tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25158862965698355152024-02-19T00:31:04.853-08:00The Yoga Pants DiariesKThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-46044938279085753812023-08-06T13:41:00.005-07:002023-08-06T14:03:03.890-07:00Let's call book banning what it is<p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">My life has been
shaped by words and literature. I’ve been an avid reader from a young age, and
my parents (my dad especially) and my teachers encouraged me to explore diverse
authors, titles, and subjects. Reading helped me explore other worlds and perspectives. It helped me develop critical thinking skills. Most importantly,
it helped me understand myself and the world around me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.iowapublicradio.org/education/2023-07-29/urbandale-schools-made-a-list-of-nearly-400-books-forbidden-from-classrooms-because-of-a-new-iowa-law?fbclid=IwAR15T_acxC3-EpzELk88N3xTK1XvHCiLuoOXbvQKqqb4XIQ6AWDjtZrOWIQ">Iowa
Public Radio reported last week</a> that school district officials in Urbandale have made a list of nearly 400 books that
are no longer allowed in classrooms or libraries.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The list features
titles that may be unsurprising to those following the culture war arguments
about what’s appropriate for school-aged kids to read, but many others are
shocking. Hemingway. Salinger. Knowles. Atwood. Orwell. Acclaimed works by writers of
color including Mya Angelou, Toni Morrison, and Alice Walker. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 15.0pt; margin: 15pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">The article quotes school board members
who express frustration over the lack of guidance at the state level and no
explanation from the Iowa Department of Education on the law’s boundaries. </span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 15.0pt; margin: 15pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">Urbandale school board member Daniel Gutmann says, “</span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 107%;">In that vacuum of leadership, school districts are
fearful and they’re putting out lists that are exhaustive and possibly exceed
the scope of Senate File 496. It’s infuriating as a parent, it’s infuriating as
an educator, and it’s infuriating as a board member tasked with the oversight
of a school district.”<span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Infuriating doesn’t begin
to describe it for a host of reasons. Let’s start with the “law” that was slapped
together to score political points (on brand for this recently concluded legislative session), resulting in a profound lack of clarity for
those responsible for carrying it out. How about the rationale behind violating
the First Amendment rights of students, couching it under the more palatable
guise of “protecting children” and “parent choice?” We could talk for days about
how the subjectivity of some shouldn’t guide decisions for everyone else, to
say nothing of the focus on LGBTQ+ literature or titles by authors of color.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A Separate Peace</span></i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> and <i>A Farewell to Arms</i> were required
reading for me in ninth grade. The need not have required them – I loved both
titles. Yes, they’re both by white male authors, but both are beautifully written
and explore themes of how history and relationships shape who we are. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I remember the first
time I read <i>The Color Purple</i>. I was a sophomore in high school and its
powerful depiction of struggle and bravery and resilience powered by connection and companionship resonated with me in a way that made
the violence and sexual content in the book simply details. (I have since then seen
far more explicit content in any number of more accessible ways than reading a
book. Statistically, kids have already accessed porn online by sixth grade. <i>The
Color Purple</i> and porn are in completely different stratospheres.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A Separate Peace</span></i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> has been dubbed “a classic American novel.” <i>A Farewell to Arms</i> is considered a classic. <i>The
Color Purple</i> won the Pulitzer Prize. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">All three of the aforementioned novels are on Urbandale's list.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I don’t read all
books, and there are some genres I just don’t care for (brace yourself – I never
read <i>Harry Potter</i>. I just didn’t get into it). Other books I have found to be
violent or gratuitously sexualized and I just stopped reading them. I didn't tell other people they shouldn't read them. I just decided they weren't for me. I read <i>Atlas Shrugged </i>by Ayn Rand. Its themes elevate a different set of beliefs than mine, but it was well written, and I learned something by reading it. This discernment has been my
practice all my life, and it was taught by my parents and my teachers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I talked with Shannon
Horton, our school librarian. I liked her before she told me about her job, and
I absolutely adore her after I learned what she does for kids. Students have
asked her for more Christian-based literature. She researched it and brought in
additional titles. Others asked her for hunting books. Again, she researched them
and brought in titles that her students love reading. (Read that again:
students love reading.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">There are more books
written for young adults available today than any time in history. Shannon
actively researches a wide range of subjects and titles and works to learn what’s
important to students and connects them with books they may enjoy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">She describes reading
as an avenue to parent conversations. Parents have a right to tell their kids
they can’t read something, but it’s an opportunity to open a discussion.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Bans shut down discussion.
Children can’t learn critical thinking skills if they’re never exposed to ideas
they don’t agree with. “Indoctrination” comes up a lot in debate. Development
of critical thought is a tool to fight indoctrination if that’s what we’re
truly talking about.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">It's not.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Banning access to
information is a tool of control. It is un-democratic and anti-American. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times;">Last spring, I wrote a Facebook post about Iowa's proposed legislation banning books at public schools. A friend I grew up with challenged me, saying</span></span><span style="font-family: times;"> it was “toxic” that I called the legislation banning.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">My key takeaways from that exchange: 1) How effective the carefully-designed conservative messages are – people saying, “Hey, this isn’t what you think it is” when it absolutely is what it is, which is book banning, and 2) As such, some people have no problem with shoddy legislation, an absence of leadership, and having basic rights just swept away when served up as “parents should decide what's right for their kids" and "our schools shouldn't provide porn for kindergarteners." </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Calling this banning isn't toxic. The fact it was
written into law is what’s toxic. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">These are all tactics designed to restrict and control, and we've gone from "that would never happen here" to "it's the law" in one legislative session. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">We should be infuriated.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">What are we willing to do to ensure our children have access to books that reflect the nuance and complexity of the world around them?</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The time for action is now.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-24788309514684311692023-05-13T06:05:00.007-07:002023-05-13T06:41:48.034-07:00All our moms<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It's Mother's Day weekend, and I am one of many who call a cherished friend "Mom." Mom turns 93 today. She entered hospice care yesterday. </span></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I saw her last night, and she’s weak, but she still has all her faculties. She’s still Mom - asking after my kids and our friends, making sure everyone is doing ok.</span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It’s raining where I am today - a steady and comforting spring rain that invites contemplation, and I haven’t been able to think about anything other than Mom and her actual kids wading through the logistics of hospice care and the related stress and grief. Even if you think you’re ready, you’re not.</span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Mom’s actual daughter (one of my closest friends) texts me updates. Mom is still running the show, so I’m comforted by the idea that she’ll get everyone focused on joy and gratitude in a hurry.</span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">That has been her gift to us. She’s been a mom figure for sure. But she has also shaped us - with her wit, her perspective, her curiosity, her faith in people, and her capacity for love. That’s been my biggest comfort today. While I can’t quite imagine a world without her, when it’s time to leave, she’ll still be with us in lots of amazing ways.</span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It’s short-sighted to paint all moms with this brush, and I know there are plenty of people for whom Mother’s Day is painful for a number of reasons. The day tends to be hyper-sentimentalized and misses the many nuances that come with complicated roles and relationships.</span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">This point hit home during one of my most memorable Mother’s Days, which was spent alongside my own mom, helping our close friends with their annual plant sale. My mom is an avid gardener, and she quickly fell into point-of-sale tasks - answering questions about whether this variety would work on the porch on the north side of the house, taking money, and making change.</span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I am what I would describe as an average gardener, and counting back change is not among my favorite activities, so I took on the role of “goodwill ambassador,” greeting people upon their arrival, directing them to parking, and helping them schlep their purchases back to their cars.</span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">A gentle spring sun was out and the colorful annuals dialed up the brightness on our friends’ beautiful farm. The vast majority of customers were moms of some sort: Moms, dad moms, mothers in-law, godmothers, adopted moms, second moms, stepmoms, aunt moms, neighbor moms, my mom’s-roommate-in-college-who-is-like-my-mom-but-better-because-she’s-not moms, moms who lost their moms, moms who lost their children, moms who no longer talk to their children, moms who weren’t planning on being moms, moms that worry every day that they’re doing everything wrong.</span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Several of them shared their connections and what they meant to each other. Others carried the tension and tone that comes from trying when relationships are strained. I noticed the pain of loss in the faces of a few others as I loaded their flowers in backs of their cars.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I realized how lucky I am - my own mom is strong, wise, and loving. I’m also fortunate to have people like “Mom” who love me like a daughter.</span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I remember calling Mom out of the blue many years ago when I couldn’t get my head around an insensitive question that came to me in a very public way about a friend’s private matter. I just needed someone to talk to about it, and Mom was the first person I thought of. When she answered the phone, I couldn’t stop crying. She patiently listened. When I eventually pulled it together, her advice was sound, and went something like, “give yourself some space, and forgive this person, because she doesn’t understand. Just keep being loving, sweetheart.”</span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Mom has taught me the value of being loving - through care and attention, service to others, and always being prepared to lay out a really great appetizer spread.</span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Loving well is not limited to moms, but there are some who are particularly brilliant at it.</span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Thank you, Mom. </span></p>KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-78939474591264745302020-04-11T14:57:00.000-07:002020-04-12T05:59:34.661-07:00Doubt<i>"Then the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain where Jesus had told them to go. When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted."</i> Matthew 28:16-17<br />
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I'm a trusting person, but I have doubts. Everyone does. Even in the bright light of the miracle of Easter, Jesus' most cherished friends and companions doubted.<br />
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Doubt makes us vulnerable. Doubt exposes us to things we don't want to feel: anger, betrayal, hurt, confusion, misunderstanding. It forces us to consider the idea that maybe were were wrong about something, or perhaps something we believed isn't true.<br />
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In a world that demands assurance and certainty, living with doubt is tough. So we cram doubt into a sort of built-in bullshit detector that questions everything. Show me. Prove it. I don't care who publishes it - if it gets close to validating what I'm thinking, no matter how ridiculous, sure - I'll share it. I'll trust it. I'll defend it. And I'll tell anyone who doesn't believe it that they're an idiot.<br />
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We get defensive when people call us on it and lash out in the most unproductive and hurtful of ways: name-calling, dismissal, divisiveness, blame, threats, hatred.<br />
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Emboldened by those who validate us when we do that, we double down and keep going until our social media feeds are a weird dichotomy of "look who owned who today" memes and cat videos.<br />
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This behavior is prevalent across all of our spectrums - social, political, religious, ideological.<br />
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Fear has become our common denominator, and fear is the shakiest of foundations. But fear is also something every one of us understands all too well, so maybe that's a start.<br />
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Today, my faith tradition celebrates Christ's victory over death. The events leading up to Easter are dark. They're days full of betrayal and darkness and fear and violence and grief and doubt. From Thursday to Sunday, Christians are asked to sit with that stew and all the uncertainty that comes with it.<br />
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Then - like a breath of fresh air - morning comes, the sun rises, the rock rolls away, and we're left with hope that comforts us when we fear things like death and uncertainty. It's not unlike the relief you feel when you learn your test was negative. Or that your mom is going to be ok. Or when your kid finally arrives home safely after curfew. Or when your friend texts you the kiss emoticon in the middle of a really rough day.<br />
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Because doubt will continue to plague us. We're smack in the center of a season filled with doubt right now. We're sitting at home (hopefully) with nothing but our thoughts and our anxieties and our bargaining and our reasoning and we're bumping around like pinballs in a machine trying to find something - anything - that can make sense of something we can't see or anticipate, but we know has the ability to wreck so much havoc.<br />
<br />
Unless you're doubting this is all a thing at all. I'm sure there are a few of you. Stay with me.<br />
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As vulnerability goes, I can't remember ever feeling it as acutely as I have over the past few weeks. All of my numbing agents are out of reach, and I have no opportunity to even attempt to control what is happening. I'm afraid - for myself, my family, my kids, my colleagues, my community.<br />
<br />
As trusting as I am, I have doubts. And I have no choice but to sit with that.<br />
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Until.<br />
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Until my friends insist on staying connected in ways that are sometimes ridiculous, but comforting in ways only they can be.<br />
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Until the first thing our community does is develop a volunteer care network to assess needs and find ways to meet them so no one feels alone.<br />
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Until health care workers, grocers, garbage collectors, public service personnel and so many others just keep showing up to do the work that makes our lives better - day after day.<br />
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Until teachers line up a parade to let students know they're missed and they're loved.<br />
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Until local businesses discover ways not only to keep income flowing, but to show us they miss us and that they care.<br />
