it would be folks coming by to say, "Hello" or dropping by to see what was going on at the <i>Youth Ranch.</i> Sometimes it was Andre, the sweet elderly man with the delightful smiling eyes, peddling his bananas and huge mangos. And, sometimes it was Maria, who we called <i>the bread lady.</i><br />
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I didn't think much about Maria upon her first few visits, other than noticing her strength and determination and wondering where she fell between 85 and 100 years old. I saw her loaded down with her home-baked breads, hoping that we would buy some and lighten her load. I didn't know where she lived or who she spent her days with or what made her heart happy and sad. I didn't think much about her. I considered her an interesting part of the local color and left it at that. She was picturesque, ambling along with her tired old feet in worn out flip-flops, but I didn't work much to get to know her. <br />
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But that all changed with the <i>dollar store glasses. </i>(Dollar Store glasses don't usually change things, do they?) You see, we were having a blast creating a <i>photo booth </i>for the kids at the 'rancho.' I had brought along all sorts of funny glasses and such and we had used a polka-dotted sheet on a turned up table for our backdrop. They didn't take long to warm up to the idea that I would photograph them as long as they could last, coming up one at a time with a crazy face and a few props. It was a blast! It was a moment when you realize that your idea worked and the giggles and wide eyes of the kids was like a balm to this sometimes-crazy world. I was in heaven. The kids were laughing out loud, and I was already dreaming of creating little pieces of this day for them to keep in their homes forever. It was a good time. My camera holding hand was close to falling off and my squinting eye was tired of the view finder, but I was happy. It had worked. <br />
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Finally, the kids began to slow down, and it was clear that the <i>photobooth </i>was about to close. Maria, the bread lady, had wandered up and was busy talking with a few of the ladies. I was readying to head out for a refreshing dip in the ocean. We were almost finished. I felt full. But I had no idea I was about to fill up even more. <br />
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I finally grabbed a seat in one of the cheap plastic chairs to relish in the glory of a fun time, when I heard the crowd laughing hysterically. I looked towards the cheer in time to see <i>the bread lady </i>smiling sneakily in the largest, most gaudy pair of the dollar store glasses! I loved it! We all loved it! She really loved it! She had beat even the giddy delight of the little children and brought us all to our knees with laughter and joy. She had transcended her hard, hard life and thrown us all up into a place where laughter carries away everything else. <br />
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Everyone was talking and laughing, and the excitement in our little part of that beautiful country was happy, to be sure! Maria, <i>the bread lady,</i> was all achatter, though I have no idea what she was saying. I ran over to begin snapping photos of her and we laughed and laughed and laughed. I believe she tried on every pair of cheap, crazy glasses we had. We hugged and slapped each other's shoulders and smiled and smiled. I was telling her how funny she was and how incredibly beautiful she was and what a strong, strong woman she was. I don't know what she was telling me, but I know I felt love. We touched and hugged and laughed and laughed together. Our laughter together transcended reality. It moved past struggles and what we don't know about each other. It rose above the monotony of her days and made my day sweeter than I could have imagined. <br />
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Shared laughter does that, huh? We can't laugh all of the time, because everything isn't funny. But when we can laugh - and laugh together - isn't it beautiful? Doesn't it remind us of how alike we all are, when the world tries to tell us otherwise? I believe so, and I'll take this moment with me always as a reminder that laughter is ours to revel in together. I am thankful beyond words for the moment I turned my head to see that sweet Maria's eyes light up with a twinkle that said, "I am funny, no matter what language you speak!" I will never forget it. <br />
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I spend my days working to make images tell the story of moments. We can't ever do it exactly, but it's worth trying. I hope when you see these photos you will work to hear the hearty laughter, the quiet giggles, the excitement and the moment when folks let go of worry and reality and just had fun - together. <b>Thanks be to God, and may we always remember the power of laughing with each other - those we know well and those we are yet to love. </b><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-57347714729935735472013-02-27T12:21:00.000-05:002013-02-27T12:21:52.113-05:00Imperfect lenses and seeing clearly . . . <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">* A note to regular readers . . . I'm suspending The Wednesday Pop until next week, so I can tell the Nicaragua stories in consecutive posts. Pop will return!</span><br />
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So, you know I just returned from this amazing trip meeting friends in another land. Everything is different after you do that - thoughts, the way you 'take in' a regular ole' day, the things you appreciate. Nicaragua was wonderful, from the vivid colors of her landscape to the big open hearts of her people. I can't wait to go back. <br />
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I went to Nicaragua in a confusion that I rarely feel. I decided, after advice from friends who had been before, that taking my 'real' camera wasn't the thing to do. I vacillated with that decision from its inception until moments before I boarded the plane. <br />
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On the one side of my brain, I heard, <i>I always take my camera! How will I make it, not recording what I see to the best of my ability? Will I miss something? Will I be able to retell the story when I return without crisp, sharp photos? How will I make it without my 'friend'? </i><br />
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On the other side, <i>I'll really BE there and live in the moment. I won't have that albatross around my neck. There will be no worry at the chance of destroying my investment. My big camera won't be between me and the wonderful souls I'll meet. </i><br />
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I went back and forth, back and forth. I do that too much anyway, and this was serious see-sawing! It drove me crazy! I researched meaningful photography with an iphone, I threw the question out and tried to hear what God had to say, and I looked into 'making it work' without a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Digital_single-lens_reflex_camera" style="background-color: #cccccc;">DSLR</a>. I put myself through the ringer, trying to decide. I tried to remind myself what I tell people all of the time . . . it's not the camera that makes a great photo. <br />
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Okay, you get the point. I was befuddled. Folks felt like the dusty conditions weren't the right thing for my camera and some wondered if maybe it would be a good exercise for me to <i><b>see things through a different lens</b>. </i>What to do, what to do?<br />
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So, I went and boarded the plane, loaded down with small cameras and equipment. I spent the day of travel convinced that I was forgetting something, as I was so accustomed to carrying my heavy camera bag. I had a borrowed camera, a new small camera to leave with friends in Nicaragua and my iphone, accompanied with my array of extra little lenses for it. I was armed and ready. I would leave my Canon at home and I would head off into a new world and see it with my own eyes. I wouldn't carry a great big instrument around my neck. I wouldn't worry about which lens was best for each situation. I would <i>see </i>what I was seeing, instead of composing it through the viewfinder of my comfort zone. I would retrain myself to use different equipment, and I would enjoy it. <br />
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Want to know how I did? I'm still not sure! I did enjoy the freedom my camera choices allowed me. I often felt closer to what I was living than I sometimes feel behind my usual mechanical friend. I was lighter. I was quicker. I didn't worry about water or dust or sand or where to set things down or whether something was safe. That was good. I focused with my own two eyes. <b><i>Maybe I was more of a participator instead of the director</i></b>. I snapped and snapped and snapped.<br />
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I guess I could say it was a success. I missed things, though. I missed the artistic part of what I do. I missed the familiar feel of camera in hand, imagining what stories I could tell with what images. I missed the work that goes into the choices about light and focus and speed, etc. I was out of my element, a bit. And, when I returned home, I really missed the crisp photos I like to see. I was disappointed with the fuzzy images of the people and place I now love so much. I missed the art. I missed the <a href="http://www.kenrockwell.com/tech/bokeh.htm" style="background-color: #cccccc;">bokeh</a> behind my new friends' faces. I missed the focus on just a small section of the photo of something special. I missed the clarity I look to find. <br />
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But the trial wasn't a blowout. It worked. It really did. My camera stayed safe at home, ready to get back to work when I returned. I moved effortlessly around a new home in a new land. I was <i><b>with</b> </i>my subjects. I was there. Nothing was between me and the people I loved. I snapped and snapped and snapped like I always do. All was all right. I learned. I learned a lot. <br />
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I'll admit that when I look at the photos, I often find myself wishing I could 'do it again' with clearer machinery. I do. But, in the end, I made the right decision. <i><b>I spent my first trip to a new favorite place with less baggage, and that is always a good thing.</b></i> I'll go back. I'll probably go back with a familiar friend around my neck. But, nevertheless, I did it right the first time. This time it was about getting to know this place and her amazing people. I did that. Thank God. <br />
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As I've edited the photos, I've had to re-assure myself of this epiphany over and over again. I've had to tell myself, again and again, that the images I returned with are just fine. And, as usual, I did come back with a few thousand photos too many and I can look at them and immediately bring back the moments that meant so much. They work. They help to tell a story. I'm thankful. <br />
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The little cameras were just fine to remind me of what I saw. Wish you could have seen it, too, friend. <br />
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I wish you could have watched this quiet time between my dear friend and this precious little girl, living in the dump just outside of Chinandega, Nicaragua. <br />
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I wish you could know the magic of watching one with nothing tenderly helped by one with plenty. I wish you could have witnessed the gentleness of this speck of time; this moment with no language.<br />
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I long to make you see what this child's face looked like when she looked back at Marta with no words and with a thousand words. A child who is used to nothing walks by with her gift of oranges from us and works to carry them safely back to her shack to her waiting family to share in the magic.<br />
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And I didn't need a fancy camera to see the look in the eyes of this little girl from the same area, as she spotted the familiar face of a friend from far away. I wouldn't have had time to decide on the right settings on my usual camera, but I was able to grab the little one and click, click, click. I can't tell you how wonderful it was to watch this sweet girl see the face of my friend and lunge into the air to get to her! What a moment. These photos don't follow any rules of composition; but for me, they capture that magic moment - a moment when two people who share no language, no realities, no familiarity, come together in love and understanding. Snap, snap, snap.<br />
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And on the day before I left this new place I love, I was able to jump out of the back of the truck when I saw the looks on the faces of my dear friend and this sweet mother in the village. They didn't know each other. They share no commonalities. But, what I saw convinced me that their eyes screamed out in understanding. They looked at each other in a way that said, from one to another, "We know that feeding our babies, physically and emotionally, is what we are here to do." They loved each other without words or shared stories. I was there. I grabbed my trusty phone and witnessed the magic. Snap, snap, snap. <br />
