tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29628799394628518902024-03-03T16:25:45.574-08:00Our Big Fun LifeHilareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228234736195270443noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2962879939462851890.post-27921746344714674072016-02-22T14:02:00.001-08:002016-02-22T14:02:32.885-08:00I've gone undercoverThis year is all about internal focus. I made the gigantic leap off of Facebook, and quickly realized within a few, cold January days that it takes most people much longer to email back a response than it did to Facebook message and that I would initially replace the newsfeed addiction with endless open tabs of blogs and websites, the information flow never, ever enough.<div>
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It's tempting to be audience focused, though, to write something here or in another capacity that will make people think or laugh or wonder. But that's not my resolution. My 2016 resolution is to go deeply internal for twelve months, to enter the quiet solitude necessary for the development of voice and style. I checked back in with my old blog here to see how long it had been since I'd written...nearly two years. Facebook had replaced anything of value written here.</div>
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So...I'm writing this now to remind myself not to produce anything this year for an audience's approval. Or an audience's criticism, actually. I currently have a small art show for April lined up at a restaurant in a city near me that I'm going to cancel, which may seem counter-intuitive. I'm also working on a year-long writing project that NO ONE knows anything about. Not even my husband. And I'm not telling anyone, either. </div>
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There's something appealing about the creative monkishness of my year. I feel swathed in a long, brown robe, maybe a nun's habit. Rosary swinging from my hip. Eyes cast down. Cast inward, mining treasure. </div>
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Hilareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228234736195270443noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2962879939462851890.post-27946388488106548722014-05-17T20:05:00.000-07:002014-05-17T20:05:57.214-07:00I live a magical life.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A few years ago, while driving through the woodsy town south
of our city, I often passed a ramshackle, brown cottage, perched
crookedly on its messy property. As I
approached on the right, a road sign advertised the blind driveway. The house jutted into the road at a curve,
between endless forests of tall pines and streams, and drivers needed to slow
as they passed, or risk plummeting into a shallow ravine.</div>
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Every time I passed that little cottage, I couldn’t take my
eyes off it. I felt magnetically allured,
a bit in love. The place was a
disaster. Shutters rotted, mold climbed
the foundation, and weed tangles grew feral and huge, mixing with bursts of
flowers. Broken pottery shards littered
the ground. The roof lacked several
shingles. But there was simple
beauty. A dirty window’s cracked glass
framed a sill line of colorful glass bottles.
Wiry nature weavings dangled from the door. And somebody loved those tomato plants,
dripping with fruit. I slowed my car,
every time, and gazed at that house.</div>
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I noticed that someone started placing objects at the
roadside – a New Hampshire tradition – when you’re finished with something,
just stick it by the street. Within a
few hours, a passerby will have popped it into their trunk or pickup to be
salvaged, reused or revamped. Each time
I drove by, I observed an increased frequency of roadside stuff. Someone was cleaning out the little cottage. I had never seen a human there, but I felt
strongly that the owner of the tiny home had died, and relatives wanted to rid
the premises of the deceased’s junk. Inexplicably,
I thought this, I suppose. Or maybe, the
decline of the property, combined with the piles? I’m not sure.
The roadside heaps grew bigger.
And still, my attraction to the home continued. I had such a crush on it. I know, so weird, to anticipate a happy,
seven seconds long heart flutter over an object.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfYJ24U24ywLC7FUC3Gu80gHM1RcBkfA3JWe2Ue0Dq43PKIj5orqbsmhyiePfqPG-Cp_X_AxP_CjVwK7K9jJb917CEpakBcNf6HYaUQOr2rqqsJwWmVICN96mnrT893awgh9XxJTRKeE/s1600/DSC06035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfYJ24U24ywLC7FUC3Gu80gHM1RcBkfA3JWe2Ue0Dq43PKIj5orqbsmhyiePfqPG-Cp_X_AxP_CjVwK7K9jJb917CEpakBcNf6HYaUQOr2rqqsJwWmVICN96mnrT893awgh9XxJTRKeE/s1600/DSC06035.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>As I approached it on the road one day, I decided to pray
about why I felt so attached to the house.
Interested in exploring the meaning behind my odd devotion, I asked God
to reveal to me just why I adored it.
For much of my life, I’ve been propelled by the belief that God sometimes
rouses in us our worldly purpose through desires or passions that just won’t
die, and sometimes it’s through the love of specific, quirky things. Did something about the house remind me of an
important, forgotten memory? Was there
something I could learn from it? Would
it reveal an aspect of my identity that God wanted to highlight? A change I needed to make? An embrace?
