tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5139536742329087842024-03-05T17:15:41.558-07:00me writing moreUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger168125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-5981832466847087612023-09-11T10:14:00.000-06:002023-09-11T10:14:25.303-06:00<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuS5zTRVA0rZyI5wmrJdb8dfT3NuFvaTVVhL5hL996H_D-cdtCmkpjT4Q4TH-EHFNBQD2yT9NxssG5AIx8vmYJYRfIBaYR5Gt4eEIarFc3VQa7ei6W27PXQ5nvtdf9aWRy1nX_JiMrWs10IBQbmeRxB-A12NA7HupnQhd2I4qZlswkgZfKz--ebYgMgCY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2113" data-original-width="1655" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuS5zTRVA0rZyI5wmrJdb8dfT3NuFvaTVVhL5hL996H_D-cdtCmkpjT4Q4TH-EHFNBQD2yT9NxssG5AIx8vmYJYRfIBaYR5Gt4eEIarFc3VQa7ei6W27PXQ5nvtdf9aWRy1nX_JiMrWs10IBQbmeRxB-A12NA7HupnQhd2I4qZlswkgZfKz--ebYgMgCY" width="188" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I hope this is visible. It's not as amazing as it was in real life, but I hope it's kind of evident. It's a spider's web--a really big one--that I happened to see on a neighbor's lamppost a few days ago. I don't know if I would have seen it if we hadn't passed by at just the moment we did. The sun was setting, so the light caught it just right so that I could see the details of this exquisite (and creepy) web and all the things caught in it. In fact, as I tried to get a good angle, the light dropped enough that I almost lost the chance to get the photo. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've been reading a book called <i>Awe</i>. It talks about the benefits of feeling awe, and the ways we might find it in our lives. Some interesting things are that feelings of awe actually improve mood and cognitive abilities! And in some ways, I think having the gospel seems to provide us with more opportunities to see awe--or maybe it's just that we might be more open to it? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One of the interesting points I found was a reminder that we often are unaware of the things around us that can bring us wonder and awe. That we are lost in thought, have forgotten to look, or are distracted by concerns or devices or whatever. The author pointed out that, for children, everything is new, so they find awe in the world all the time. If we could be like children a bit--sound familiar?--we might also find awe more in our lives. I know that when I go on walks with my grandchildren, they see a million wonders in the world that I might miss. Bugs and cracks in sidewalks that look like rivers. They remind me to be aware and in awe of my surroundings. Awe can be found in human behavior, too: courage or kindness, for example. In music and art. But we have to put ourselves in the positions to find it and then we have to quiet down and look. I want that in my life. I don't want to miss what can bring awe--even if it's a creepy spider's web big enough like it could catch a bird but fragile and delicate and sparkling in the evening light, visible really for only a few moments. How cool is that? </div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-90826884196787912512023-01-07T16:04:00.001-07:002023-01-07T16:04:15.412-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"> It's hard to see in the photo, but I couldn't resist taking a picture: first snow of the season, and someone on campus had made a snowman. It is only a temporary one, as the weather is warming and already tilting him to the side. (In fact, the second I snapped the photo his head rolled off!). But still. It's the first snow and it's a snowman. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSvL09N1hn66EoB9HDXI284aiPWiFTaqGzlWSAqXB0hMhlEA0Q1Kg5OKFSqwp8o0lIWc8uTLVsCyc2MbFakCBssrHe3ItP7v9V513jg8A5f6W2kPTkF-8uBdyYyMprLROqyu7z3nFWQe8wrdJdvvl29t_ZMngz6GUd1tIutGeOozfwT9cUenLCa5BC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1057" data-original-width="817" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSvL09N1hn66EoB9HDXI284aiPWiFTaqGzlWSAqXB0hMhlEA0Q1Kg5OKFSqwp8o0lIWc8uTLVsCyc2MbFakCBssrHe3ItP7v9V513jg8A5f6W2kPTkF-8uBdyYyMprLROqyu7z3nFWQe8wrdJdvvl29t_ZMngz6GUd1tIutGeOozfwT9cUenLCa5BC" width="186" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I have always loved snowmen. I have quite a collection in my home--some that stay with us all year round and not just at Christmas. I love Calvin's snowmen. I just get such a kick out of how he uses them to communicate what he really thinks, creating commentary on life as he sees it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Once I saw a watercolor of a snowman in a mason jar with a caption: There is no snowman resurrection--Enjoy now. I refused to buy it even though I loved it because whoever had painted it had misspelled "resurrection," and I knew that it would just bother me. But my artist friend knew how much I wanted it, so she made me one. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIvZU6Y3L9xifDP9_-rHUiKqkiE6gbp4AuuRuu42-fH3NGqyMxtEeE5vtiUObZh39iWQ6ESeZE8ZBNuvaOmewarZ4uGkyxLdm6fcDnutDDD7CkI0eSGjj7VPlZdzLf2PK7dkp9In8FU98vSpN9UNHF3njWh34Z2dgpS9PVCsaQScuVOjEpnjhHEmSL/s4032/snowman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIvZU6Y3L9xifDP9_-rHUiKqkiE6gbp4AuuRuu42-fH3NGqyMxtEeE5vtiUObZh39iWQ6ESeZE8ZBNuvaOmewarZ4uGkyxLdm6fcDnutDDD7CkI0eSGjj7VPlZdzLf2PK7dkp9In8FU98vSpN9UNHF3njWh34Z2dgpS9PVCsaQScuVOjEpnjhHEmSL/s320/snowman.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, I wonder if I like snowmen for just that: they are temporary and therefore precious. But, with that thought I realize that everything--everyone--is just that, too: temporary. We are all only here for a short time. People pass through our lives and on, to another place, which means, in some cases, that we will never meet again in this life. With that thought, I realize that I should treat everyone I meet as temporary and precious, as gifts in the moment. It's a kind of grace, I think, that snowmen remind me of. Something I need to remember more often when a driver irritates me or a person in the store is rude. I need to imagine them all as snowmen. Precious. </div><br /></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-28981164125611168412021-02-09T15:36:00.000-07:002021-02-09T15:36:27.598-07:00Birdsong<p> It was quiet on my walk this morning. Peaceful. </p><p>Until I got partway through the walk. I had been aware of the birds--they are always chirping around here. Or honking (in the fall when the geese fly in huge flocks overhead) or cawing (when the black birds harass the deer and geese). But this morning, it began in the quiet way I always pictured when I sang the primary song: </p><p>In the leafy tree tops, the birds sing good morning.</p><p>They're first to see the sun, they must tell everyone. </p><p>In the leafy tree tops, the birds sing good morning. </p><p>I was thinking of that song as I walked, listening to the birds chirp and tweet and thinking that I didn't have the leafy trees of the song, but I still had the morning birdsong. Suddenly, the song became a squabble. I don't know what else to call it. The birds were squawking and squeaking. I looked up, but I couldn't see them. There had to be a lot of them, but I could only see one on a rooftop. Then, I found a few in another tree, hidden among the leaves that still clung to the branches. As I looked, I could see a few birds here and there, but nothing to account for the racket. