tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55104883045305269522024-03-12T21:19:32.751-04:00Open Road"Everything I was I carry with me. Everything I will be lies waiting on the road ahead." Ma JianKate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-35424222184176546902022-03-26T17:46:00.009-04:002022-03-26T21:36:56.594-04:00Unfrozen<div style="text-align: justify;"> For the past year I've been driving through south Toledo nearly every morning on my way to Perrysburg. I pass the shopping center where Mr. Kregel, Bowsher High School's football coach, taught me to drive. The place that used to be the Glenbyrne Theater where I watched <i>Star Wars</i> eleven times with my little sister. The vacant lot where Byrnedale Junior High once stood, the building where my seventh grade language arts teacher, Miss Kurtz, taught me to love writing. I drive by the convenience story that was once a 7-Eleven that provided eggs and milk and bread during the blizzard of 1978 (I still can't believe my mom let me pull a sled all by myself through the intersection of Eastgate and Glendale to get provisions for the family). Right before I reach Front Street, I pass by the Rec Center where I swam in the summer and visited Children's Wonderland each Christmas. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> <span> <span> </span></span></span>Every morning I'm blocks away from the house I grew up in on Eastwick Drive and pass by landmarks of my childhood that bring back a treasure trove of memories: six-year-old Katie enjoying a peach flavored ice cream cone at the UDF that was scooped by Mrs. Heumann, my next door neighbor. Seven-year-old Katie playing softball in the Glendale Elementary backfield being yelled at by the coach for not getting in the game. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> </span><span> </span>Ten-year-old Katie tooling around Southwyck Mall with my sisters, exploring Walden Books, Coach House Gifts and Old Towne. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> </span><span> </span>Thirteen-year-old Katie singing a solo in the junior high school play "Wheels". </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> </span><span> </span>Seventeen-year-old Katie driving to school her senior year, grateful to escape taking the Tarta bus and the teenage boys who pinched and mocked her body. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> </span><span> </span>Twenty-one-year-old Katie helping pack up the Eastwick house when her parents moved away.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> </span><span> At first, all of those moments seemed frozen in time as if I was a different person who lived through the 70's and 80's in a middle class house on a middle class street in a middle class neighborhood. Who I am now at fifty-five is a far cry from the kid who loved hearing the church bells ring through the field behind our street, telling me it was time to come home for dinner. Still, over the past twelve months I've had the opportunity to drive day after day after day past places that are now vastly different than they used to be.</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> </span><span> Our world is now unlike anything we've ever experienced -- even more so since the pandemic started. Yet long before the lockdowns and testing and divisions over what is best for the common good, there's been a crumbling of common ground. Our culture has a long history, but a short memory, and so it seems do most people.</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> </span><span> It's been a unique blessing to have the opportunity to gently revisit my past in the early morning hours as darkness slowly turns to light. Over the weeks and months, I've slowly realized that all the Katies of the past are still within me, the memories even easier to access since they've been unfrozen from the silent places inside.</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> Seemingly insignificant moments come back like reading a book while waiting at the bus stop by Rudy's Hot Dog. Other more dramatic ones resurface, too, like the time my mother walked away from the house when my sisters and I were fighting and I was scared she'd never come back. She did an hour or so later, telling us she was at the same Rudy's having a cup of coffee to take a break from all the noise. It used to be that I couldn't pass a Rudy's without bitterly thinking about my mom's escape, that moment lodged in my mind like an iceberg. But now after driving by the restaurant a hundred times, it's become a neutral place as the memories have melted into a new awareness of why she left and why she came back.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> After all this time I can look back on my long history and find a common ground in everything I've remembered. Even though I'm not the same person I was as a kid, in my teens, twenties and beyond, in many ways I've been able to see how seamlessly my past set the stage for what was to come. Everything I experienced as a child informed who I became as an adult.