A release? I drove by, prayed,
and kept on toward home.</div>
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A couple of days later, as I again neared it, I remembered
my prayer and as usual, slowed as I turned the sharp corner. In the bedraggled yard, a few feet from the
road, a woman with short, brown, curly hair stood, feet planted, calm, arms at
her side. I have no other way to
describe this other than to just say it:
I swear she met my eyes before I even knew she was there. I have goose bumps now, thinking about
it. I came around the corner, and she
was already looking at me, like she had been waiting. She gently smiled and watched me intently as
I drove past, just her head turning to follow me. I got the urge to stop and say hello, to ask
questions about the house, tell her, “Your home makes me happy,” now was my
chance! But I couldn’t – I was
absolutely freaked out. And if you know
me, you already understand that I’m not shy.
I’ll easily talk to anyone, even attempting foreign languages to
communicate. But I couldn’t do it.</div>
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As I drove away, I berated myself for not stopping. Honestly, here it is: the benevolence of the
encounter overwhelmed me. I felt in the
presence of something I couldn’t understand.
I didn’t know what to do about it.</div>
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The next day, I found myself in the area again, and neared
the little home. A mile away, my
thoughts were tumultuous – <i>That was so
bizarre, that woman, I wonder if she’ll be outside again. Is she the owner of the home? Is she the one cleaning it out? A relative of the deceased?</i> And, most importantly, <i>why was she looking at me like that?
Like she had all the time in the world.
</i>I have friends who believe in ghosts, and while I don’t, I will
admit to that thought also crossing my mind before I dismissed it. The encounter had affected me so much, I was
imagining the woman’s thoughts based on her strange and calm presence by the
road, her looking straight into my eyes.
<i> Ah, finally, here comes Hilaree. I’ve been waiting for you. You pass by all the time and I decided I
needed to make it obvious. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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This time, as I passed by, the woman was nowhere to be found,
the yard empty. All the roadside junk had been picked up, with
the exception of one, startlingly specific to me item. A light blue, well-loved, wooden easel stood
in the weeds at the street, all by itself.
Squares of paint marked the outlines of previously painted canvasses. Ghosts of artwork. Someone’s hands were there, many times. I stopped my van, pulled over and clicked on
the hazards. I squinted up at the
house. I looked around, like I was
getting away with something. With my
heart an excited mess, I popped the rear door up and lifted the large easel
into the back. My three children hung
out of their windows, hollering and cheering, thrilled for their mama.</div>
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See, it’s not that I didn’t already have an easel. I had one, all right. It was black, metal, foldable, and
utilitarian. Sometimes my children used
it. I seldom did. I had just begun taking drawing classes, an
activity that opened up my soul like that first, barefoot on grass, spring day
after an endless, frigid winter. Freedom. This easel, this one, has presence. This one is hefty, old, and easily three feet
across. The hinges are rusted open,
weathered gorgeous, resistant to folding or propping in a corner, unused.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcyswP-q4URTZAnPYcOtEjnzUO6RlgFi5uk-jhGHUobpt9QQXIAuVIuVK7ZPeZ8Yr4bTXyoiew277CylhbR0CE1kH1memRQObM20cdGJ3n2J8vi8qZcBup5NC_zn0j3np4t5R_huo7-Gg/s1600/DSC08556.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcyswP-q4URTZAnPYcOtEjnzUO6RlgFi5uk-jhGHUobpt9QQXIAuVIuVK7ZPeZ8Yr4bTXyoiew277CylhbR0CE1kH1memRQObM20cdGJ3n2J8vi8qZcBup5NC_zn0j3np4t5R_huo7-Gg/s1600/DSC08556.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>I received it as a gift.</div>
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Among other things, I have wanted to be an artist my entire
life. And, I have always questioned if that desire was noble, a worthy enough
pursuit. After all, artists spend a lot
of time in isolation, percolating their thoughts. Our culture extols the extrovert. I have always needed permission, especially
for the quality and quantity of solitude artmaking requires. From who, I never really knew. Blessing others with permission to be artists
– yes, I could do that. But myself? Is it good enough? Creating fills my lungs with fresh
oxygen. I lose track of time. I lose track of myself. But shouldn’t my purpose be painful?</div>
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Within the next week, demolition on the little brown home
began. Very little else appeared at the
roadside as the house quickly collapsed.
On one scorching hot day, June bugs buzzing, I stopped once more, and
for the first time, walked right up the short dirt driveway onto the
property. I stood sweating on the
remaining bricks of a crumbled fireplace, peered into the foundation, all the walls
gone. I said thank you, just a whisper, finally. </div>
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Now the easel stands sentinel in the corner of my own tiny
studio. In total, there are six works in
progress propped on the floor and leaning against it, sitting directly on its
center surface, or balanced on top of it.
I have added my own paint outlines, and I no longer know hers from mine.