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In a few minutes, they quieted. Whatever the fuss was, they had, apparently resolved it. I went back to humming my childhood song again as I walked. A soothing start to the day. </div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIXzwBGrfOg6IwGo4e3ijmPh5wKSAUyNVYi9TgexWGgcZnAD1J-rrpvi9dj0VTsOZIN0hGdTmkLLWzBmQ6dL6a1ul-B6b4dfomDM2MG3nqvmodw4Oa_iO19TkgTiVuPmM5yKmYCAgNRA/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIXzwBGrfOg6IwGo4e3ijmPh5wKSAUyNVYi9TgexWGgcZnAD1J-rrpvi9dj0VTsOZIN0hGdTmkLLWzBmQ6dL6a1ul-B6b4dfomDM2MG3nqvmodw4Oa_iO19TkgTiVuPmM5yKmYCAgNRA/" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-20541971892881289122021-01-20T11:23:00.008-07:002021-01-20T11:25:01.675-07:00 Ice Hills at the Lake<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDcwJa6egPS8-fFP81KqleFQP56P3p9w6YIdjU-Pu7ovA238eGr42tTWpunOJFzCQHbPnzEBZqFby-Zumfx81Wd6IeiHYcTSYQBKaS0FJr5CAoCch0-WwLfiUFpHCFfM8O1SXpjDnHONE/s2048/utah+lake+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDcwJa6egPS8-fFP81KqleFQP56P3p9w6YIdjU-Pu7ovA238eGr42tTWpunOJFzCQHbPnzEBZqFby-Zumfx81Wd6IeiHYcTSYQBKaS0FJr5CAoCch0-WwLfiUFpHCFfM8O1SXpjDnHONE/w240-h320/utah+lake+2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I had heard about the ice piles on Utah Lake, so I thought I would go check them out. They fascinate me! I mean, it's a lake and we aren't even that wintry yet--no snow to speak of, moderate winter temperatures. So how does this happen? How do ice sheets form and collide to build these sculptures? <div><br /></div><div>I learned on the news later that cold weather (even our mildly cold weather) can form a sheet of ice on the lake. When the wind blows, it can shift the plates of ice, forcing them to crash into each other, building up these piles of ice that look like they should be in the North Sea, not central Utah. </div><div><br /></div><div>I love that nature can create interesting outcomes when a particular set of circumstances come together. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes nature's combinations can be dangerous: I'm reading a book called <i>Under a Flaming Sky</i> about a wildfire in Minnesota in 1894, a horrible combination of natural events (wind, temperature, and low humidity) that trapped 2,000 people and killed 400 in 5 hours. The specific conditions combined to create hurricane-force winds and fire tornadoes, even something called gas bubbles that floated and burst over people's heads. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes nature's combinations can be beautiful: Raised in Alaska, I was sometimes awakened in the night, bundled in a blanket, and nudged outside to watch the night sky dance with color from the Aurora Borealis. I've looked up what combination creates this beautiful sight: solar winds, charged particles and something called magnetospheric plasma, whatever that is. I don't understand the combination, but I do understand the result--beautiful sky paintings of red and green that captivated me as a child--and still do. </div><div><br /></div><div>The ice hills remind me that the world can be a place filled with wonder. They remind me to open my eyes and look around me for those wonderful things. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnu5vqECNxI6SlTsTNa5ksT2WC_An2zOpyzwYflP6gXYjBvPJkMWIWIZ45RHdyuva-y-37jyz6azitGltya4XogqxN4HkSKwbz87qRXn1_FGmYNyQSUI6rfKH7yPc-oCyV8r6wJMKsN4/s2048/utah+lake+1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-87097160680371874572020-02-06T22:07:00.002-07:002020-02-06T22:07:44.053-07:00Snow-calm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After sitting in conference sessions (good ones!) all day, I needed a walk and fresh air. So, for dinner, I got directions to some restaurants about a half mile from the hotel and headed out.<br />
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It felt good to be outside. The sun was going down but it wasn't super cold. The air was refreshing, and I was glad to be outside, even if it was going-home traffic instead of the sounds of nature I enjoy in my walks at home. I walked briskly, checking out two different shopping areas, eventually found a place to eat, and then started back to the hotel after I was done.<br />
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By now, it was dark, and as I started walking, snow started falling. At first the snowfall was so light that I almost didn't notice it. A flake here and there finally caught my eye. Then, more and more fell. While I waited for an interminable light to change so that I could cross a wide, busy street, I realized that it was snowing enough that I would be snowy when I got back to the hotel--especially if the light stayed red much longer!<br />
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But the light did, eventually, change, and I was able to get to the hotel before the heavy snow came down and turned me into a snow-woman. Still, white flakes were sticking to my black coat, and, staring at them, I realized that I usually don't walk during a snowfall anymore. I have in the past, especially growing up in Alaska, but I can't remember (specifically) the last time I did it. I love to watch the snow falling while I'm warm inside my house. If I am outside, I usually hurry through the snowfall to the car or the house, trying to get out of it as fast as I can.<br />
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But tonight it felt very good to be out in the start of a snowfall. I felt like lingering. The world seems to settle and quiet when snow falls--and I felt the same quieting in my soul. The stresses and worries that we call carry around with us seem to melt away when the snow begins to fall. I wonder how the world might be better if we all walked for a few minutes in the quietly falling snow more often.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-13646760796840888002020-01-20T20:13:00.004-07:002020-01-20T20:13:54.466-07:00returning homeI was born and raised in Alaska. My children were all born there. In many ways, Alaska is in my bones and heart and soul. It's usually good to go home, where you feel like you can breathe in what makes you you from birth. It is good to see old friends and people who knew me as I was growing up. To drive the streets that are almost part of my DNA. There's China Garden, still. The Tastee Freeze on the corner by our old house. Still. So much sweet. But this trip was bitter, too.<br />
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I went for the funeral of my oldest friend who had died suddenly. We had spoken by phone on the day she died, and she asked me to speak. I said I would, but I struggled all week in coming to terms with her death and the task of talking about her life and the plan of salvation. I had been trying to be more present in my daily activities--and now I was divided: part of me doing what I needed to do but part of me grieving, my chest constantly aching with the pressure of holding in my sorrow.<br />