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So, I'll get over the fact that the photos aren't perfect. I'll move past it and remember that they can still tell the story. These fuzzy photos can still tell the story of folks who came together in ways more meaningful than I could ever imagine. Thanks be to God. <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-49045609179503760672013-02-20T13:04:00.000-05:002013-02-20T13:04:44.573-05:00Traveling through Nica and discovering a few things . . . <br />
Looking over these photos, I believe you’ll quickly spot a difference between what I saw in Nicaragua and what we see here. You might notice a slight contrast in rules and regulations! <br />
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I spent a good portion of my time in Nicaragua traveling in the back of a truck. It was awesome! <br />
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I SAW things. I HEARD things. I SENSED things that I would have missed in the cab with the windows rolled up tight, the air conditioning blowing and cool tunes playing. My time with <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><a href="http://www.togetherworksnicaragua.com/">Together Works Nicaragua</a> </span>was a special one, and I’m thankful that was lucky enough to ‘get in the back’ of the truck so often.<br />
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The first day or so of the trip, I was baffled by the lack of restraints and laws and safety regulations. I couldn’t believe it when I saw an entire family happily riding along on the highway atop a small motorcycle. I was stunned when I saw a bus with folks filling it past comfortable. I was astonished to see men and women and children hanging off of vehicles in the oddest places, in the most precarious spots. I could not make sense of it at all. <br />
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The longer I spent in that different world, the more okay I got with it all. I arrived at a different place; I saw the behaviors with a new eye. (Let me add here that I am not suggesting that we lose our safety laws and throw caution to the wind. Stay with me, though. I’m looking at what we might learn from folks who live in a different way.) <br />
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I saw people getting around the way they could, taking care of business in the way that worked for the moment. I think that’s my point . . . I was witnessing people <i>living in the moment</i>. They weren’t fearing the <i>what ifs</i> or voicing the <i>it can’t be dones</i>. They were blooming where they were planted and covering territory in the way that proved available. And sometimes, they were enjoying being close to each other or feeling the cool wind blow. <br />
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I don’t contend that the folks in Nicaragua are without transportation woes. Many roads are often impassable. Public transport is hit or miss. People can’t always get where they need to go. There are problems. It doesn’t always work. <br />
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I will have to admit, though, that it might not be all bad. They are living in the here and now and smiling a whole lot! <br />
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A sweet toddler would relish sliding in between Mama and Daddy on the motorcycle to go see Grandma. <br />
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Hanging off of the back of a delivery truck, watching the world through a nice wind, would make a boring job a little more tolerable. <br />
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Traveling everywhere with your best friend would be nice. <br />
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I found the whole scene refreshing. I know that accidents must happen. I didn’t see any while I was there, but I’m not completely out of touch with reality. I’m only suggesting that there was a lot to learn from my friends there. I won’t forget riding along in the back of the Toyota truck. I would have missed so much if I hadn’t been in that spot. I’m thankful for so much I learned there; and witnessing the way my new friends live in the moment, was among their finest gifts. <br />
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We’ve come a long way. We’ve figured out a lot. We have fine automobiles that will get us where we want to go and keep us in perfect comfort as we travel; <b>but we miss some things</b>. <br />
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I’m hoping I’ll be able to hold on to what I felt in the back of the truck. I pray I can remember that progress isn’t always a gift and remind myself to open the windows and feel what’s going on outside of my comfy car. I loved seeing the sights, hearing the sounds, talking to folks along the way and being in the moment. <br />
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At present, I’m working to figure out ways for my kids to experience what I did. I don’t want any horrible accidents, but I sure wish they could feel what I felt. <br />
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As a matter of fact, I wish we all could, from time to time. <br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-67634124212117814622013-02-15T16:41:00.000-05:002013-02-15T16:41:21.597-05:00List 41 - Fifteen pieces of perspective . . . This week's list is a bit different. I hope it works. My intent isn't to make anyone angry or to start a dialogue over the pros and cons with the USA's work on poverty. <br />
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A thought just keeps coming up in my head this week, and I can't help but say this . . .<br />
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The 'disaster' on the cruise ship this week sounded awful. It sounded hot and miserable and gross and stinky. It would be a great disappointment to finance and look forward to a wonderful trip, only to have it end up as a slowly sinking failure. That's just it, though. It would be disappointing. <br />
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And then the folks from the trip could go back to their 'real lives' and eat a big, juicy hamburger, take an extra long hot shower, adjust the air to their liking and tell some awesome <i>vacation gone wrong </i>stories. There is no doubt that it was a miserable experience. I'm glad for them that it is over. <br />
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Actually, after some of what I saw in Nicaragua, I'm glad for them - period. The travelers aboard the cruise ship were dealt a shoddy hand. They had bad luck. They were forced to endure conditions that most of us don't ever see. I'm sorry it happened; but oh, how I wish one of them would use their fifteen minutes of fame to underscore the reality that millions of folks live in conditions far worse than the ill-fated cruise ship and they do so every day of their lives. I wish just one of them would acknowledge that the situation was a complete mess, but that they are fortunate not to live that way all of the time. <br />
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I met people who live in a dump; and though they aren't the majority of the fine folks of Nicaragua, their story and their realities haunt me still. They live in the midst of a mess. They don't have running water. There are no bathrooms. They don't have enough food and no boat comes in with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The babies didn't choose to be born into that, and I hope I never forget what I saw.<br />
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So, today, just a few photos that show people - often smiling, happy people - who were born into something different than you and I know. Today, a list of photos . . . to help us all remember that sometimes our yucky, smelly, hot, dirty, unlucky, ill-fated disasters might not be the 'worst thing that can happen.' I hope everybody has a great weekend. If I have my own cruise ship gone bad story, I hope I'll remember to keep it all in perspective. <br />
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(I promise I have stories that aren't about the dump . . . but some memories just scream out to be told first.)<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-46532946928597872472013-02-13T13:06:00.000-05:002013-02-13T13:06:23.635-05:00The Wednesday Pop - vol. 7 . . . It's Hammock TimeMy Dad is a smart man. I've told you that before. He has a lot of things <i>figured out, </i>and it may surprise you that he is also the world's great <i>rester. </i>Yes, <i>rester. </i>He has an unbelievable talent with rest. <br />
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He is able to take a short nap in almost any place you could imagine! He naps on the couch in his office. He can nap on the ground during a picnic. He once found a room away from the action and napped while we spent the day at my kids' school! He's a champion <i>rester</i>!<br />
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He slips away from a family gathering, finds a bed, has a rest and gets involved in the conversation again, faster than you would believe. While the rest of the folks sit around complaining about all that needs to be done or yawning lazily as the conversation lags, he takes a nap! Oddly enough, when he arises, he's whistling a happy tune and running circles around the rest of us! <br />
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I love a good hammock - I assume everyone does - but no one has the relationship with the hammock that my father does. He is one with any hammock he has ever met! So, here is where I relate my unbelievable trip to Nicaragua to my Dad's love for resting . . .<br />
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In Nicaragua, there are hammocks everywhere! Unlike our backyard hammocks, swaying alone in the breeze, these hammocks are used and used all of the time! <br />
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Are the folks in Nicaragua lazy? Are they trying to dream away their work? Do they not have enough to do?</div>
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Nope, that's not it. They have plenty to do, just like my Dad. Funny thing, though . . . they've figured out that more gets done when one is rested. They've also figured out that a body and a mind needs rest and that sometimes just dreamily watching the waves or praying or meditating right in the middle of a day is a very good thing.</div>
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Once on my trip, I found myself in a hammock. (Well, actually more than once I found myself in a hammock, but that's not the point here.) I was talking with another friend on the trip, and we were discussing how odd it was to 'just rest' right in the middle of the day. I began to think about Pop, my Dad, and something very important dawned on me . . . </div>
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He might rest more than anyone I know, but he also gets more done than anyone I know. What's up with that? Apparently, my Dad and some friends in a far away land have discovered something that the rest of us <i>busy </i>people don't yet understand. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A29aK9sAb8k/URvQJrpkpiI/AAAAAAAAE9g/V8SOaGGiLgg/s1600/photo-466.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A29aK9sAb8k/URvQJrpkpiI/AAAAAAAAE9g/V8SOaGGiLgg/s320/photo-466.jpg" width="237" /></a>It makes sense to rest in the middle of the day when a body and a mind get tired or when the sun beats down so heavily that simple movements are difficult. <br />
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Folks who rest more, do more. It's that easy. So, why don't I act on that? Why don't you? Why do we feel like we have to <i>act busy </i>all of the time? Who's watching? Why do we care? <br />
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Seems to me, I just visited with folks who understand far more than most of us. They have cool, colorful hammocks at their houses, and they use them. <br />
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Sometimes they take to a hammock when they are tired from the morning's work. Sometimes they get in side by side hammocks and have lazy visits, talking about whatever arises. And sometimes, they just take a few minutes or a few hours and get away from their real world to spend a while with God or with themselves. Sometimes they just rest. <br />
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I'm more than impressed by this talent. I want to put into action what my Dad and my friends in Nicargaua already know. </div>
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Resting is a good thing. </div>
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A very good thing. </div>
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I think we should start a trend. What do you think?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-48371671277105192582013-02-12T13:45:00.000-05:002013-02-12T13:46:40.549-05:00Bird by Bird . . . <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I told you last week (<a href="http://deana-pressingpause.blogspot.com/2013/02/list-40-few-of-things-i-want-to-tell.html" style="background-color: #eeeeee;">Friday's post</a>) that I was having a hard time putting words to my Nicaraguan experience. I've really been stumped! As I've shared, I assumed that I would return from my trip and wordy descriptions would be falling from my mouth. Normally, telling stories is not hard for me, but that hasn't been the case. <br />