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Until those same businesses that are struggling continue to find ways to serve others.<br />
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Until friends and neighbors organize a birthday parade for our young neighbor and three police officers show up to participate.<br />
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Until the school district turns on the field lights on Friday to show support for our students and the seniors.<br />
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Until the local fire department offers birthday lights and sirens because having a birthday while in quarantine sucks, and our fire department seems to always know the right thing to do.<br />
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Until the local hardware store staff show up at my friend's house to help her install a basketball hoop for her nine-year-old.<br />
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Until people, time and again, show up for the lonely, the hungry, the abused and neglected and the struggling.<br />
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With that, light shines through. With that comes hope that sends fear and despair packing. With that comes assurance that while our doubts will always be a given, what we are promised will still be here.<br />
<br />
No matter what your faith tradition, I pray today your heart is full of these virtues.<br />
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We'll be ok.<br />
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Alleluia.<br />
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<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-1445340741674248162019-08-18T16:30:00.002-07:002019-08-18T16:53:34.702-07:00Dance of the Trout Run Trail<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
August starts its descent into fall ...<br />
the sun takes longer to rise and, like a toddler, tires easily at the end of the day<br />
the crickets chirp a requiem to the loss of summer.<br />
<br />
Yet the trail gives a final party - a dance in reverence to all that summer brings<br />
billowing clouds suspended from the clearest of blue skies<br />
providing shade to tassels thrust high by maturing corn.<br />
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The tails of dairy cows keep time as they swoosh the buzzing flies away<br />
their mouths pull sweet clover from the ground<br />
their gentle moos join together in chorus.<br />
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The trout streams gurgle as the sun flits across their rapids<br />
the rocks carry a cadence that elevates the laughter<br />
of children with fishing lines hanging from the bridge.<br />
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The woods push out the pungent odor of death<br />
the thicket buries a small animal that has gone there to rest<br />
taking its energy and keeping an eternity of secrets.<br />
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My tires bump across railroad ties laid out like a xylophone<br />
wafting up the smell of oil and licorice and smoke<br />
layered into their core from years of service and miles of journeys.<br />
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The monarchs waltz among Queen Anne's lace ... dainty, yet majestic<br />
the yellow petals of black-eyed Susans dip like hula skirts<br />
the bees two-step with the sunflowers.<br />
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Birds sing to each other as they grasp the grasses<br />
taking a rest from their daily chores<br />
red-winged blackbirds sing instructions like the caller at a square dance.<br />
<br />
The breezes stir as the sun dips further<br />
the crickets begin their song<br />
my tires stop with the grind of loose gravel<br />
and I look back with a final bow of gratitude.<br />
<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-31976662984280444892019-05-01T14:22:00.001-07:002019-05-01T17:28:46.126-07:00'Tis the (graduation) season: a coping guide<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">May 1 is here and Graduation Season is just about
upon us … it’s a lot like the Holiday Season, except that instead of cookies, caroling
and decorated trees, it’s all about sheet cake, photo boards and transforming
your garage into a second living room to host 300 of your nearest and dearest.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">I don’t have a graduate this year, but I recognize this season both for what it
is for graduates (you’re excited, but you’re on your last nerve and freaking
out) and for the parents (you’re stressed, you’re terrified, you’re on your
last nerve and freaking out.) Lots of lessons to be learned here, friends – but
here are a few that come to mind.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">For the seniors: </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">Take a breath.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">It’s been a while since I have been in high school,
but here are a few things I know:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Other than my college application, no one asks me
what my GPA was in high school. No one. Don’t phone it in, but let go of the idea that
you have to get everything perfect at this stage of the game.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Don’t be a jerk to your teachers. This time of year
is hard on them, too.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Take it easy on your mom. She’s struggling with a
lot of issues that are playing out like they’re all about you cleaning your
room or writing thank you notes, but they’re more about creating the illusion
of control. She knows you’re on your way out and she’s struggling with that, so
give her a break and let her give you the lingering hugs and feel all the
feels. She loves you like you haven’t loved anything yet … you’ll understand that
someday.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Savor your last few weeks. You won’t ever have an
experience like high school again. For many, that’s a good thing. But there’s a
good chance you’ll remember and appreciate your teachers and your friends more
than you ever imagined. High school is a community, and each community we are
part of stays with us. Think about what this season of your life has taught you
– both good and bad.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Take stock of what’s happening in your life right
now, but also take some time to think about what’s next. I don’t mean picking a
job or a major or your courses … your next few years aren’t going to be so much
what you’re going to do but how you’re going to become the person you want to
be. That matters. Pay attention to what’s going on around you and think about
the ways that you being uniquely you is being pulled to make the world around
you better.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Know you have people rooting for you. Many of them
are asking what you’re doing next year, and I know you’re sick of responding.
We’re sorry … we just love you and we care.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Take good, good care of yourself.</span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />For the parents:</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Take a breath.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You're feeling tired, stressed and unappreciated. Everything you say to your senior is taken the wrong way and blown out of proportion. You're losing sleep over stuff like they're out of blue napkins at the Dollar Store, should I bite the bullet and buy a new love seat and how am I going to wrangle another graduation ticket. It's been a while since I have had a graduate, but here's what I know:</span></span><br />
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<li><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Everyone who comes to your kid’s graduation party
has eaten something someplace else. Don’t worry about how much food you have. I
swear it’s a loaves and fishes thing, but that stuff works itself out.</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Your student is managing emotions they don’t
understand and they’re taking it all out on you – the slammed doors, the eye
rolls, the defiance, the raised voices. Try to cut them some slack. They don’t
get the significance of this transition in their life, but they’re sensing it.
That’s a lot to deal with, so pick your battles.</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Talk with your tribe about what’s going on with you.
It’s ok to admit this is hard, because it is. We understand.</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Savor these last few weeks. Even though you’re
meeting yourself coming and going, you’re doing laundry constantly, your front
door feels like Black Friday with all the people going in and out of it, and you
stood in Carharts under an umbrella at last week’s soccer game and skipped
work, dinner and wine with your friends to go to the spring music concert, you
will still grieve over no longer being the parent of a high school student. It’s
more of your identity than you probably understand at this point.</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Your student isn’t your baby anymore, and that’s
hard to come to grips with. But they’re also becoming adults – and it’s fun to
get to know them in a different way as they’re starting to figure themselves out.
They become a whole new level of interesting – and best of all, they figure out
in a hurry you’re not the idiot they always figured you to be.</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Remember that growing is a process. They’re learning
and they can, will and should make mistakes. Watching your kiddos stumble is
not fun, and watching them fall is excruciating - but it’s necessary. Keep reminding them you’re there for them and let
them go.</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Take good, good care of yourself.</span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-56205974376981268182019-02-04T12:13:00.003-08:002019-02-04T12:31:23.570-08:00Reining in the new yearMy favorite Hallmark holiday movie went something like this: A woman tried (kind of) to eat healthy (well, most of the time) during the month of December. Then, when her birthday came, she decided it was the festive season and there were parties and a holiday breakfast at work and then someone brought doughnuts and Elke sent the Cedarburg cheese ... and she ate and drank whatever she wanted.<br />
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She went to the gym, but not very often. On Jan. 1, she put on her pants and realized her lack of a strategy turned on her - it's all fun and games until you put your jeans on. So the woman told her husband, "You should do this, too" and they threw away all their chips and gave away the rest of the Christmas cookies and they ate kale and they were happy. The end.<br />
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Most of the aforementioned is true ... kale isn't making us happy (unless Andy is serving the kale in the form of his Kale Caesar - call Rubaiyat at 382-9463 for reservations). It was time for a reality check. Seriously, when the food groups coming out of your kitchen consist of cheese, scrambled eggs, red wine, more cheese and Casey's Pizza, it's time to do something before your Christmas wish list for next year includes a gift certificate for bypass surgery. My metabolism isn't what it used to be, and it was never really very great, so it's time to stop eating like I'm 20. That ship has sailed.<br />
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Pat and I made a goal for the month of January to pursue health by eschewing all alcohol (yep, all of it ), added sugars (including honey and all artificial sweeteners, but we ate natural sources like what comes in fruit) and processed food (nothing containing ingredients we couldn't pronounce, and nothing with added sugar - which is in just about everything with ingredients you can't pronounce.)<br />
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Dec. 31 marked my last glass of wine for a month - to be honest, I was ready to give it up, which tells you just how celebratory my mood had been in the weeks leading up to Christmas. On New Year's Eve, I relished in some spinach-artichoke dip and some caramel corn concoction that Tom came up with that had pretzels and chocolate mixed in - I had to put the lid on so I didn't put my face in it. Anyway, the morning of Jan. 1 came and we implemented the "Rein in the New Year" plan.<br />
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A few have asked me if we did Whole30. We didn't. And I know Whole30 has done amazing things for people and their joints are working and they are sleeping better and their hair is shiny and all of the things, but I wanted to do something more sustainable that would make us more mindful of not only what we're eating, but what we're preparing and how we're preparing it. I also am a strong believer that absolutely no one found themselves in a pants sitch by eating stuff like legumes and brown rice, and those are no-no's on Whole30. Trust me, as lovable at Pat and I are, Us - Carbs = Bad News.<br />
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So anyway, here we are in February. On Friday (Feb. 1), we toasted (with wine) successfully completing our goal with no noticeable fallout. Here are some things we learned.<br />
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<b>No alcohol was a cinch. </b><br />
I came home from work after stressful days and didn't have a glass of wine and I was fine. We went out with friends and didn't have alcohol and no one thought we were weird (we did get some inquiries as to what we were doing, but that was out of interest, not criticism). All of our relationships carried on as usual.<br />
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We talked about it, and realized how much of our alcohol consumption was out of habit, rather than making a conscious decision to drink it. We are surrounded by pervasive messages that support - and even encourage - drinking. A lot of our social activities have centered around eating and drinking. We branched out and hosted a few game nights, drank our sparkling water out of wine glasses spiked with lemons or limes and had some great conversations with folks. We also stayed home more than we usually do, which was kind of nice, too.<br />
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The realization for me was how much I tend to use wine and food to numb a rough day or conflicted feelings. This past month forced me to find different ways to deal with things. While it wasn't always easy, it was a good lesson learned - and a good journey to continue exploring.<br />
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<b>No added sugar was a surprisingly heavy lift.</b><br />
For the first four days, I felt sluggish, foggy and tired and had a headache. I didn't sleep well. It was astonishing to me how much my body seemed to crave sugar. I had actually trained my body to crave crappy food.<br />
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Sugar (and its kissing cousin, corn syrup) is in just about everything you can buy in the store that isn't sold in its natural state. Read a few labels and you'll realize this is true - it's in everything from bread to spaghetti sauce to that seemingly innocuous roasted red pepper spread. Yoplait strawberry yogurt (one of my faves) has as much sugar in it as a glazed doughnut. It's no wonder that the average American eats 17 teaspoons of sugar a day when the recommended amount is actually 6 for women and 9 for men.<br />
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Once I went through the detox, the cravings subsided. One day I felt like eating a cupcake, but that was one day out of 31. Four day outside the challenge, and I have only had one cookie. What I did discover is that fruit tastes more robust to taste buds that haven't been desensitized and I have re-discovered the natural sweetness in other foods, such as tomatoes. Sweet!<br />
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<b>Processed food: the good, the bad and the ugly</b><br />
Staying away from processed food was for my partner, who is on a first-name basis with the staff at our local Kwik Star. Pat loves stuff like breakfast sandwiches with sausage, cheddar wursts, chips and pizza slices. And I'm not going to say that I've never enjoyed a bag of chips or a slice of pizza from a gas station (anyone who has been on a road trip with me knows I can't claim that), but it's usually not my default treat.<br />
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Turns out, not all processed food is created equal, and the label "processed" gets a bad rap. If you've ever eaten bagged spinach, baby carrots or frozen strawberries, you're technically eating processed food. And we ate those things during the month of January because they're minimally processed for convenience. What I will say about this is I tried both pre-packaged baby carrots and slicing and cutting my own whole carrots from the store, and the latter had much deeper flavor - the baby carrots didn't really taste like much in comparison. Consuming food from its natural state matters.<br />
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What we were avoiding was the "hyper-processed" food like frozen pizza, boxed dinners and fast food. These foods almost always have high sugar and sodium content, which is by design - they go down faster and easier and leave you wanting more. It's a win-win for the food industry but bad news for your waistline. To be clear, I'm not swearing off Culver's snack packs or chicken strips forever. But on Friday, I had a fried cheese curd and it tasted like I was eating table salt by the spoonful. I'll eat processed foods (cookie dough happens), but I'll work on making them more the exception than the rule after last month.<br />
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<b>On being aware of your bullshit</b><br />