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So, I returned home to send my friend off to another home. We had agreed to attend our high school reunion this coming summer together. Neither of us wanted to go, but we agreed we could go together for mutual support. Now I will attend without her. She has a different reunion to attend.<br />
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So much was familiar. The weather was cold--but it had been colder the week before, so the trees were gorgeous, robed in thick fleecy ice, starkly beautiful against the bright blue of the sky. This was my welcome. My breath made clouds every time I breathed, and my nose tickled when I inhaled the cold air: ice crystals forming.<br />
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I was driving to visit friends when a large moose walking beside me along the road startled me. This photo of a moose in the airport has to substitute for the one I saw as I couldn't pull off the road to take a photo of the one that was much bigger than this one. No need to take a chance and risk its wrath. Or to identify myself as an outsider. When I mentioned the sighting to my friends, they nonchalantly said a large one had just been in their yard. "They are really around a lot this year with the deeper snow." Oh yeah. I remember that. </div>
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I remember the long days of summer and the long nights of winter, but I found that my inner clock wasn't adjusted to that rhythm anymore. I attended the 9:00 meeting at our old ward building, a building where I taught seminary on early mornings, where we spoke in sacrament meetings, and where our children were blessed. It was 9:00, and this is what it looked like: pitch black as night.<br />
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I parked in the hotel lot facing south and was reminded of the sun's rotation in winter: the first shot is the sunrise (about 11:30), the sun just above the horizon in the southeast. The second photo is the sunset (about 4:00, since we are a month past solstice) with the sun just above the horizon in the southwest. The winter sun makes a short arc above the horizon for about 4-5 hours this time of year, and there is the start and end of it. My inner clock felt shaky--what time was it? I never could quite feel it. How much of that was the shifting daylight and how much was the difficult purpose of my visit? I don't know. </div>
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I gave the talk I had to give, aching and hoping it provided comfort to my friend's parents and children, slid my way on icy roads back to the hotel and cried hard alone in my room. Grief is like that, isn't it? Coming and going like tides. Maybe like the days in Alaska--long at times and then short. Ever present and something we get used to until we aren't used to it anymore and it hits us, makes us feel like a stranger in our own home. </div>
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I am home again now. Home to my husband and my life now. Home to remember my friend who returned to her eternal home last week. We will both be home again someday to a place that will feel familiar, I hope, and welcoming. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-56263206560975861892020-01-15T11:07:00.000-07:002020-01-15T11:07:04.159-07:00snowman serviceI was walking across campus yesterday and saw this little guy, looking a little worse for wear because the weather was warming, but still there. Still bringing a smile to my face.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwfus2jXJuzCTROgSC3ZWyzh4J_KNIKIPUNuIR2RI6iCE2pf15gqddSmT8-KXOJGfzi2BM6uGsNWqZpb1Dkbq3WYINQ7bQ5NYisGvChe3weeSWdVf-HJZGXgdb9PPKNa1OBResNI61z10/s1600/snowman.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwfus2jXJuzCTROgSC3ZWyzh4J_KNIKIPUNuIR2RI6iCE2pf15gqddSmT8-KXOJGfzi2BM6uGsNWqZpb1Dkbq3WYINQ7bQ5NYisGvChe3weeSWdVf-HJZGXgdb9PPKNa1OBResNI61z10/s320/snowman.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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And I needed a smile. Candy passed away over the weekend. My longest friend. And she is gone. And I am grieving and I needed a smile.<br />
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Candy was such a great example of service. I asked her once how she could know exactly what a person needed. I can take cookies or soup or bread--but all my service feels generic. Candy's felt specific to the person and to the need at the moment. How did she do that? I think she just lived really close to the spirit, but she was embarrassed, said she didn't know, and changed the subject. I was thinking about this as I walked across campus. And there was this little snowman.<br />
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And I thought: someone built this snowman, probably just for fun. They probably had no idea that, even when it was worn and fading and actually not looking so good (one eye gone, dirt sticking to its body), even then it would make someone who needed a lift to smile.<br />
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And then I thought: maybe service can be like that, too. Maybe my cookies or soup or bread, as not-so-specific as they may be to the current need, can still lift someone who needs to know they are loved. And in that thought, I felt comfort and peace.<br />
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So, the little snowman, as small and fading as he was, taught a good lesson, one I needed. Thank you, whoever made him!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-23975916881255208252020-01-07T13:43:00.001-07:002020-01-07T13:43:50.520-07:00FamilyIn the week between Christmas and New Year's, I had a good moment, one that doesn't happen all that often: all my children were in the same place at the same time. For about 24 hours, we were in the same city at a family wedding.<br />
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The photographer took some pictures of us and then said to be crazy for the next one. I was trying to say, "No! Don't tell this family that!They are already crazy enough!" But it was too late. My kids were already into it and this is the result. I don't know what some of it means, but what I hope it shows is people who like each other and have fun being together.<br />