Every time I use it, chips from her paint come off on my hands, a repeated
baptism.</div>
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Hilareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228234736195270443noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2962879939462851890.post-77960753523189021462014-01-17T17:02:00.003-08:002014-01-17T17:02:44.365-08:00We Love a Gorgeous Gooey Mess<div>
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One of our favorite recipes/experiments/messes to create is from the fantastic book - <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0805444432?ie=UTF8&tag=letsexplocrea-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0805444432">The Ultimate Book of Kid Concoctions</a>. Gooey Gunk! Littlest especially is into hands on, sensory play, and she allowed me to photograph her process. We even extended the activity into two hours of creative play by adding some animal toys! Enjoy!</div>
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So here is the product, once the two solutions were combined...</div>
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I brought out the box of animal toys and Littlest decided to make lizard prints...<br />
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...which would fade away slowly...<br />
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Zebra needed a turn!<br />
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Fashionable, no?</div>
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Lest anyone thinks life is easy around here...she also decided to put some in her hair. Her reasons for doing this were not readily apparent. At least she stayed in good spirits. Have fun and let me know about creative ways you've combined toys with activities for your littles!</div>
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Hilareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228234736195270443noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2962879939462851890.post-4118987679404115582013-12-30T18:42:00.000-08:002013-12-31T18:40:05.405-08:00I can't believe it. I'm in love with a pop song.I mean, if you know me, you'd be very surprised. I'm not even a bit embarrassed, mostly because I want to sing this song to my children, the second they open their bleary eyes. I want to whisper these lyrics into my child's ear, the one with severe sensory processing disorder, when a task or experience becomes just too much. Right now, I say, "You're someone who has flown on airplanes. You have started to try new foods. Remember when you had foot surgery? Putting on your pants is going to be super easy! You are God's child. You accepted Jesus, remember? So now you have all the power that created the ocean and Jupiter and redwoods living inside you." <i> I wanna see you be brave</i>. And, please put on your pants.<br />
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I want these lyrics for my friends, some in particular, who've been doing the Mama thing forever, who've forgotten who they are, otherwise. Bravery dispels that<i> history of silence</i> created by exhaustion. <br />
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I want these lyrics for myself. Is it immature to find solace in song lyrics? I must be too old for this. I want to be brave enough to let Jesus search me and know me, to see if there's any offensive dirt messing the place up, and I want to be brave enough to act on what's found, once He's lifted the carpet and shook it. <i>Everybody's been stared down by the enemy, fallen for the fear and done some disappearing</i>. I want to be brave enough to embrace friendships that are nurturing to me, that don't involve soul-censoring or explanation. I want to be brave enough to participate in another art show, with big, boisterous paintings this time. I want to be brave enough to write that novel with my author husband, and then brave enough to stand in the limelight, considerate and calm.<br />
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I don't do resolutions. But I'll pick a focusing word for 2014. Brave.<br />
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(Click on the link to hear the song and watch the adorable video! I especially love the guy in the plaid shirt. He reminds me of many of my sweet friends.)<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUQsqBqxoR4">Sara Bareilles - Brave</a>Hilareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228234736195270443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2962879939462851890.post-33069597856501126762013-10-13T13:30:00.001-07:002013-10-13T13:30:25.854-07:00more traveling!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I realize I take a lot of photos of us eating. Believe me, I'm sparing you - these aren't the half of them. Was that grammatically correct? It felt like a colloquialism. Like when we finally got to California, and my sister-in-law and HER sister-in-law were telling me that my brother and I say weird things like, "Are you done your breakfast?" When apparently it should be worded, "Are you done WITH your breakfast?" Is this a digression? Yes. And it was still about food. I KNOW. Here we are, still in wondrous Portland, with Lovely Friend. Lovely Friend's husband also joined us, but he is unpictured here today. Lorena's Mexican restaurant. We walked to it, all localish.</div>
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Biggest and Lovely Friend, squishyfaces.</div>
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MOLE!! Pronounced "Mo-lay", not like the rodent. Could there be anything tastier? No.</div>
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Middlest, totally blending in. You didn't even recognize him, did you? He's slick.<br />
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So, while we were in Portland, the city experienced record rainfall, the most September water accumulation since 1872. Unhindered, and laden with our raincoats (and the kids even had matching rainpants, which made my mama heart feel all organized and glad), we ventured out to the Columbia River Gorge to see the waterfalls. Literally, and there's no other, less cliche way to say this, Multnomah Falls took my breath away. I walked around a corner, and there it was, all 620 feet of it. I gasped like someone stabbed me. I even clutched my heart. I cried a little. You've just got to go there and see it. You'll gasp too. <br />
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And see that bridge spanning the middle of it? We hiked up to that, and stood, deafened by the roar. I was unable to take pictures because of the spray. While we perched there, I explained tearfully to the children that the Bible describes God's voice as the sound that surrounded us. "His voice was like the roar of rushing waters, and the land was radiant with his glory."<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span> Ezekiel 43:2<br />