A month abstaining from some of my poorer habits will not get me any closer to being the poster child for healthy eating. I eat stuff like Bugles mixed with Peanut Butter M&Ms and crush potato chips on my cottage cheese, for crying out loud. But January did help me take stock of some of the bullshit I've talked myself into. Stuff like:<br />
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<i>"I can't possibly do this."</i><br />
I actually can. It was much easier having Pat along for the ride, but anyone can do anything for a month. I'm actually pretty proud of myself.<br />
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<i>"I don't have time."</i><br />
When did we decide we didn't have enough time to cook? That chopping an onion was just far to taxing on my busy schedule? That meal planning was as complicated as trigonometry? That I'm just too busy to work out? My iPad started sending me notices about how much screen time I average on a daily basis. I have plenty of time to do the aforementioned. If I'm being truthful, "I don't feel like it" is a much more accurate statement. Once we started planning meals and cooking together, it became an enjoyable way to wind down at the end of the day - and the leftovers worked great for lunches and days when we didn't have time to do much cooking.<br />
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<i>"I've earned it/I deserve it."</i><br />
Eating a salad for lunch doesn't negate four pieces of pizza and half a bottle of wine for dinner. You can't rationalize your way around balanced eating and you can't exercise your way out of a bad diet.<br />
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<i>"Everyone knows you ..."</i><br />
Everyone's health journey is different. Stop comparing yourself to others. And the scale is not a definitive measure of healthy living.<br />
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<i>"As much as you want."</i><br />
Americans in particular seem to love this. "Don't eat carbs and you can eat as much as you want." "Don't eat fat and you can eat as much as you want." Like everything in life, eating is a balancing act. There are very few "as much as you wants" that exist without eventually having some sort of negative effect.<br />
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<i>"Everyone will think I'm ..."</i><br />
I seriously need to stop caring about this in all aspects of my life. Join me, won't you?<br />
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It wasn't perfect or pretty, but we did it ... and we learned a lot in the process.<br />
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And my pants fit great.<br />
<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-14220327160053360852018-10-24T07:29:00.000-07:002018-10-24T16:23:20.176-07:00SandwichedI'm reading a book by Kelly Corrigan called <a href="http://www.kellycorrigan.com/the-middle-place/" target="_blank"><i>The Middle Place</i></a> that she defines as "that sliver of time when parenthood and childhood overlap."<br />
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She's warm and irreverent and hilarious and I'm halfway through the book that resonates with me so much because I'm sandwiched in the middle of that part of my life when I am a full-fledged adult and am called on to managed life's complexities and most of the days I'm somewhat successful at it but there are still days when I just want a hug from my mom or a pep talk from my dad and for someone to just be responsible for a while so I don't have to be and I'm within spitting distance of being 50 years old.<br />
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I'm convinced my parents feel sandwiched, too. For the past few days, I've been in Pennsylvania to help out as my dad has hip replacement surgery. One minute, I'm of counsel - what kind of anesthesia do I think would be best, what kinds of adjustments do I think we should make to the house before my dad comes home with a cane and a walker, what should we do if his stubborn self doesn't want to take pain medication, how will we manage when his competitive self wants to burn through therapy as fast as possible, as if rehabilitation is some sort of frivolous activity for people who just can't take the heat and that he'll get some sort of imaginary gold medal for getting done first.<br />
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The next minute, I'm 16. My parents live in a part of the state where, between major highways, there are centuries-old farm houses tucked into rolling hills like bookmarks and you can imagine a team of Revolutionary War minutemen walking through a field to the tempo of a fife and drum. The roads are windy and hilly and there is no shoulder to speak of, yet my mom insists on drinking coffee from a regular mug while she's driving and my dad refuses to put a lid on a to-go cup when we pick up coffee at the Wawa. When I bring up the idea of perhaps using a travel mug, they look at me with annoyance, as if it's some kind of weakness to drink coffee out of a cup that's a fortress against spills and burns and my suggestion is just another example of my generation lacking fortitude and grit.<br />
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We were running late this morning because of traffic and my mom nabbed a spot in the parking garage but noticed the back of her car was over the yellow parking line. "Give me your keys, Mom - I'll straighten it out and meet you inside." She hesitated, looking in a panic at the cars coming into the garage. "There are cars out here," she protested. "You will need to be careful." She danced around, looking in a panic between me and the incoming cars.<br />
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I rolled down the window. "Mom, I swear to God ..." She threw her arms up and scuttled toward the entrance, but she kept glancing with worry at the cars that she knew were going to form a pile-up when I inevitably slammed into one of them while absently backing up at 50 miles an hour.<br />
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But my mom also found time to make my favorite apricot bars and my dad stocked my favorite wine and I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel good to be staying in their house, with their familiar furniture and artwork and dishes and the ever-present scent of coffee, candles and Lubriderm lotion, secure in the knowledge that, even under these circumstances, I don't need to be in charge for a few days. Not really.</div>
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The last couple of months of found me in a midlife crisis of sorts - the kids are gone, we are enduring the unexpected death of a very close friend and I have been asking myself some important but difficult questions about what I want to do with my career - questions I need to answer if I am to get at it while the getting is good. I have talked to a few people about all of these things, but not my parents. I assumed that anything I told them would be met with worry, concern and probing questions that I just didn't want to put energy into. I was spent enough just trying to figure everything out.</div>
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Until they called a few weeks ago and both of them were on the extension (which is high-tech in their household), and after a smattering of updates about the rest of the family my mom finally said, "Honey, what's going on? Or don't you want to talk about it?"</div>
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I told them everything. It just tumbled out. As my voice choked with tears, I told them about the acute grief I had been feeling that never seemed to fully go away. That I was lonely and confused and afraid. That I didn't know where to focus now that the kids weren't at home and Pat was occupied with football. That I was uncertain and shaken and lacking confidence in what I wanted to do with my work, but I was too afraid to make tough decisions and take a leap of faith. That I was worried about being judged about all of this. That I was feeling ashamed and like a failure.</div>
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Oh, how we sell our parents short. They're so much wiser than we give them credit for.</div>
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They generously shared their stories of times when they had felt exactly the same way. They reassured me that everything I was feeling was normal. They told me they believed in me. They said that they were proud of what I had done with my life and looked forward to what I would do next. They supported the direction I was headed with some of the tough decisions I was making. They said goodbye assuring me that I was talented and successful, but more importantly, loved unconditionally. </div>
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"Hang in there," was my dad's parting advice. And, like a cool drink of water after mowing the lawn on a hot day, I felt lighter, more lucid, revived.</div>
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And yesterday, while I said good-bye to him before they wheeled him into the OR, he kissed me and said, "I know you're doing the right things and making the right decisions, and I'm proud of you."</div>
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No matter how old we are, life hands us so many experiences for which we need assurance, support and presence. That's what we're called to do for each other, and though my parents aren't perfect, they have always had the best of intentions of doing that for me. If I can be helpful by supporting my mom as she nurses my dad, who is a terrible patient, back to full strength, I'm there. If I can lend my dad some strength as he deals with my mom throwing down the control gauntlet because she's worried and scared, I can take it.</div>
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I'm reminded that we need to savor the love of our parents in sips like a rare wine vintage. They're not always going to be there. And I'm reminded that the "sandwiched" phase of parenting requires grace on both ends. (Don't worry - I'm taking notes, Sean, Mariah and Abby.)<br />
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I'm off to referee the patient and the caregiver, but I have a smile on my face. I'm here for them and they're here for me. I'm going to hang onto that for as long as I can.</div>
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KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-9131104879944426122018-09-14T13:07:00.004-07:002018-09-14T13:07:50.005-07:00We're better when we're together<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFleqohuCIeIvUNeAlkSD_QuUievpMthAkJrVI1XxFClI_85c5qIxWK2YCJlC_NQN0H0Q18g49sV1EIHk1M7WGfQP24KGKIXCN8dXbNOrM3-jLdCGouRaPkzScIhD11OJPB3CbFSBPQTQ/s1600/14379_10152812642057880_4009657815230248052_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFleqohuCIeIvUNeAlkSD_QuUievpMthAkJrVI1XxFClI_85c5qIxWK2YCJlC_NQN0H0Q18g49sV1EIHk1M7WGfQP24KGKIXCN8dXbNOrM3-jLdCGouRaPkzScIhD11OJPB3CbFSBPQTQ/s320/14379_10152812642057880_4009657815230248052_n.jpg" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSb8G7_k6A4_emwhYlWYWyiaPBQLCLWC1znU46JQL4qChJusA1qdRY6lyOFWa_ZxiZqN2V8GJErNluNW6JmicqaHN3FdFq1SfAESib5uymBE1kHQkf9Tx53X4_NhZwfge1IPyhggh7qIs/s1600/20180913_153049.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSb8G7_k6A4_emwhYlWYWyiaPBQLCLWC1znU46JQL4qChJusA1qdRY6lyOFWa_ZxiZqN2V8GJErNluNW6JmicqaHN3FdFq1SfAESib5uymBE1kHQkf9Tx53X4_NhZwfge1IPyhggh7qIs/s320/20180913_153049.jpeg" width="180" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was honored to be the guest speaker at our local high school's homecoming coronation today. At the suggestion of a few people who attended, here is my speech, without the self-</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">deprecating remarks I made about pictures of Pat and me from high school, which are posted here for your enjoyment. For context, Pat is the head football coach - I'm so proud of his talent and leadership. </span></span></i><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">One of the things Coach Trewin has been talking with the football team this year is the notion of “we.” What that means, in short, is thinking of our contribution to something greater, rather than being focused on ourselves. </span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we surrender the “I” to “we”, we can do anything, and we’re better when we’re together. That’s what it says on the back of the football team shirts, and I truly believe it’s a value that makes not only our football team, but our entire community, stronger, more connected and just better.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Think about it:</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mr. Rausch will tell you a single voice is lovely, but harmonizing adds depth to a song.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ms. Cody will tell you a single violin is haunting, but orchestration makes it magical.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mrs. Fox will tell you a person with an idea can be passionate, but with a group of people, passion is more quickly put into action.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mrs. Nimrod will tell you that personal performance helps you attain goals, but being part of a team helps you celebrate them.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We” brings out out our best by helping us contribute to something bigger than ourselves.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we’re “we”, others have our back when we’re not at our best.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we’re “we”, we celebrate differences and the gifts we all bring to the table. </span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we’re “we”, we learn from each other. </span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we’re “we”, we celebrate achieving goals, whether they’re big or small.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we’re “we”, we’re not as alone as we can feel sometimes.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">But the “I” has some responsibility when we’re “we.”</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">It means practicing and optimizing the fundamentals. </span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">It means staying in our lane and not being trapped by jealousy or resentment toward someone who seems to have or be achieving more.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">It means looking at failures at opportunities to learn and grow. </span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">It means telling the voices in your head that are saying “I can’t, I shouldn’t, I won’t” to sit down and shut up.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s not easy. It involves some sacrifices.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Surrendering to the we requires us to admit some things about ourselves, and that can get uncomfortable in a hurry. Things like:</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">I struggle with self-doubt.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m under pressure.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not worthy.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not sure.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t know.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m afraid.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Those statements are negative and they’re powerful. But here’s the thing: swap out “I” and replace it with “we” in any of the sentences I just named, and they lose their power. They completely shut down. </span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we’re “we”, we’re more than our fears.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we’re “we”, we’re more than our failures.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Friends, I have a great life, but I’ll tell you this - I have failed far more than I have succeeded, and it wasn’t just the bad hair choices in high school. </span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have been so fortunate to have a spouse, a family, a tribe of friends and a community that has never given up on me, even on those days when I was completely ready to give up on myself.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">That, friends - is the power of “we.” Tap into it.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Your service to others by surrendering to the “we” will be your greatest happiness and what you remember 30 years from now.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today, “we” celebrate - we celebrate our teams, our school and our community.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today is a great day to be a Viking!</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Get out there and get after it - we believe in every single one of you.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Let’s go Vikes!!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-56366887938996539012018-09-06T18:57:00.000-07:002018-09-06T19:13:29.016-07:00What CenturyLink (unwittingly) taught me about excessLabor Day weekend was gloriously rainy and gloomy, affording me the opportunity to be super productive, and by productive, I mean I was able to get through the entire Season 5 of "The Great British Baking Show." I'm not sorry, and I know you're jealous.<br />
<br />
I woke Tuesday morning to a slight Netflix hangover (happy, but unfocused) and started my daily routine of checking the news and social media.<br />
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"Connected-No Internet" was the error message.<br />
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No problem. I headed downstairs and unplugged the router for a minute. I headed back up and re-logged in. Error message. Restarted my computer. Error message. Unplugged router again. Error message. Restarted. Error message. Unplugged DSL. Error message. You get the idea.<br />
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So I get on chat with CenturyLink where the helpful chatter advised me to do all of the aforementioned things. I wished him a good day and decided to get serious and called the support line directly. I was shocked to get an answer within a few minutes.<br />