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Being together was a treat; having this reminder of the enjoyment my kids have with each other is a blessing. The best Christmas present of all.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-28516605016675195242019-10-12T11:28:00.000-06:002019-10-12T11:43:14.488-06:00Autumn<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The air chills. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We celebrate the passing, <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Draping mantles in ginger leaves and</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Piling tables with golden pumpkins, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Final crops of summer bounty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Even in autumn, though,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not everything passes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some things live. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Even thrive. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Stand out.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And other things sleep, renew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Resting until spring. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And, as in all nature, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">those that sleep and live<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Survive with scars.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Scars that show surviving<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Despite hardship<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Despite pain and grief<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Despite loss. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Autumn. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A season of change. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A season of surviving. </span><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-10954673040107466562019-09-09T10:26:00.003-06:002019-09-09T10:26:33.401-06:00First day of schoolI love the first day of school. I always have, ever since my own first day of school. (I guess it's a good thing I became a teacher!). I love the anticipation of the day. All the new clothes and binders and paper! I have to say that I was kind of nerdy when I was a girl (probably not a shock to people who know me.) On the first day of seventh grade, I was so excited that I put ALL the notebook paper my mother bought me in my new binder. It was heavy. And when I was standing at the bus stop with all the older kids, who had a few sheets of paper in a folder and looked cool with their light loads, I realized how nerdy my lugging that huge bundle appeared. I removed almost all the paper that night, but there was no way to take back that first impression!<br />
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I still love the smell of new pencils--sharpening them renews the smell and makes me feel like writing. As I've gotten older, I've been able to indulge my love of writing utensils. I don't have to use the cheapest (which made sense for my parents when I was growing up). Now I can buy my own--and who knew that pencils and pens made such a difference? There is nothing like a Palomino Blackwing pencil for smoothness. And, although I don't use them anymore, I will never forget the scratchy feel of a fountain pen moving across paper.<br />
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So, yes, I am a nerdy teacher who still loves the first day of school. Because of that, I am extra happy when my children start sending first-day-of-school pictures of my grandchildren to me. Look at these cute faces, at the new shoes and combed hair! What's not to love?<br />
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But I was really tickled by this one of Anya. below. She's not just standing in front of the door--she's jumping for joy! She loves school, and she is excited to be heading back. She lives her life at top speed, putting everything she has into everything she does. What a way to start the school year! I want to emulate her enthusiasm for life. And I want that energy for the start of my own school year. Yes! (Fist pump inserted here.)<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-63291950753948996232019-01-15T13:46:00.000-07:002019-01-15T13:46:22.559-07:00night timeA part of me longs to be inside my home when the sun sets and night comes on. A part of me likes the idea of being tucked in, settled down. I like being in the light with the darkness beyond the windows.<br />
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But sometimes, I am still at work when night falls. And when I look from my window, I can see the city beyond the practice field and school buildings.<br />
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I love the way the lights of the city glitter. I love that being in my office also feels a little like I'm tucked in and the world is "out there." I love looking into the night knowing that I am in the light.<br />
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But sometimes I am in a car at night, driving by homes where the people who live there are tucked in and I am the one on the outside, in the night. I am behind the car lights that glitter and flash in windows as we pass. I like the idea of seeing the windows of light, seeing families at a table, talking, or on couches, watching tv. I like to think of them tucked in and glad to be inside during the night. I like to imagine their lives. I always imagine them safe and happy, safe from the dark. Settled.<br />
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If I had my wish, I'd be inside, tucked in for the night, eating dinner and reading or watching tv, and imagining that the cars driving by were envying my being the one in the light, out of the night, and settled.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-50522587873159659272019-01-07T15:40:00.001-07:002019-01-07T15:40:12.841-07:00writing in the real world<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gabe's letter to Santa, complaining about his mom</td></tr>
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We spent Christmas with our son and his family in Arizona. As part of that visit, I was able to see my grandchildren use writing for meaningful purposes in their lives--and I couldn't have been happier! On Christmas Eve, Tatum (5) wrote a note to Santa's elves. She wanted to make sure they wouldn't eat the gingerbread houses she and Gabe had made. Her note says: <i>Dear elves: Please do not eat our gingerbread houses. I don't want you to eat it so you should not eat it. Love, Tatum</i>. (spelling corrected).<br />
Gabe's was written around the same time, to Santa. I had heard the exchange when he was asking his mom about why Tatum got to stay up as late as he did (he's 10). In exasperation (and humor), she said something like "I must like her more than you." A little while later, the letter pictured above appeared on the counter: <i>Dear Santa, Today my mom told me that she likes Tatum more than me. I really don't think that's fair. I do all kinds of stuff for her. I babysit, do chores, make breakfast, make dinner. I also make my sisters happy. Please write back telling my mom not to have favorites. The good boy, Gabe.</i><br />
Now, I know that Gabe is secure in his mother's affections, so I can see the humor in the situation. I also think that it's telling that both of these children see writing as a way to make things happen in the world. How cool is that???<br />
As a writing teacher, I had to notice the different argumentative moves made by the two: Tatum was pretty much saying don't do it because I don't want you to do it--assuming that her desires carry weight with the elves, I suppose. Gabe, however, used evidence. He listed all the things he does to be a good, productive member of the family--to have value--and ended with a call to action: a letter back from Santa reprimanding his mother.<br />