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> For a long time I used to lock my memories away, compartmentalizing them in journals, thinking about them as if they happened to another person, someone I had long buried in the past. Now as winter is slowly turning to spring, they've magically melted into the present during my morning drive. In an instant I can recall the taste of a soft-serve cone with chocolate shot from Penguin Palace. I can smell the corn and burgers roasting on a grill at the annual summer block party. I can hear the echoing laughter of children playing Kick the Can and Red Light, Green Light. As I drive by Rudy's Hot Dog, I can see in my mind's eye Glendale Elementary School that used to stand across the street, the place where Jimmy Marsh kissed me on the cheek in second grade. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> I've never longed to go back in time, to stay eternally twenty-nine. I've yearned to be separate from the past, to pretend events never happened, to forget moments in time that were filled with fear, embarrassment, and shame. How fascinating that a daily drive through the south end of town has given me the time to remember in the safe space of solitude. It's a meditation to allow those memories to melt, then float downstream into the ocean of the present moment, knowing every experience is a part of who I am now.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpbNb90nl4XSNx_8gxGyDtJTi40i3gcsNmvBL1R6eZGNo63DFz2EHL6l7hG1mLQSP7qassWuK8bKngQ3UNQZ2sGvQiSHtv4oEtO9CUAn3yyZVDNfitQ5CIsRB7c8BAC-4OXbMdNe3lAMMpA3VbZE08qYe3AilCNpPqjJLbqLx1fbMHuhHuldDQn32xw/s435/katie%206%20years.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="294" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpbNb90nl4XSNx_8gxGyDtJTi40i3gcsNmvBL1R6eZGNo63DFz2EHL6l7hG1mLQSP7qassWuK8bKngQ3UNQZ2sGvQiSHtv4oEtO9CUAn3yyZVDNfitQ5CIsRB7c8BAC-4OXbMdNe3lAMMpA3VbZE08qYe3AilCNpPqjJLbqLx1fbMHuhHuldDQn32xw/s320/katie%206%20years.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First grade school picture from Glendale Elementary, 1972</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></div>Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-6298472746040211642022-02-02T16:42:00.000-05:002022-02-02T16:42:24.149-05:00Snow White...revisited<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Snow White…revisited</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My mother kept meticulous records in my baby book. In the "Famous Firsts" section, she wrote: "First cartoon movie: April, '69 </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Snow White</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">." I was two at the time and, of course, have no memory of the event. But when I turned six, Mom insisted that I have a birthday party and invite some girls from the neighborhood. Not wanting any attention focused solely on me, I balked endlessly. Finally, after some cajoling, Mom promised the party could be any theme I wanted.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now satisfied that I could have some choice in the matter, I replied, "I want a </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Snow White</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> birthday party." </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"What's that?" Mom asked.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I want you to find a </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Snow White</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> at the store and put it on the dining room table with all your little ceramic animals." </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My mother had a delightful collection of birds and fauna that decorated the corner shelves of our kitchen and living room. I cheerfully explained that they could be like all the animals Snow White met in the forest before she discovered the seven dwarves. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There's only a brief mention of this party in my baby book, accompanied by a short list of the girls who attended. What I remember most is that I absolutely did </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">not</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> want to play games, so we went to the movies instead. And I can also remember sitting in the darkened theater at Southwyck Mall relieved that everyone was paying attention to something other than the fact that it was my birthday. Yet, I also felt disgusted that the movie I had chosen ("What's Up Doc?") was not about Bugs Bunny at all, but a tedious love story between Ryan O'Neil and Barbra Streisand. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Enter the pattern of my life: I can ask for what I want, but it rarely turns out as I imagined or hoped it would be.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still, my favorite memory of that birthday is standing in the doorway of the dining room, looking at the table where Mom had carefully assembled Snow White in a makeshift forest surrounded by her collection of little animals. Even now, I can see myself as a young girl, wondering what those animals would say if they could speak. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What would Snow White say? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What would </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> say?