tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23663370631671947592024-03-05T15:57:06.450-05:00Karen Loftis RankowitzAnamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-40306711272468633122023-12-23T11:31:00.000-05:002023-12-23T11:31:27.058-05:00My Letter to Saint Nicholas - 2023<p> My Dearest St. Nicholas,</p><p>Her gift to me was one that came clutched in her tiny hand but, directly from her heart. She is eight years old and the artificial flower was white. Some stains from age were there, trying to hide beneath the dust. Dust that had long settled in on the fabric that formed the tired petals into a rose. A perfect rose, I’m sure she thought. </p><p>I held back tears as I hugged her and wondered if she’d truly ever know how much her heart touched mine that day (and how hard it was for me not to cry). I thanked her, though it was tough to talk around the lump that had formed in my throat. </p><p>My children are grown now. They’re not eight years old, or even twice that anymore, and I often find myself wandering back in time to visit the eight year olds they once were. Those days seem as far away as the stars that pierce the midnight sky. </p><p>I miss so much from when they were younger but, I am grateful and blessed they have had the chance to grow up. They are figuring out the life they want to have. And, it is now that I pray more often than I ever had before. “Just keep them safe”, I whisper, “They have yet to receive a tattered, white rose.” Which is really a piece of a child’s heart. Where it is given without having to say, “I’m trusting you with this.”</p><p>My children have given me many “roses” over the years. Bits and pieces of heartfelt love and trust. There were times I didn’t always handle those gifts with the care they so deserved. And my tears have fallen countless times and I pray the salt can heal their wounds. </p><p>I believe that God speaks in subtle ways and the whisper may not be heard over the noise life brings. But, Santa, a whisper came to me on the petals of a dusty, white rose that day. A small gesture, a quiet voice that, in ways unknown to me, gave permission to heal hurt hearts. </p><p>So, Santa, my children (no matter their age) are my most precious gift and their hearts, like a delicate rose, will be handled with the care and love they need and deserve.</p><p>Merry Christmas, Santa. And, yes, I do believe. </p>Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-32763321368411248822022-12-24T10:56:00.000-05:002022-12-24T10:56:26.764-05:00My Letter to St. Nicholas - 2022<p> My Dearest St. Nicholas,</p><p>Writing to you, this year, has been a slow process. I have so much on my mind and each time I sit down to push my pencil across the paper, my thoughts stall. Trying to find a sense of peacefulness among all the external (and often internal) unrest has been a frustrating challenge. </p><p>So, I will try to disconnect from the noise, if only for a moment, and pray my pencil can release some magic. Though, I will admit it is not magic that crafts a heartfelt letter or, places the ornaments of treasured memories on my tree or, even lights the Christmas candles that bring the holiday glow to the room. It’s more about believing that the words, and the memories, and the flame are there waiting to be more important than the storms that can dim my shine. </p><p>I am an avid believer in the spirit of the season. That it brings hope to those who have sunk into sadness and disparity. I believe in not only finding my own peaceful moments but, that I am able to help others whose spirits are stressed. A grand idea, I know, but still, I will try. </p><p>Believe that you can shine and you will light up the world because, I promise you, you are the world to someone. And that someone probably needs to feel your warmth right now. </p><p>Embrace the broken-hearted; one hug can heal two souls. Believe that peace will find the unsettled hearts and the minds that are clouded in storminess. </p><p>Believe the jingle of bells are the prayers of the penniless and fortune will find them blessed with hope. Who knows what that hope will look like? I can only believe those who pray are able to receive it in whatever form it comes. </p><p>And, Santa, as in years past, I ask that you watch over my children. Shine your light on their path to peace. Allow them to forever believe in the Spirit of Christmas and in each other. </p><p>Merry Christmas, Santa. And yes, I do believe. </p>Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-24181515319849143262021-12-24T10:46:00.006-05:002021-12-27T06:54:53.070-05:00My Letter to Saint Nicholas - 2021<p> My Dearest St. Nicholas,</p><p>I have sat down several times this season to write to you. Each time, my flustered thoughts lead my pencil across the page in a flurry of rantings instead of asking for blessings or being grateful for the ones already entrusted to me. Perhaps, I need to put my discontent in writing, crumple the paper and, toss it away. There are better ways than staying stuck and, for certain, there's an ache stuck in the heart of the world begging for relief. So, Santa, maybe a Band-Aid, or something that holds us all together would be a healing blessing.</p><p>My thoughts race with the rush to keep up with the pace of the season and I need to remember to slow down. That reminder is often found in the glowing lights and the scent of pine as I gently place family memories, one ornament at a time, on the sturdy branches of my tree. It is that peaceful pause that grounds me. Sometimes, the needles fall in a quiet song. Its verses rustle and breathe a poignant whisper that life is changing and aging. And my heart feels a little bare and vulnerable, too.</p><p>I'm grateful to recapture those snippets of time. Moments when the world felt safer, the worries were fewer, and my children stood on tiptoe to hang their handmade ornaments as high as their arms could stretch. I'm also thankful for, and often surprised by, the emotions that bring a smile along with a tear.</p><p>My boys are the treasure I hold closest to my heart. Like, when they were younger and I’d receive a dandelion plucked from the yard or a seashell still sandy from the beach - given from hearts that were bigger than their bodies. I saw the smile that reached their eyes and made them sparkle. My tears flowed often, they still do and, sometimes, I long to see those tiny hands wrapped around a flower again. But, my heart is happy knowing their grownup hands can carry whatever weight the world places on them. I trust their convictions will guide them and help lighten the load.</p><p>I do realize, Santa, time will forever move forward and change but, I am grateful for the pause. Looking back (even with teary eyes that smile), on the memories that hang on my tree is the whispered song I need to hear. A lullaby that softly hums of peace and comfort and prayers for my family.</p><p>Merry Christmas, Santa! And if you could spare a tissue, to dry my tears, I could better see the many blessings that are right in front of my eyes.</p>Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-34554773159196809262020-12-24T18:19:00.000-05:002020-12-24T18:19:27.891-05:00My Letter to St. Nicholas 2020<p> My Dearest St. Nicholas,</p><p>It’s Christmas Eve and I know I’m writing to you a little late but, my words are hard to find this year. My thoughts are scattered and scrambled. Much like how this year has been, I find it difficult to weave my words into a beautiful tapestry or paint a pretty landscape that wraps us in the comforts we once shared; blessed with family and food, laughter and loving embraces. </p><p>Santa, if you would remind me, perhaps nudge me gently, to look a little harder and to dig a bit deeper to uncover the joy. I know it’s there but, my eyes sometimes tear up and lose focus and my arms are tired. They’re tired from trying to carry the weight this year has dumped on the world. The uncertainty so many are facing hurts my heart and I wonder...are there enough prayers being said? Is it time to shout them loudly or, continue to kneel and whisper with my head boughed and my heart believing in the power of their words? </p><p>As I sit, once again in the glow of soft light from the tiny bulbs adorning my tree, I do feel some comfort and, perhaps as an answered prayer, some peace. </p><p>Santa, if you were to sit with me for a while I’d tell you tales of the ornaments hung on the boughs of my towering tree. You see, each one has a story to tell. A story of love and family. It’s often a struggle to hold in the tears as I place them on the branches. I have learned it’s best to not struggle and fight the tears. The ornaments are a collection of my life, of joyful times shared with my greatest blessing...my family. They are a reminder, because sometimes I forget, of times when life seemed more simple and I’m grateful for the memories and the tears that make my eyes shine like the lights on my tree. </p><p>I know it’s already Christmas Eve, Santa, but if you could make some time to sit with those who have broken hearts and sadness overshadowing their joy, I’d ask you to take their hands, perhaps in prayer; dry their tears and, whisper their memories back into their hearts. </p><p>Merry Christmas, Santa, and yes, I do believe. </p>Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-42707846672685981322019-12-23T13:24:00.001-05:002019-12-23T13:24:37.413-05:00My Letter to St. Nicholas - 2019<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My Dearest St. Nicholas,<br />
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Another year has come and as I sit near my Christmas tree to pen my letter, I find there isn't much you haven't guided me through already. There is still much for me to learn so, I will be ever grateful if you'd continued to hold my hand while I stumble along.<br />