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I've found myself scared to begin sharing, in fear that I won't do it all justice. As is often the case, Tim has come to the rescue. (He is good at starting things, and I am not. I can usually come in and finish up, but I often need his help to bump me out of a paralysis that sets in when I need to do something.) And so, last night he said, "Why don't you just pick one moment or one person or one memory and tell us about that. Don't feel like you have to sum it all up at one time." And then again this morning, he texted me from work with a "just start small - you can do it." Ahhhh, thanks.<br />
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With Tim's nudging, I was reminded of the same tip from one of my favorite authors, <a href="http://barclayagency.com/lamott.html" style="background-color: #eeeeee;">Anne Lamott</a>. She is an eccentric nugget of humor and reality and religion, and I've enjoyed so much of what she has written. A while back, she wrote a book called <i>Bird by Bird</i>, and I love the story that was the inspiration for the title. Lamott recalls that once her brother had a big, big report due and he was way behind. The report was due the next morning, and he was making the whole family miserable. He was to have spent weeks and weeks researching many different types of birds, and he had done nothing. Lamott tells about her memory of her father calmly sitting down at the kitchen table, gathering her brother and his supplies and quietly saying, "we'll just get it done . . . bird by bird." I love that. Baby steps.<br />
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And so, that's how I'll do it. I'll do it bird by bird - or maybe moment by moment. <br />
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I assumed I'd start at the beginning, but that's not really how my brain works . . . and so, I'll start mid-way through the trip. One day a group of us traveled (in the back of a Toyota truck - yeah!) a couple of hours from Padre Ramos. Those of us visiting, along with our friends who run the youth camp where we were staying and some awesome young men who live in the village, loaded up bags of beans and rice and fresh oranges to give to the people who live in the dump.<br />
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Yes, they really live in the dump. Apparently, their village was destroyed a few years back by a natural disaster and the 'dump' area was a gift of the government - a new place to put down roots. <br />
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I want you to meet three beautiful friends I met there. Look into these precious eyes. This seems a good place to start. <br />
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Their beauty, their giggles, and their universal kid-like appeal was unforgettable. Walking through the dump, coughing from the dry dust and watching where we stepped, these three sets of eyes were captivating, almost magical. Our fun began when they pretended to be hiding from me, using the palm branches that they were moving (chores, I guess). We laughed and taunted and enjoyed each other for a while then, and their sweet faces will always be with me.<br />
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This morning, as I looked back over these faces, I wondered the all-familiar thing, "Why were they born to this and others born to something so much easier? Why?" <br />
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We've all wondered the same before, and I assume we'll be wondering about it for as long as we are able to wonder. I stared at those bright eyes and found myself imagining them in a different reality. Just imagine with me, if you will. Imagine the scenery is different. Imagine their sweet faces are smudged with the sugary mess from cotton candy; not the sludgy dirt of the dump. Imagine their chores are to make their canopy beds in their pink and purple bedrooms; not the dusty work of maintaining a home made of found trash. Just imagine. Look at their faces. They look just like the ones we all know so well. Imagine . . .<br />
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See the red spot near the back of this image? That's just a little girl, giggling as she plays hide-n-seek with her neighborhood friends.</div>
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She could be carrying her soccer stuff in from the car after practice.</div>
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She's smiling, as she watches her best friend sneak up from next door.</div>
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This little one? She's just about to tell her Daddy that she made a one hundred on her spelling test.</div>
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She just told her mother a secret about her crush at school.</div>
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They're laughing about having their photo taken again for the yearbook!</div>
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She just finished opening the birthday presents all of her friends brought.</div>
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Guess what she just found under her pillow from the Tooth Fairy?</div>
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They're on a really cool field trip.</div>
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She just found out she made the honor roll.</div>
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Their swim team just won the city championship!</div>
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The class clown just cracked them up again in Math!</div>
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She's daydreaming about her family's trip to the beach this summer.</div>
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"Come on, you go first!"</div>
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"She always makes me go first!"</div>
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She just loves her choir teacher!</div>
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They always love the first day at camp.</div>
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Her cheerleading coach always makes her smile.</div>
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They're waiting on their grandparents to arrive for a visit.</div>
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They're always messing around at volleyball practice.</div>
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No, those things aren't really their reality. I don't know why. You don't know why. </div>
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Even more, I don't know why they're smiling. Would I smile? Could I smile? </div>
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That's what I'm thinking as I search the souls in these images. I look into these twinkling eyes, and I have questions and more questions. I do know one thing, though. I was there, and they were giggling. They were smiling. They were playing. The sun sparkled in their eyes, and I saw it. </div>
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Thanks be to God.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-20870884375115313132013-02-08T17:00:00.001-05:002013-02-08T17:00:31.113-05:00List 40 - A few of the things I want to tell you about Nicaragua . . . <br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So, friends, hopefully you have noticed that I haven’t had a post in a while. I’ve been on another ‘trip of a lifetime’ (to Padre Ramos, Nicaragua) and returned earlier this week. Before I left, I assumed that I would be racing back to put words to the experience; that hasn’t been the case. Life is always a surprise, huh?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve been remembering all that I saw last week, to be sure; and the faces of those sweet and gentle people have played like a movie in my head. I just have not yet known what to do with all that I saw and experienced. As one friend put it, I’m letting things marinate. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I saw beautiful things and sad things and lived remarkable moments. I shot hundreds of photos, though I fear they won’t capture what I witnessed. So . . . I guess I just need a bit of time to figure out what to do with the experience. Just like editing photos, I am requiring some time and space to put things into the right light and figure out just how to tell the stories. What do I leave in? What do I leave out? So, I'm thinking. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I know some things that I want to tell you, for sure, so I believe they will be this Friday’s list. Here are a few of the things I want to share with you about my trip to Nicaragua (in coming posts) - a bit of a ‘sneak peek’!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I want to tell you about:</span></div>
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<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Working with friends who have little, serving friends who have nothing.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hammocks and ‘Nica’ time.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The colors.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The challenges and gifts of not carrying along my ‘real’ camera.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Learning that humor needs no language.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">What I learned about trust from those who don’t ‘hold on.’</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Why I’ve spent a good portion of this week ‘unsubscribing’ from all that I can.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Zip-lining and Hannah Montana helmets.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The magic of seeing a country from the back of a Toyota truck.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The ‘Bread Lady’ and the funny dollar store glasses.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">How children who live in a dump reaching for an orange have better manners than American children in a fast food restaurant fighting over french fries.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">That even toddlers can have a servant’s heart.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The benefits of being somewhere where the stars have no lights to compete with for stage time.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The things that make our world seem so small.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Folks who think nothing of a farm animal walking through their conversation.</span></li>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Thanks for your patience, folks. I look forward to sharing with you. I thank you for your prayers, support and questions. I loved being a traveler again and I can’t wait to tell you about it!</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-2389598514162524762013-01-23T12:35:00.000-05:002013-01-23T12:35:24.602-05:00The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 6 . . . a thank you I wouldn't have thought I'd send!So, I've been devoting Wednesdays to my Dad, the cool Don Murphy. I decided it was a good idea, as I have lots to tell and learn from him about parenting. <br />
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He might be surprised by this one. You might be, too. Today, I have a specific thank you.<br />
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Back in the long ago late seventies and early eighties, people didn't give a lot of thought to seat belts. Some cars didn't even have them - weird, huh? Well, I think most cars did, but they were stuffed way down under the seat and nobody could ever find them. And the belts didn't come from behind, over your shoulder. They came from the depths and ickiness of the between the seat area. Once you located the belt for your seat, it was most definitely either sized for Flat Stanley or the fat lady at the circus. They didn't work with the spring back system of today - once you found one, it might prove to be ten feet of royal blue silky belt. It was a real pain. Anybody remember that?<br />
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Oh, what we went through, back in the day. <br />
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But, that's not really what this post is about. That's not the thank you. My appreciation goes to my Dad for being a bit on the 'weird' side and forcing us to wear seat belts way before everybody else did. It was a pain; it really was. Though we knew he forced the issue because he loved us so very much, we were often frustrated by that extra ten seconds of effort needed to be safe. Dad stayed the course. I'm thankful. He had us put on the seat belts, no matter what car we were in. He had our friends put on seat belts when they rode with us. <br />
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The part that amazes me now - now that I'm a parent - is how hard that must have been. I can see now that listening to us whine about the pesky seat belts must have been a pain. It would have been so much easier to do what most everyone else was doing and just forget about the safety issue that was becoming clearer and clearer. It would have been easier - much easier. <br />