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It's the second-highest waterfall in the United States. Of course, our measly pictures do it no justice. I don't know why I decided at that moment to clutch Littlest under the armpits. She's a mere three inches off the ground. I clearly wasn't helping anyone.<br />
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Don't these look like Dr. Seuss trees? Middlest and I loved them so much. Rich, funky, lime-green moss coats everything in the area. If I wasn't a tree hugger before, the Gorge made me into one. Okay, so I was a tree hugger before, too.<br />
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After our first waterfall experience, we enjoyed the touristy but well-intentioned information center, where earnest forest rangers sat waiting to hear all about how far we'd come, and my children tried on variations of antlers.<br />
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We hiked around a little and braved the nine million tons of rock above us by traipsing through this tunnel.<br />
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And then, right there, at roadside, is Horsetail Falls, just tumbling down like nobody's business. If I lived in Oregon, I would just sit there all day long and contemplate deep, lovely things. I wonder why no one else was just sitting there, all day long. Maybe we get too used to stuff. Maybe if an Oregonian came to New Hampshire, they'd sit next to a maple tree in October, contemplating lovely things, wondering how we ignorant locals could stand the beauty and just go on with our lives.<br />
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We, of course, could not help ourselves, and the shoes came off. Middlest led the way, and we all succumbed to the peer pressure. He's very persuasive.<br />
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There's tiny Biggest, a wee, unafraid, yellow person. Lovely Friend had her eye on her, and saw her fall in. The water was amazingly only up to her chest, but freezing, and she was quite upset. Mostly, she was upset that she only managed to get within a few feet of touching the falls. "I wanted to touch the waterfall for Daddy."<br />
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A few days later, my children attended The Village Free School while I got to check off an item on Hilaree's Bucket List - a two-day workshop with one of my favorite artists, Jesse Reno! Things got messy. It was incredible. He even invited us to his studio afterward! I will be creating some art for an upcoming group show I'm in, and I'll be sharing the process here on my blog. If I'm feeling brave! You people are nice. I'll be brave.</div>
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I love all forms of outdoor art - from simple street graffiti to professional murals, to political statements. Whatever. I love the boldness and the desire to express. This first one is a fantastic mural in Portland, commemorating Martin Luther King, Jr. Bad photo, but you get the idea. <br />
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Did we return to Back to Eden Bakery on Alberta St.? Of course we did! Dairy-free and gluten-free ice cream cones! Littlest never gets to experience this!<br />
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Who can tell me what kind of tree this is? I feel affectionate toward bark.<br />
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An interesting Portland sight - free clothing swap, on the sidewalk.<br />
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We found the most beautiful, quirky, independent bookstore, called Green Bean Books. Here we see Middlest reaching inside a handmade, reclaimed box to see what's what. The owner had several of these around the store. So creative! I love this idea!<br />
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The owner also refurbished five different vending machines, some antique, into new designs that dispensed funny products, some related to stories and some just to make us laugh, like this Facial Hair in a Flash Machine. She even had created sweet little tokens for customers to use. Creative details like that inspire me. Goodness gracious. Lovely Friend and I couldn't breathe, we were laughing so hard. We made a spectacle of ourselves.</div>
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Now we all know that I could totally work Tufted Chest Hair. Case closed, people.<br />
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Sigh. Portland. We loved you so, and wanted to squeeze you forever, but we had to say goodbye to embark on the next leg of our epic journey. Thank you, Lovely Friend, for everything, and for treating my children as though they were your own. We will see you soon. Up next, a seven hour drive (yes, you heard right) through the gorgeous Cascades and stunning Oregonian landscape, into Northern California, where we were embraced BY THIS.</div>
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And into the warm, welcoming home of my sister-in-law's sister-in law. Did you get that? There's me, in the middle, wearing my Jesse Reno t-shirt, wielding a knife. Because that's how I felt after driving by myself with three children for seven hours. Oh, come on, it wasn't that bad, you say. No. It was worse. Oh, I kid. My children and I had an amazing trip. What can I say? Driving through the Redwood Forest feels like Narnia, and as usual, I got teary with the beauty. The rental van came equipped with a DVD player, which of course didn't hurt. I will say this about the trip, and the van in general. I hate GPS, so I did not use it. I instead mobilized my big shiny brain and read road signs, and we did not get lost once. Swear. Pinkie swear, even. The van featured automatic everything, which I hated, along with the ignoring of the GPS. Dear small buttons who intend to rule my life, I prefer to open doors myself, thank you very much. These people were BRAVE, as they had never met us before, and they welcomed us as family. I will always be grateful to them. I'll give you their address if you ever need to stay somewhere. HAHAHHA<br />
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My brother, sister-in-law, their four year old son, two year old daughter, and new baby boy drove up to stay with us, which was not an easy feat for them. I finally got to meet my new nephew, the chubba wubbiest baby on the planet. I took several large bites out of him. He smiles like this all the time. I put him in my carry-on and took him home. Don't tell my brother.</div>