I know I love these two kids, so I find everything they do cute. But I also look at this experience from the perspective of someone who writes and who teaches writing and writing teachers. I love that these two see power in writing. And that they turn to writing to accomplish their own purposes. To me, that is the goal of my teaching--to help writers feel that power and that desire. I am not their teachers, but I am a proud grandmother who is glad someone who believes as I do is teaching my grandchildren!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-67944345929906252992018-01-16T17:33:00.001-07:002018-01-16T17:33:27.160-07:00Learning to write<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I love my grandchildren's writing, especially when they are first learning to write. These are recent pages my daughter sent from our five-year-old grand-daughter, Shannon. She's in kindergarten.<br />
I love the sentiment. I love the images accompanying the text. I even love the misspellings as they are evidence of learning.<br />
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I wonder, though, as teachers, when we stop being charmed by evidences of learning, when we stop seeing errors as the writer taking risks and start seeing the errors, instead, as wrong. As mistakes. As bad writing. Could I correct Shannon's spelling? Of course. But why would I? I don't mind that she spells my name with an o at the end instead of an a. I know her. I know that she's thinking of one of the sounds an o can make. (She's kind of a stickler for letters making the sounds she knows and doesn't like it at all when letters make different sounds in some words.)<br />
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Loving the notes and letters my grandchildren send me reminds me that we are all learners. Do I sometimes have to hold students to a standard? Yes. But not every time they write. And sometimes, even in polished writing, I should probably look at some of what my students do as risks they have taken, as their attempt to address something I may not understand, as evidence of learning in process. I should think of them as people. If I do that, I take a more human perspective. And, in the end, I might take more risks in my own writing, maybe giving myself the same freedom to take risks and try something that I might not be really good at. I hope so, anyway.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-3438087732583887982018-01-08T22:30:00.003-07:002018-01-08T22:30:46.046-07:00circle of life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last week four people we knew passed away, relatives and friends. Some of the loss was expected and a blessing for lives in suffering; others were surprises. We were able to attend two funerals and still have one to go to.<br />
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During the same week, we also attended a sealing of a young woman we came to know and love after we were assigned to be her home teachers last year. Two days later we (with my parents) were able to seal 56 relatives to our family, extending the connections further.<br />
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And then, to top off the week, we had a new addition to our family: a new grand-daughter. What a delight and a blessing. Even though we haven't seen her in person yet, we love her already. Family members texted in the hours before her birth, all joyously awaiting her arrival, reminding me that a baby binds us together in happy ways.<br />
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And after a week like this--with all its ups and downs, with its joys and sorrows--I am reminded that this is the stuff of living. Through it all, our family holds. We have the things that matter most: a knowledge of life after this one and the connection of family that extends beyond the doors of death. Blessed!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-53475609925776047252017-01-09T21:06:00.000-07:002017-01-09T21:06:42.454-07:00Flaws and Beauty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Over Thanksgiving we met two of our children (and their families) who live in the southern part of the US and spent the holiday with them on the Gulf Coast, in a town called Navarre. The beach was beautiful--white sand as far as we could see. And, because it was "winter," the beach was pretty much our own. Our condos looked out on the ocean, which was sparkling and clear. From the pier, we could see all the way to the sandy bottom of the water, so we could observe small sharks, stingrays, and the large turtles that flocked the area (probably because of the turtle rescue facility there).<br />
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I read a little about the area. It seems that the town was the site for the filming of the second <i>Jaws </i>film. Eerie to think about when we were in the water! But the town--and the beach--had been partially destroyed several times since then by hurricanes. When the hurricanes come, the beach is often erased by the wind and waves. Afterward, new sand is dredged up from under the water and blown onto the beach again. That can explain why it is so white and clean, I suppose. And filled with shells.<br />
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In my office, I have a bowl of shells I have collected from beaches I have visited around the world. I can't remember which shell is from which beach anymore, but I put them in a clear bowl to remind me of the beaches I have visited. Favorite memories. On this trip, my grandchildren had collected grocery bags full of shells and laid them out to examine on the deck of the condo. As I looked at them, admiring their beauty, I realized that none of the shells was perfect. Each had a flaw of some sort. I imagined the flaws were the result of some ocean hazard--waves beating them against the sand, currents carrying them against rocks, even sea creatures using and then discarding them. Each mark that made the shell imperfect was the result of a struggle, but each mark, now, on the shore, drying in the sun, made the shells beautiful. Unique. Strong. They had survived intact. As I studied them, I realized that in each case, the beauty of each shell existed in the aspects that might be considered flaws. Just like us: it isn't perfection that makes us special. It is the way we carry our struggles and move on. Smoothing over the broken edges and becoming something else. Something better.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-535550941509899482016-10-20T10:23:00.001-06:002016-10-20T10:23:27.839-06:00SerendipityThe word "serendipity," I learned, was coined in 1754 in a letter from one author to another, explaining the happy chance of learning something he had wondered about in a book he was reading. When I look up the word online, I find lots of boundaries for it--it can't be looked for, as it is partly related to chance; it isn't planned, but it can occur in the process of a planned event; it is always happy (there is another word for unhappy things that happen randomly; and it isn't just a synonym for chance as there's the happy element to it, too. I guess I would say that being in the right place at the right time to experience something that might not have occurred at another time or place--and that the experience is happy--is a good way to summarize what I read.<br />
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This morning I was walking from my car to my office and just happened to spy a hot air balloon flying low over the south end of campus, just above the trees. It had the morning sun shining on it, making it almost sparkle. I grabbed my phone to snap a photo before it was gone.<br />