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I explained to Rajeev what was going on, and he was super apologetic about my frustration and inconvenience (I felt a little guilty about that. No internet access falls squarely in the "first world problems" category.)<br />
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He walked through some testing on his end and said, "I'm sorry, Miss Karen - I'm thinking this is a wiring issue and we will need to have a technician visit your home. Will that be ok?"<br />
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"Sure," I said. "When were you thinking they might come?"<br />
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"My next available appointment for a home call is Friday at 9 a.m.," Rajeev said.<br />
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Friday. He did say Friday.<br />
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"Rajeev," I said - disbelief coming across in my voice (I am very expressive) - " ... do you mean to tell me I won't have any internet access until Friday?"<br />
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"I am so sorry, Miss Karen, but yes - that is the soonest I can send a technician." He went on to explain I will need to be home between 8:30 a.m. and 1:30 p.m. for my 9 a.m. appointment and that it could be free but if the technician comes in it's a minimum of $85 and no, there isn't a maximum he can share with me.<br />
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There's a whole lot wonky with that last part, but that has more to do with CenturyLink than Rajeev, so I let it go. I gave it one last chance.<br />
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"Rajeev," I said - "I thank you so much for explaining this to me, but are you sure Friday is the soonest someone can come? I don't know if I can be down that long." I tried to give the impression that I was an important person who had WORLD PEACE to solve and I was SO CLOSE and all I needed was internet action before Friday, but Rajeev was having nothing of it and probably knew that I was full of all sorts of you-know-what and just wanted internet access to watch Season 10 of Frasier even though I know what happened because I watched it 9 years ago and to post pithy remarks and cute pictures on Facebook whenever the mood grabbed me.<br />
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"Again, Miss Karen - I'm so sorry."<br />
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"It's ok, Rajeev," I relented. "I know you tried."<br />
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And I actually took time to do the survey to let them know Rajeev is awesome and needs a trophy for dealing every day with over-privileged Midwesterners who need their screen time, dammit. I'm sure he talks to a host of people every day who aren't very nice.<br />
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So here's what I'll tell you - we are on day 3 of no internet at the house and absolutely no one is dead.<br />
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I have gotten ready in record time the last three mornings because I wasn't dinking around on my iPad.<br />
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Pat and I actually had a conversation last night because I wasn't watching a random episode from Season 3 of New Girl.<br />
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I have slept well the past few nights because I haven't worried about the world news I reviewed before bed every time I woke up.<br />
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I am almost all the way through a book I have been trying to read because I didn't watch The Devil Wears Prada for the 19th time.<br />
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I constantly lament there just isn't enough time. That's not true at all. I just choose to spend my time doing stuff like that.<br />
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It's a trap.<br />
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What am I really missing here? Cat videos? Asinine television? Movies I know by heart? The same news story rehashed 100 different ways? What Meghan Markle wore today? (True confession: I love her. I love the entire Royal Family and want to be their friend, even Sarah Ferguson, but that's another post.)<br />
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I figured out over the last couple of days that media is one of the many ways I numb. I have spent a lot of time creating a narrative around what I need to survive. I have been hiding my insecurities and feelings of inadequacy behind busyness and work. When I crash and burn (and we always crash and burn), I have Jess, Frasier, Paul, Cam, CJ, Harrison, Hugh and Meryl to keep me company.<br />
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I'm pretty sure Rajeev had this figured out in less than five minutes, even from a call center in a galaxy far, far away.<br />
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There's a lot of life to be lived outside of the stupor, and it's up to me to find the right balance.<br />
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I'll keep you posted.<br />
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<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-84373540459334979312018-08-11T10:31:00.001-07:002018-08-11T11:50:49.130-07:00What obits don't tell youWhen I worked for our local twin weekly newspaper, I had to fill in for the Lifestyles editor from time to time. The Lifestyles section handled, well, lifestyle moments - births, engagements, weddings, anniversaries. Who scored high in the bridge and 500 tourneys at the country club. Where to send cards for a birthday card shower. Occasionally, we'd still get a submission about how so-and-so's relatives visited from there-and-somewhere and the neighbors came over and they had a potluck (it was last century's social media).<br />
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Obituaries are a big part of any newspaper, because next to sports, they're the most well-read section. Outside of that, obituaries were something we took seriously at the paper because they are documentation of a goodbye. They are acknowledgement of life moments - a birth, engagement, wedding. Education and career. Who is part of the extended family. When and how a person died. How they will be remembered. Who they leave behind.<br />
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Funeral homes take care of most of what is written in obituaries anymore. But occasionally, I have been honored to have been asked to add something a little more. I try to infuse a bit of personality. Maybe a funny remembrance or an aspect of who they were that was particularly memorable. More importantly, how very much they contributed to the lives of the people who they loved.<br />
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But there are word count limitations and expenses associated with obituaries, so there's a ton of stuff that obituaries just don't tell you. And if it's a person who was particularly full of life - someone who woke up each day hell-bent on making some kind of a difference - it's downright impossible to capture all of that in 12 column inches.<br />
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Doc died on Wednesday. He was headed to meet Kathy and friends at a fundraiser outside of town. It was one of those beautiful summer evenings that are magical. The sky an amazing blue, the setting sun beginning to cast a warm orange and purple glow on the horizon. I can picture him on his motorcycle - the wind in his face and the sun on his forearms. I can see the smile on his face and the joy in his heart. In a split second, he was gone - going from joyful place to joyful place.<br />
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I helped Kathy edit his obituary and I tossed and turned last night thinking of all the things I should have written about Doc. There are just too many things obits don't tell you. <br />
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Things like how he once told me his favorite color is blue - the shade of blue that reminds him of Kathy's eyes. <br />
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That for a period of time we carpooled a 70-minute commute to work, often needing to leave at 5 in the morning in the dark, and no matter how early it was or how tired we were, we would talk and laugh the entire time. I never slept during the ride to work when I was with Doc. <br />
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The time he and Kathy and Kathy's brothers talked me into running 13 miles and I had never, ever run more than 3 and I did those pretty badly, and he stayed next to me at my ridiculously slow pace the entire time and cheered me along - telling me that it was just a little farther and that there were no more hills (he was lying) and that I was going to make it, and I did and I cried when it was over because I was so happy I did it.<br />
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That every time he came into my house he would yell, "Heyyyyyyyyyy!" at the top of his voice and scoop everyone into a huge bear hug. That he said and did the craziest things like he was living every moment on a dare and that was fine because he had always been completely aware of how ridiculous he was and just didn't care.<br />
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That even though his dad was in the military and he moved around a lot as a kid, he still had a trace of a southern accent and he called everyone from Kathy to the grocery checker "honey" and that little bit of a drawl made everything he said even funnier.<br />
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The time he bought a sewing machine because he wanted flags for one of the crazy running or hunting or I can't remember what events he was always doing with his friends and felt the most efficient way to get them was to sew them himself, even though he had no idea how a sewing machine worked and justified the purchase by telling Kathy he had always wanted to learn to quilt.<br />
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That Kathy always got a little mad at him when he did stuff like that, but could never stay mad at him for more than five minutes and would end up shaking her head and laugh and say, "God bless you and everything."<br />
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That he would say something or tell Kathy something and she would say, "Truth Face!" because that was the only way she could tell if he was trying to pull something over on her.<br />
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The times he would hug my daughter and tell us "she's my girl" and talk to her about how wonderful and talented she is and how he believed in her and he would always be there to celebrate the great things she did. And he was.<br />
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The time we were all out at Kirsten and Dave's on a winter evening right after Christmas and we sat at the dining room table in the candle light, drinking wine and basking in the warmth of friends who never, ever ran out of things to talk about, and we toasted our blessings and planned trips, excursions and swore we would all cook Chinese food together sometime because other than cutting all the stuff up into tiny pieces, how hard could it be?<br />
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That he loved so fiercely and was loved back so completely that contemplating a future without him aches to our very core.<br />
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So I write this in honor and in reverence of Doc and his life lived well, wholly, completely, and far too briefly.<br />
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And I encourage everyone to think of those things about the people you love, the things that their obit won't say, and to tell those people how very much all those big and little things make a difference to you.<br />
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There are too many things that obits don't tell. Don't make them the things you never got around to saying.<br />
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That's a value Doc taught me well.<br />
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<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-76197136447705997212018-07-26T12:48:00.001-07:002018-07-26T12:48:27.893-07:00My drooly love teacherAbout 14 years ago, we were headed into fall, I had two young kids at home, and I decided that<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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a dog would be a perfect companion while Pat spent long days and weekends coaching football. It would give the kids and me a project - a reason to go for walks and care for something.<div>
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We met Jake, a lab "mix" (we don't know how many breeds he was, but we know primarily lab and hound) on a sunny fall day at a farm west of town. He was friendly, attentive and slobbery - we loved him immediately. </div>
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Pat was skeptical. As a farm kid, he never really got close to the dogs they had - some ran away, some were hit by vehicles and some needed to go away because they chased cattle. "He'll be an outside dog," he said.</div>
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Jake was having none of being in the garage at night, so Pat relented. "Ok, but he won't be in the bedrooms."</div>
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The next night, we found Jake snuggled up next to Sean on the floor next to his bed. "Ok," Pat said - "... but he's not sleeping on any of the beds." He came home from Friday night's game to find Jake snuggled in beside me on the bed, and Pat gave up the idea of having an "outside" dog.</div>
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Jake lived with us for close to 15 years. He was the sappiest, most loyal and quite possibly the dumbest dog that ever lived. His sweetness gently hid his flaws. He drooled all over the place, gave kisses to people who didn't want them and nearly pulled our arms out of their sockets when we walked him on a leash. But when Abby, who was 3 at the time, wanted to take the leash, he immediately and instinctively stopped pulling, choosing instead to walk in step next to her. When a neighbor dog interrupted a picnic we were having and nipped at a child on our swing set, Jake came to her defense and ran the dog off - the one time I ever saw him aggressive with anyone or anything. When our windows were open an there was a child crying in the neighborhood, he would alert us and run to the window, looking at us as if to say, "Aren't you going to DO anything about this?" And I would frequently wake in the morning and find myself staring right into his friendly, hairy face, and before I would have a chance to move, he'd reward me with a full face lick in greeting.</div>
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Many of us have a pet story like that. There's so much more - the boundless enthusiasm they greet us with when we get home, not leaving our sides when we're sick, hurt or sad, and the unconditional love that only a pet can give.</div>
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And, as much as we want them to, pets don't live forever. In the past year, Jake has been showing his age and it was clear he was starting to suffer. So yesterday, as we lovingly stroked him and thanked him for being such a good dog, he went to sleep.</div>
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I remembered something lovely that author Glennon Doyle Melton shared in one of her books about talking to her children about the loss of a pet: </div>
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"We don't love people and animals because we will have them forever; we love them because loving them changes us, makes us better, healthier, kinder, realer. Loving people and animals makes us stronger in the right ways and weaker in the right ways. Even if animals and people leave, even if they die, they leave us better. So we keep loving, even though we might lose, because loving teaches us and changes us. And that's what we're here to do. God sends us here to learn how to be better lovers, and to learn how to be loved, so we'll be prepared for heaven."</div>
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I knew I would be sad when Jake was gone, but I was unprepared for the depth of the grief I'm feeling right now. That's ok. He loved me relentlessly, so I owe him that.</div>
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I'm also grateful for the grief, because it makes me aware of my capacity for love. So many have helped me understand it, and Jake was certainly one of them.</div>
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It hurts, but that's the price we pay for loving well and being loved. Love changes us. The hurt eventually subsides and it makes us better, healthier, kinder, realer.</div>
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And that's what we're here to do.</div>
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KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-27361572340823199482018-07-12T08:06:00.000-07:002018-07-12T08:11:30.161-07:00Seeing and being seenThis summer I have tried to make it a practice to take a morning walk through my neighborhood. It's time I spend listening to the long list of podcast episodes that have been piling up, and hopefully, gain some level of physical and mental benefit.<br />
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Morning walks are glorious. The air is cooler, the sun keeps inching out, and frequently, there's a cool breeze before the day starts taking on heat. I love walking past the cow pasture, the dogs, the little kids out playing. I love the wind moving the leaves and branches of the trees, the amazing fragrance as I walk by blooming flowers, shrubs, trees and freshly-mowed lawns. When someone is making bacon with the windows open, it's a huge bonus. I practically skip.<br />