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Cousins jamming!<br />
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Middlest and Four-year-old Nephew spent many glorious hours working on their Pirate Ship, made out of enormous logs. They will always remember this, I think.<br />
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Don't mess with pirates.<br />
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This needs a 'C' between the first 'E' and 'L'. Because then you know it would be tucked into my carry-on along with Chubby Nephew.<br />
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Take a gander at my dashing younger brother. Man enough to carry a gorgeous two-year old girl on his shoulders while wearing a delicious baby on his front. That's right. He's that awesome.<br />
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Ooooh. I love this girl. Feisty little woman.<br />
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And SHE loves her big cousin, my Middlest. Here she is, embracing him. </div>
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Middlest and Littlest. It turned out okay.</div>
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We hiked along this cool marsh. So much green!<br />
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My stunning sis-in-law with Chubby Nephew. Seriously. Break my heart.</div>
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We also went to a Greek Orthodox church festival. Here is Biggest, eating Greek pastries. Yum.<br />
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And onto the beach with everybody. Big, fun group!<br />
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The only thing that freaked me out, on a 3000 mile trip across the country that included driving eleven hours by myself with my children was this...signs on the road in Northern California that read "Tsunami Hazard Zone". No, not the Chevron sign. The little one to the left. I was driving, don't hassle me about the poor photo.<br />
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So there you have it. After that stay, we then drove another four hours south to spend a couple of days with my sweet family, and then had to fly out of San Francisco, home to Daddy and Kenobi. Sis-in-law and Chubby Nephew graciously drove us to the airport. Home now, I am having trouble processing everything we experienced, everything I considered, everything I felt. This is usual for me - I need a long time to elaborate over my life, until sense is made. I wish that Lovely Friend, Younger Brother, Sis-in-Law, Nephews and Niece lived closer. I do, I do. The photos I included in these last two blog posts only scratched the surface of what we did. If you know me in person, corner me and ask me questions about the sociological observations I made about people in Oregon and California. You know, if you're into that kind of thing. The details of home feel confusing to me now - how is laundry done, again? How to plan meals? How to structure a household, a homeschool, an art career, a writing career? I'll let you know how it all goes. </div>
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<br />Hilareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228234736195270443noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2962879939462851890.post-20623808871961593902013-09-29T10:31:00.001-07:002013-09-29T10:31:47.923-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Did the hippie children and I arrive safely in Portland, Oregon, smiles still on our faces? Why, yes, yes I think we did. Our adventure started eight, big, fat days ago in New Hampshire, where we call home, on a bus to Logan Airport in Boston. Starting your very long travel day with a two hour bus ride on rather uninteresting roads? Not recommended. Except that it meant that my sweet husband would not have to try to find his way through Boston, early in the morning, on streets created by past cowpaths, panicking because we had a plane to catch, people!<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="background-color: white;">"In Boston town, of old renown, the gentle cows the pathways made, which grew the streets that keep the stranger quite dismayed."</span></span> So that was a good thing. Although I had a few moments of dismay when my children began burning through their surprise activities in their backpacks, meant for the entire day, including two flights, WHILST ON THE BUS IN THE PARKING LOT IN NEW HAMPSHIRE. They did eventually revisit the activities, on the airplanes. Here they are, trees whizzing by the bus windows. Do they look alarmed? A little bit.</div>
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Airports now have gigantic touch-screen video games, so that innocent children can more easily contract influenza.<br />
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First plane ride, to Atlanta. The technology is out and in use, and I am <strike>drinking vodka </strike> deeply involved in reading my novel, when not talking to the man from Florida next to me, who tells me all about his pet macaws. I overshare as usual and relate the fact that our Golden Retriever, Kenobi, will be having his man parts removed while we're away. He relates that he too loves Star Wars, and also, "Poor Kenobi."<br />
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Second flight, from Atlanta to Portland! You'll notice coloring and the fact that we get to sit in Economy COMFORT, suckas. Look at how much more room there is! I mean, it's really noticeable, right? During our layover at the Atlanta airport, I overshare again with two airport cleaning people who are eating their lunch and gossiping next to us, by telling them that we homeschool. It's Georgia, friends, they asked. But also because it's Georgia, they didn't really listen to the answer. And I really wanted them to listen. I guess they hadn't heard about how eloquent I can be on the subject. Wicked eloquent. <br />
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Another thing about the Atlanta airport - there were many Indian women working there, who kept fawning over Littlest. I actually love this sort of thing, because it's how I act with children in public. One woman came right up to Littlest and patted her head, saying, "You tired, baby?" And I wanted to hug her and say, "Yes, we are! Oh, you meant the four year old." The Indian women handed me napkins without me asking for them, and generally hovered, benign smiles on their lovely faces. I might go to the Atlanta airport again just for this very treatment. "Where are we traveling to? Just here. Yes, I mean the airport."<br />