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My tree, for many years now, stands proudly in the same cozy place. Each year new ornaments are added and they represent the special events and milestones that have happened during the year. My hands, that were once young, look much older as I watch them place family memories on the branches. But, my heart is content to know that old hands simply mean I have had many years with my family to collect those treasures. Some memories glow in the warmth of the lights. Others bend the branches with their weight but, the boughs are flexible, even strong, under the heavy burden. I suppose, Santa, this is your way of letting me know how important flexibility is when the weight and worries want to break my spirit.<br />
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My Christmas tree is a delicate collection of the life I have been blessed to live. My old hands, that were once smooth and steady, touch the joys of yesteryear and I'm often surprised by the tears that come. My heart is full even though there are loved ones missing. I know they are near, I can reach out and almost touch them, and I tell myself each light on my tree is their spirit shining through and their glow brightens my most cherished memories.<br />
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Yes, Santa, I do believe. I believe in you and the spirit of the season. Hold your memories close to your heart. Whether in hands that are old or new at capturing precious moments. Better yet, just hold hands with each other, or with yourself in prayer, and those memories will undoubtedly brighten your darkest moments.<br />
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Merry Christmas to you, Santa.</div>
Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-82151390636366277222018-12-20T17:45:00.000-05:002018-12-20T17:48:07.043-05:00My Letter to St. Nicholas - 2018<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My Dearest St. Nicholas,<br />
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I am here again, my living room glows in the soft light of my Christmas tree; the warmth wrapped around me like a favorite blanket and I am blessed to have the comforts of my home and my family. I can smell the pine and, memories of my childhood sneak up and surprise me. My mind drifts back to where I grew up; my home town by the shore, and I hear the coins jingle. My father has one hand in his pocket where he keeps his spare coins and the other holds my own tiny, mittened hand as we walk the path in search of the tree which will sparkle just for Santa. I try to copy him and walk with strides longer than my legs; my feet, that could never fill his shoes, point out just a bit. It's cold and our exhaled breaths of frozen vapor linger for a moment like an angel briefly visiting before taking flight to its heavenly home. It's dark but, the dim bulbs strung low over the path keeps the shadows at bay and my hand held tightly in my father's own reassures me that I am safe.<br />
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I miss my father and long for the comfort of his hand or to hear the jingle of coins in his pocket. I know, Santa, you cannot give back that time. So, I will ask that you keep my memories safe. Please tuck them away in my heart so I can visit them when it's cold and dark.<br />
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I often wonder if my father knew that those were the memories I would treasure the most. That it wasn't about the presents under the tree but more about the smell of pine, the sound of coins, and the time spent together catching glimpses of angels flying home. Those times were a true gift and that's what makes my heart happy. I, also, wonder if I have done a good job at gifting my children with memories...what have they tucked away in their hearts? I pray it is many blessings, full of warmth, like a favorite blanket to wrap up in.<br />
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Merry Christmas, Santa, and in case you ever wondered...yes, I do believe. </div>
Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-59097459083962310362016-12-24T13:39:00.000-05:002016-12-24T13:39:24.612-05:00Christmas 2016 - Dear St. Nicholas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My Dearest St. Nicholas,<br />
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Each year, I thoughtfully pen my letters to ask for my Christmas wishes. I also enjoy letting you know I am at peace and I do feel the joy this time of year brings. There are moments, though, when I miss those I loved and want heaven just a little closer to home. But, I will trust as to why Angels were given wings.<br />
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Santa, this year I will ask for understanding. I have realized many often suffer, sometimes in silence, with profound heartache during this season. Their sorrows are etched into hearts that have broken. Their tears, held back, are locked away behind eyes that smile but without the joy that can make them sparkle. Would you mind, Santa, asking others to understand and be patient and loving? It may be the kindest gift given to someone who's sad.<br />
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Their reason for sadness is uniquely their own. Perhaps loved ones will not be touched, their hands not held in grace at Christmas dinner. Little ones without a lap, in which to nestle, on Grandpa's favorite chair. Family and friends with arms aching to accept a precious hug from children who have gone too far away. There are dreams that have faded, dimmed by clouds of doubt and hopes that sank with the weight of reality.<br />
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I understand the sadness and I pray for even the smallest sliver of light to brighten their darkest moments. I, too, will miss seeing eyes that smile with joy and long to hug, if only to embrace just one last time, those who are gone. I know they are with me, my heart tells me so, but my hands cannot hold theirs and those are the tears that sting the most.<br />
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So, Santa, I ask - as I do every year - for peace to embrace the broken hearted. For His light to shine in tear filled eyes and for hands to be joined with those who are here - or perhaps in prayer if you find yourself alone.<br />
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Merry Christmas, my dearest St. Nicholas.</div>
Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-7412639626104302016-05-08T16:39:00.001-04:002016-05-08T16:39:34.324-04:00I Love You, Mom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Happy Mother's Day, Mom. There is no one I consider more worthy of holding that most honored name. When I hear the word 'mom', to me, it means strength, integrity, understanding, and love. It means trust and stability. You, Mom, have been the beacon of light on my darkest days, the safe place to land after the countless falls I've made, the hand that reached out and took my own when my heart and head battled for my life's direction.<br />
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You have managed, and perhaps on many days simply coped, with the heartache no mother should ever have to endure. Yet, your spirit for life and family remains so strong. It's remarkable, really, and in so many ways you're the greatest thing I have to look up to.<br />
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Thank you, Mom, for all that you are and I love and trust you like no other.</div>
Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-1740489595731759482015-12-15T10:11:00.004-05:002022-12-23T20:29:27.921-05:00Christmas 2015 - My Letter to St. Nicholas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My Dearest St. Nicholas,<br />
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In the corner of my living room, standing tall, my Christmas tree, with twinkling lights like fallen stars from heaven, reminds me that angels, shining brightly, are here, still with me despite having made their journey home to God. The ornaments, each one with a story to tell, are touched by me and joyful memories are somehow whispered through my hands and into my heart. Soon, the presents will be nestled below the piney boughs and I cry just a little remembering there will be fewer gifts this year - angels can't unwrap presents. Yet, I still feel the peace this time of year brings. I also feel the tears and wish I had a tissue.<br />
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I don't want much this year, Santa. To ask for peace, love, and joy, I must first bestow it upon others to know its true value and what it means to me. What I will ask of you is help in overcoming, if they cannot be removed, my fears. Reassure me that in giving love and joy, I will receive, or perhaps achieve, peaceful comfort that sometimes feels as far away as the stars pinned to heaven's gate.<br />
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And, Santa, I don't worry often, but ask that my children are kept safe from harm. The world hasn't, yet, figured out how to be peaceful, full of joy, and all-loving. So, if you would help me share the kindness at home, with my family and friends, perhaps these selfless virtues can overcome a selfish world. Allow me to see the big picture, one of peace, love, and joy. Help me understand it is painted one brush stroke at a time and that the story is written one word at a time. Allow for words that are chosen carefully and with kindness and consideration.<br />
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And, to be kind to you, Santa, my gift to you is a tissue because tears can sting the edges and fall from eyes that often see little peace, love, or joy. But, on occasion, a different kind of tear wells up and I pray it is a happy one. These tears are like the lights on my tree, glistening with memories, telling a story whispered by angels who shine with the hope of peace.<br />