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It looked like it was just sitting there, balancing on the trees. I just had to smile. Big. </div>
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A few weeks ago, my husband and I were running an errand as the sun was setting. I commented on the beauty of the reflected rays of the snow on the mountain tops. I said, "Pull over. Let me take a picture!" He did and I did. I took three, trying to get some trees in the shot to frame the mountain better than in this first shot. But even in the moments spread from the first photo to the third, the sun had changed; the colors were not as spectacular. The moment was gone, almost as fast as I could say how beautiful it was. </div>
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These are truly serendipitous moments, captured because I was in a time and place at just the right moment to see the beauty. I think of all the moments like this in my life--fleeting, happy, beautiful. Sometimes I try to take a mental picture, but they fade. These moments add something to the beauty of my life. In my church, we have a phrase, "tender mercies," to describe the little ways God blesses us that we might not notice if we aren't paying attention. I think these serendipitous moments are tender mercies. Like a genuine smile or a hug from a friend when you're feeling down, they are small in the big picture but oh so meaningful in terms of our spirit. I need to pay attention. I know there are more of them in my life than I remember. And how rich would my life be if I could record and remember them all! </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-83071623584862773612016-10-15T11:15:00.002-06:002016-10-15T11:15:39.661-06:00Fences and Sky<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhddEayL8KNQ2oLNp81eElPLsu_YlYRtJ29_nFcze4HD0dY5vZMgl3N79fJTbLUO09DycWFxOJAuLpsyM77X7cxb34rM-rxbuqiTIYQ52Tw2Cewnls5m71bC4MD_CUN75mqwBeGji-cxf8/s1600/iphone+795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhddEayL8KNQ2oLNp81eElPLsu_YlYRtJ29_nFcze4HD0dY5vZMgl3N79fJTbLUO09DycWFxOJAuLpsyM77X7cxb34rM-rxbuqiTIYQ52Tw2Cewnls5m71bC4MD_CUN75mqwBeGji-cxf8/s320/iphone+795.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Fences and sky<o:p></o:p></div>
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Boundaries and freedom<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fences stretching to horizon,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Boundaries on what I can do,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Where I can go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Built tough.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rough.<o:p></o:p></div>
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By hands meant to tame<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wildness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Meant to separate<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yours and mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Meant to show<o:p></o:p></div>
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What is. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Beyond the fence is sky. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Possibility.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Open, free, ever-changing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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God’s gift of potentials. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Fences against sky. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Both frame and free. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Fences leading to sky. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Together: beauty. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-84598969988599312142016-09-13T12:16:00.003-06:002016-09-13T12:16:46.107-06:00balloons and beauty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We spent Labor Day weekend with our kids and grand-kids in Boise. They have a tradition of going to the balloon festival on Saturday morning. We have tried to go with them before, but the weather didn't cooperate, so the balloons couldn't go up. We wondered about their insistence that we go: we had to get up really early (on a Saturday morning!) to leave the house by 6AM. We stopped and got donuts and milk along the way, but we were at the park just as the sun was coming up. Clouds came and went, but the day was pretty nice (even if a little cool). I have to say, now that I've seen it, I can see why they make the effort. It was amazing. The announcer gives the clearance to inflate, and, suddenly all around us these giant balloons start filling and then rising. We were up close to see them go. And they flew right over our heads, many of them waving, some of them tossing candy from just above us.<br />
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Last week I wrote about the glow worm caves. They were something to see! And when I was at the balloon festival, I found myself thinking how beautiful it was--all those varied colors and shapes floating by against the clouds and sky. This time, though, the beauty was man-made, not nature-made. Still, it was breath-taking, and I was reminded that beauty comes in many forms. Now that the leaves are turning, maybe it's time for a trip to the mountains and try nature-made beauty again?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-40271753555913845022016-08-30T20:53:00.001-06:002016-08-30T20:53:33.761-06:00beautiful worldLast week I was in New Zealand. I loved the tour of the Hobbit village--all those colorful round doors! But I can't stop thinking about a tour of Waitomo Caves.<br />
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For one thing, they are beautiful caverns. Pink stalactites and stalagmites in graceful swirls in every glance. I kept thinking that it was real. Real. It took millions of years to form. But we could see something like this that Disney had made. It could look exactly the same. But this was real. This was created by the beautiful processes at work in nature, not fabricated by man.<br />
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The breathtaking aspect of these caves, though, were the glow worms. Glow worms--yes, like the nursery song--are real! They don't exist in very many places. Lots of caves in New Zealand and Australia, a few in the British Isles, one place each in the US (Alabama), India, Pakistan, and Morocco. Rare!<br />
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All glow worms are insects, but they are not all the same. The reason for the glow and the part of the body that makes the glow differs among the different kinds of worms. The ones we saw use the lights to attract bugs to eat. It seems kind of gross, in some ways. And when they showed us the webs that string among the worms, that seemed a little creepy. But when the guide took us in a boat, in a slow river, in the dark, without lights, the view was amazing. Magical. Like something I have never seen before. A night sky filled with millions of stars, so close they feel like they hang in your hair. Something beautiful and odd and wonderful and secret. Lovely.<br />