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What I love most is the waving. I live in the Midwest, so car waves are common. When I first moved to Iowa, my husband and I always laughed about the different car waves you see.<br />
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There's the one-finger wave (no, not that one): Common among farmers, it involves one of the index fingers being raised from the steering wheel in greeting.<br />
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There's the two-finger wave: Same idea, but it's the first and second finger. Bus drivers seem to like that one.<br />
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There's the high five spread: That's when the whole hand comes off the wheel. The hand spreads, much like a starfish, and is held stationary until the car passes.<br />
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There's the finger flip: It's a more refined wave - hand off the wheel with the thumb out and four fingers bobbing up and down.<br />
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The back and forth five: Hand off the wheel, with the hand pivoting back and forth from the wrist.<br />
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And the full on, break your arm, so excited to see you wave: It probably doesn't need a description other than that. That's usually from people you know well.<br />
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This morning, I paid more attention than I usually do, and realized that every single vehicle that passed me waved to me in one of the aforementioned formats. Every single one.<br />
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It got me thinking about the motivation behind the waving. Certainly it's the friendly Midwest culture. I've always loved that about living here. When I was visiting my family on the East Coast, my mom once rebuked me when we were in New York City saying, "Will you stop saying hi to everyone? They're going to think you're nuts!" My brother can't understand it when I strike up conversations with people at the grocery store. "You don't even know them!" he says. "Well, they may know if the peaches are mealy," I respond. They're usually happy to tell me.<br />
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I like to think the car waves are about connection. Jim, who is a former UPS driver, says he used to wave as a safety measure. "That way, people know that I see them and I'm paying attention."<br />
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It makes sense from a safety perspective, but it's also a lovely thought. Nowadays, we're more connected than we've ever been, but I still talk with people who feel like they're not being seen, heard and understood. They're dismissed almost immediately when they express a thought or philosophy that might be in disagreement with someone else.<br />
<br />
I need to say that this rarely happens face-to-face. It's mainly done via news media, social media and the comments section. It's expressed via memes and flippant tweets or posts, all of which marginalize complex beings into one-sided puppets who are complete idiots. I took part in a recent Facebook conversation when one person posted an apology about a comment that might have been misunderstood. The person responded, "I stopped listening to you a long time ago." It didn't involve me, but it still made me feel like shit, so I can't imagine how the person trying to apologize felt.<br />
<br />
I commented to Laura over coffee that a lot of those types of posts and comments have a person behind them that is managing a hurt that has absolutely nothing to do with what they're expressing. I tested this theory by reaching out to a few and saying, "tell me what you meant by that." After a few minutes, it was evident that their views weren't all that different from mine. They're just searching for ways to be heard.<br />
<br />
But, what if ...<br />
<br />
What if we employed Jim's philosophy to our interactions with one another?<br />
<br />
What if we started with a wave that indicates "I see you - I'm paying attention."<br />
<br />
Think of how much happier we would be if we saw each other and actually felt like we were being seen?<br />
<br />
What if the process of healing our aching hearts and fractured nation starts with a wave?<br />
<br />
I see you.<br />
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<br />
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<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-7087592545373606152018-05-16T13:09:00.001-07:002018-05-16T13:09:32.735-07:00To my daughter, the week she graduates from high schoolMy dear one,<br />
<br />
This week has been full of conversations of the operational variety - the day's agenda, the evening's events, do you have all the pictures ready for the board for your party, have you hung up your robe to get the wrinkles out, have you cleaned your room.<br />
<br />
You're the kid who knows your mother well, so I'm sure you know by now that's all a ruse to keep me from completely opening the floodgates. On Sunday, you will graduate, and in a few weeks, you will be gone for the summer. You'll be back to pick up your stuff, and then you'll be gone. No, your college isn't miles and hours away, but it will be different. You're leaving the nest, or to your way of thinking, flying the coop. You have gone from spirited toddler to quirky youngster to purpose-driven woman in what has felt like seconds. Considering that you're almost 18 literally took my breath away this morning.<br />
<br />
I had always read that it takes about six months to get pregnant once you start trying. I don't know who came up with it, but whoever did is full of it. I was pregnant with you in about six minutes.True to form, you arrived two weeks early. You have proven each day since then that you would play by your own rules, follow your own agenda and march to your own drummer. That's one of the things I love best about you.<br />
<br />
I don't think I have ever told you the guilt I felt at times when I was carrying you. Your brother was diagnosed with cancer just a few months after we learned we were having you. You as the life growing inside of me took a back seat to doing everything I could to keep my other child alive. For a while, my pregnancy felt like more of a medical condition that I was managing than a joy and wonder-filled process as my body went through weekly changes.<br />
<br />
Still, I remember times when, in the late evening or the pre-dawn hours, as the hospital monitors swooshed and beeped, I would feel you move inside me. It was during those moments when I felt I could hope for the future when every inch of me was fighting from giving in to hopelessness and despair. That's one of the best ways I can describe you - you have been an affirming ray of light that came into my life at one of the darkest times I can imagine and went on to make it a daily mission to let your light shine.<br />
<br />
I hope you remember that on days when you feel like you're still in the back seat. Days when it seems others are managing their relationships, their surroundings, their circumstances with ease, and days when it feels like it's a struggle and you're not enough. But sweet girl, you have owned your challenges and blazed your trail, and you are so far in the front seat that I feel like there are some days you could be the hood ornament.<br />
<br />
Life isn't easy, and you know that. There's a lot I haven't had a chance to teach you yet, but to be honest, even more of it is on-the-job training, and there's no good way to prep you for it, other than tell you to jump in feet-first. You have the virtues we and others have tried to teach you: faith, perseverance, kindness, respect, compassion, empathy and generosity. And the strength to open a can of whoop-ass when it's warranted, along with the wisdom to know when and how that's appropriate. Serving others is important, but you also need to be the leading lady of your own life. Don't ever, ever let anyone tell you you're not good enough, strong enough or worthy. You are.<br />
<br />
I need to tell you that life with you has delivered me with more joy-filled moments of wonder than I ever could have imagined when I was pregnant. The quiet intelligence in your blue eyes. The detailed, zany stories that effortlessly flowed from your imagination when you were little. The music that seems to surround your being, even on the rare occasions when you're not singing. The inner strength that is so evident, no matter what the circumstances. The endless well of compassion you dip into so generously with others. That affirming ray of light that you continue to bring to this world.<br />
<br />
You are my joy, my hope, my promise, my light. I love you, I'm so very proud of you, and I can't wait to see what you do next.<br />
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Go get 'em.<br />
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<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-53747496498324284832018-05-10T07:59:00.005-07:002018-05-10T08:51:49.568-07:00Arms wide open - with pride<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJ9l6PfUPccxC4opPfANBs_rSCuUo-WrdPSN80rTUTkmQWUgw64jBudJk_xEqDyvZuuX4t8_INODXdj2SiLxvn1DpAjEBs9Je607STDUBg6_iBDFbfIYrfF1VmWDXi73aM7wzFxnb3Yo/s1600/30167381_10214531540736824_8366814667102760611_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="1600" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJ9l6PfUPccxC4opPfANBs_rSCuUo-WrdPSN80rTUTkmQWUgw64jBudJk_xEqDyvZuuX4t8_INODXdj2SiLxvn1DpAjEBs9Je607STDUBg6_iBDFbfIYrfF1VmWDXi73aM7wzFxnb3Yo/s320/30167381_10214531540736824_8366814667102760611_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Members of the DHS Gay-Straight Alliance raising money -<br />
and awareness. They are so amazingly wonderful.<br />
<i>Photo by Charlie Langton</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p>We were recently in San Francisco and spent some time with Aunt Diane. She is an active member of Most Holy Redeemer Catholic Church, which is in the center of San Francisco's Castro District - just a few blocks from where Harvey Milk lived and had a camera store when he made his successful historic bid for the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. Milk was the first openly gay official in the state of California.</o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>You wouldn't think "Catholic" and "gay" are terms that work well together, but if you visited MHR, you'd realize you were wrong. Diane actually found the congregation by Googling "Catholic" and "gay", and was delighted to find a congregation that was deeply rooted in the Gospel of Christ and the traditions of the Catholic Church, while at the same time being fully inclusive and welcoming to others.</o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>I posted on Facebook how moved I was by the morning we spent, both in the Castro and at MHR. What I felt that morning was a welcoming so strong and so pure that it can only be described as radical. As the congregation filed in before Sunday morning services, people went out of their way to greet us, to talk with us, to welcome us. We felt we were sitting among family when the service began, and as we left, people were equally enthusiastic about wishing us well, wishing us safe travels, and wishing that we would return someday.</o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>That commitment to being welcome and being a blessing comes from a group of people who likely, at many times in their lives, felt decidedly unwelcome. They felt ostracized by messages of intolerance and fear. They faced outright rejection when they came out to family and friends. They hid behind windows, curtains, doors and secrets, because they couldn't fathom letting a world so dismissive of differences know who they were.</o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>Like Diane, with courage, they mustered the strength to open the heavy doors to the Church to try again. And there, they felt the radical welcome of a savior whose arms are open to all of His children.</o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>As Damien told me that Sunday, "We take this welcoming shit seriously." Amen, brother.</o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>This Saturday, our little town of 8,000 will celebrate Pride. The planning team is made up of some of my favorite people, and it promises to be quite an event - with parades, parties, music and laughter ... and welcoming. </o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>I have seen and heard comments. It's unnecessary. I don't have a problem with you, but I don't need to have your orientation in my face. I'm fine with gay people - I just don't want them to come on to me. We don't celebrate straight sex. (My response to that one is always, "Really? Are you sure?")</o:p><br />
<o:p><o:p></o:p></o:p><o:p><br />
<o:p>I actually don't mind the comments, as long as they're given in the context of a conversation that really seeks to understand. Many people haven't been blessed with the family and friends I have who happen to be gay. There are many things they don't know or don't get.</o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>All I'm going to say is please remember as you discuss and comment, both in person and on social media, our LGBTQ brothers and sisters are watching and listening. They are noticing how we respond, how we react, and how we welcome or decide not to. They are in your homes, your workplace, your churches. Some of them are your children, and you may not know that yet. They are quiet because they are scared, and in many cases, with very good reason. </o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>These are good, loyal, true and beautifully-made people, with hearts that love and arms that long to be open and accepted by others. Please don't think they're immune to comments that, even unintentionally, are uninformed, insensitive and downright unkind. They are not a mistake, they are not a scandal and they are not an embarrassment. If you feel that way, or if you feel they need fixing somehow, or they just need to go away and hide, I encourage you to do some self-reflecting.</o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>And back to the whole church thing, we need to consider what Jesus is telling us to do when he instructs us to welcome and be a blessing.</o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p><o:p></o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Several years ago, Diane sent me a note that still leaves me breathless. Her partner, Michal, had been chronically ill for many years and was on dialysis. Diane's note told me she was preparing to donate one of her kidneys for her. Here’s what she told me: <br />
<br />
“The opportunity to do
this is the most glorious blessing God could bestow upon me. We think we may be
able to set a date in the next week or so, so it could be as soon as a month
away. A little scary but so much joy in the possibility.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are so many marvelous things about this story, and I hate
to demean it by sharing it in a context in which people might politicize it. But can we say with a straight face to this
couple that their love isn’t representative of how God
intended love to work?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My prayer (in addition to continued health - the surgery was a success) is that an
increasing number of Americans and Christians will answer “no” to both
questions. Gay or straight, may we all grow to learn the wonder of that kind of
love for another person. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-33501426454969618542018-02-13T09:28:00.000-08:002018-02-13T09:28:59.514-08:00What the world needs nowWednesday, Feb. 14 is Ash Wednesday. It's also Valentine's Day, but more on that in a minute.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWeTC_UtoUtEuHIxvhNKIIn-ikGYE2kJVQEI8BfZKkimua4yB3vRqfxAEADtBU0j1XYk6how9lvhyphenhyphenstqgtCJer_0YqGY-V5Pfkokf3RQw3s0Or8nt-Nmk9m7MtvfRatZzwFmGuAbc8gI4/s1600/Rev+doug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="827" data-original-width="1200" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWeTC_UtoUtEuHIxvhNKIIn-ikGYE2kJVQEI8BfZKkimua4yB3vRqfxAEADtBU0j1XYk6how9lvhyphenhyphenstqgtCJer_0YqGY-V5Pfkokf3RQw3s0Or8nt-Nmk9m7MtvfRatZzwFmGuAbc8gI4/s320/Rev+doug.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rev. Douglas Sparks in 2016 - downloaded from the Rochester Post-Bulletin.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Several years ago, my perspective on Ash Wednesday changed. Dana, one of my colleagues who is a dear friend, is married to an Episcopal minister. The early morning of that particular Ash Wednesday, I was rushing to my office in sub-zero temperatures when I saw a crowd on a street corner. In the middle was Rev. Doug, imposing ashes on the people hustling to their destinations. I watched as he, bundled in a thick jacket, boots, hat and scarf, lovingly formed the sign of the cross on foreheads, and the cold turned his breath to frost as he mouthed "Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return."<br />
<br />
I stepped forward to receive the ashes and tears sprang as I considered how Christ-like his gesture was. "Bless you," he said, patting my arm as he turned to the next person.<br />
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There have been a few moments in my life where the world came to a screeching halt and I came to the realization that much of what I stress out about on a daily basis just isn't important. Rev. Doug's Ash Wednesday gesture was one of those moments.<br />
<br />