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Longing to discover my own voice, I started keeping a journal in my adolescence and eventually became a novelist. In the process, I've created dozens of characters who marginally personify pieces of myself. Many of them have been written into a life I had once planned, yet never experienced. None of them reveal my own life as it has truly been. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Through it all, I've been amazed that the story of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Snow White</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> continues to shape my life's lessons. Like her, I have encountered wicked, green-eyed queens who have wanted to diminish or silence my existence. I have escaped to the silence of a solitary forest in order to recreate myself beyond what I had been taught to be. I have spent decades as a teacher, working with little people of all ages, unearthing jewels of learning while they mine their own talents and abilities. I have been terrified of the unknown, the unfamiliar, and the endless search for who I am and where I belong. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Naturally, my favorite part of the story of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Snow White</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> is when she enters the forest and all the animals befriend her. They take her to a little cottage in the heart of the woods where she will be safe. Where she will eventually meet the seven dwarves and face the trials of being the object of the Queen's wrath. Deep in the forest, Snow White is nurtured by the natural world and it is through being in nature that I am continually healed. Like Snow White, I live in a little cottage and tend to the lovely gardens which surround it. What a blessing to touch the earth and experience more clearly the unspoken, yet profound life lessons flourishing in my own back yard.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Throughout this conscious awakening, the tale of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Snow White</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> keeps me ever mindful to listen carefully to that which sparks my attention, which engages me beyond words or thought. Which allows me to feel my authentic heart that has never been stolen. This journey echoes a message I have spent a lifetime trying to decipher: my truth, my own enchantment is not what I had been taught to want, but rather a new reality that has risen from its ashes. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/kindle-dbs/entity/author/B00I4E0766?_encoding=UTF8&node=283155&offset=0&pageSize=12&searchAlias=stripbooks&sort=author-sidecar-rank&page=1&langFilter=default#formatSelectorHeader" target="_blank"> </a></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/kindle-dbs/entity/author/B00I4E0766?_encoding=UTF8&node=283155&offset=0&pageSize=12&searchAlias=stripbooks&sort=author-sidecar-rank&page=1&langFilter=default#formatSelectorHeader" target="_blank">Everything I’ve ever written has become a literary phoenix. </a></span></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Through my books and blogs, I hope you see yourself, a friend, a sister or an aunt, a lover or a wife. Most of all, may you discover you are not alone in your journey, neither before nor after this moment in time. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Those of us who are creating new paradigms are blessed to find each other along the way.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiKFOdB8VpgpBgUp5kIEbGxT7swVS60fwrcpLlfZOYUYMu1p-WJYwgsWu3HgkysbT2xRw_a6l7i5JVLbF9v3gk7RsbDp3GUI3MULf_0A24pzZR20knME_xv8aWvSbgRMVojZKIuI60WeabgCIZwTI0ylIB5dnQLqxVL7RHkEPm3JXbhpuhBLr1q74ccw=s3829" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3829" data-original-width="2682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiKFOdB8VpgpBgUp5kIEbGxT7swVS60fwrcpLlfZOYUYMu1p-WJYwgsWu3HgkysbT2xRw_a6l7i5JVLbF9v3gk7RsbDp3GUI3MULf_0A24pzZR20knME_xv8aWvSbgRMVojZKIuI60WeabgCIZwTI0ylIB5dnQLqxVL7RHkEPm3JXbhpuhBLr1q74ccw=s320" width="224" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The actual Snow White centerpiece my mother used <br />for my sixth birthday party. What a keepsake!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-36e487e5-7fff-0f8e-19b5-5bc9f984246c"><br /></span></p>Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-22458974099562699092021-12-23T19:00:00.001-05:002021-12-23T19:00:00.177-05:00Sweaty guy<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <b style="text-align: center;">Sweaty
guy</b></span></p>
<p align="center" style="margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Originally published on January
17, 2016<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" style="margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">On Friday night
I was sitting between my pals, Satish and Danta, enjoying a wonderful
dinner of Indian cuisine when Danta asked, "Can you stay and watch<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Sweaty Guy<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>tonight?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We were