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Merry Christmas, Santa. And, yes, I do believe.</div>
Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-71963061620183995832015-05-24T10:24:00.000-04:002015-05-24T10:49:40.473-04:00My Mom, My Inspiration, My Hero<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Mother's Day has passed but this isn't just about celebrating my mom only on that day. It's about the respect and honor I have for her everyday. I love my mom and I'm going to share with you who she is and what she means to me all the days of the year.<br />
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I'm getting older which translates to, in a scary way, that she is too. It's not often enough I let her know she was, and is, the most solid foundation upon which my life was built. She gave to me all the things she knew I needed to live my life with proper values, good morals, and integrity. She also allowed me freedom to make my own choices and either reap the rewards or suffer the consequences. And she loved me through both the joyful or sorrowful results. I've never doubted that. She is the only person I have ever fully trusted; she made me feel safe to do so.<br />
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I wanted to be a veterinarian, or maybe it was a nurse or a teacher, when I grew up. Well, I am grown up now and I've realized all I ever really wanted was to be a mom - one like my mom is to me.<br />
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I pray I can be that safe place for my own children. I love them without conditions and there are no boundaries to put limits on my devotion or dedication. I want to live with no regrets that will haunt me, to feel no emptiness, and to know I had given all so my spirit is filled with peace.<br />
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If I am only half of the example my mother has been, to have but half of the influence on my children as she has had on hers, then I will know, and feel satisfied, I am completely whole.<br />
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(I made the choice to include a photo of my mom. I'm sure I'll suffer the consequences when she sees that I've done so ❤️).<br />
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Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-69023587215294797432015-05-17T20:11:00.000-04:002015-05-17T20:15:45.114-04:00Common Core Math Just Doesn't Add Up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Ugh! Common Core Math. It's supposed to explain the logic behind the answers to a problem. It's supposed to allow an understanding of the concepts behind WHY the chosen method works to solve everyday problems.</div>
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I'm not a mathematically savvy person. I think in 'words', not 'numbers'. If number solving, crunching, manipulating - or processing in general - is required, I manage. But, I'm not using anything special, such as logic, or a deeper knowledge, to verify the correct amount of change is given when I buy a cup of coffee at Starbucks. What I'm processing is, Dunkin Donuts is so much cheaper when I use my 'Perks' Rewards Card. Clearly, not the logical choice.</div>
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Let me give some examples of Common Core Math situations I found online and how they compare to the "old method" - the method I learned back in the day. I found these examples on the <a href="http://excelined.org/common-core-toolkit/old-standards-v-common-core-a-side-by-side-comparison-of-math-expectations/" target="_blank">Foundation for Excellence inEducation </a>.</div>
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<tr class="row-1 odd" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><th class="column-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-width: 0px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: bottom;"><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); outline: 0px !important;">Previous Math Question</span></th><th class="column-2" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-width: 0px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: bottom;"><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); outline: 0px !important;">CCSS Math Question</span></th></tr>
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<tr class="row-2 even" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><td class="column-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Each shirt costs $4. How much do 3 shirts cost?</span></td><td class="column-2" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Each shirt has 6 buttons. How many buttons are needed to make 7 shirts?</span></td></tr>
<tr class="row-3 odd" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><td class="column-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><em style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); outline: 0px !important;">This question can be answered by a “count-all” strategy, in which you don’t need to know your multiplication tables by memory to get the right answer.</em></td></tr>
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I will now apply Karen's logic to this. Previous math question...answer is $12. CCSS math question is much more complex. First, I'm not making shirts (I went to the store to buy them). And if I'm buying them, why don't they come with the buttons already sewn on? What kind of a place sells shirt with no buttons? I'm never shopping here again. Answer is: I just saved $12 on 3 shirts I really didn't need anyway.<br />
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<span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-weight: 700; outline: 0px !important;">Middle School Example</span></h4>
<table class="tablepress tablepress-id-7 table table-striped table-agenda" id="tablepress-7" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: #fefefe; border-bottom-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-collapse: collapse; border-spacing: 0px; color: #595952; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; margin-top: 20px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px !important; width: 414px;"><thead style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;">
<tr class="row-1 odd" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><th class="column-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-width: 0px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: bottom;"><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: normal; outline: 0px !important;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;">Previous Math Question</span></span></th><th class="column-2" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-width: 0px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: bottom;"><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: normal; outline: 0px !important;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;">CCSS Math Question</span></span></th></tr>
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<tr class="row-2 even" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><td class="column-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: normal;">Donna buys 40 apples at 35 cents each. She eats 2 apples and sells the rest for 45 cents each. How much money does she make?</span></span></td><td class="column-2" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: normal;">Donna buys some apples at 35 cents each. She eats 2 apples and sells the rest for 45 cents each. She makes $4.40. How many apples did she buy?</span></span></td></tr>
<tr class="row-3 odd" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><td class="column-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><em style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: normal; outline: 0px !important;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;">This question only requires use of simple arithmetic.</span></em></td><td class="column-2" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><em style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: normal;">This question requires use of an algebraic equation.</span></span></em></td></tr>
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Karen's logic, and as the math is getting more complex, I will simply state: if Donna wanted only 2 apples, why did she buy 40? And if she thinks she's fooling me, she's not. So, no matter which method, Previous or CCSS, I'm going to find where she paid only 35 cents per apple, buy them all, put her out of business, and sell pies I never liked her anyway.</div>
<table class="tablepress tablepress-id-8 table table-striped table-agenda" id="tablepress-8" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: #fefefe; border-bottom-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-collapse: collapse; border-spacing: 0px; color: #595952; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; margin-top: 20px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px !important; width: 414px;"><thead style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;">
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<tr class="row-2 even" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><td class="column-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: normal;">A bird flew 20 miles in 100 minutes at constant speed. At that speed, how long would it take the bird to fly 6 miles?</span></span></td><td class="column-2" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: normal;">A bird flew 20 miles in 100 minutes at constant speed. At that speed: (a) how long would it take the bird to fly 6 miles? (b) How far would the bird fly in 15 minutes? (c) How fast is the bird flying in miles per hour? (d) What is the bird’s pace in minutes per mile?</span></span></td></tr>