To hear the news headlines tell it, the juxtaposition of Ash Wednesday falling on Valentine's Day is one of the more significant conflicts facing our world this week. And in a way, I get it - the mother of all Hallmark holidays tends to be more about romance and chocolate than mortality and ashes. You don't have to be a marketing genius to know that "Roses are red, violets are blue, I am from dust, and you surely are, too" doesn't play well amid roses, cupids and red heats.<br />
<br />
But the more I think about it, the Ash Wednesday/Valentine's Day combo seems to be a perfect metaphor for what the world seems to need more of right now - a little more humility and a little more love. We only need to visit our news feeds to be reminded of the conflict, turf wars, violence, poverty, discrimination and any number of horrible things turning the world to ashes around us on a daily basis.<br />
<br />
But ashes are a great equalizer. No matter who we are, no matter how blessed, no matter what we think we have achieved in this lifetime, we are dust, and to dust we shall return.<br />
<br />
What we need to contemplate is how to sift through the ashes and find purpose.<br />
<br />
This Wednesday, I'll receive ashes. I'll also throw my arms open to those people and things in my life that have fallen to ashes and need some love and attention. I'll look for purpose in the grieving, the sick, the marginalized, the depressed and the downtrodden. I'll reach out to those who feel unworthy, unwanted or unloved. I'll try to find patience, tenderness and grace where it's needed. I'll try to make some gestures that are charitable and kind.<br />
<br />
And I'll probably eat some chocolate. I'm no saint.<br />
<br />
What the world needs now is love. What will you seek amid the hearts and the ashes?<br />
<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-71911413265512210032018-01-09T16:30:00.004-08:002018-01-09T17:31:46.180-08:00The immigrant in all of usThis is one of those posts that I wrestle with. Immigration is complicated. It has layers of complexity. It is usually argued emotionally, and understandably so. So let's start with emotion.<br />
<br />
One of my son's close friends came to the United States when he was a young child with his parents, who were fleeing Russia.<br />
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To say his parents gave up everything to seek a better life in this country is an understatement. They still have family in Russia. They both had professional jobs. When they arrived here, they had nothing, and started over again working long and hard laborious hours, including late and overnight shifts, while they worked to make sure their son was never on his own. </div>
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They persevered. They now are contributing members of our community. Their son is a good student, a talented athlete and an exceptionally driven person. A senior in college, he is driven to a career path that can help him support his parents as they grow older, much in the way they supported him.<br />
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Another of my son's close friends came to the United States when he was a young child with his parents, who were fleeing El Salvador. His parents obtained Temporary Protect Status, which allowed them to stay in this country, to work, to have a drivers license and to live as Americans. He thrived as a student, student athlete and community leader, and is now an award-winning teacher in Minnesota. His siblings were born here. </div>
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Another family we know relocated from Poland after the father was invited to leave. His alternative was to face jail and even death. A follower of Lech Walesa's solidarity movement, he was put on a list after fighting for a cause he believed in. They raised their children in our small town, most of whom went to college and are now raising families of their own.</div>
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These families I speak of aren't just contributing members of our community. They are our neighbors. They are loved. They are part of us. And I think of the lives they may have been stuck with, or the lives they might have even lost, if they didn't have the option of seeking something better in America.</div>
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<br />
But immigrants are stealing our jobs. They're terrorizing our country. They're costing us money. They don't pay taxes and they're stressing programs like Social Security and Medicaid. <br />
<br />
That argument also is emotional. It's also inaccurate.</div>
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<br />
There are hundreds of ways to justify the right-wing agenda to curb illegal immigration. We need jobs. We feel unsafe. We're scared. We don't understand. We need to get a handle on things. We need to protect ourselves. America first.</div>
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All of those things may or may not be true, but I do know that these actions, along with the anger and fear from many (not all) who support no-holds-barred immigration policy represent a horribly naive view of how to prevent terrorism in this country. An <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terrorism_in_the_United_States" target="_blank">audit of acts of terrorism in the United States</a> since 1800 shows that many terrorists perpetrating crimes within this country are born and raised right here in the U.S.<br />
<br />
Repealing DACA and laws that will repeal programs like Temporary Protect Status are in the works. This provides a very real problem to these friends and neighbors who live among us.</div>
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Deporting immigrants who have become members of our community to countries they have no knowledge of accomplishes nothing. Preventing desperate refugees from entering America after an extensive vetting and sponsorship process does not prevent acts of terror on our shores. What it does do is help fear fuel our intolerance just a little bit more, eating away at the empathy we have for those who are suffering in plain sight. That simply is not a Christian value, and I'll argue with anyone who tries to say it is.</div>
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We have all sought refuge for something better at some point in our lives. And, many of us know the taste of desperation. It's bitter with fear and it aches with hopelessness. I'm not willing to yank hope out from under someone's feet because I'm afraid.<br />
<br />
I have no quarrel with those who want to reform immigration. But it is incumbent on us as patriots to lobby for immigration reform that is strategic, evidence-based and works to solve the problem, which is getting a handle on who is in this country illegally. That step isn't enough. We also need immigration reform that makes sense and has heart. Not a policy that sends a young man who has committed his life to educating our kids back to a country he has never known. Or his parents, leaving their U.S.-born children behind. That's just madness.<br />
<br />
Here's what we need to do:<br />
<br />
- Start conversations. Not just with the people who agree with you. Reach out and be willing to have tough discussions with people on both sides of the aisle. Tell them the stories of the immigrants you know. This is the single most powerful step to change we can take.<br />
<br />
- Call your Representatives and Senators. Better yet, find out who is on their list of major campaign donors and call them.<br />
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- Learn the immigrations stories within your community, your local businesses and your schools. Lend your voice to those who are at risk. Their need is urgent and the time is now.<br />
<br />
- Use your voice. It's easy to do nothing when you worry that speaking up will risk your job, your business, your friends, your relationships.<br />
<br />
Nothing worthwhile was ever easy.<br />
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It's Epiphany. Just a few weeks ago, we celebrated the birth of a child of desperate immigrants who were fleeing terror and oppression. He went on to save humankind as we know it.<br />
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This is our Bethlehem, friends. Let's get after it.<br />
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KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-7433577874190577842018-01-05T11:07:00.004-08:002018-01-05T11:10:58.287-08:00Maybe it's time for a different bikeI belong to a yoga and cycling studio in our community. Even if you have only read a few of my posts, you understand that fitness perfection isn't the goal here. As Heidi so aptly puts it, "It takes a lot of work to keep a body looking this mediocre." The classes are varied and they keep me on a schedule. I also love the community there - people like Gretchen, Sarah, Charis, Rhonda and Rachael are ass-kickers, but they keep it real. They nod empathetically when I tell them, for example, that I don't know how the class is going to go because I'm suffering from a food hangover from eating half a chicken-bacon-ranch pizza the night before. Or a sleep hangover because the dog wanted to go outside at 3:30 a.m. And again at 4:30 a.m.<br />
<br />
My intentions are always good, but the execution is frequently imperfect. This morning was one of those times. Class starts at 5:45 a.m. I am usually up by that hour, but not anywhere near full strength. The temperature read -18 on the dash as I made my way to the studio, and I was the last one to show up for class. <br />
<br />
I usually try to get to class in time to get on "my" bike. It's the middle bike in the second row. If "my" bike is taken, I'll find another in the second row. If I absolutely have to, I'll get in the front row, but only in the middle area (under the fans). But this morning, since I was the last one at class, I actually needed to use the instructor bike, which Sweet Girl (the instructor - I won't name her because she's my son's age and I don't want to embarrass her) wheeled into the far left position in the front row.<br />
<br />
We started class, and it was immediately clear to me that I had gotten used to the tension on the bikes I'm used to riding. If you've never ridden a stationary bike, you adjust the tension with a lever that simulates riding on a flat road vs. a small hill or what they call a "sticky" hill (I call it a "crying" hill, but anyway.) I set my lever on my normal flat road setting and went from 0 to Crying Hill in two seconds.<br />
<br />
I ended up doing the flat roads on a setting that usually makes my legs fly out of control and the hills - well, let's just say I felt like crying a lot. Near the end of class, Sweet Girl said, "We have time for one more sequence, so now instead of one more, you have two more!" If I hadn't been gripping my handlebars so hard I would have given her the finger.<br />
<br />
During the class, I had been looking at my bike's monitor, which keeps track of the amount of miles I've logged and the estimated number of calories I've burned. Both were low numbers relative to the amount of sweat rolling off my body. I got off the bike somewhat dejected - I had shown up and gotten through the class, but that's about all I could say about it.<br />
<br />
Until I looked at my fitness watch. Turns out, I burned 100 more calories than I usually do during a class. I went from 0 to euphoric in 2 seconds.<br />
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I had to drive out of town for a meeting today and I thought about how this morning's workout is so representative of the ruts I get myself into from time to time. What today showed me so clearly is that a lot of the time, I feel like I'm working hard, but not getting any results. Steve told me one time that work is a lot like running training - some days, the running is great and others, it goes terribly. What matters is that you keep getting up every day to go running, and it eventually averages out. Steve is very wise. This morning, it didn't matter that the workout went well, but what mattered is I got up and did it. The fact that it worked for me is just a bonus.<br />
<br />
Other times, I feel like I'm working from the minute my feel hit the floor to when my head hits the pillow and I still don't feel like I'm getting any results. Getting out of that rut requires some introspection. What are some of the things that are taking time and energy, but just aren't serving me well or serving me at all anymore?<br />
<br />
The beginning of the year is perfect to take time to take stock of some of these things. What is necessarily hard? What should we re-commit to that might be a little harder at the beginning? What is hard, but doesn't need to be? What do we need to let go? What do we need to do to get to the next level, if that's important to us? What do we need to look at differently?<br />
<br />
Life has challenges and layers and pulls us in different directions and it's super easy to get off course or stuck in a rut with any number of things that rob us of focus and intention. Food, alcohol, persistent "busyness", Netflix, Facebook, Instagram, excessive exercising, self-doubt, self-obsession - it's all stuff that can take up so much space, we get up one morning and realize that we're stuck in a rut.<br />
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It's ok. It happens. Being aware of it is a first step. <br />
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The second step? Get on a different bike. We got this.<br />
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<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-77632279625626034762017-12-07T10:29:00.000-08:002017-12-07T11:44:50.002-08:00Hushing the noiseMelissa brought up the carol, "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" yesterday. "Everyone knows the first verse, which is pretty serene, but there are a lot more verses to it," she said.<br />
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She's right. I know the carol well and I have spent quite a bit of time reflecting on the three verses between the first and last. The carol was written by a minister who had suffered breakdown and wrote what he was witnessing. A weary world, full of sin and strife. Suffering. Forms bending low under life-crushing loads. In spite of that, he encourages the hopeful notion of stopping to listen for the angels:<br />
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Still through the cloven skies they come,<br />
With peaceful wings unfurled,<br />
And still their heavenly music floats<br />
O’er all the weary world;<br />
Above its sad and lowly plains,<br />
They bend on hovering wing,<br />
And ever o’er its Babel sounds<br />
The blessèd angels sing.<br />
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Yet with the woes of sin and strife<br />
The world has suffered long;<br />
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled<br />
Two thousand years of wrong;<br />
And man, at war with man, hears not<br />
The love-song which they bring;<br />
O hush the noise, ye men of strife,<br />
And hear the angels sing.<br />
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And ye, beneath life’s crushing load,<br />
Whose forms are bending low,<br />
Who toil along the climbing way<br />
With painful steps and slow,<br />
Look now! for glad and golden hours<br />
come swiftly on the wing.<br />
O rest beside the weary road,<br />
And hear the angels sing!<br />
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While the verses may not be familiar, the sentiment is.<br />
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The holiday season can be rough for many, but this year seems to be bringing a lot of emotions to the surface for some of the most stoic among us. I met with someone yesterday who admitted he has been losing sleep over any number of things, but mainly the political climate and some of the potential ramifications of decisions being made at all levels of government.<br />
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I couldn't offer him any guarantees or assurances, but I offered him some advice related to trying to hush some of the noise that was getting the best of him:<br />
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<strong>Limit the noise.</strong><br />
A self-preservation rule I have recently implemented is checking news sites once in the morning over coffee and once in the evening - before dinner and never right before I go to bed. I have turned off all news alerts on my devices. I have missed nothing of importance.<br />
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I'm well schooled in media and messaging and I can tell you this: The "fake news" argument is manufactured, but pervasive media influence is very real. Take some time to understand the game being played around you. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that every second, news outlets are fighting for your time, attention and energy; and headlines, leads, questions and sidebars are written to achieve just that. <br />
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Limit your exposure. Be intentional about checking social media. Don't read the comments section. Just don't. <br />
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It's also helpful to stay focused on established news sources that aren't as big with the slant. The news sites I tend to stick with are Reuters, PBS, BBC, NPR, The Economist and the Wall Street Journal. <br />
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<strong>Check yourself.</strong><br />
Jennie has this hanging in her kitchen:<br />
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T - is it true?<br />
H - is it helpful?<br />
I - is it important?<br />
N - is it necessary?<br />
K - is it kind?<br />
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She put it up years ago when her four kids kept lipping off to each other, but I think it's a good set of questions to have in mind before you go commenting, Tweeting, creating a meme or posting on social media. If you had a lot to say about stuff like the First Lady's White House Christmas decorations or Prince Harry choosing an American actress as a bride being the beginning of the end of the English aristocracy, I'm talking to you. Just don't. It's mean, it's not important, and it just adds to the hateful churn.<br />