celebrating a belated Christmas, so Danta was excited to pop<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Year-Without-Santa-Claus/dp/B004CORD14/ref=sr_1_1?s=movies-tv&ie=UTF8&qid=1453054092&sr=1-1&keywords=the+year+without+a+santa+claus">The
Year Without a Santa Claus</a></i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>into
the DVD player. When he was little, he couldn't remember the name of the
show, but as the Heat Miser was a memorable character, Danta gave him a brand
new nickname. Thus,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Sweaty
Guy<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>became the alternate
moniker for one of our favorite holiday movies.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Sure,"
I nodded. "I can stay as long as you'd like."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Satish gave me a
sly smile. "Okay...well, only for three years."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I turned to
him. "Oh, how sweet! Is that all? How about five?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"It could be
for only three<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>seconds,</i>" Satish
deadpanned.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I laughed out
loud, wistfully acknowledging that my sassy friend will soon be a
pre-teenager. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Later on, after
the boys had opened the sweaters I had made for them (in U of M and Michigan
State colors), their mother wanted to take a picture of the three of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Satish threw his
arms around me and beamed, "Let's pretend we like each other!" <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">What a joy to
see both the little boy he used to be mingled with the young man he's slowly
becoming. It's the first time I've been able to watch the slow, steady
progression of growth in children I cherish, and I'm often surprised by how the
little changes in both of the boys only make me love them that much more.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Once Danta and
Satish had donned their pajamas, they created a little nest on the floor with
blankets and pillows, then invited me to join them like I did when they were
little. It's been a couple of years since we've been able to find some
downtime to chill out in front of the television, so I enjoyed every single moment,
knowing that the years will pass by all-too-soon and someday they'll be more
interested in hanging out with their friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I've been
delighted to spend more time with the Sharmas this year. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Satish's soccer games are on my winter
calendar and I'll be picking him up from school in a couple of weeks to
celebrate his eleventh birthday. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Nine-year-old
Danta and I enjoy working on puzzles and reading books and making each other
laugh until we snort. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>His
big sister, Neela, and I are looking forward to spending some time together in
early February and when the oldest, Amita, comes back from an overseas trip,
I'm sure we'll have plenty to talk about. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The girls are
both in high school and busy with band and lacrosse and a host of other
activities, so I've spent most of my time over the years with the
boys...kicking a soccer ball, teaching them how to play tennis, and shooting
baskets in their backyard. We've played countless games of chess, read
dozens of books, and had sleepovers when we talked long past bedtime.
I've driven them to soccer practice and cheered them on during their
matches. As I grew up with sisters who didn't really like to get sweaty,
it's been a unique pleasure to enjoy the often rough and tumble world of little
boys who don't mind getting dirty.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I don't
either...as long as I can clean up afterwards. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">When Danta was
in kindergarten, I spent the night when his parents went out for the
evening. After a boisterous day of playing in the snow and a lively
evening wrestling in the living room, the fellas were due for a quick clean-up
before bedtime. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Satish and I
were sitting in the hallway playing "Hangman" outside of the bathroom
while Danta took a bucket bath. ("It's an Indian thing," Satish
explained. "To save water.") <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Hey,
Katie!" Danta exclaimed. "Come look at me!"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I stepped into
the bathroom and saw that he had tightly wedged his little body into the bucket
that was overflowing with soapy water. Delighted with his antics, I
giggled, “Am I going to need a shoehorn to get you out of there?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“A<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>what</b>?” he asked, his eyes wide.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Satish came in
to see why I was laughing. His face turned serious. “Danta!