<tr class="row-3 odd" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><td class="column-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><em style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: normal; outline: 0px !important;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;">This question requires one calculation, using a formula.<em style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"></em></span></em></td><td class="column-2" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><em style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: normal;">This question requires a series of calculations and reasoning. It measures if students understand why the formula works.</span></span></em></td></tr>
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As for the bird scenario, above. Unless it poops on my pie, I'm not worried about it.</div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-weight: 700; outline: 0px !important;">High School Example</span></h4>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></span>
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<table class="tablepress tablepress-id-9 table table-striped table-agenda" id="tablepress-9" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-bottom-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-collapse: collapse; border-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px; margin-top: 20px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px !important; width: 414px;"><thead style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;">
<tr class="row-1 odd" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><th class="column-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-width: 0px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: bottom;"><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); outline: 0px !important;">Previous Math Question</span></th><th class="column-2" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-width: 0px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: bottom;"><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); outline: 0px !important;">CCSS Math Question</span></th></tr>
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<tr class="row-2 even" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><td class="column-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">If 3(y-1) = 8, then what is y?</span></td><td class="column-2" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">What are two different equations with the same solution as 3(y-1) = 8?</span></td></tr>
<tr class="row-3 odd" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: 0px !important;"><td class="column-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-top-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; outline: 0px !important; padding: 8px; vertical-align: top;"><em style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); outline: 0px !important;">This question is an example of solving equations as a series of mechanical steps</em></td></tr>
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And, finally, the high school example...I simply have no words!</div>
Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-15345177178883007692013-09-02T09:36:00.003-04:002013-09-02T09:36:51.705-04:00Content, I Am<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Content to be amid flower and trees</div>
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And meadow where plush grass, with ease,</div>
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Waves to summer's docile breeze</div>
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Content to see full moon pinned high,</div>
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An opal brooch clasped to velvet sky,</div>
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Which holds her stars for gazing eye</div>
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Content to know sun's rays will grace</div>
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Each day its warmth upon my face</div>
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With comfort gentle in embrace</div>
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Content to trust true tides of oceans</div>
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Which quiets seas, calming emotions</div>
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Bathing shores in rhythmic motions</div>
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But content, my heart, forever to beat</div>
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Sharing God's wonders of quiet retreat</div>
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Where only with Him is faith complete</div>
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Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-85370613460695901582013-03-21T05:57:00.001-04:002015-01-10T14:34:20.687-05:00Paradise and Paparazzi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I consider myself a fairly private person. I share some information publicly here on my blog; but much of my life remains secreted away within the walls of my personal sanctuary, invisible to the critical eye of others.<br />
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I generalize my thoughts and express them as they might apply to others. Even though my expressions are not stated bluntly, much of what I write is deep from within my heart, it’s what is on my mind, and it is often a struggle to keep my words from invading, not only my own space, but the space of my loved ones. I leave my husband out of my writings much of the time because he is hugely more private than I am and I wish not to over step boundaries and, through a public forum, crash in on his life. If I’m “Rhode Island”, he’s like “Texas” where, I’ve heard, “Everything is bigger.”<br />
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The date has been set, the trip planned, though we decided not to make it public and the reason is the paparazzi, of course. First, we don’t want anyone following us around. Second, we worry they may enter our home and snap photos of “the love nest” and post them on Facebook (or other nosy sites) that keep the world updated on the status of our cobwebs and messy closets. While a phone call from Better Homes and Gardens would be exciting, Hoarders calling would be a huge embarrassment. If the paparazzi are not inclined to go the social media venue perhaps simply texting the pictures to, say, my extremely private husband, might be enough of a reminder that they are still watching and a fresh coat of paint on the walls is evident – but blatant only when the photos are enlarged. These also remind my husband to overlook my domestic abilities, or lack there of, which is a smart and loving thing to do.<br />
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The trip is a much-needed vacation and an even more deserved second-honeymoon where fresh pillowcases and room service will sustain us only half as much as the strength and nurturing, shared by both of us, to dig in our heals and overcome overwhelming circumstances.<br />
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The key, and I must make note to the paparazzi - there is no ‘key’ under the doormat, to enjoying our private getaway is leaving behind the stresses (and insidious stressors) and getting a daily massage from someone named Fabio. Also key, is good food, warm breezes, moonlit-beach-skinny-dipping (did I just write that out loud?), and again leaving behind that which made this trip possible (thanks for the nudge) and, of course, the paparazzi.<br />
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I will share photos via nosy social media networks upon our return. I will also paint “the love nest” prior to departure, just in case.<br />
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Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-7563864337215269602013-02-13T21:15:00.000-05:002013-04-27T17:21:32.495-04:00The Gift of Forgiveness for Valentine's Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
February, the month of hearts, flowers, candy of course, and love. Valentine’s Day is here and what better way to express love than through forgiveness.<br />
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One of the toughest things I have ever had to do, and continue yet to do, is forgive myself for my shortcomings, my faults, and my sins. However, being able to do so has provided for me an understanding of how truly powerful forgiveness can be. It is freeing and encouraging. It replaces anger with calm; distrust is quelled and hope is restored. Smiles come more often and laughter, not sadness, fills the air around me. I am not flooded in the bitterness of tears but lifted from the torrents to safer, flourishing ground.<br />
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Self-forgiveness is not something done once and then all is well. It is a continuous stream of consciousness allowing me to learn and apply valuable lessons to my life. <br />
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Having said all this, it has me thinking about the forgiveness of others. I know just how good it feels to be forgiven; I’ve done it for myself. But, have I been able to forgive others in my life? People whom, like me, have faults and have created disharmony not only with me but within their own selves as well.<br />
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I confess this, as with many of my ambitions, is a work in progress. The important thing to note is that it is progressing. The truth not only sets one free, it can also be forgiven. Lies will imprison the soul, which makes it quite difficult to forgive that which is not real or truthful. It is honesty that perpetuates forgiveness. Be real to yourself and to others; it makes peace attainable.<br />