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<strong>Change the message.</strong> <br />
There's a lot of talk about watching Hallmark Christmas movies this time of year, which is a strategy I highly recommend. I also make it a point to read Charles Dickens' <em>A Christmas Carol</em> each December. It's a short read and it centers me on what's important. You don't have to be fully engaged with the world around you 24/7. Give your brain some recess.<br />
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<strong>Look for the helpers.</strong><br />
Mr. Rogers was right when he advised to look for the helpers when scary stuff was going on in the news. I think that's absolutely true. When political news is getting scary, I tend to look for perspectives from people on both sides of the aisle whom I trust and who view what's going on through a pretty thoughtful and measured lens. They're almost always successful in talking me off the ledge.<br />
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<strong>Wait well.</strong><br />
I bundled up against the 18-degree temperature this morning and took a walk as the sun was coming up. In our part of the world we have been treated to some absolutely breathtaking sunsets in recent weeks. But sunrise in December is in a class by itself. The sky transforms into layers of blue and white before the sun starts peeking up from the horizon, adding bands or purple and orange. The world takes on a different perspective when we take time to witness something like that.<br />
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Look, I'm not telling you that watching a few sunrises is going to completely turn things around for you. But I'm also not willing to concede that the world is going to hell in a handbasket. Not just yet, anyway.<br />
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Human strife and chaos have existed since the dawn of time. Far from the tranquil scene frequently painted, Jesus came into the world amid a hotbed of ruthless power struggles, bloodshed and political unrest. <br />
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This isn't anything new to humanity, and oddly, I think we can find some comfort in that. In spite of what continues to happen, the sun still rises and sets. Light keeps finding a way to shine through. We move through and we move on.<br />
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For my faith tradition, this time of year challenges us with the discipline of wait. Wait can be exciting and it can be excruciating. For the times it's the latter, I try to remember that as I'm waiting for the joy of Christmas, I'm not just waiting for Jesus. I'm waiting with Jesus. When I remember that, it's easier for me to practice empathy, love, kindness, patience and hope - and these are much better uses of my energy.<br />
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As you work to hush the noise and manage your wait, I pray that your heart is filled with these virtues.<br />
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<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-34676539516168801782017-11-28T05:09:00.000-08:002017-11-28T05:09:13.786-08:00The party's over, but the journey continuesWith a feeling I can only describe as surreal, Pat and I celebrate our 25th anniversary today.<br />
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It just doesn't seem like it was that long ago. It was a gorgeous fall day during Thanksgiving weekend. Our nearest and dearest gathered for a ceremony and party that had been over a year in the making. Prayers were said and glasses were raised. "Celebration", "Beer Barrel Polka" (I'm from Wisconsin), and "Chicken Dance" ensued. The next day, we loaded the 1989 Buick I had inherited from my parents with our wedding gifts and headed back to Iowa to start our lives together. </div>
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That's when things got harder. </div>
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People describe the "let-down" that happens after a big event you have been planning for and looking forward to. The week after our wedding can only be described as such - and I don't feel bad about admitting it, because Pat will tell you the same thing. The fact of the matter is, once the toasts are made, the flowers fade and the veil is put away, at the end of the day, you've committed to making a life together - for better or for worse.</div>
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Oddly, it's the "for worse" occasions that I've been thinking about as I consider our 25th year. Not because life hasn't been rich and blessed and wonderful being married to Pat. It has. We are both pretty independent people, but I don't think either of us could imagine life without the other, and I think that's one of the things that makes us great together. We complement each other in the important ways: Stuff like our personalities, our faith, the way we parent, and what we like to order for take-out.</div>
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But it's the times that we haven't complemented each other that I've learned the most about myself and what it takes to keep a relationship going - even when things are pretty crappy and you just want to chuck the whole thing. </div>
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The "for worse" part of "for better or for worse" doesn't get nearly enough play.</div>
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We have wallpapered together. We have been through 28 football seasons. We have been through the "Why can't you ever remember it's garbage day?" and the "Why do you need another purse?" arguments. We have grilled using charcoal. We have assembled IKEA furniture. We have untangled miles of Christmas lights.<br />
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We have weathered job changes, debt and income stressors. We have fought through our son having childhood cancer. We have both been through crippling bouts of depression and anxiety. We have been through the aftermath of a friend taking his own life and other friends and family ending, or coming close to ending, their marriages. We have worked to support family and friends through illness, both seen and unseen. We have fought about family issues. We have negotiated family and parent responsibilities and struggled (mainly me) to relinquish control. We have lost grandparents and Pat's dad. We have changed, grown and shaped how we view things.</div>
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We have grown apart as a couple many times and have somehow managed to find our way back to one another. </div>
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After 25 years, second only to our kids, these journeys back to each other are what make me the most proud.</div>
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Marriage isn't a party. It's a journey that brings both rock-filled valleys and amazing vistas. It's a willlingness to wake up every day and say, "I'm going to keep going" - even on those days when everything in your being is telling you that you're going in the wrong direction and you will never get there no matter how hard you try.</div>
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I have had conversations with friends who are horrified to find themselves wandering in the "for worse" part. And they have been reassured when I tell them it's common, it's normal and it's not that surprising. No one has a perfect marriage. Trying to negotiate any kind of space between two people is far more difficult than managing space on your own.</div>
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But the times you succeed - the times when it hits you that you've learned something about yourself and this person you've tethered yourself to, and that you're both better people because of it - those are the times that make it worth the effort.</div>
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The party's over, but the journey continues. It's a wonderful life, and I'm grateful.</div>
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Thank you, Love. Happy Anniversary.</div>
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KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-36851577641039672012017-10-04T07:09:00.002-07:002017-10-04T07:45:17.113-07:00Just tryIt's only occasionally that the pants get political, and I usually deliberate it about it for quite a while before posting. My motivation in eventually posting something that can be controversial is based on two questions: 1) Will this inspire conversation? and 2) Will this stir hearts to action?<br />
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I can't think of two more important questions in the wake of 59 people being murdered and hundreds more injured this week in Las Vegas.<br />
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Look, I didn't grow up in a gun culture. My grandfather was a veteran, but to my knowledge, he didn't pick up a gun after returning to the U.S. after being injured in the Battle of the Bulge. My mom's favorite weapon is guilt. The most threatening thing my father has wielded is a water pic.<br />
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I did grow up in a family that believed strongly in the freedoms protected by the Constitution. No one I grew up with is going to begrudge someone the right to arm themselves. But as conservative as many people in my family are, I don't think anyone will argue that everyone has the right to arm themselves with weapons capable of killing and wounding many with one trigger pull.<br />
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This is where it gets complicated. The proverbial "slippery slope." If we don't let the "good" people arm themselves, only the "bad" people will be armed. It's unconstitutional. Who gets decide who "good" people are and "bad" people are? Does restricting access leave us vulnerable to a "tyrannical" government?<br />
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I don't understand many of the gun lobby's arguments, but I do understand the power of well-funded and well-orchestrated messaging. We're being manipulated, and whether you lean to the left or the right, we're all victims of it.<br />
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We need to quit waiting for Congress and the NRA to figure this out. It will not happen.<br />
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We can argue that people can wield terror with elements other than guns. That's true.<br />
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We can argue on both sides that trying to regulate anything is complicated, concerning and ambiguous. It is.<br />
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We can condescendingly dismiss arguments of gun owners, writing them off as unfeeling, uneducated rednecks, but we know that isn't true.<br />
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We can allow arguments to veer into the ridiculous and say, "What's next? Do we regulate Twinkies because people are fat?" - because that's not the same thing, and we know it.<br />
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We can wring hands and pray and create memes on social media and post articles about heroes who rescued the injured for months. It may make us feel better - until something happens again. It will happen again.<br />
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We can do nothing because of all of that.<br />
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Or maybe we could just try to have a conversation. That conversation may lead to some interesting solutions. Those interesting solutions could lead to common-sense grassroots movements that elected officials and powerful lobbyists may eventually need to pay attention to.<br />
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That perspective may be Pollyanna. But after seeing the footage and photos of panic and carnage; after watching interviews with grieving and distraught family members and victims; after hearing "it's just the way it is" time and again; after thinking, "I'm not a gun person, so I don't really have any skin in this game," but then considering that it may be my child or family member or friend who is killed or injured the next time this happens ...<br />
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I'm willing to just try. Are you?<br />
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<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-59457569959418079452017-08-28T17:00:00.001-07:002017-08-28T18:44:55.662-07:00Season of the Tomato Sammie<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHBtetiI7hO6UciUbs7MWK9C4HQrZjtkMAJgWrvp0_ZY3LqFHGUrDJ0OL9mwPKFh0AZFI5RtbSA-kwxubOygCLjMgAZ5zQIcgZEio1Bo1rnGi8ZL1Q5lx7OwXPk5UIbLIeRyibybf1zNo/s1600/IMG_2108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHBtetiI7hO6UciUbs7MWK9C4HQrZjtkMAJgWrvp0_ZY3LqFHGUrDJ0OL9mwPKFh0AZFI5RtbSA-kwxubOygCLjMgAZ5zQIcgZEio1Bo1rnGi8ZL1Q5lx7OwXPk5UIbLIeRyibybf1zNo/s320/IMG_2108.JPG" width="240" /></a>August is in full swing at my house. I've been married to a teacher (now guidance counselor) and football coach for 25 years (in November), so August means a lot of things. Despite my tenure in dealing with back-to-school, back-to-football season, it takes me a few weeks to adjust to the routine. The routine is, after two weeks of trying, giving up on planning anything. Are we free? Maybe, but probably not. Planning meals is a fool's errand - with one kid out of the nest and one in a bunch of activities, dinner consists mostly of what can be heated from the refrigerator or freezer.<br />
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The one exception to that is the tomato sandwich. Pat grew up on a farm and he loves puttering around in the garden early in June when the sun is high and the soil is practically begging to be planted. He's an adventurous (read: somewhat impractical) gardener. This year, he grew kale, a successful vine of Marquette grapes (not sure what we're going to do with them), as well as two red peppers (nothing like buying $8 worth of plants to yield two peppers, but it's all in good fun.)<br />
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Just in time for "no-one-is-here-for-dinner" season, we almost always achieve a bumper crop of tomatoes. We are not canners, so we got smart a few years ago and limited our varieties to cherry tomatoes for salads and beefsteak tomatoes for tomato sandwiches. Tonight, I had my first tomato sammie - eaten just the way it's supposed to be eaten, which is standing up, over the sink.<br />
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I wasn't always a tomato sandwich enthusiast. I turned my nose up at tomatoes when I was younger. I have an acquantance who told me the reason why was my system wasn't mature enough and the acidity of tomatoes was not compatible with it. I have a closer friend who had another explanation, which was, loosely interpreted: Kids can be assholes and wouldn't know good food if they were hit in the head with it.<br />
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At any rate, my system learned to love tomatoes and the simplicity of a tomato sandwich is just what I need when life gets complicated.<br />
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To make one, all you need is good bread (I recommend Waving Grains Rustic Cracked Whole Wheat, available from the Oneota Food Co-op. Jo Iverson knows her way around a loaf of bread, to say nothing of being a fantastic human being), Hellman's Real Mayonnaise (please spare me the "I like Miracle Whip" discussion. I will not engage), and some salt and pepper. Slice your tomato the same thickness of the bread, load up both sides with Hellman's, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and eat it standing over the sink or while you're walking around the perimeter of your house, watering the plants. It doesn't get any simpler than that.<br />
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Ina or Martha will want to teach you how to use foccacia or make basil infused aioli to put on your tomato sammie. Don't you do it. If you feel the need to bring it up a notch, add a slice of crisply cooked bacon. But the uncomplicated taste of a freshly-picked tomato, warmed by the sun, really is a number worthy of an encore all by itself.<br />
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August can be exhausting. Summer has made its graduated crescendo through July and into the beginning of the month, leading to the next measure of school and the start of regimented routines. Soon, the Halloween and Christmas crap will be rearing its ugly head at the local big box store and before too long, we'll be hitting the final chord of the year.<br />
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We owe ourselves the simplicity of tomato sandwiches. What are you waiting for?<br />
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<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-3348510396357335742017-08-13T08:08:00.000-07:002017-08-13T08:20:07.810-07:00Mother of the groomHeidi's son got married this past weekend. It was an unsurprisingly beautiful and meaningful event, as one involving two wonderful, hope-filled and faithful people making promises to each other should be. My contemplative thoughts weren't, however, on the bride or groom, but on the mother of the groom. (Which is Heidi if you missed that.)<br />
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There is an episode of the first season of "The West Wing" when President Bartlet greets the secretary of agriculture (I think) who is selected to sit in the Oval Office during the State of the Union because of the line of succession thing (grab your social studies textbook if you're not following me.) Anyway, the secretary of agriculture is understandably nervous sitting amid the grandeur of the Oval Office, what with his office digs likely having lots of gray walls and seed corn caps and soil samples and hair nets and other things you would expect to be at the Department of Agriculture - to say nothing of inheriting the whole leader of the free world job if something happened up the street during the State of the Union. So the president advises as his first step, "You have a best friend? Is he smarter than you? He's your chief of staff."<br />