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But that's not my Dad. That's not how he does it, and I'm thankful. Writing this has all sorts of things running through my brain about parenting today. I'm wondering about the things I need to be brave about; the yays and nays I need to concentrate on, even when it's really, really hard. <br />
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I have a great example, and I can remember it every time I put on my seat belt. Each time I reach over and do what I have to do, I can draw on the strength I learned from my Dad and hope for the courage to be so bold myself. <br />
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Thanks, Dad. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-28798336180732657462013-01-22T14:10:00.004-05:002013-01-22T14:10:58.162-05:00What's the chance of this?I'm so excited at the moment, I can barely get the words on the computer! Something so amazing is unfolding, that I want to share it. <br />
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On Monday, I leave for a one week trip to Nicaragua. I'm delighted to be able to do it. It has been a long time since I've been on a trip like this, and I know how incredibly life-changing these kinds of trips can be. I'm ready to meet new people and I want to show folks living a completely different life that friends in another part of the world care very much about them and I want my children to remember seeing their Mama taking trips like this. <br />
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I guess my trip is called a mission, though I'm sometimes funny about that word. I don't ever want to be part of a group that visits people in their homeland and plays the part of the 'Smart American that knows how it should be done.' I don't like that idea. I am more comfortable with the idea of my meeting new friends where they are, getting to know them and letting them get to know me. I like the idea of spreading love by feeding or laughing or dancing or learning or telling stories. I love that idea. (We'll be working along with <a href="http://www.togetherworksnicaragua.com/">TOGETHER WORKS NICARAGUA</a>. Check them or find them on facebook.)<br />
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So, I have excitedly anticipated this trip. I look forward to showing the love of God by meeting new people to love and laugh with; and, of course, I look forward to taking photos of the beautiful souls I'll meet. All of that, coupled with my self-imposed challenge to leave my big camera at home and shoot only with my iphone, has been enough. <br />
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But . . . in the last few days, an amazing turn of events has occurred. I love it! <br />
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A couple of months ago, I ran across something on the internet about an organization to empower women and children in struggling areas to tap into their creativity, gain self confidence and help their villages by learning photography. I was immediately intrigued, but lost the webpage as I went off to tackle one of those minor emergencies that comes up from time to time in a real life - a child in need or a telephone call or some such thing. The story stuck in my mind, though.<br />
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After I realized that I would be joining my friend on this trip to Nicaragua, I thought back and wondered about trying to find the group I had read about. I kept it on my 'list' but continued to let other things slip in front of my investigation. Oddly enough, my fascination with <i>Instagram </i>(my username is deanamg if you are fascinated, too) brought the whole thing back to me! I happened to run across two words that struck me - <i>picture change </i>- and I KNEW that was the name of the organization I had read about earlier. I was delighted. I quickly began to investigate to find out more, and I hope you will, too! Find it here - <a href="http://picture-change.org/">PICTURE CHANGE</a> and also on facebook. I have a feeling you'll be as swept up in the stories as I was. Check out the blog - amazing things are happening for people in far corners of the world. Check out the cool shop (<a href="http://picture-change.org/store/">http://picture-change.org/store/</a>) and see the cool stuff available that is changing people's lives. I dare you to read the stories on the blog, and not be moved by what Kate, Picture Change's founder, is up to. Wow.<br />
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Now I'll speed up the story a bit. . .<br />
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<ul>
<li>I find out the area where we'll be visiting.</li>
<li>My friend who has been before tells me that the young woman who translates was given a computer recently.</li>
<li>I find Picture Change again, and begin to read about a woman named Rosa who was a Picture Change student and is making strides in her life in Padre Ramos, Nicaragua. </li>
<li>I hear my friend call the name Rosa, and I find it a neat consequence.</li>
<li>I decide to send a message over facebook to Picture Change and let them know how swept away I am with what they are doing and to let them know I'd love to do anything I could while I'm in Nicaragua. </li>
<li>Last night, I receive a message back - a wonderful, newsy note from Picture Change, explaining that Rosa where I'm going is the SAME Rosa that is a Picture Change student! </li>
<li>I get news on the supplies that Rosa needs for the computer and printer (given to her by Picture Change) and today I purchased them to take with me on the trip!</li>
<li>Kate discussed ways that I could help Rosa and others while I'm there with photography lessons and how to further the cause. </li>
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This whole thing has amazed me! I thank God for this chance and for the ways that these things came together. I didn't sleep much last night - I spent a lot of time imagining how exciting it is to have the chance to share something I love this much with new friends in another place in the world. I'm thrilled, to say the least. </div>
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So many of you have sent prayers and financial help to assist in this trip, and I thank you. I'll appreciate good thoughts and prayers as we are gone, and I cannot wait to take you with me on this amazing trip. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-781968066322973862013-01-18T09:40:00.000-05:002013-01-18T09:40:37.179-05:00List 39 - A checklist, if you will, for my children and yours . . .We have a problem here in the Graham home. I'm thinking that the problem can't just pertain to my children - you must have similar troubles. <br />
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Worry not, I'm here to help. I'd like to offer a checklist for the youth of the world to help them with future decisions. <br />
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My children are sweet and amazing and smart and all of those wonderful things. Yours are, too. Mine have a bit of a problem, though, when it comes to decisions about what can be thrown onto the floor and what cannot be. I'd like to clear this thing up to alleviate the hard moments to come - those harsh moments, when this otherwise loving and calm mother turns into a zombie warrior with smoke fumes spewing from my orifices. <br />
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My family has a working understanding of big things that can't be thrown on the floor. For instance, they all know with certainty that one cannot throw the entire debris from a fast food meal to the ground - but, if it's just the straw wrapper, they apparently make sure I'm looking the other way and accidentally let it fall to the floor. They would never toss a juice bag below them, but I have yet to see a child of any sort who actually accurately throws away the tiny little clear wrapper to that tiny little juice bag drink. They are magnetically attracted to the floors and yards of our homes. Popsicles? It's the same deal . . . the wrapper is obediently thrown in the trashcan, but the stick most definitely is silently 'forgotten' somewhere on the floor or counter or odd table. <br />
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You know what I mean, people. I know you do. Would our precious ones ever toss the scraps from a healthy apple or banana to the floor? No way, but I'll tell what happens with that pesty little sticker from the skin of the fruit - it slips unseen to the floor for me to cuss over, as I try to unstick it from the kitchen floor. What's up with that? Uggghhhh. <br />
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And new clothes? Ugghhh, the worst. The more tags and stickers and strings and bands and plastics, etc., the more to remove from the floor after the child has dashed off to school, looking grand in the new duds. For reasons I can't explain, my family is mistakenly under the belief that those teeny white plastic things, that attach the price tag, are biodegradable. I'm relatively sure it would take about three million years for them to become part of the earth, and I know that I would be swimming among them at this point if I didn't follow along behind to fetch them. <br />
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I'm with you friends, if you suffer with these same problems. Our children are intelligent little ones. There must be some way to help them learn that someone actually has to pick up those wee pests or our houses would be knee deep in them by now. <br />
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Candy wrappers? Even if no one is watching, they are still on the floor. Someone really does have to come along, bend down and toss them into a receptacle. Rubber bands? Same. The list goes on and on. <br />
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I just want to help. I thought I'd create a little cheat sheet, a primer, for our children. Maybe we can print this out and post it somewhere on the foreheads of all children, That way, we won't spend quite as much time bending over and the floors of the world will be freer of this unsightly debris. I hope this helps.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dearest Children,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">These things do not magically take themselves to the trashcan and they must actually be picked up and transported the nearest bin. While you throw away the larger things, please remember to take those things that you 'accidentally' drop to the floor when we aren't looking. Observing this practice will result in happier mothers and thus, happier families. Thank you for your attention these already obvious items listed below. </span><br />
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<ol>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">All tags, stickers, strings, plastic cords, etc. from anything new that your loving parents have provided for you.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Any labels upon the healthy choice fruits you choose. </span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The wrappers from any straw, any size, from anywhere.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Well, the wrappers from absolutely anything.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">When you have to rip the corner off of something to open it, the corner piece has to be toted to the trash, as well.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Rubber bands and twist ties and pieces of string.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Any of the tiny scraps from any art project you ever do, ie. short pieces of yarn, tiny pieces of tape, the glue globs that you rubbed off, etc.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Popsicle and lollipop sticks.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Candy wrappers - even the very small ones. They count, too.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The pieces of the box tops that you accidentally tore off when you were opening the cereal.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">You know when you help by opening the mail? Yeah, those pieces of the top of the envelope that didn't stay connected. </span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Anything at all. Ha - gotcha!!! </span></li>
</ol>
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I fear I've forgotten something, but I hope this helps. We must fight this war together, friends. We must prevail. What would you add? What have I forgotten?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-53430163095493078272013-01-16T11:07:00.000-05:002013-01-16T11:07:07.795-05:00The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 5 . . . you've got to laughMost of you know that I'm devoting Wednesdays this year to telling stories about my Dad. I came to the conclusion that this was a good idea when I started realizing how very much I had to say about him. Hope you're enjoying <i>The Wednesday Pop</i>. I guess I shouldn't claim to have the best Dad ever, but . . . well, I do. <br />