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Genuine forgiveness, and I believe it was Suzanne Somers who coined the phrase, is a gift you give to yourself. While this is believable and most likely true if given a chance, forgiveness isn’t offering permission to repeat destructive patterns or behaviors. Forgiveness has the hope of humility. It promises to be faithful to your own well-being, it places trust back in your judgment, and morally keeps you on the path of integrity.<br />
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Forgiving others, when humbly asked, can open their minds and hearts to exactly what had been experienced for you when the decision was made to forgive yourself. <br />
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Forgiving makes the asker feel worthy of being loved. And what better expression of a Valentine offering can there possibly be?<br />
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Some of my favorite sayings on forgiveness:<br />
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“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.” – Mark Twain<br />
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“Genuine forgiveness does not deny anger but faces it head-on.” – Alice Duer Miller<br />
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“Selfishness must always be forgiven you know, because there is no hope for a cure.” – Jane Austen<br />
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“The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness.” – Honore de Balzac</div>
Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-79839713743858921312012-12-14T18:15:00.000-05:002013-04-27T17:24:26.676-04:00The Ripple Effect: Newtown, CT<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am shocked, enraged, saddened beyond my ability to express, and unable to make sense of this despicable act. Any answers to the question, “why?” will never suffice and this depressing, dark reality makes me cry.<br />
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I watch the faces of the children, as the news unfolds in a rush of chaos, and wonder if that little one knows her friend, or sibling, or teacher will not be with her tomorrow, or ever again. I cry for her and the finality of what took only moments for a madman to decide then execute.<br />
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I see her tears and I weep too…for her life that has been detoured. I pray her journey to heal will be a short one with few scars and a heart that still feels like a little girl’s should.<br />
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Tears sting the edges of my eyes and I try to hold them back. For whose sake, I don’t know, maybe for my own children’s. But then, they flow anyway for the boy who wanted to be a fireman, or a policeman when he grew up, but now will never be. Forever the age he was.<br />
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I cry for this boy’s mother who will always wonder what he would have looked like in a uniform with a shiny badge, and a smile she remembers him showing her when he made the Yankee’s T-ball team even though he loved the Red Sox ‘all his life’ (all 4 years of it).<br />
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There is a father who will not walk his beautiful daughter down the aisle because her time to fall in love will never blossom further than the tiny bud of being in love with her puppy – the one he gave to her on her sixth birthday. <br />
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My heart aches today for all that cannot be for these families and I pray that peace will find them and can fill them up enough to move forward as time goes on.<br />
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Keep these children and adults in your thoughts, pray for them if that works for you, and if there is a way to help those who are hurting then I believe our humanity will find its way.</div>
Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-13202845676162265382012-12-03T12:34:00.000-05:002015-12-12T10:24:33.924-05:00 Another Letter to Santa Claus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My Dearest St. Nicholas, <br />
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As I get older, Santa, I have figured out that I want less of what costs the most.<br />
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I want less worry as that would dwindle away my well being. I want less stress so I don’t have to pay with my health. I want less anger so payment isn’t the cost of my loved ones’ peace. I want fewer arguments so feelings are spared the price of hurting.<br />
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Santa, you don’t have to give me what is not possible. What I ask for instead are the tools to build a safe place somewhere in my mind and in my heart. Here is where I want you to give me freedom to choose between what is right and good and that, which is not. Give me hope and provide for me the strength to hold on to what is precious and a bit of courage to release what I know will tear me down.<br />
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I like sunshine and warmth; not stormy weather. But when the clouds roll in on chilled, damp air, showing me where to find shelter would be kind, but letting me learn to build my own would probably be the better gift.<br />
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I ask for patience to handle the small things, but strength to shoulder the bigger ones that burden more than just me. I ask not for help; but to help instead. I wish no harm to any enemies, but I would rather have no enemies to contend with. This I would be grateful for.<br />
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I want Christmas to be about more than just the gifts. Unless the gifts are peace, love, and joy offered without pretensions. <br />
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And one more thing, Santa, I would like to always remember where I have been in my life. The good places are fond memories that brighten my spirit. The bad places I’d like to keep close enough to see, but far enough away that they can’t hurt me any longer. For it is from out of these darker places that I have learned how best to behave…and this, too, is good for my spirit.<br />
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So, Santa, as I read over this letter and a tear glistens upon my cheek, I don’t have to wonder if I believe in you and in all that is good and possible.<br />
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Merry Christmas, Santa, and to Mrs. Claus as well.<br />
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Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-55911946602661606822012-08-03T18:22:00.001-04:002012-08-26T16:08:52.803-04:00"Sally Had a Pimple on Her Nose" and Other Musings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Writers, we all have a certain style. We also have a method, a process by which words clatter, swirl, and chatter (some incessantly) around in our writer brains, then by some miraculous event (similar to my kids eating spinach without vomiting or better yet, The Big Bang Theory) they appear on paper.<br />
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Some of the greatest have shared the methods in which they produce works that don’t stink. It’s been said that a lot Erma Bombeck’s ideas came to her as she was washing dishes. Dave Barry, I believe, has a stare-down contest with his monitor. He usually wins, and in a big way.<br />
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As any great writer ‘wanna be’, I devour anything my favorite writers have produced. From novels, to essays, even thank you notes and grocery lists. Reading, they say, will surely improve one’s writing. So, in my quest to be the next great I will attempt to emulate my personal favorites. I know Erma has passed but often times that’s what I emulate the best, but for argument’s sake I have tried to follow her ways when she was still breathing (and doing dishes).<br />
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So, entering my kitchen, I turn the faucet on and begin chucking paper plates and plastic ware into the garbage, when my muse will suddenly stab me with a plastic fork right between the running lights and say, “HEY! Did you get a look at the festering, puss-oozing boil that bubbled up on Sally’s beak? I bet it’s consumed half of her cartilage by now – hilarious! I saw it squirm, it even winked at me.” So, I streak, but fully clothed, as I don’t write erotica, back to my bedroom (cause I can’t afford a place with an office, yet) and jot down my thoughts.<br />
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<em>Sally had a big pimple on her nose.</em><br />
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Great start, I think. <br />
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I go back to the basics…who, what, why, where, when and how. Seems I’ve covered most of them, ok, half. It’s the ‘why’ and ‘how’ that mess things up, thus creating the basic plot. Then I contemplate; maybe I should use the word ‘fat’ in there. <br />
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<em>Sally had a big, fat pimple on her nose.</em> No, <em>FAT.</em> Better, much better. Now, I’d like to add the word ‘hairy’; but Dave Barry already does this kind of…style, (if I may). He wrote about a hairy something-or-other when defining his own writing process in one of his books. So, I’m left to make it appear as though my ideas are original (which they are not - ever) and I really hate it when he gets all the good ideas first. <br />
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Immersion into one’s characters is a key element into making one’s stories believable to the reader. This I think about often when I’m writing. I prefer pencil on paper and will tap my pencil – sometimes in the area of my cheek - while I ponder the fate of not just my characters but my writing career as well. (Tap, tap, tap).<br />