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<img alt="Image result for photo of waitomo caves" 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/>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-21085330269635859132016-02-02T15:22:00.000-07:002016-02-02T15:22:10.740-07:00technologyI caught my grand-daughter with watching a movie on her mom's phone:<br />
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I don't know why she decided to watch her movie in such a position, draped up the stairs. It must not have been too uncomfortable, though, because I think she watched two episodes of Bubble Guppies.<br />
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I am amazed at little children's attachment to, interest in, and facility with technology. This grand-daughter is 2 years old. But she can use the correct remote to turn on the TV and switch viewing to Netflix or Amazon, depending on what she wants to watch. If she plays with my phone, I have no idea what the settings will be the next time I use it. She found the remote to the digital frame we have; the next thing I knew my son in Boise was calling asking me why I was sending two pictures a minute to his email account. I wasn't doing it. Somehow Tatum had figured out that she could email the photos from the digital frame. Since she doesn't read in the traditional sense, I know she didn't know the email recipient, but still. . . she was doing it.<br />
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So, when I think how attached I am to my phone and all it does, and when I think of how fast technology changes, and when I think of all these 2-4 year-olds who use any kind of technology like they were born to do it, I do wonder about the future. If I, who came late to technology, still find it difficult to live without it, what will they do? At least I have meals where I leave the phone somewhere else and look at/talk to the person I am eating with. I see couples at restaurants who never talk because they are both on their phones. I see my own grandchildren texting each other when they are in the same room. Is this our path? Technology has so many benefits. I love it. But I can also see its challenges. I hope little people like Tatum are up to it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-26738859586962566522016-01-19T15:03:00.002-07:002016-01-19T15:03:36.380-07:00PerspectivesWe drove to Idaho this past weekend to visit with one of our sons and his family. The road was fine, but we went through several patches of thick fog. For long stretches of time, it was hard to tell the sky from the ground.<br />
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Even when the fog lifted at brief moments, the world beyond the fog was all white and gray. In the fog, my eyes strained to see very far ahead of me, but I had to wear sunglasses because the glare was so intense. It was bleak and it was beautiful.<br />
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I am reminded that the way we look at things can often make them become what we want to see or expect to see. The angle I look from, the lens I use. . . all of these make a difference in my seeing. I try to keep positive, to look from a position of goodness, but sometimes life events make that difficult. I hope the hours of driving, of striving to see well, will be a good reminder to look well, to see good no matter what.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-74517391443798281612016-01-12T14:15:00.000-07:002016-01-12T14:15:33.252-07:00Reflecting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I had to give a keynote address a few months ago. The theme of the conference was "Students as Explorers, Teachers as Guides." I developed the center of the talk to teachers by comparing different kinds of guides I've had experience with through the years with different kinds of teachers.<br />
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When I went to develop the part about students as explorers, I tried to consider all kinds of explorers. I was giving the address at a conference in Yosemite, so, naturally, I did some research on explorers in that area. That was very interesting. But I also considered explorers in my own life. As I did so, I recalled that both sets of my grandparents had moved to Alaska when my parents were still in high school, before it was a state. I know what the state was like when I was growing up: primitive in so many ways compared to the way we live here and now. I think about how long it would have taken them to get there and how seldom they would have been able to see the family members left behind in Oregon and Idaho. Leaving like that--moving to somewhere far away and without the communication conveniences of today--would have been a difficult choice to make. But both sets of grandparents did it.<br />
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What an example of exploration, of the risk-taking and adventuring explorers through the ages have needed. I have that in my heritage, and I shouldn't forget it. I am proud of people I came from.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-47553782876798191502016-01-05T17:00:00.002-07:002016-01-05T17:00:35.427-07:00ice and snow<br />
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I am not a fan of winter: ice, snow, cold, and more cold. Yes, I was born and raised in Alaska and lived there the majority of my life. People think that means I must like winter or at least be used to it. I'm sorry. Extended time in dark winter does not make a person like it. It could be just the opposite. My father-in-law and I used to dread the signs of impending winter in Alaska: when the fireweed blooms at the top of the stock, when termination dust shows up on the mountain tops. We'd call each other, naming the signs, dreading the oncoming winter together. <br />
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And, after two years ago this week when I slipped on ice and ended up with a smashed wrist and (ultimately) three surgeries over 4 months to resolve the issue, I'm even more negative about winter. I walk very carefully and drive carefully and dread going when it's slick. Our house is on a hill, on the very spot where cars seem to spin out (going up) or start the slide (going down), so I know the sounds of slick before I even look out the window. I dread the big piles of dirty snow that get plowed up along the sidewalks and then turn to ice as the days warm and cool. It's all yuck to me.<br />
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But then there are moments of beauty in winter that make me pause and consider the other side, too. The shimmering icicles. The moon on the fresh snow. The loveliness of snow falling softly through the glow of streetlamps.<br />
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And so I try to remember that there is beauty around me, even during the winter. And there is beauty in people I might not normally like. . . and in so many other aspects of life. I can find beauty if I look for it.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-37457695279076094592015-12-08T13:32:00.000-07:002015-12-08T13:32:29.879-07:00This I Believe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I believe we can do hard things. I'm reading my students' postings about how hard the end of the semester is and notice one student's comment: we always survive. I believe we can survive hard things.<br />