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I'm enjoying this regular place to recollect and give him some overdue thanks and think about ways that my parenting (and maybe yours) could be enriched by looking at how my Dad parents. Needless to say, I've been thinking back a bunch lately, remembering old times and recalling facts from days gone by. I keep being reminding that my Dad has always been quick to laugh, and I'm thankful for that. He isn't a silly guy when it's time to be serious, but he has always taught us how to laugh. Dad doesn't teach in lectures, but he shows his lessons over time by the way he lives. As time goes by, I grow more and more thankful for every occasion to laugh - don't you? <br />
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Finding the joy in moments is such a gift, and I realize now that Dad has been showing us how to do that for years. We did a lot of laughing as kids, and we do a lot of it now. There were certainly plenty of serious times when laughing wasn't appropriate, but I'm thinking back about the many ways that Dad creates opportunities to laugh, both at life and at ourselves. I'm thankful. <br />
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So, today I give you these tips on parenting from the '<i><b>how my Dad does it'</b></i> playbook:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Laugh at yourself whenever you can. It's good for kids to see that parents goof up and it's awesome when they see us being okay with it.</li>
<li>Make up a ridiculous language with nothing at all decipherable and speak it with your children often. The crazier, the better, so go for it. If you can also do strange things with your eyebrows, it's even better. As you speak this malarky, your child learns about the magic of imagination and sees, too, that having fun with him or her is always more fun than just about everything else!</li>
<li>Make up silly stories and crazy words and far-fetched tall tales. It's fun, makes everyone giggle and creates learning and trust out of fun moments.</li>
<li>Take winning and losing with lightness and ease. Laughing about doing absolutely horrible in a card game is an invaluable lesson for your child.</li>
<li>Be willing to hear, revel in and laugh at your children's stories again and again and again. It tells them over and over how very important they are and teaches them about speaking their mind and getting their point across. </li>
<li>Call your children by the silliest names, even if it's only the two of you that <i>get it</i>. Having a pet name says <i>I love you </i>and <i>I love laughing with you.</i></li>
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I'm thankful for laughing in this crazy, mixed-up world, and I'm thankful for a Dad who is still laughing with me!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-79821127590369515982013-01-11T09:43:00.002-05:002013-01-11T11:44:17.389-05:00List 38 - Nike Shorts, Duffel Bags and What I wish I could tell my girls and all the rest of them . . . <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We've entered a new era here in the Graham world. It's not new to the rest of the world. Young people have been going through it for ages. I went through it. You probably went through it. We all know about it. I would argue that it's getting worse by the day, but it is definitely not new.<br />
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We are deep into what we 'have to have' and what we 'just love so much' and 'what everybody gets' and so on and so on and so on. I'm trying to be somewhat logical about it all. I really am. I'm trying to mother my children, want what's really best for them and leave them with some small sense that I am not actually the least withit human on the planet. It's hard. <br />
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I'm trying to remember that feeling I had in the fourth grade one Saturday afternoon when I looked down at my feet and realized that I was looking at the coolest scene in the history of the world - I FINALLY had blue striped Adidas and the coolest footies with bright blue pom poms. Just thinking about how amazing I was swells my head even to this day, but I digress . . .<br />
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Truth is, it is sickening to watch when our children stop thinking as individuals and begin 'liking' and 'loving' and 'wanting' and 'needing' in swarms of a hundred. It's disheartening. It's scary. It leaves a Mama feeling like she didn't do a good enough job on the <i>You Are Special </i>push.<br />
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We've never been much on Christmas lists. The kids might write a letter at school to practice handwriting, but we've never gone by a strict list of exactly what to provide for Christmas morning happiness. I grew up that way, and I've loved continuing it. Shopping for the kids has been creative and fun. We've wondered and considered and loved the times when a complete surprise was a hit. <br />
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That's over now. On one level, I understand. I get it that my girls are older, that they have a more discerning palette about what they wear and they are making more decisions on their own. But that's just it it - these exact lists about precisely what they want have left their own brains completely out of it! I'm almost certain that I could have exchanged their requests with any of their friends and found the same things. <br />
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Creativity? Fun? Thinking for yourself? Surprises? Bah, humbug! They all want the same thing. <br />
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I know, I know, I need to chill out about it. But it's not the <i>wanting it </i>that bothers me; it's their feeling that they MUST have it that leaves me feeling raw. I'm delighted when they get a present they love. I want them to feel as cool as I knew I was when I looked down and had those gorgeous Adidas staring back up at me. I just wish they knew that the Nike shorts and the Vera Bradley duffel bags and the perfect phone case and on and on and on have absolutely nothing at all to do with what makes them completely amazing. I just wish they knew.<br />
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I wish I could tell every young girl:<br />
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<ol>
<li>The Vera Bradley bag is cute and colorful, but the unforgettable thing is the look on your face when you board the bus for the church ski trip or come home excited after a fun spend the night party.</li>
<li>The iphone case looks great, but it doesn't compare to the sweet glimmer you get in your eye when you know you are being funny.</li>
<li>The Nike shorts are fine but what's awesome is how hard you worked to tackle something difficult and made it!</li>
<li>The perfect backpack has nothing to do with how gorgeous you are walking down the hall at school after you've just said something to make your friend's day.</li>
<li>The bright orange tennis shoes are awesome, but they are paled by the look on your face when you know, deep inside, that you have just given everything you have to help your team.</li>
<li>The real reason that people are staring is not because you just spent two hours straightening your amazingly beautiful curly hair; it's because you just sang like an angel.</li>
<li>The real people in the world aren't looking at your Uggs, for they are concentrating on your gorgeous smile.</li>
<li>What you use to pull back your hair doesn't matter in the least; we see the sheer beauty in your face when you are concentrating on building your brain or solving a problem.</li>
<li>When we look at a group of you, we don't concentrate on what you're wearing; we see each of your faces and pray for the day when each of you will KNOW that we love the ways that you all are different.</li>
<li>You're bigger and brighter and better than the best name brand item you own . . . you are precious and smart and talented and beautiful, and we can't wait for you to love what you bring into this starving world as much as we do!</li>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-9951816965657047172013-01-09T11:28:00.000-05:002013-01-09T11:28:34.430-05:00The Wednesday Pop - Vol.4 . . . Leaving on a Jet PlaneI've been thinking a lot lately about traveling. <br />
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Travelers are headed here to us, and I'm soon to leave on a trip myself. All of that has got me thinking about the yearning so many of us have, way deep inside, to find out a bit about how the other guy lives. Our dear Irish family, the Quinlivans, are en route here, as I write this post. (You can read more about them in <a href="http://deana-pressingpause.blogspot.com/2012/07/first-day-of-trip-that-began-in-1985.html">The First Day of a Trip that Started in 1985</a> .) I'm eternally grateful for that yearning I have, and I owe a good deal of it to my family. <br />
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I have travelers in my blood on both sides, and I've always reveled in the tales of far away places (or even the stories of places close by). I've always appreciated the call to see new horizons, to hear other voices and to get a glimpse at how another life-liver lives his life. Both of my grandmothers modeled this - they both traveled whenever they could, and I can recall that long ago I decided that retirement (if it meant I got to go all of those places) sounded mighty good! In my mind I carry separate pictures of each grandmother boarding buses and planes and trains and giggling all the way with fellow travelers. I like those pictures. <br />
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My mother was a seeker, too, and spent her final days living out her questions in her beloved England. (If you are new to the blog, you can read about her here: <a href="http://deana-pressingpause.blogspot.com/2012/03/list-twelve-few-more-things-about-mary.html">A Few More Things about Mary George</a> .) <br />
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I've always thought my maternal grandfather, Papa, was one of the smartest men I've ever known, but we differed greatly on our ideas about travel. He believed he could find out what he needed to know in books, and I debated that one had to see it, feel it, live it. We finally agreed to disagree (but I always sort of felt that he understood my point more than he let on.)<br />
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And so, it seems, I came by this travel bug honestly. I'm thankful for that. I thank my Dad, though, for so many of the ways that he showed me how important it was to know how another lived. He showed me countless times that it was vital to search for answers, meet the other person, and see with new eyes. I've always been thankful for his passing that down; but, as a parent, I've begun to see something more that I appreciate. <br />
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Buying plane tickets, signing up for a trip, and packing bags for one's own trip is awesome - it's exciting, it's full of great moments of anticipation and it's relatively easy. I've come to see that what's much harder is watching, even encouraging, another to take bold steps. That is HARD . . . especially when the other is your child! <br />
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So today, I look back with thanks and admiration on the many times and various ways that Pop encouraged, empowered, financially backed, pushed and allowed me to take the trips I needed to take, both large and small. I thank him for having the wisdom to show me how big the world is, both in the excitement of big travels and the small amazements of hiking through the gardens down the street. He opened my eyes, continuously, and he models still a life of learning. All of that is amazing. <br />
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I'm more amazed now, though, in the strength that it must have taken to <i>allow </i>some of the trips, near and far, that I needed to take. How hard it must have been to hold back words of worry and offer a voice of encouragement. I realize now that it's sometimes scary enough to let your child go to the bathroom alone, much less board a plane to another country! I fear the thought of watching my own children back out of the driveway, and I shudder to imagine how it must have felt as Jodi and I traveled through the teenage years. <br />
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The point is . . . he was bigger than his fear. I appreciate that, and I hope I can live to emulate it. I hope I'll remember the gifts on the way for my children when I see them drive off, giggling on the way to a football game across town or embarking on a trip that looks downright useless to me. I hope I'll remember the many ways that Dad has seen me off, with confidence and good wishes and excitement. It's a tall order! <br />
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So, thanks, Dad, for these traveling moments (just to name a few):<br />
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<li>when you loaned me your Easter Egg blue Volvo to drive to Florida with a car full of giggling girls.</li>
<li>when you dropped me off in the middle of the Pocono Mountains to be a counselor at a Jewish Summer Camp, when neither one of us was even sure we could understand the accents!</li>
<li>when you walked from one end of Manhattan to the other, allowing me questions and observations and dawdling, as we looked at things you had seen tons of times.</li>