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This is how I proceed to create my masterpiece (or more likely a stick figure if you think of it in terms of say, the Mona Lisa). (Tap, tap, tap). And the funny thing is, I am not alone in this crazy kind of processing. All writers have a unique (but fanatical) way to get the words from out of their busy little minds onto the page. (TAP, TAP, TAP).<br />
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It might be a few hours or even days before I burst from my sanctuary, joyous, albeit starved and dehydrated to share my prose with my children. They listen, yawning – but they never roll their eyes. They are staring at the gigantic zit I have just tapped onto my own nose with my miraculous pencil. My husband, he’s seen this so many times and has taken to connecting the dots in the likeliness of Mona Lisa. It’s truly a remarkable transformation.<br />
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So, by now, if you are not crying or throwing up (or throwing this in the trash)… then, by God, you have just witnessed a miracle.<br />
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Being a mother of two boys, Christian is 15 and Noah is 12, is, as it always has been, filled with surprise, wonder, a wayward hippo proposal, and a lot of laughter. They both are rambunctious, energetic, and the absolute, truest loves of my life (but I confess, Vin Diesel ranks up there too).<br />
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20 years ago when I met and fell, or rather face-planted, smack down in love with their father I thought our love trumped all. And it did, until I had my boys.<br />
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I have done many things in my time here on Mother Earth but there is nothing I am more proud of than being their mom. Ok, maybe I am more proud of them than I am in myself, or my mothering abilities. After all, they’ve made it all possible. And I think they’re pretty cool, too – and I concede, they may have gotten that from their father, or perhaps it was Vin Diesel. <br />
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I gush when I see the fine young men they are growing up to be. They have and will continue to be (if I’m doing this right) the toughest undertaking I have ever come up against and I think I’m doing a fairly good job because they still like to cuddle and they will tell me they love me. And not only when they want something like money, friends over, food, or a pony. One child, and I won’t tell you it was Noah, wanted a hippo but I managed to convince him it would, for sure, smell bad and it wouldn’t fit in the bathtub.<br />
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I am happier than I have ever been in being a mother. I am also quite content with being a married person. Sure, my mate and I have had our ups and downs – who hasn’t? But it’s liberating, the strength that can be found, when being strong is clearly the only option left, to persevere. I know I often state this, and I’ll say it again…I have learned that I have absolutely no control over other people’s behaviors, only my own. So, that said, I have also figured out that life, most times, can be viewed from perspectives that promote health and happiness. Knowing what battles to choose (and more importantly – why), where to draw the lines, and how times of peace can be attained without giving up your integrity, your beliefs, or putting aside your feelings. You don’t need infinite choices, only the right ones. Are the footprints you leave behind for your children’s shoes to fill what you want for them?<br />
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My take on this thing called life…you live, you err, you learn. The ability (or choice) to forgive others as well as yourself allows you to move forward and not stay stuck. No one said you have to forget, cause chances are, you won’t. So that ‘forgive and forget’ cliché is nonsense.<br />
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Going through this ‘live, err, learn’ cycle is beneficial if you let it run it’s course. Then you hope that somewhere in the process, as you get older and wrack up learning points, you’ve managed to become a better person BECAUSE …this cycle will surely strike your children, spinning like a tornado and throwing all kinds of debris (some resembling hippos) in their path of life. Trust and pray some amount of wisdom or knowledge (or maybe a pony) has rewarded you and you will be able to nudge, push, pull - do what ever it takes - to help your children weather their own storms.<br />
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I don’t have a ton of wisdom but I have experienced a great deal and have been humbled. I’ve also had a lot of therapy. I attribute that to never having had a pony or Vin Diesel, and I certainly didn’t want a hippo…I asked for an elephant.<br />
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Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-36193310530864258952012-06-22T09:46:00.001-04:002012-07-10T18:18:45.266-04:00My Birthday WishIt’s my birthday and time, which is always persistent, is pushing me forward, faster to that half-century mark. Not quite there yet, and I’ve never felt more comfortable with where I’m at in my life.<br />
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So, for my birthday, instead of giving me presents wrapped in pretty paper and fancy bows, I’ve made a few suggestions about what I want this year. Please feel free to share these ideas with my family, specifically my children, as I rarely get them to read anything I write. I believe they fear there may be a hidden message – like, “clean your room” or “stop whacking your brother with the plunger. Do you have any idea where that’s been?” or “If you don’t like living here, I’ll help you pack your bag.” or simply, “The answer is, ‘no’.” However, I never hide things; I’m pretty blunt with taping ‘mom’s little notes’ – in five words or less - all over the place, on anything they look at or touch – like the TV, a gaming controller, and the cell phones - to get my point across.<br />
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Here is what I want most days, but I’ll settle for just today:<br />
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I would like 20 more years with my best friend, my husband. Then I’d like 20 more. Over the years we’ve weathered some tremendous storms that may have torn off some shingles and we’ve had to Spackle a few holes in the walls, but the foundation had never been left to ruin to fall to pieces. Brick by brick we have, and continue to, build our fortress together.<br />
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I want my children to understand that I’m always on their side, even when I don’t agree; and if your side is different than that of your brother’s, then I still support you both.<br />
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I would like tighter hugs good night, and to still kiss you goodbye even when you get taller than me and think it’s not cool now that you’re driving. <br />
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Every so often, let me to play back your childhood to when you were 6-months-old, then two-years old, then five. Because when I revisit your past, I don’t rush you on to the next milestone, like taking your first steps, and starting Kindergarten, and being able to shower on your own. Remembering allows me to hold on to you a little bit longer before you go off to college, get married, have children of your own, and hopefully appreciate that I’ve always got your back.<br />
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I prefer cards made with construction paper and crayon hearts in rainbow colors. Flowers picked from yard are prettier than ones wrapped in cellophane.<br />
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Give me the sky, and spend a moment with me making dragons, or tigers, or castles with its clouds. And should fire breathe out in a lightning bolt or a rumble of thunder roll out of that dragon, know I am your fearless protector.<br />
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I guess time is really all we do have. Time to move forward, moments to reflect upon, split seconds to make good choices, and forever to love.Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-43941792045373461662012-06-16T11:03:00.001-04:002013-04-27T17:22:35.658-04:00An Emotional Farewell to a Beta FishHelping a child with the loss of a pet is tough. We lost our beta fish yesterday. He was with us for almost a year and a half. He was purple; Noah’s favorite color. His name was Betals.<br />
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My husband scooped him out of the bowl with my kitchen tongs. Placed him on a paper towel and asked Noah, who is 12, if he wanted to say a few words. Noah let a few tears trickle down his cheeks, looked at the fish, and at that moment, chose his words carefully. “I don’t know.” He replied.<br />
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Our family clustered into the bathroom to bid our beta buddy goodbye. My mate, ever sentimental after I convinced him we shouldn’t bury him in the garden, played ‘Taps’ through his pursed lips. I hid my laughter behind the bathroom door, but wiped the tear from my eye as I watched Noah fight back his own. Christian, my teenager, stood looking at all of us, his expression of absolute embarrassment – perhaps thinking that he couldn’t possibly be related to any of us.<br />
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Noah, startled out of his mournful trance by the flush of the toilet, found his words and said, “Can I have a gold fish now?”<br />
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My response, “Can you at least wait until he passes safely to the septic tank?” <br />