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When I was working on my Master's degree, I participated in an experimental program the university only offered twice. The price was good--the cost was great. We went to classes full time two summers. In between, during the school year, I would attend classes every other weekend: 10 hours on Saturday and 10 hours on Sunday. I was teaching junior high at the time, so I would teach five days, go to classes for two days, teach five days, and then have two days off. I had six children at home at the time. My family agreed that I should do it, so they were great in picking up some of the home pieces (my husband even tried to cook a turkey for one Sunday dinner--disaster!). The load was tremendous. In fact, it got so bad that I had tremors from typing and writing so much (on my students' papers and writing my own). My mother was convinced I had a tumor. I didn't. I had stress. I had a constant tension headache, which I ignored. I had other ailments. When my back went into muscle spasms just bending over to pick up a piece of paper, I went to the doctor. Turns out our bodies give us signals. When we are under stress, if we ignore one signal, it will give us another. . . and another. . . and another: until we pay attention. I survived.<br />
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A few years later I started a doctoral program. The schedule was more spread out. Still full time classes in summers, but not on weekends. Night classes, two a week. I was teaching high school now. I would drive from school into Seattle twice a week for classes that lasted from 4:30-7:30 or 5:30-8:30. Then I would drive across Lake Washington to my home: to kids and homework and prep for tomorrow's teaching and anything else a mother/wife/teacher/daughter/church member has to do. In some ways, it was easier. I had weekends back. But the workload intellectually was much more intense. I thought I was handling it. I was a person who handled things, even if I did get physical symptoms. Until one day in the University of Washington library.<br />
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I was doing research and went to the copy machine to make copies of some articles to study in more depth at home. Standing at the copy machine, repetitively turning pages and pushing buttons, I lost my breath. I couldn't breathe! I started gasping and weeping. I didn't know what the matter was, but I knew something was <i>wrong</i>. The weird thing is that no one stopped me as I made my gasping, weeping way out of the library to my car. I made a lot of noise trying to gulp in air as I drove across the bridge--and to a friend's house. Why not my own? I don't know. But when she opened the door, she knew immediately what to do: she pushed me into a chair, pushed my head down, and brought me a paper bag to breathe into. A panic attack. That's what I'd had. I'd heard of them, but had never had one. My friend's daughters had, so she knew. How could a person panic copying articles at a copy machine? What was there to panic about? What I learned is that we all have limits. I was older, but I had never learned my limits. I know now more about myself and about others. I don't judge like I used to. We all have limits--and they are not all the same.<br />
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I finished my doctorate degree. I <i>can</i> do hard things. I learned how to take better care of myself. I learned that I don't have to make hard things harder. I learned I could let some things go: I didn't have to keep every ball in the air. I could take a detour now and then. I made choices about what was a priority in my life and in my family's life. My house wasn't as clean. We ate soup from cans or scrambled eggs and toast a lot more. I learned little signs that it was time to let something go, time to take care of myself. I learned that I could still push myself, I could do hard things, but I could also be okay with not being my best all the time. I learned to be okay with "this is the best I can do right now--and I'm okay with that." And even more, I learned to accept that in others: someone is unkind or doesn't do what I expect? Maybe that's just the best they can be right now.<br />
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So, I believe we can do hard things. We can also make them harder than they need to be. But we can also accept ourselves for doing our best, even if that best isn't quite what we hoped it would be in our minds. That, too, is a hard thing.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-513953674232908784.post-79689595546935029832015-11-23T12:09:00.001-07:002015-11-23T12:09:46.455-07:00"I really, really like myself"My grandson's birthday is October 30. On that morning, he opened a present that was something he could wear to school for Halloween: a football uniform---no pads, but everything else. He is crazy about football, so I knew he would be excited. I had no idea how much.<br />
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Since his family currently lives with us, we see him everyday. On his birthday, there was a knock on my bedroom door about 7:00 in the morning. I said, "Just a minute--I have to finish dressing." It was about three minutes until I opened the door--and there he was: in a football stance to show off the wonderful uniform. I couldn't help but wonder if he'd been in that stance the whole three minutes!<br />
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I ooh-ed and aaah-ed about every aspect of the uniform: the helmet, the shirt, the pants, the black patches on his cheeks, the number on the jersey. For several minutes we admired the pieces and the whole. "You look great!" I told him. He stood for a moment looking down at himself through the face guard and then looked up at me: "I really, really like myself," he said.<br />
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Here he is at the end of the day--still dancing because he is so excited.<br />
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And here he is trying to get a drink from a straw without removing the helmet--I don't think he wanted to take it off to sleep that night!<br />
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Ever since, Gabe said that to me, I have thought about the power of that statement: I really, really like myself. I have been thinking what a wonderful world it would be if, every day, every one of us could put on a costume--football uniform, princess dress, superhero cape--look in the mirror, and say to ourselves: "I really, really like myself." Maybe, eventually, we wouldn't have to wear the costumes and could see what wonderful people we are without the extra outfit. We get beat up each day by the stresses and arrows of life. How great if we could start again each next day with that affirmation: I really, really like myself. I think the whole world would be a better place and we'd all be happier for it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0