<li>when you planned countless weekend trips to see little pieces of other places, other ways of doing things and bountiful nature.</li>
<li>when you somehow mustered a confident smile to see me off to Bonaire, by myself, to learn to SCUBA after the hardest year of my life.</li>
<li>when you watched in what must have been complete shock as I explained to you why it made perfect sense for adult me to go to Africa for six weeks by myself, in what was the trip of a lifetime. </li>
<li>when you walked beside me through new places, in our own town or new ones, and explored with me.</li>
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I see now a speck of how hard it must be to watch your child go into unchartered waters, to excel or fail, to explore and learn. I see now what I put you through! Thank you, thank you, thank you, though, that you allowed me the chances and gave me the practice. </div>
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Lord, please help me do the same for my children. Help me to love them enough to give them wings - and not just allow them to fly, but encourage them, even in my fear. Here's hoping I can muster the strength you have shown and show now. Help me to instill in them the desire to see how others live, to imagine how others may see things and to wonder. </div>
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Thank you, Dad, for the sense of wonder.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-67262089448803224812013-01-07T12:09:00.001-05:002013-01-07T20:15:35.844-05:00The 1st post of 2013 - but wait . . . it ain't over 'til it's over!Hopefully, friends, you've noticed I took a bit of time off to celebrate and clean and decorate and celebrate and laugh and wash and dry and celebrate and talk and, well, I think you get the picture. I left off of my first year in blogland on December 16th. I guess after that point, all of the wonderfulness and confusion and happiness and mess just got to be too much. <br />
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I'm proud, though, that I've conquered a year in blogging. I started at the first of 2012 and I entered 187 posts. I realize that's not every day - not even every weekday - but, geez . . . I'm proud! <br />
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I've got a lot to say about what I've learned from this blogging thing, what I've heard from you and how the writing of these words has impacted things in my life and in my brain. I have a lot to tell. <br />
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But first, I must fill you in on where I am. I must let you know, that even though most of you are somewhere neat and tidy and well into your new calendar with a fresh new page and nicely sharpened no. 2 pencil that has already checked off the first six days of January, I am still back at Christmas. It ain't over 'til it's over, people. Or maybe, better, it ain't over 'til I say it's over. Got it?<br />
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I want you to know what I've endured this morning. I want you to suffer with me. I want you to know that I thoroughly enjoyed yesterday- the last of the twelve days of Christmas, the feast of the Epiphany -<br />
We had a marvelous Sunday at church. We went to lunch with precious friends. The Bear and Sadie and I loved a last tromp through a newly discovered park, and all was wonderful. <br />
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This is where Bear said, "Mama, this is one of my favorite things ever," which made it worth it that my Christmas tree still twinkled (not being undecorated and carted to the street) at home.</div>
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This is where Bear's brand new (most expensive boots I've ever bought) just got for Christmas boots got soaked, but I knew it was okay because I had just heard, "Mama, this is one of my favorite things ever," moments before.</div>
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This is where I noticed that he still had on his 'church/school' pants and that they would no longer be 'church/school' pants.</div>
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This is where I took a deep breath and knew that I was doing the right thing and that all of the things that were being put on the back burner weren't nearly as important as this.</div>
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And, now, we skip to this morning. I woke up in my house where it's still Christmas and I got out in the cold in a world where it's all over. I was a bit dismayed. The kids were happy enough to get back to school; they seemed excited to see their friends and ready for the routine to kick back in. I was confident that a day of checking things off the list was in order, and I happily drove back home. <br />
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I entered the home and suddenly realized that I had approximately 1,170 seconds (that sounds longer than 19 and a half minutes) to get the tree undecorated, de-lighted, plucked from the stand and drug to the street or it would be with us until next Monday (and that's getting close to what some might consider mid-January). <br />
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I wasn't scared. I wasn't dismayed. I was on it. I was prepared. I was dressed (well, I had both a bra and lace up shoes on and the Fly Lady says you can't really tackle any project productively without both). I walked confidently into the living room, and I took a last look at Christmas 2012. I pondered a moment and felt a little sad to let it all go. I've still got stories to tell, I still want to enjoy those moments we were going to sit as a family and peer at one another by the glow from the tiny, twinkling lights. <br />
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And then I came to my senses. I was down to about 987 seconds, and I had no more time to think beautiful, <i>I'd like to teach the world to sing</i> kinds of thoughts. I had a job to do, and I was set on doing it. I took the precious decorations down in something akin to a swooping motion, where I began near the top of the tree and gathered ornaments as I ran my hands down. I smiled, proud of myself and my uncanny ability to maneuver in such a time constraint. I gently placed the handfulls of multi-colored magic carefully upon the floor and reached up again, stretching to capture as many pieces as I could with each swoop. I worked with the delicacy of a beautiful bird, who swoops down to the water and then gracefully reaches up again, over and over, with beauty and agility. It was a marvel. I was a marvel. In less than a minute and a half I had the entire tree, stripped of its color, and all that was left were the strings of lights. I was a super hero right there in my own living room. <br />
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I decided that it would be easier and quicker to rid the tree of its lights out in the yard, where I wouldn't deposit any more dried pieces of Christmas tree upon the floor. I reached and heaved with all of my might to remove the tree from it's stand. No movement. 'Oh, yes,' I remembered, the Christmas tree man had given me a new stand after he broke the old one with his hammer. What a nice man he was. He gave me a great one. A strong one. It had a big metal spoke which stuck up into the trunk of our tree and held it sturdy and strong for our entire celebration. What a nice, nice man.<br />
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<i>I'll just carry the whole thing out</i>, I thought. It will be easier to disassemble this conglomeration on the front lawn. I still worked with the confidence of a skilled master. I was on it. I was woman. I would prevail. <br />
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Moving the shedding tree from its spot in the living room, across the hardwood floor wasn't as easy a task as I had hoped. The water that filled the reservoir in the stand was sloshing about, and I worked hard to manage across the room without it all spilling out. My cute little black 'yoga' pants worked loose and began to creep down and I had to stop a few times to retie. I didn't feel confident enough at this point to be caught with the tree half way out of the house and me with my pants down. My ego was shrinking. I was tiring.<br />
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I picked it up, put it down. Picked it up, put it down. About fifty three times. I finally made it to the door and heaved it up and over the door jam with a ferocity that sent the remaining water out in a lovely arc that covered at least fifteen feet. It was a lovely, shiny scene, with water mixed with tree sap mixed with tiny little green pieces of Christmas 2012 and it covered a good bit of the room, the entire doorway and a large part of the front porch. I persevered. Somewhere along the heaving and hoing, the Christmas tree skirt had worked itself loose, and now it lay in defeat, a mottled remembrance of what had been. <br />
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I closed the door to the scene of destruction that was once the living room. I would begin anew outside in the frosty air that was Monday morning. I was still woman - I would still win. I was down considerably in time until the truck carrying the nice men would be here for the lawn debris. My clock was ticking. <br />
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I let the tree drop down the stairs with all of the force I had left and watched as it bounced violently down down down off of the stoop. I looked, knowing I would find the tree free of the bondage of that stand - the stand that had moved in my mind from gift of a nice man to green spear of torture. The tree had tumbled, to be sure, but it was still safely tucked into its stand. I harkened back to all of the Christmases where the tree won't stay in the stand, all of the times that we had struggled to make the tree and the stand understand that they were to work together. What was this craziness? The evil joke of Christmas past, yearning for one last laugh?<br />
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I pulled the sappy mess from the top and jiggled and joggled. I stood on the stand and heaved with all my soul and body and pulled to free the tree. I turned the tree on it's side and pulled. I threw it across the front yard. (It was at this point that I took a moment and actually hoped that Julie and Neil from across the street were watching - this was better than most movies.) I put the tree on it's side. I turned it upside down. At one point, I tugged until I knew at the pit of my gut that I had worked the yoga pants loose again and I was sporting a bit of a plumber's surprise. I couldn't care - I had a job to do. I pushed on. <br />
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I got a hammer and I beat and beat and beat again. I cussed the stand. I talked pretty to the stand. I pleaded with the stand. It was a cold, cold morning and now sweat beads covered my forehead. I came out of my jacket. I rubbed together my sap-covered hands and brushed them off on my behind, in the way of a mighty lumberjack. And I went back to the tree and the stand and pulled again. <br />
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I turned the stand to the right and I turned the stand to the left. I sang to it. The seconds ticked by. I heard the sound of the big truck with the nice men. <i>Oh no, I will not lose this battle! </i>I could hear them. They moved a few houses down the street and then stopped. I could hear the talking of the men. They were nearing. This battle was almost over. I would win or I would lose, but the truck was almost here.<br />
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I looked up into the heavens and I pulled up the yoga pants and I brushed together my sappy hands and shook the tree and the stand and I sang to them and I prayed for them to part and I pleaded and I shook. The truck got closer. The squeak of its brakes were but an acre away. The end was near. It was almost over. I would win and get the tree to the curb in the next ninety seconds or would lose and look at the tree at the end of my drive until Monday, January 14. <br />
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I took a last deep breath and I grabbed the hammer. I pulled the tree/stand combo to me with one hand and I hammered like hell with the other. The noise of my hammer was so loud, I lost the sounds of the world. I didn't know what day it was. I didn't know where I was. I was hammering. My life was now about this - this tree and this sharp spoke of doom, and all I wanted in this life was to free them, one from the other. I hammered. I hammered. I hammered and finally, finally the little tree began to ease its way out of its bondage. Little by little the shards of pine began to work themselves loose and the killer needle of the stand separated from the Christmas tree of 2012. <br />
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The truck was three houses away now. I could see the nice men, carrying other people's yard trash to the truck. My tree was loose, but it was covered in lights! <br />
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I threw the tree down to the ground with the force of a rodeo rider roping a whatever they rope and I searched for the end of the lights. I grabbed the lights with a harshness I didn't know I had and I began to pull. I pulled the string of tiny lights and I pulled. The tree rolled over the lawn, depositing its needles and I pulled and I pulled. I knew there were four strings full and I pulled and the tree rolled and we worked together to beat the big white truck. <br />