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I, then, marched into the kitchen to sanitize the tongs with scalding, hot water and antibacterial dish soap. Knowing these tongs had recently touched raw hamburger and dead shrimp; I ceased my compulsive scouring as I realized this wasn’t any worse than ground meat and it was just another dead, sea creature. <br />
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I did however, with the same neurotic behavior, return to the bathroom with the Ty-D-Bol cleaner and an obligation with the toilet brush to continue my irrational scrubbing; pushing away any new realizations with the task at hand.<br />
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While Betals was Noah’s pet, he never cleaned the fish bowl or remembered to feed him. He did however enjoy all the good moments one can have with a fish, while I took on the duties of its care. This now leaves me to wonder if I, the responsible party, forgot to feed it, maybe fed it too much, failed to oxygenate the water properly, thus causing its demise.<br />
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I’d rather Noah think I was neglectful than he be tormented with any blame of his own. Which, of course, he isn’t feeling guilty in the least. He’s already picking out names for the goldfish we haven’t gotten yet…he also wants a puppy.Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-49621013301014256342012-06-05T20:00:00.002-04:002012-06-06T07:41:12.233-04:00The Monsters Under My BedI recently was asked by my painter/writer friend, <a href="http://carriejacobson.blogspot.com/">Carrie Jacobson</a>, “What inspires you?” My simple answer to that is, “Change.” It could be of the best change, or a small thing, or perhaps a devastating circumstance that knocked me down and consumed me much like a lioness preys upon a gazelle.<br />
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There was a time in my life where I was stuck, afraid to make changes, willing to accept the day to day routine even though it was of no benefit to my well being. Rather than come in from the blizzard and change my outfit to better weather the raging elements, I stood still, in that frozen landscape, and questioned why it was snowing. As if I had any input on that. I’m not sure if it was a lack of courage, perhaps afraid to live with anything that would be different or if it simply became comfortable – even in its destructive ways.<br />
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So, when my mate would give me that "don't you know enough to come in out of the cold?" look, I know now to seek shelter. Some days, however, I make an igloo, and build the shelter from what has been given to me.<br />
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Change can take the form of the monsters under the bed (or whatever happened to reside in my closet) that frightened me when I was four-years-old and truly believed the demons were going to burn down Barbie’s house, steal her car, and laugh at me when I cried for Barbie’s demise. I thank my father for the ‘Monster Repellent’ and my mother for leaving the light on.<br />
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For some time now I have taken inventory and have gotten rid of what doesn’t look good on me. Things that are so tightly fitted that they had choked the life out of me. Things that were hanging so loosely, that if I didn’t cinch them up, I feared I would walk right out of them and leave a rumpled mess – forgotten on the floor.<br />
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How this relates to what I find inspiring? Cleaning out the cobwebs that had been left by self-destructive thinking has allowed me to make some pretty fantastic, if not awesome, changes. I have realized that I am not in control of anything except for me, and how I choose to handle situations. When there is something I cannot change I find the courage to adjust my perspective and hope to imagine it differently.<br />
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I, now, experience my life through all of my senses, freshly tuned, and they are ready to report back to my emotional self. I take time to listen closely. I see with clarity and sharpness. I try to speak my mind with care, but confess this is still a work in progress. <br />
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I am also inspired by changes made by the people I most care about and love. While that may be difficult (because it’s scary) for them, as long as their changing moves to bring them to a place where they no longer have to sleep with the light on, then it’s a good thing.<br />
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So, many things inspire me, from what I hear each day, to seeing what is right in front of me, to feeling for others…be it happy or sad. Some of these insights nudge me long enough, and with great passion, that in order for me to silence them I set them free with my pencil on paper.Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-86460295040267169042012-06-02T14:22:00.000-04:002012-08-26T16:11:23.619-04:00Small Yet Surprising ThingsYesterday was the 6th grade field trip to New York City. Noah, my youngest, went with my husband who was a designated chaperone. Who watched whom? I’m not sure I want to know, but I probably already do.<br />
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The group visited many places - the United Nations building, Ground Zero, Ellis Island, and Liberty Island to name a few. Noah is a collector of things and while being the diligent tourist he purchased his souvenirs. Two of these treasures were for me. One was a pen from Ellis Island because he knows a writer needs her tools to fulfill her mission.<br />
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I, wanting to live up to my ‘calling’, recently penned an essay entitled “<a href="http://anamusingmusing.blogspot.com/2012/05/i-pray-for-peace_30.html">I Pray for Peace</a>” written the day prior to the NYC excursion. In it, I wrote of the recent passing of three remarkable, children from my community. Noah had not read this piece yet. As a matter of fact, my family rarely peruses the writing I labor over unless it is force fed to them. So, when he presented me with his thoughtful gifts I was quite surprised by the second keepsake.<br />
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The item, but truly a gift in so many ways, was a mouse pad. On this pad were written the words, “Imagine A World In Peace”. Perhaps this was the only mouse pad available, but certainly not the only item to be bought.<br />
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I read the words again, “Imagine A World In Peace”. Now, I’m not one who jumps to the supernatural, or the ‘unexplained’. However, I do believe that somehow this was not a coincidence. I also know that anyone reading this may be thinking, “She has done it this time…she’s lost her mind”. Well, I haven’t (yet) and this shows me that my child, in his own 12-year-old way of processing that, which has occurred recently in his short life, also wants peace to be found.<br />
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A small amount of peace which can start at home by giving his mother a sign that tells her to imagine just that. It appears to me that we are on the same page (or maybe it’s a though provoking mouse pad). That Noah understands what that message means gives me hope that someone, perhaps the angels of the loved ones lost, perceives that it is indeed possible.<br />
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So, when you walk about the places you go and, among the crowd, you see the faces of those you have lost… find some comfort in that. Perhaps it is in a gift given, or one received, or something of a coincident that isn’t just two random acts coming together – but in the timing of their occurrences. Maybe, it is in these small, yet surprising things that some balance and harmony can be found.<br />
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That my Ellis Island pen has the power to push these thoughts your way, take what you wish from them, they are simply stories, peaceful in nature, and perhaps a little hopeful.Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-6568492616099605042012-05-30T22:19:00.001-04:002012-06-02T12:28:06.047-04:00I Pray for PeaceAs a writer, I am often overflowing with words. I have stories to tell and thoughts stir within my mind until I have just enough of the right words put together. Like a strand of pearls or a neatly crocheted blanket, I craft my tale and then move these hand picked phrases from beginning to end until they explode onto the page through my #2, black, Ticonderoga pencil.<br />
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Today I feel as though my words have stalled, my thoughts are tired, and my heart is aching. My heart breaks not for the imprisoned story, which has befallen me, but for what has happened in my small community in which I live.<br />
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Lisbon, CT is a small town; just fewer than 4,100 people reside here. We have one school that educates our children from pre-K through the eighth grade. Teachers are different from when I went to school; they are now my friends. Friends whom you trust to take your child and love them through good grades, poor choices, and gym class (without deodorant). Neighbor helps neighbor and we have settled in to a quiet, peaceful routine where saying hello, as you pass, is not just polite…it’s appreciated.<br />