You need to use that bucket properly! We don’t have another one and if
you break it, Mummy and Papa will have to go to the store and buy one!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Pressing my lips
together, I turned away to squelch my laughter. Satish was right, of
course, but it was still hilarious to see Danta in the bucket, his knees pulled
tightly to his chest. Only he would think to do something so
impish. And naturally, it’s exactly the kind of thing my inner Ramona
finds hilarious. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Later that night
when it was time to go to sleep, the boys curled up with their blankets on the
floor of the guest room so we could all be together. Once the lights were
turned out, Danta took a shuddering breath, asking, “When’s Mummy coming
home?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I could
instantly hear the tears in his voice, knowing bedtime would be hard for
Danta. While he was fine to play and have fun during the day without his
mother, nighttime was when he most wanted her near.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Glancing at the
clock radio, I said, “She should be home in about an hour or so.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Is that long?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Not really,” I
told him gently. “And I’ll be right here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I turned on the
nightlight and the room was bathed in the soft, orange glow of a tiny plastic
basketball. When I climbed into the twin bed and got comfortable, Satish
was well on his way to falling asleep, but I could hear Danta whimpering.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Mummy,” he
softly cried. “I want Mummy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Leaning down to
stroke the hair away from his forehead, damp with sweat, I whispered, “Do you
want to come up here with me until she gets home?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He nodded
eagerly. Leaving his blankets and stuffed animals behind, Danta climbed
into the small bed and cuddled close. “Mummy,” he cried
again. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I soothingly
rubbed his head. “I know you miss Mummy,” I whispered. “She’ll be
back soon. And I’m right here…I’m right here.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We whispered
about all of the fun we had that day, the snow angels he and Satish had made,
the silly snowman whose eyes kept falling off, no matter how many times Danta
tried to fix them. He soon relaxed and fell asleep in my arms, but by
morning, had found his way back to his parents' room while Satish and I dozed
as sunlight slowly filtered into the room. I lay there remembering the scrappy
little girl I used to be who was often afraid when my mother was gone, who
didn't want to be upstairs in our house alone, who was often frightened of the
unfamiliar, the inexperienced. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">After all of
these years, I find that Danta and I are still very much alike. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Even though we're getting better at
sweating through the challenges, it's still a comfort to know that we're
surrounded by people who understand us, who don't mind our quirks and silly
sense of humor. Who love us unconditionally, no matter what.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So here's to my
little sweaty guy who brings so much joy to my life...and teaches me that to be
childlike is a doorway to the divine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbqocSldK0hLG-I9YTAFZl5oSIV8LhDWE79e9UIhNNTXulfl-rmV9wLDoXg0SzcMbd5lST_IKtY4X7I0yNa9H5F_hlKY9DFjMtDDm8ezbCDl8ZKKffm2R0bH3Ot5oMyNrLF8QvvAWjYGQyu9Bc4h7mTcHibJWLSm-VeONL_iZ-oMmdFRPd3Sd2ZP2fpQ=s775" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="775" data-original-width="574" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbqocSldK0hLG-I9YTAFZl5oSIV8LhDWE79e9UIhNNTXulfl-rmV9wLDoXg0SzcMbd5lST_IKtY4X7I0yNa9H5F_hlKY9DFjMtDDm8ezbCDl8ZKKffm2R0bH3Ot5oMyNrLF8QvvAWjYGQyu9Bc4h7mTcHibJWLSm-VeONL_iZ-oMmdFRPd3Sd2ZP2fpQ=s320" width="237" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p>
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span>Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-17420711091239992872021-12-20T17:11:00.001-05:002021-12-20T17:11:24.937-05:00Open Road - a life worth waiting for<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">Open Road - a life worth waiting for</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>It’s a rainy afternoon in the summer of 1999. I’m having tea with
a good friend and we’re discussing the ups and downs of major life
choices. I recently left teaching and still don’t know what's on the
horizon. What seemed like a great leap of faith a few months ago has
turned into a free fall into panic. It's as if my life is stuck in a
nonstop squeaky hamster wheel, going around and around and around with no end
in sight.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="font-family: georgia; text-indent: 0.5in;">I tell Olivia, “I really need to do something tangible to help me move
past this fear of what’s coming next. It’s going to kill me if I don’t
let it go.”</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>My friend looks at me and grins. “I was
leaving the house today and three times I had the intuition to go back inside
and get something for you.” </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>I anxiously wait on pins and needles while she goes
to her car to get whatever this “thing” is. Will it be the golden ticket
to calm my fears? Right now, I’m willing to try anything.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>When Olivia returns, she hands me a tiny, white
vial saying, “Put that in your purse and take it outside tonight when the moon
is full. Don’t open it until then.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>“What’s it for?” I ask, turning it over in my hand,
desperate to have all my questions answered instantly.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>“You’ll know when you open it, Katie,” Olivia says.