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Finally, finally I freed the last light and I tossed the connected strings across the yard. I reached down with the strength and finesse of the world's strongest man and picked up the tree with enough strength left over to carry a couple of small European cars. I had this thing! I was about to win. <br />
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I dashed to the curb, to the finish line. I wielded the tree, turned an extra circle and threw the Christmas of 2012 down. It was there! I had been wallowing in the agony of defeat, but I now stood proudly on the gold medal platform and I looked up in time to smile nonchalantly at the nice man. I eased back from the curb. I might have crunched a light or two, but it didn't matter anymore. I was victor. <br />
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Sweat dripped slowly down my brow and I wiped it with the rolled up sleeve of my weary arm. Ahhhhhh. The nice man smiled an extra smile at me as he effortlessly heaved the tree into the truck, as if to say, "I know your struggles and I know you persevered and won." <br />
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I proudly watched the white truck inch off, but I hardly heard the squeaky brakes. All I heard was Helen Reddy, singing <i>I am Woman, Hear me Roar.</i><br />
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I turned on my heels and looked back at the scene of destruction. I would spend the next thirty minutes trying to untangle the lights and ready them for next year, but I didn't care. I had come. I had seen. I had conquered. <br />
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And now, friends, even though I didn't get to tell you everything (like how good it was when Joseph in the church pageant got tired and put his feet up to rest on the manger and Mary hauled off and slapped him) I guess it's over. The yard is a mess. The floor is covered in sap and needles and water. The ornaments are all over the floor and must be gently picked up and packed away, but it's over. <br />
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It was good and now it's over. I'll join you now in 2013 and I'll look forward to our being together in person or on the blog. Happy new year to you and to yours and may we all have a peaceful time, relishing in love and laughs - the good stuff. <br />
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The battle scene after it was all over. </div>
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This is the stand. It looks nice, but notice the center. That's six inches of sharp, pain inducing doom.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-20046632161388800592012-12-19T14:02:00.000-05:002012-12-19T14:02:20.703-05:00The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 3 . . . these things I KNOW.I'm not sure of much. The events of last Friday, bunched up with all of the other confusing events in this complicated world, have left me sad and confused and wondering about what I KNOW. I've wanted to be able to give my children some sense of calm, as we discuss the good things we know about God, this world and the people inhabiting it. I've been grasping at the people and thoughts and things that I know are good. I've found myself whispering prayers that I know, have known for a long time, and wanting to laugh and visit with the ones who create a sense of comfort in me. <br />
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As sad as things feel right now, I'm noticing that working to remember what's good, decent, interesting, meaningful and loving brings us some much needed comfort. Dad has always been one who does that for me, so today's essay jumped in front of me. As I began to put these words in place, it seemed almost obvious that what I need (what I'd like to write about) is what I know. And I may not know much about many things, but I know A LOT about this guy named Pop. <br />
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So here, my friends, are some things I KNOW. Just thinking about them is making me smile, and smiling is bringing me some comfort. <br />
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I KNOW <i>that as long as I live on this earth, I will not have a warm sweater or jacket in a cold restaurant if my father is with me. </i>I've come to terms with this. I know it to be true. He spent the first half of my life, urging me to 'bring along a jacket in case it gets cold' and for reasons I can't explain, I know that he will continue to catch me without said warmth.<br />
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I KNOW <i>that there is such a thing as a happy medium (and </i>I KNOW <i>that I don't find it often).</i> I know because of Pop. My Dad has a hold on moderation unlike anyone I've ever known. He get's it! I'm amazed by his understanding of the happy medium, keeping things in perspective and moderation! I want his ability to find this perch between too much and not enough. For my 48 years, though, I've just watched in amazement. </div>
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He can take a nap that is just the right length. It makes him feel better! He doesn't stay asleep for four hours, waking up in misery, or rest nervously, only to get agitated. He can eat a sinful dessert, just enjoying enough to get the taste and not so much he feels like he needs to be rolled away with the rest of us. He can read a great book, but put it down when it's time to get some sleep. What's that like? I can't imagine, but I KNOW it's possible, as I've watched it in action all of my life. </div>
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I KNOW <i>that at any point, in any place, during any event, with any circumstances, my father would find me and meet me where I am</i>. I've always known it. Pretty wonderful, huh? I write this as a serious point, and I'm a different person for knowing this down in my soul, but we have laughed many times about the ways that Dad can find us in any situation. <br />
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There are 92,746 seats in Sanford Stadium in Athens, Georgia. It's a big place. Please believe me when I tell you that once, at a UGA game, my father sat on one side of that giant arena and found me on the other side, in the middle of 92 other thousands of people! He had no idea where I was, but was sure I was at the game, and he found me! He's like that. He is like a mother bear in that way. He know's where his kids are, physically and emotionally, and he gets there when we need him.<br />
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I KNOW <i>that truly listening and hearing people is a gift. </i>I've been heard, and I know this is true. My Dad hears the people around him. He listens and he hears us. I can think of no greater gift, and I will forever try to be the listener he is. Most of us are busy. Life is complicated. We hear too much chatter; too much distraction. It's hard to really listen and difficult to really hear the ones we love. It's hard to know people. <br />
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My Dad knows people, and all of my life, I have watched the gift that his listening has brought to the people in his life. He is who I watch to learn how to listen . . . how to hear . . . and how to really know folks. I'm working on it, and probably will be for a long time to come, but I've got the best teacher ever. Listening is a gift and I know that my Dad gives it freely wherever he goes. This I know.<br />
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The world is crazy. Things are hard to understand. I don't know a lot. <br />
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These are some things I know, though, to be sure. It makes me feel better to think about them. <br />
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<b><i>What do you know?</i></b><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-24358646871824664882012-12-12T11:13:00.000-05:002012-12-12T21:23:30.086-05:00The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 2 We'll start at the Fox . . . <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Don't think I haven't driven my brain crazy trying to decide where to start with <i>The Wednesday Pop</i>. I have. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"> There is much to tell, as I told you last week in </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #cccccc;"><a href="http://deana-pressingpause.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-wednesday-pop-vol-i_5.html">The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 1</a> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;">. Where to begin, I pondered a million times since last week. A couple of nights ago, though, I found my answer on the tv, of all places. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;">We found a show on PBS devoted to the </span><a href="http://www.foxtheatre.org/" style="background-color: #cccccc;">the Fox Theatre in Atlanta</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;">. It was wonderful; part history, part legends, part documentary. I enjoyed it, and it served as a trip down memory lane through so many awesome adventures in my childhood. About twenty minutes into the show, I realized I would start my Pop stories at the Fox. It makes good sense. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white;">I'll explain. My Dad (often known as Pop, his grandfather name) is grand with grand celebrations. (I realize I just used the same word twice - it was intentional.) He can magically turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, the mundane into something special, the occasion into an event. And so many times, he did that while he introduced my sister and I to a great, big, interesting world - often at a performance. Many times, as you might imagine, the Fox came into play. <i>If you don't live in the Atlanta area, please click on the link above and investigate this fine theatre. If you live near here, and you've never been there - you must remedy that immediately. That is your homework. Period.</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;">As a child, I had no idea that every kid I knew didn't make frequent trips to the Fox. I assumed that everyone went to see </span><a href="http://www.nureyev.org/rudolf-nureyev-biography/" style="background-color: #cccccc;">Rudolph Nureyev</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"> and </span><a href="http://www.bacnyc.org/about/mikhail-baryshnikov" style="background-color: #cccccc;">Mikhail Baryshnikov</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;">, whether or not they were into ballet. I thought all kids saw </span><i style="background-color: black;">The Royal Ballet of </i><b style="background-color: black; font-style: italic;">Everyplace</b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;">, and for a while, I took it for granted. When the Fox was in danger of being demolished, I figured all children were kept abreast of all that was happening and that most other kids had their own </span><i style="background-color: black;">"Save the Fox" </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;">t-shirt, like I did. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white;">Didn't most families go to see Chinese Acrobats and the Atlanta Symphony? Surely other kids knew the story about the Russian ballet couple who had been held captive in one room when they tried to defect, but practiced their ballet in the small space they had. Surely others, like me, got to see them at the Fox, on their first tour in America. Surely other parents told their children about this couple's story, shared the tales of their determination and cried alongside their daughters when the couple took to the stage. Surely, they did.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white;">I assumed most folks saw the first running of <i>A Chorus Line</i> and <i>Phantom of the Opera</i>. I figured that most folks took their kids to see Gospel singers bring down the house on a regular basis. (As a side note . . . if you are a singer who is female, a bit past middle-age, African American and a tad on the puffy side, my father will find you and hear you sing.) I just knew that other kids heard boys' choirs from everywhere, rarely missed the <i>Alvin Ailey Dancers </i>and sometimes sat through plays and performances whose names they could barely pronounce. I thought that was the way everybody did it. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white;">Eventually, I got a clearer picture. I noticed that other kids my age didn't talk about their experiences at the Fox, or any one of Atlanta's other performance venues. I began to see that my parents were different, that we did things that lots of other folks weren't doing. And though I'll never know all that went into planning these events and pulling them off without the finances to provide for such, I did start to see that my Dad was different. My eyes opened up a bit more, and I realized that he was consistently affording Jodi and me chances to see tiny glimpses of all that awaited us on this interesting place called Earth. </span><br />