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Heidi is my chief of staff. Mainly because she's smarter than me and tells me things that I sometimes don't want to hear, but she is usually right about, and everyone needs a friend like that. <br />
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It got me thinking about how important mothers of the groom and chiefs of staff are, and we never really get to see all the stuff that goes into those job descriptions. Both keep things running in the left lane while staying in the right lane with an eye on the shoulder and the exits. Both provide advice and counsel only when asked for, but find elegant ways to provide it when it's not asked for and it's clear that it's needed. Both understand the "contributing to something bigger" part of their more understated, support staff role.<br />
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Where would we be without people like that?<br />
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Heidi has always amazed me, and she's dismissive when I tell her this, but like many spouses and moms who don't "work outside the home" (I hate that term - work is work, no matter what your backdrop looks like), I don't think she fully understands how many things would completely go off the rails if she woke up one day and decided not to do what she does.<br />
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It's a role that is frequently overlooked and underappreciated. When I think about the amount of stuff that I jump into at a breakneck pace while blindfolded, wearing heels, drinking a cup of coffee and eating hot soup, I'm grateful I have Heidi to grab my by the scruff of the neck when it's needed. It's frequently needed. And I'm by no means the only person in her life she supports this way.<br />
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The couple who got married are two of them. Her other kid standing beside them is another. The guy she sat next to during the ceremony - raise your hand, brother. There were a lot of us in the room.<br />
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She's the glue that holds it together, she's the safety net that catches what falls, she's the voice that says "get on it", "you can do this" or "I love you" when that's what needs to be heard. And she'll say, "shut up!" when she reads this and change the subject to something that's not about her.<br />
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That's what mothers of the groom do, but I know better. Thanks, Heids.<br />
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<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-23094060954446450062017-08-01T05:23:00.000-07:002017-08-01T05:23:01.560-07:00He is not hereI graduated from Luther College, which is a private, liberal arts school nestled in the rolling hills of Northeast Iowa, and happens to be the community in which I now live. Due to its size and nature, Luther is a family. Our family has been rocked this summer by the loss of two of our classmates - one from a tragic car accident; the other after a brave battle with cancer and complications from a bone marrow transplant.<br />
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I wasn't closely in touch with either of them, but social media and other circumstances kept us loosely connected. And while I couldn't tell you lots of details about their lives 25 years after graduating from college, memories of who they were and the contributions they made are something I carry with me. Krista was a nonconformist who was beautiful, sensitive and brilliant. She met and married her soulmate during college and his poignant posts on Facebook talking about their family and the amazing things she did both personally and professionally are both gratifying and heartbreaking. Andrew was larger than life - he had charisma for miles and a heart as big as his smile. He did so many things for others and it's hard to come to terms with the idea that love, prayers and hope couldn't heal him and return him to his family to live to see old age. He was the unofficial mayor of every community he ever joined.<br />
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There was a big annual festival in town this past weekend, so I had the chance to run into many of our classmates. We shared stronger hugs and sad, knowing smiles. We said, "I love you." We were grateful for beautiful weather and a sense of community. We celebrated life, acknowledging how precious it is.<br />
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It made me think of the resurrection story from Matthew, and the message from the angel to the women at the tomb when they found Jesus' body missing. "He is not here; he has risen, just as he said."<br />
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I love that story for lots of different reasons, not the least of which that the men were all hiding from the authorities while the women had the chutzpah to venture out and treat the body at the gravesite. But I also love that the message, "He is not here" isn't meant to inspire sadness. It's an announcement of victory - that life now has power over the finality of death.<br />
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Mourning is a funny thing. It's a lot like laughing through tears. Our hearts grieve for what is lost, but they smile when we reflect upon and remember the significance those who have left us have left us with. We still ache, but memories, like a balm, ease the sting.<br />
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I thought of Krista and Andrew as I watched people last weekend sing, dance and play during the beautiful summer days and the clear summer nights. They would have loved the celebration of community. They are not in dark places filled with suffering and grief. They were here. And they will continue visiting anywhere they left their imprints of life and love. <br />
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My prayer is that we continue to keep our eyes and hearts open to remember to look for them.<br />
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<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-49473172232516820382017-07-25T09:54:00.001-07:002017-07-25T09:54:07.610-07:00No one conquered the world wearing natty underpants and other truthsI'm experiencing a run of being a little more conscious of self-care lately. Like a lot of people who score off the charts on the personality tests that classify one as "nurturing" (whatever the hell that means), this is uncharacteristic for me. I would stay up all night, hike 30 miles uphill through the rain (well, maybe) or learn a new language if it meant that people would think I was neat. It's exhausting. Last week, I had time away from work and family and found myself relaxing into that warm, fluid and delicious feeling of not needing to be responsible for anyone but myself. I had some time to think about things that I needed to do for me.<br />
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Pat gave me a loving talking-to when I got home. "Are you ok? You were stressed and obsessed with a bunch of stuff before you left, and now you're not."</div>
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I guess I forgot about what I was stressed and obsessed with. It was really, really nice. And I found myself with a bunch of energy that was more fun channeling into creative and energy-producing activities.<br />
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I can't explain why self-care is difficult for me, but I know I'm not alone. Maybe we feel selfish putting our needs before others. Maybe that nagging, annoying, continual need for approval focuses our attention outward. Maybe self-care feels too self-indulgent. Maybe we're gluttons for self-punishment. But I'm smart enough to know that the notion of filling your own tank before you can drive the carpool has a lot of truth to it.<br />
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Not long ago, I was cleaning out my underwear drawer. Underwear drawers hold a universe of secrets. And while I was weeding through the pairs that were worn out, the pairs that creep up, the pairs that look good but don't fit very well, the pairs that look horrible but fit great - it occurred to me that my underwear drawer was a good metaphor for my self-care model.<br />
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Too often, we make due with what is almost right, but not quite. We'll put up with the shot elastic in the waistband because we just don't want to take time to throw that pair out and grab another. That hole just isn't big enough to throw them out and reach for something different. That bra doesn't really fit, but who is going to see? <br />
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The problem is, we know. We forget about it for a while when focusing on other things, but when you get up and your underwear has ventured into spaces where it doesn't belong, it's an instant reminder that we need to attend to some things. Our drawer is so full of stuff that doesn't work that it's hard to find the good stuff.<br />
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A friend of mine (nameless, but she knows who she is) told me once that she feels guilty buying new underwear because she has so many other things she needs to spend money on.<br />
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Friends, I'm all for fiscal responsibility, but the moment we set ourselves aside so much that we're finding financial reasons not to replace our granny panties, we need some self-examination.<br />
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Here's my self-care start-up plan:<br />
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- I'm working on clearing my drawer of things that don't or no longer serve me. This is specifically in the area of volunteering. If it's something that I'm excited about, instills passion or am convinced that this will make so much of a difference that I'm willing to invest my time in it, it's a yes. Anything else (such as this person will be so disappointed if I quit or decline), it's a thanks so much for asking me, but no. <br />
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- My drawer will be cleared of time-sucking activities that are not productive. I'm scheduling email, text and social media time. No more casually wandering because I'm bored and unfocused. If I don't respond to you right away, that's why. <br />
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- I'm more intentional about what I'm putting in my drawer, including the things I read, the time I spend and the activities I pursue. I have some stuff I want to accomplish before I turn 50, and my creativity and mental energy need to be directed there. That's ok. <br />
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My intent in writing this in part is to inspire. Another big part is accountability. Thanks for indulging me.<br />
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No one conquered the world wearing natty underpants. Let's get after it.<br />
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KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2515886296569835515.post-61618421366759162342017-07-02T08:57:00.001-07:002017-07-03T10:29:00.091-07:00Over 40s: You're not done dreaming yet<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgooJ6492K3zHHAKWiD_YE3G3PX73oGTCPmKv1npLpSBak2f6DwWougTFi_cD39rht0CZlCyf8n_BZNE_RGhQ8uZQSDam4NKEwEmTd3RjkvfMdZdJSK85MX6_fbDu4ghZgWi6ob7BSO3Ig/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-12-14+at+5.59.49+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="375" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgooJ6492K3zHHAKWiD_YE3G3PX73oGTCPmKv1npLpSBak2f6DwWougTFi_cD39rht0CZlCyf8n_BZNE_RGhQ8uZQSDam4NKEwEmTd3RjkvfMdZdJSK85MX6_fbDu4ghZgWi6ob7BSO3Ig/s320/Screen+Shot+2016-12-14+at+5.59.49+PM.png" width="320" /></a>I don't remember when I decided I was done dreaming.<br />
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Maybe it was when I turned 40. For some reason, I recall 40 being the magic age when dreams of being on Broadway and writing a novel should be shelved. They would take the role of good, yet passive memories. Rather than burning like passion within, they'd be looked at fondly, nostalgically - much like paging through a yearbook or a photo album.<br />
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Forty indicated it was time to be more serious about the whole adult thing. Time to focus time and attention on things that contribute financially. The things that stirred and inspired me were now being lived out in my kids, and it was now their time.<br />
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I didn't resent letting my dreams go to focus on my family, but I did miss them. There were times when I wanted to say, "I was good at this once. People thought I could do something really special." But I found contentment in encouraging others to follow the path where their gifts led them, and I decided that was enough. Except it wasn't.<br />
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When Tom came to me two years ago and asked me to choreograph our high school's production of "The Sound of Music," I laughed. Dancing was something I "used to do." There would be nothing for me to offer at this stage of the game.<br />
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I'm lucky Tom can be persistent. I joined the production team, and it's among the best experiences I ever had. Still, I kept waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and say, "Sorry - we were wrong. You really can't do this anymore. Thanks for your enthusiasm, but we found someone else to take over. Can you make bars for intermission?"<br />
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I don't remember when I decided I wasn't fearless anymore, but I miss that, too.<br />
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Anyway, Tom, Kristen and I produced the local community theatre production of "Spamalot" this summer. During the eight-week rehearsal cycle, I caught myself worrying about whether I had the chops to actually get what I needed to do done. My inner voice kept saying, "I haven't danced in years. That extra weight has settled around my middle and I don't look like a dancer. I couldn't do a high kick if you held a gun to my head. I can't keep all the steps straight - how am I ever going to teach this?" But with a talented cast and Tom and Kristen's skill, it all came together. The production was fantastic, and it's among the best experiences I ever had.<br />
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During dress rehearsals, I confessed to Kristen my fears of being inadequate - of not "having it" anymore. You have to know that Kristen is beautiful and bright - with her carriage and confidence, I always have regarded her as being larger than life. She's an actor - a brilliant one. Like so many people skilled in their craft, she is a passionate teacher. So I was surprised to learn that she wrestles with inadequacy, too.<br />
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When in the hell did we decide we weren't good enough? Is it age? Is it appearance? Is it prioritizing time and attention on other things? Is it settling?<br />
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I read a story once about a mangy dog that hung around a playground. It was friendly, but it suffered from neglect and was understandably smelly. From time to time, the kids on the playground would find a stick to scratch it behind its ears, and the dog would sit, content to have some attention for even a short while.<br />
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Life can sneak up on us that way. We keep giving of ourselves, settling for and asking for less and less, until one day, we realize that we're making due with being scratched with a stick.<br />
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It's high time we settled for more. If you're not going to be the lead in your own life, who is?<br />
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Coincidentally, Jeni recently posted this on social media: "I used to think that if music wasn't a full-time career option, then it wasn't something I could pursue at all. I used to think that, because I didn't have 'the look,' then I certainly couldn't be a full-time musician. I used to think that the older I got, the less likely anyone would even want to hear me, even if I did try. And Yet, here I am, 43 years old, looking older and thicker than ever, and getting set to play my first ever blues festival this weekend. Take that 20 year-old thinking! Turns out some pretty kick ass thing can happen after 40."<br />
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Amen, sister. I saw the videos from the blues festival, and you slayed it.<br />
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Take heart, over 40s. We're not done yet. Get out of your own way. Show those feelings of "can't", "won't" and "shouldn't" the door. Drag out the dance shoes, the ball glove, the notebook, the football cleats, the saxophone, the dissertation draft, the guitar, the invention, the idea, the course catalog, the paddle board.<br />
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I don't remember when I decided I was done dreaming, but I know exactly when I decided to pull my dreams off the shelf and allowed them to stir me back to life.<br />
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I hope today is your day.<br />
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<br />KThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06545267392471386417noreply@blogger.com1