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PORTLAND!! What a stunning city. For reals. </div>
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For the first two nights, we got to stay with my dearest friend, who moved to Portland almost five years ago, the stinker. We've been friends since she was fourteen, and I sixteen. She was present at the birth of all three of our children. She even cut all their umbilical cords, severing them forever from me. I still hate her for that. No, this is not a photograph of her - it's the view from her adorable condo. She was very generous and let us take over her entire living room with our awesomeness.<br />
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Because of jet lag, and the fact that Littlest hates sleep so much, we were up veeery early. Here she is, in all her morning glory. We woke everyone up because we just can't seem to help ourselves. I say we so she doesn't feel badly. Oh, wait. She doesn't feel bad about anything. Everyone up, we lit candles and...<br />
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...enjoyed breakfast together. Look at my cute friend! You can't have her. She's mine. We did our Morning Meeting, a routine I established while still at home. We talk about the day and write in our Eucharisteo journal, listing what we're grateful for. Littlest usually mentions, "bushes and butterflies". Middlest usually has about ten things he wants to share, and wants me to number them all separately. They always include, "God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit." Look at that face of his. <br />
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Oldest loves to cook special things for people, so she jumped right on the chance to whip up some eggs for everybody.<br />
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Because we live in the woods (ish), our home does not have a peephole. Isn't this a beautiful one? My children were enchanted with it.<br />
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Artwork is everywhere in Portland!<br />
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I love little cultural oddities. In the cute neighborhoods in Portland, every block or so has a swing at streetside. Because it's a city and there are basically no yards other than beautiful landscaping out front, it seems that residents with big trees install these swings for children to use. I love this! Middlest went out of his way to locate them. I was informed that they were not just for the homeowners' children, but for all the children. There's a wonderful, we're all in this together vibe.</div>
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Alberta St. is a super quirky downtown area with lots of street art, gorgeous shops and yummy restaurants.<br />
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Here we are at a sports bar off Alberta St., because we all wanted burgers and fries. You can see the huge screen to the left of my jet-lagged head. We are not into football, so we're sitting on the patio instead. I post these terrible photos of myself because I have recently been the recipient of envy (disdain?) from other mommies who insist that they wish they had as much energy as me. Well, well. Looky here, peeps. The face of exhaustion. Littlest is of course raring to go.<br />
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Okay, so you need to understand how excited we were about this next place! Back to Eden<br />Bakery is all allergen-free and vegan. Littlest and I can't tolerate gluten, and Littlest also shouldn't have dairy, soy or corn, as she suffers from eczema. This bakery was high on our list of places to go! And what do I see when we walk in? Original art on the wall from two of my favorite artists - Sabrina Ward Harrison and Flora Bowley. I swooned a little. And then proceeded to squeal over all the divinely baked choices. We could eat EVERYTHING in this place! I even bought the t-shirt. I'm not kidding. I'm wearing it now while I type.<br />
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I don't know why Littlest is making that face. Sometimes she does that when the camera shows up. The food was AMAZING.<br />
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Here I am eating Cranberry Chai Cake. I mean, are you kidding me? Who's jet-lagged now? Middlest is devouring a chocolate cupcake.<br />
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Feeling benevolent, I allowed Oldest to share my cake. She's kind of a foodie. She knows what's what.<br />
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Back to Lovely Friend's home to all sew together. Cozy, cozy. I do not sew. I take pictures and draw and drink tea.<br />
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So the days are starting to blur for me here. Oh, jet-lag, you naughty thing. At some point, we arrived at Mecca. Powell's bookstore. I think I passed out with delight. This independent bookstore fills an entire city block with more than a million new, used and out of print books. Littlest did not want to be in this picture, because she felt frightened by the homeless man standing next to me as I took it. <br />
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Lovely Friend allowed me to wander a bit by myself while she read to my sweeties in the enormous children's section. I mostly stood in the center of towering bookshelves, not believing both myself and this many books could exist in the same place without some sort of implosion occurring in the universe. You need to know this: I started reading when I was four years old, and have never stopped, not for a second. I will sometimes read a book a day, or at least I used to, before Mamahood. So, here's the thing. My favorite book is A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle. I read it about once a year, to remind me who I am. So how, you may ask, in a bookstore with a million books, in a place I've never been, did I manage to find this...!!!! First edition, signed. No. I did not buy it. Who buys a $500 book? But now I know it exists. I think it felt lonely. It wanted to say hi to me. Oh, book. Maybe someday. We'll always have Powell's, on that chilly September Tuesday. Mwah.<br />
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Moving right along...Lovely Friend's beautiful, sophisticated, wise neighbor invited us to a tea party in her art and book-filled home. My babies all love a good, solid tea party. She even had gluten-free cookies and coconut creamer! What a blessing. Filled us right up.<br />
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We were using our British accents and putting on airs.<br />