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When we were learning about Martin Luther King, Jr. at school, our family went to his church for a service and saw his home and roamed around his neighborhood. When we reveled in the successes of the U.S. figure skaters, we were there at the Omni to see them in person. When Jodi started taking gymnastics, we started seeing the famous gymnasts live. I took note . . . my parents weren't steering us in the direction of their own lives, exactly, they were providing for us a summary of the many things the world has to offer. We heard authors, listened to choirs, saw circuses, went to concerts, ballets, folk performances, plays and comedies. We went to football games and swim meets and saw the visiting tours of anyone and anything that came through Athens, Ga. <br />
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I don't list these things to brag. I list them now, as a thankful daughter and a learning parent. I marvel at the experiences that my folks gave me on a limited budget and on the many ways that they put aside their particular interests to introduce us to the gifts of the world. It's amazing to me, still. <br />
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In March, I wrote about the many ways that my mother touched this world, but I write this to begin to tell you the myriad ways that my Dad is changing this place. <br />
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Luckily, I wasn't grown when I began to notice all that he did to stretch our minds, our experiences or views of the world. Thankfully, I realized at least some of what he did while I was still young and under his full time tutelage. I remember when I first wondered about 'where Dad came from.' <i>How did a man who grew up poor in Griffin and Forest Park, Georgia learn about all of this? How did he know that all of these things went on in the world, when the adventures weren't part of his daily life? </i><br />
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He grew up with two amazing and loving parents, who adored their three sons. They were poor; and though they brought themselves out of poverty and achieved so much, the majority of my Dad's childhood was filled with hardships. It was filled with love, too. And humor, and appreciation and church and singing and laughing and family. I guess it was filled with enough of all of that good stuff, that he was instilled with a deep appreciation for the individual. He learned about the many parts that make up a whole person. I guess he came to know, maybe earlier than most, how important it was to know folks' stories. I am thankful that he continues to pass that down.<br />
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I remember once trying to come up with a way to ask Dad how he came to know about the great, big, wide, interesting world. I was frustrated, thinking I might not have the words to explain exactly what I was asking. He got it, though, and he told me straight out. I hope I remember his words correctly. . .<br />
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He said everything opened up for him on a school field trip. He said he remembers being brought on a bus from Forest Park to Atlanta to Symphony Hall with his classmates. He remembers looking around. He remembers noticing the building's architecture, the careful ways the space was created to carry sound and he remembers seeing the people of all sorts who were there to hear the musicians. He recalls marveling at the talent of all of the orchestra members and the conductor and the people in the audience who seemed to understand it all. He explained that he made a choice, right there - he decided that he would know that world, those things. He decided that he would learn what they knew and visit that building again. He would check out this big, wide world. <br />
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And he is doing just that, and taking the rest of us along on the journey. Thanks be to God, that he is my Dad, that he dreamt up all that he did and that he introduced me to all that I saw. I KNOW NOW that what I had wasn't the norm. I know now that I was part of something extraordinary. Today, I marvel at how he pulled it off. I wonder how he made it happen, where he got the energy, came up with the money, had the tenacity to keep it going. How could one person introduce that many different things to two little kids from Georgia? <br />
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I just hope I remember to take advantage of the '<i>Save the Fox' t-shirt moments </i>with my own kids. I hope I remember to stay awake enough to see all that happens in this bright, beautiful world and share it with them. <br />
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I am learning from the master, maestro, conductor, tour guide, choreographer, artistic director, coach, and mentor that is my Dad. I am learning from the best. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-59121252248076252262012-12-11T08:30:00.000-05:002012-12-11T08:30:26.962-05:00Feeling the love . . . You know I love what I do, and shooting photos of people who are enjoying life is the best. I adored photographing this awesome duo and their sweet dog, Phoebe, as they prepare for the blessings on the way - a little boy AND a little girl.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xLjQJz9aGtI/UMcwwD_6mOI/AAAAAAAAEng/MPlsNbK57Kc/s1600/IMG_7189.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xLjQJz9aGtI/UMcwwD_6mOI/AAAAAAAAEng/MPlsNbK57Kc/s400/IMG_7189.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Phoebe was a rockstar and these two were game for anything, as we worked on illustrating their story.<br />
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Clearly, this trio will be ready and able to shower those lucky twins with all of the love they need!</div>
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Photography is fun when people are natural and comfortable in their own skin, and these guys were amazing. </div>
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You can feel the love when you see these images . . . I dig that. Great smiles and happy hearts.</div>
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Cheers to you! I can't wait to meet the kids!</div>
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You can see the whole session at <a href="http://deanagrahamphotography.com/p634532469" style="background-color: white;">Robin, Paul and Phoebe</a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-71329576046513326532012-12-07T09:05:00.000-05:002012-12-07T09:05:00.911-05:00List 37 - Keeping it in perspective?A couple of days ago I walked out my front door and I looked up and saw this . . .<br />
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Amazing, huh? I love it when I look somewhere 'regular' and see something irregular - something spectacular, something unbelievable and extraordinary. This scene struck me as EXTRAordinary. As I headed out to walk Sadie (or for Sadie to walk me) I continued to ponder on the amazing-ness and beauty that surrounds us when we take a moment to look. I uttered an audible <i style="font-weight: bold;">thank you</i> to Sadie for forcing me out, where I could look up and be amazed at God's handiwork, even for a split second. </div>
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This image is SOOTC (straight out of the camera). These are the colors that were there. The clouds were in that fun formation. The leaves were that gold and the sky was that blue. Wow, I thought. </div>
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Then I began to think about how my feelings contribute to what I see. And then I did what I'm good at . . . I took it all over the place and started having some fun. What would I see if I looked up on a day that I was worried or a day when I was sad. What would it look like if I was feeling relieved, light and airy? What would I see when I'm excited, anticipating something wonderful? </div>
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So that, my friends, had to be the list for this week. Let's look at the same scene with different eyes, from other perspectives. Add your own moods and consider the part our perspective plays in our perceptions. I enjoyed it. Hope you will, too.</div>
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1. Here's what I see when I'm on <i style="font-weight: bold;">cloud nine</i>, when the stars align and I'm feeling great.</div>
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2. I see this when I'm feeling a little blue, when I'm consumed with worry.</div>
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3. I love the scene when I'm relieved, when something worked out just the way I had hoped. . . </div>
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4. And when I am in a remembering mood, considering things I'm thankful for, appreciating what I have and where I've been . . . </div>
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5. Sometimes I'm stuck somewhere and it's time to move on. This might be what I see . . . </div>
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6. What about when I'm feeling excited?</div>
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7. In a dreamy mood?</div>
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We can go anywhere we want with this. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">WAIT . . .</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>we can go anywhere we want? Hmmmmm.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Keeping it in perspective, looking at it from one side or another, ours or another's, from the bright side or the gloomy side, with air or under water - it's our prerogative.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Interesting. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Very interesting.</span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1440429483586329604.post-18858114803414127662012-12-05T12:15:00.000-05:002012-12-05T12:15:57.327-05:00The Wednesday Pop - Vol. I<br />
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Seventy four years ago today the world changed. It really did. You may not know the significance, so I'll explain. When I first explain, you may think I'm exaggerating, but I plan to spend the next year explaining how the world changed for the better for all of us.</div>
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On this day in December in 1938, a little baby was born at home to the beautiful young Lorena Butler Murphy. He was named Donald Clarence Murphy. He would do great things, but they didn't know that then. They just knew he was a blessing and he was precious and he was healthy.</div>
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Last spring when I wrote about my amazing mother, I made a promise (mostly to myself) that I would write about my father and I would do it while he was here to read it. I intend to make good on that promise.</div>
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I've been thinking for a while about how I'd like to tell you about little Donnie who grew up to be Donald C. Murphy, Ph.D. I've been wondering about the best format, the clearest way to tell you about him. I think I've got my plan.</div>
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I have a lot to say, to write and to remember about this man. It's hard to sum him up without some time. I intend to give it just that. I've decided that I'll spread out my memories and stories about him over this next year, on the blog, in a segment called <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Wednesday Pop </i>- Wednesdays because that's the day and Pop because it's his grandfather name and because it sounds really cool.</div>
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Prepare to be moved. Prepare to learn and to listen and to join me as I recount just some of why I am so fortunate. I cannot imagine how the stars aligned and Jodi and I got picked to be Dad's daughters, but I thank God every single day. It has been a journey that continues now. The rest of you seem to be making it, but I'm not sure how you're doing without a Dad like mine.</div>
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I have many things to tell you, so it will take some time. I'll tell you things he taught me about people, God, the world and feelings. I'll tell you about my memories of growing up with a Dad like Dad. I'll tell you about quiet times and times full of laughter. I'll tell you touching things that you won't believe. As a parent, sometimes I look back on my father during my childhood and use it as a guidebook and other times I look back and just feel amazed. My childhood wasn't perfect. I won't say that. No one's is, and that would be a dishonest waste of time. My childhood was real and wonderful and hard and exciting and frustrating and scary and loving, just like most. But I went through it with someone I want you to know better and I can't wait to tell the stories.</div>
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I hope you'll enjoy them with me. I hope you'll think back on your own memories, remember the dear ones who make your journey worthwhile. I'll love this romp through the past and this closer look at the present. I hope you will, too.</div>
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I love you, Dad.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17721100747194142086noreply@blogger.com0