“Trust me. Don’t think about it too much.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>“What is it? Something I’m supposed to drink
or what?” </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>She smiles knowingly. “I’m not telling
you. You’ll know exactly what to do. And don’t come back inside
until that bottle is empty.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>In the past, I’ve always despised mysteries, but in
that moment I start to believe in magic potions…or at least in the potential
for one to magically appear in my life. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>I trust Olivia. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>I trust the moment. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>It rains most of that evening, so the night air is
moist and fluid. As I step outside my back door, a full moon shines
over the south side of my garden. Walking barefoot through the dewy
grass, I drag one of the lawn chairs into the middle of the yard so that I can
open the vial under the radiant glow.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>When I twist off the cap, I realize the bottle is
filled with bubbles. In the lid is a wand to dip into the soapy
solution. I laugh, realizing what my friend had meant for me to do.
I’m supposed to name my fears, one by one, then gently send them away as I blow
the bubbles into the humid night air.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>I take a deep breath and began. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>"I’m afraid I’ll never find a job," I
whisper. I blow dozens of tiny bubbles into the air.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>"I’m afraid of falling in love with someone
new because I’ll lose my identity again." More bubbles fly over my
head. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>"I’m afraid of making the wrong choices with
my life." </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>As I watch the luminescent spheres of light float
through the moist nighttime air, I find the courage to name all the fears that
come to mind. The simple ones. The complex ones. The ones
that have haunted me since childhood. The ones that have just emerged in
that moment. My heart becomes lighter and lighter as I release them all
with childlike abandon.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>And then…one more surfaces. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Tears come to my eyes as I say aloud, “I’m afraid
to be happy because then all the bubbles will burst.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>As I blow a multitude of orbs into the air, I close
my eyes and allow silent tears to fall down my cheeks. A moment later I
take a deep breath, open my eyes, then look around the yard. Surrounding
me like a carpet of shining crystal balls, all of the bubbles are lovingly
cradled in the dewy grass. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Every one reflects the light of the full moon,
whole and unbroken.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>I begin to blow more bubbles just for the sheer joy
of it. They float up into the air, descend to the ground, and land on the
grass…the chair…my skin. I realize that my fear of happiness, of change,
the fear of bubbles bursting is just an illusion I had created to keep me safe
inside myself. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>When the bottle is nearly empty, I dip the wand
inside it one last time and wonder, “How much happiness can I hold now?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> ***<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I used to pray to be broken. Pray to be shown
my shadows so that I might better learn the ways of humility and mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then life took me to my knees.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Next, I prayed for understanding and wisdom so that
I might allow more space for healing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Again, I was taken to my knees.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Now I no longer pray without first kneeling on the
ground. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And I no longer need to be broken, for my scar
tissue is stronger than the original skin it has replaced. What once had
been shattered has now been recreated. Not as it once was, for there are
pieces missing from my life that I can never reclaim...and I have paid a high
price for that which remains.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Through it all, I have learned to trust in the
mysterious ways of grace. Like the wind that blows through the leaves, it
is unseen in one form, but its movement creates visible transformation.
And yet, the incredible revelation I have embodied is more than mysterious.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It has been miraculous.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">When Michelangelo was asked how he created <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Pieta</i>, he said, “I saw the angel in
the marble and I carved until I set him free."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">What a glorious thing to know that God could see an
angel within the stone walls I had built to hide my true nature...my authentic
spirit. Then, when I prayed for guidance, lovingly provided me with the
tools to set myself free. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Mary lovingly holds her son, Jesus, in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Pieta</i>. I, too, have been held
by people who love me. They are instruments of hope, sent by grace, who
held me when I was wounded and when I was thriving. When I was in despair
and when I was joyous. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Who hold me now as I celebrate the open road before
me...the beginning of a new life<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black;"> that I trust will be filled with peace and love and
joy. </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black;">This
is a life worth working for. </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black;">A
life worth healing for.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A