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So here's a funny little thing. I made this assemblage for Lovely Friend a few years ago and had forgotten about it. It's a tiny tin box, once used for a Button Polishing Kit. I glued a section of antique newspaper to the top inside, an advertisement for housing, and then glued a found honeycomb to the bottom. I think I should make more of this sort of whatnot. Tell me honestly, would you give something like this to a dear, sensitive friend? Someone who enjoys subtlety and handcrafts? Hmm? For instance? Someone without children? hahaha. Oh, and I rubber stamped the word, "home". As you can plainly see.<br />
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It's quite rainy here! Good thing we brought our colorful slickers that help Mama keep track of us when we're in feral mode!<br />
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After a couple of days at Lovely Friend's, she kicked our asses to the curb and we rented this sweet little cottage at The Painted Lady Inn. When I started calling around to find a place to stay, back in New Hampshire, I was doubtful about this place because the Inn is Victorian style and looks perfect for honeymooners or old ladies. I think I may have worded my question thusly, "So...you're not interested in having a mom and three children under the age of nine stay at your place, are you?" She said, "Of course I am! I've got a cottage out back where the children can bounce off the walls and not bother anyone!" Now that's the place for us! It's super cute and has a refrigerator, which is perfect, so we don't have to eat out every meal. The shower pressure is to die for. I am taking twenty-seven showers per day. I may cry when I return to our well-pumped, tired excuse for a shower back home.<br />
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Our first morning at the cottage, eating breakfast and watching Scooby-Doo. My children are now addicted to cable.<br />
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The next morning was so momentous for us, because we got to attend The Village Free School, where Lovely Friend is one of the directors. This was the first day any of my children have ever been to school! Is that weird? It's a little weird. It's a democratic school, so all rules and things are voted on, and the children have an equal vote alongside the adults. My Lovely Friend and her co-directors have created a sweet, amazing environment for humans to learn, grow and explore. I am extremely impressed.<br />
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Tootie the Turtle, our old friend, and now the school mascot. He's such an attention whore.<br />
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During certain portions of the day, the students have Project Time, and they work on whatever interests them, with the adults facilitating. I'm not going to explain the pedagogy behind this at the moment, although if you continue to read my blog, you'll see it at work in our homeschool. Powerful learning. Oldest rallied a bunch of the children to create a bracelet business, and they worked intentionally on all the aspects for basically the entire day! They made the bracelets, advertised around the school, had a layaway plan, and special orders. They even sectioned off a portion of their created cash box for charity. Beautiful. Here's Littlest thinking about writing, and what she wants to do to contribute.<br />
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Village Free School, meet Oldest. Her nametag reads, "1 Boss". Yes, this was her first day there, and had never met these people before.<br />
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And sweet Middlest, using some of their awesome manipulatives.<br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">This is an interesting shot at The Village Free School - in the background you'll see Lovely Friend teaching a Biology class to teenage students who voluntarily signed up to take it, and two, much younger children listening in. Super comfy. </span></div>
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So we've been doing a lot of walking while here, because every neighborhood has a distinct flair, with its own shops and restaurants and cafes and cute stuff, and I wanted to show you this neat idea, again with respect to the fact that children are a part of a city, too, and we can appreciate their needs for play. This setup is on the sidewalk outside of a lovely restaurant. In the second photo, you can see the vehicles whizzing by on the street. My babies loved this attention to detail, just for littles!<br />
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Mmm...burgers. Or as Littlest says, "Borgahs."<br />
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We were so blessed to have my husband's wonderful great aunt and uncle stop by, as they just happened to be driving through Portland. Totally serendipitous. I want to be her when I grow up. They're the most loving and accepting people I've ever met. Yes, I cried a little bit, because we miss them so.<br />
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Onward...onward!! We took a grand field trip with The Village Free School to this awesome park in the middle of who-knows-where in the city. Middlest brought his newly purchased sword and shield. My hero! I love that city children are such strong walkers - the school brought us across a half mile bridge, spanning the Willamette River. Bicyclists zipped by at a thousand miles per hour, just inches from us. I was in charge of Littlest and Littlest's new friend, another tiny person. I think I held my breath the entire time. Seriously, people - these city kids are troopers. We did our best to keep up. <br />
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Acres of food carts are my version of heaven. First vegan smoothies, then MEXICAN food!!! No we are not vegan. We are also not Mexican, in case you couldn't tell. I didn't take a photo of those unbelievable burritos, mostly because I was writhing on the sidewalk in delight while my children pretended they didn't know me.</div>
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See that bridge?!? We were walking on that! Half of the school bicycled to the park. See how badass these children are? </div>
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And...a photo Middlest took of me, massaging my aching forehead. Nice.<br />