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The past few years have been hard on most of us but devastating to a handful of families. Three families in our community have lost the most precious piece of life, the greatest gift of love…their children. Jenna Smith, friend and classmate of my youngest, passed in 2010; she was brave and beautiful, and just shy of her 10th birthday. More recently James Trainor, a truly remarkable child who loved to hug and never failed to make you feel special. And only a few days ago Joe Kelly who played (and excelled) at many sports; rarely did he not smile and encourage those around him.<br />
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I have found myself leaning on my small community - my friends. I attempt to grasp some understanding, but fail. I ask why, but don’t receive the answer that I want to hear. I want to be angry but I don’t have anyone I can scream at to make it stop.<br />
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Motherhood is a universal understanding, a bond that knows no boundary. And I believe there isn’t a mother that does not weep for the losses our friends, and our own children, are feeling now.<br />
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I have found strength in my friends, my family, the teachers of my children, my community. I have found some sense of peace in a hug or in the words of another who is as confused and as sad as I am. I find comfort when memories are shared and stories are told even when the right words elude me. <br />
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I pray that quiet and calm is found for all, but mostly I pray the families of those who have passed find peace. Often times our greatest strength is found in our weakest moments...we simply need to get through them.Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-51251505897551700652012-04-10T19:59:00.001-04:002021-04-04T09:32:27.040-04:00Holidays Can be Terrifying!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Holidays are great for spending time with family. Yesterday was Easter and my day began early. I prepared a dish to bring to my Mother-in-law’s house for dinner. I woke my children early – not the other way around. Gone are the days when they were too excited to go to sleep and then got up before the Easter Bunny had a chance to finish her work. My husband took me out for a ride on his Harley; a little chilly...but it's a "biker thing". I ate, and then ate some more, and of course devoured enough candy to induce a diabetic coma fit for an elephant. <br />
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I also went for a walk with some of my family. A detour led us up a rocky hill to the train tracks. The hill topped, maybe, 15 – 20 feet. About half way up, I got stuck. Not because the rocks were loose or the air was thin at that altitude. I froze because I am terrified of heights.<br />
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Put me on the back of a big, bad motorcycle and I think I’m a badass. Ask me to scale the side of a rocky, fifteen-foot incline and I’m reduced to tears, sweating, and swearing – a lot. I may have even peed my pants. I’m not sure because I had my eyes squeezed closed and my face was squished against the only tuft of grass on what was now, in my mind, Mount Everest.<br />
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My 12-year-old son, Noah, wanting to help, held out his hand which happens to be attached to a body weighing only about 75 pounds – not a reassuring strong hold. He proceeded to try to coax me up the hill similar to how strangers greet a maniacal dog who wants to chew off limbs, “Come on, Mom, it’s ok.” <br />
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I don’t know when the fear of heights began. I have no recollection of ever falling off a mountain, or even a curb, for that matter. However, it's not all that important for me to know that. What I need to remember is that I am, and I should keep my feet firmly fixed on flat ground and not rely on the persuasion of skinny 12-year-olds to free me from such dilemmas. <br />
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I like to think of myself as, say, a… potato – keep me firmly planted. Whereas, Noah is like a dandelion and he will go in whatever direction the wind happens to be blowing without any concern for scary things like trains or rocky hillsides. <br />
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We finished our walk via the train tracks collecting railroad spikes and other fun things that 12-year-old skinny boys can’t possibly carry, because they’re feeble, and moms are better suited at 'carrying the burden'. The walk on the tracks felt much longer than it actually was because I was so focused on making sure I saw the train coming, which direction it was coming from and when it did, executing my elaborate, if not embelished, escape plan. I also don’t ever remember being taunted by a train, but there you have it.<br />
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I so enjoyed our little excursion this Easter that next year I plan to take a train somewhere, anywhere (maybe Mt. Everest) and hide my face in the grass so no one finds me. Somehow, I’m not so sure they’re going to be looking for me anyway. </div>
Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2366337063167194759.post-6784419803932258252012-04-03T07:29:00.000-04:002012-04-03T07:29:31.893-04:00Excuse Me, What Did You Just Say?Some of you may know that my favorite book happens to be the dictionary. I’m a writer; words are my thing.<br />
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Yesterday I had an occasion to require the use of the dictionary. The word “balderdash” came up while I was talking and my 12-year-old, who rarely tunes into my voice, took notice. Basically, the gist of the conversation began with, “Every word that comes out of your mouth is complete balderdash!”<br />
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“Mom, does that mean they’re yelling really fast?” My inquisitive child asked.<br />
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“No, he wasn’t yelling, he just wasn’t making any sense.”<br />
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“Then why is it bolder?”<br />
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This, of course, prompted me to write this piece in terms of how children, who are raised with such languages as “text-speak” and “Hooked on Phonics”, process and then define the words they hear, see, and use. <br />
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I’ve come up with a few definitions to words, both in the English language and that which is foreign to me.<br />
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Avoidable – Actually a Spanish word, meaning “Running of the Bulls”<br />
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Brothel – Wearing one cup-size too small and giving an eye-thel<br />
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Chilies – (chill –ease) It’s why the peppers are so hot<br />
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Chirp – LOUD, predawn, springtime birds. When spoken in the plural form it means insomnia <br />
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Classic – What happens to my 15-year-old when his homework isn’t done<br />
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Debris – Product of one’s digestive system after too much French cheese<br />
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Dictator – Mr. Potato Head’s alias<br />
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Erase – (e-race) Playing Gardens of Time on Facebook, or other silly hidden object game<br />
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Function – (funk – shin) A broken leg. Plural form is defined as immobility (I checked with the Scooter-Store on that). Also can be used, by your doctor, as functional if your name is Al. Don’t ask me about the ‘ity’ part, I only know it’s a very useful word.<br />
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Fusion – The state that arises when a toddler has a ‘meltdown’<br />
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Imbibe – Consumption of high quantities of alcoholic ‘spirits’ then speaking pig Latin to them<br />
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Oil – A southern, Yiddish exclamation of pain. Can be used, quite effectively, at the gas pumps<br />
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Opportunist – Singing ‘Pavarotti’ while driving. <br />
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Purifier – (pure – if – hire) Employment advertisement for clergy <br />
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Refrigerator – That cool place where teenagers are frozen in time. Fathers, through their own experience, know this lasts a very long time.<br />
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Silence -<br />
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Textbook – A place where your high schooler hides active cell phone corresponding<br />
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Uranus – A 10-year-old’s joke that men, who really are from Mars, think is funny<br />
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Withdrawal – Bank heist…southern style<br />
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Some of these may not be original; no thought or idea ever really is. Perhaps you’ve though of, maybe even said these very words. It’s not hard to understand that…obviously you read, and apparently enjoy the dictionary as much as I do.<br />
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One disclaimer, while I didn’t use any websites in my research (just my dictionary), I did come up with these on my own. Not a huge feat, but one that was not copied, stolen, or plagiarized. (Plagiarize – legal term meaning the process which results in one writing disclaimers). (Disclaimer – the opposite of Plagiarize).<br />
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That should cover all of it!Anamusingmusinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246873266079599811noreply@blogger.com0