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<br />Hilareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228234736195270443noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2962879939462851890.post-87179739399177250412013-09-10T13:03:00.002-07:002013-09-10T13:03:52.826-07:00meet my scholarsOh, September...you. When you arrive, we hike up our argyle socks, sharpen our pencils and snap right to work. Or at least that's what I've heard others do. The hippie children and I are all-the-time, loving life, busybody kinds of learners. We don't take no for an answer and we certainly don't let September boss us around. Still...fresh starts enliven me. So even though we've been homeschooling nonstop all summer, I'd like to take a minute to introduce to you my sweet scholars. Here's to a beautiful autumn!<br />
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Meet Oldest. Nine this past July, we can usually find Oldest immersed in a book way too late at night, building fairy villages while singing opera to the neighborhood, or directing a group of children in a play she created herself. She feels things very deeply, has the same sense of humor as her Mama, and insists on teaching herself everything she wants to know. She always has eight thousand projects going at once. When she grows up, she wants to be a zamboni driver, a breast cancer doctor and a writer. She has already published one book and is working on more. Oldest leads with grace. She's creative to a fault. I adore her.<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Middlest is our boy, seven this month. Here he is, dangling from a tree. He is usually dangling from something. Middlest will break your heart with his kindness. He will take the blame for others, has amazing, diplomatic negotiating skills with other children, and runs super super super fast. Like his Dad, he's a big guy and may grow up to be a superhero. Upon waking, Middlest says things like, "I had a dream within a dream." </span><span style="text-align: center;">He loves numbers, symmetry, and has a couple of dreadlocks. </span><span style="text-align: center;"> He has overcome a lot in his short life. When he grows up, he wants to play guitar for Mumford and Sons, be a lifeguard and own a candy store. I adore him.</span><br />
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And here's Littlest. She's four and hates sleeping. Sleeping may be her nemesis. Littlest loves her piles of small toys, carrying them around with her, and playing with them for hours. This is the face she makes for every photo opportunity, regardless of apple presence. She will let you read to her all day, no problem, a pile of Littlest on your lap. She enjoys quiet people, gives the biggest squeeze-your-guts-out hugs and is surprisingly intense. Like all four year olds, she is learning to use her power for good. She will probably grow up to be some kind of feisty, energetic activist, but says she wants to be an artist. I adore her.</div>
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And there they are.<br />
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<br />Hilareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228234736195270443noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2962879939462851890.post-26305610541195115502013-07-12T18:43:00.001-07:002013-07-12T18:44:24.995-07:00sensitive.Perhaps you are like me, and you will know what I mean. You will know the physicality of it, the fluttery hummingbird heart, the throat lump, always there, the easy tears in seconds. You will know the sadness that stretches like pain, to your fingertips. You will have memories like mine, scalded into my brain, white light images, from long, long ago, thirty or more years past. Seven years old, in 1983, by myself in our basement family room, I stood just feet from our television and watched the footage from the Ethiopian famine, sobbing, sobbing, those children. Their bones beneath thin skin. I would go there; I would feed them. I still feel this way. I feel this way about anyone vulnerable, which is to say...everyone.<br />
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Perhaps you are like me, and the world vibrates with connection and meaning. You have read so much, thought so deeply, felt so conflictingly. In my twenties, visiting my brother and sister-in-law in Austria, I cried several times a day. The cathedrals! The Kiss, Gustav Klimt's original painting, my favorite! The Alps! I stood on a glacier, ancient gray ice, and felt the eons of molecules stretching behind me. History never leaves us. Beauty pushes me over the edge. Mind of their own, those tears. <br />
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Perhaps you are like me, and you tried to find your footing, a way to help. You gave a lot, sometimes too much, or to the wrong people, or in the wrong way. And many times, you gave just the right thing, and in just the right way. From teenagehood through college and beyond, I worked at soup kitchens, volunteered at Special Olympics, led retreats, gave talks, cared for children, found homeless people in Boston and weekly gave them soup or mittens, tutored, spoke to Congress about abortion, picketed, handed out fliers, organized groups, sat-in, stood-out, hugged trees, wiped noses and bums, cleaned up vomit, bonded deeply with adults with cognitive disabilities, led a youth group, taught, painted faces, donated, prayed, wrote poems, made art, grew food, talked people back from despair. And then I had lots of babies, and opened up a fresh vein to the planet. And then I felt tired. But I know it's still not enough.<br />
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Perhaps you are like me, and the lovely flipside is your humor, your sense of adventure, and the way your home is open to people, and that people come for an hour and stay all day. My home is chronically, enthusiastically messy, so much to do! I like making people laugh. My sensitivity makes me absurd, and observant. Nuance is not lost on me, and I usually find it very, very funny.<br />
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Perhaps, like me, you wonder how to function, sometimes. Four paragraphs don't begin to describe all the days of my thirty-seven, nearly thirty-eight years of living raw skin turned inside out, my brain dictating possibilities turned reality. Awareness will do that to you and lies mutate into truth. But that's for another post. For now, I will step outside, after snuggling my children to sleep, their kissed cheeks still moist, and I will listen to the woods behind our home. I will think about you, and hope if you are like me, you will find your way, the path between exposed nerves and solid rest.<br />
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<br />Hilareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228234736195270443noreply@blogger.com8