life worth waiting for.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1hxYPO51HfB7WEe_dS4znYOik_adkx_LN5d2-kBJ15nyVAHQzF_5YZWw_Tca-Jzygi4N6LEVLDRSU5FhFE4mXDDrCKL1FllqNdkAeiab9Y-Ldr1-QaPepZxP7EFK4f82fExA1iNFcUsYQkrmmMbf9rzSXvGf74VW3tt87z9nFJW8j5yFvbDDiugs0Ww=s700" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="700" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1hxYPO51HfB7WEe_dS4znYOik_adkx_LN5d2-kBJ15nyVAHQzF_5YZWw_Tca-Jzygi4N6LEVLDRSU5FhFE4mXDDrCKL1FllqNdkAeiab9Y-Ldr1-QaPepZxP7EFK4f82fExA1iNFcUsYQkrmmMbf9rzSXvGf74VW3tt87z9nFJW8j5yFvbDDiugs0Ww=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p>Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-9073112271296871452021-02-18T20:42:00.003-05:002021-02-18T20:54:03.357-05:00Splash!<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 10pt;">Originally
published on January 12, 2016</span></p><p align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01MRQT7BK/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i3" target="_blank">From "Still Here" - a compilation of Open Road blogs, 2016</a></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I just got home
from taking my little pals to school. For over a week Satish, Danta, and
I had looked forward to spending a little quality morning time together before
I dropped them off on my way to run errands. A little snow won't get me
down...especially when it comes to those two fellas. By the time I
arrived at the house, their sister's school had already cancelled for the day,
but the boys didn't mind that she got to sleep in while they had to get up and
get dressed. Over chocolate chip pancakes, we talked about the NFL games
we had watched over the weekend and who they think might make it to the Super
Bowl this year.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Danta has high
hopes for the Carolina Panthers. Satish is rooting for the
Patriots. And while I listened carefully to everything they told me about
the stats for each team, I really don't understand it all. Still, as the
boys grow older (Satish will be<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>eleven</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>in two weeks!), it's great to be able
to talk with them about sports and school and everything in-between. As
they gobbled up the last few bites, I thought about the Monday nights when they
were little and I would put them to bed after reading a storybook or two.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"Satish...do
you remember the time I read you <u>Froggy Learns to Swim</u> and I asked you
what your favorite word was?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">He shook his
head.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"You said
it was<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>poof</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>as in making something disappear when
you're doing a magic trick."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"That's
not my favorite word now," he said, shoveling in another bite of
pancake. "It's<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>SPLASH</b>!"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"Hey!"
I beamed. "That's my favorite word, too! And it has been ever
since I was a kid."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Satish smiled
as if that was no surprise to him at all.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"I like
it because when you say it,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>splash</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>sounds like what it does," I
explained.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"Yeah...that's
right," he nodded. "<b>Spl...a...sh</b>!"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Onomatopoeia
never sounded so sweet. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Last Friday I
had my very first swim lesson. Sure I've been in and out of the water
since I was a kid, hanging out at the local pool, body surfing in the ocean, or
dangling my feet over a dock whenever I've been lucky enough to visit a
lake. I can backstroke and sidestroke and dive. But I didn't know
how to simultaneously freestyle<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>and</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>breathe...until my friend, Melissa
(who's a swimmer extraordinaire) took some time to show me a few pointers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">After we had
warmed up at bit, she said, "Okay...show me what you've got."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
laughed. "I got nothin'."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"<i>Really</i>?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"Yeah.
I have no clue what to do," I told her. "We can start at the
beginning...I'm a blank slate."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">When she told
me to keep my arms up overhead, put my face in the water, and push off from the
wall to see how far I could go, I pulled on my goggles and did what she asked,
making frothy waves with my feet until I ran out of breath.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"Man,
you've got a strong kick!" she laughed. "Let's see if you can
relax a little more and stroke."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I picked up on
that pretty easily, then moved on to learning the breathwork. Not an easy
thing, especially since I'm not quite sure where to put my head when I turn my
neck (something I'm learning both inside and outside of the pool).
Melissa was patient, kind, and encouraging, so before I knew it, I was able to
go back and forth a few times with moderate success.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"Keep
your eyes on the bottom of the pool or on the side when you breathe," she
explained. "That will help you float a little more, so your legs
don't have to do so much work."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I thought,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Focus on the vertical line and
horizontal line...just like I do on my yoga mat.</i> While it wasn't
easy, freestyling felt more natural when I let my body float on the surface and
my arms gently guide me forward. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Yesterday I
spent part of the afternoon practicing at the gym and even though I still don't
completely understand the movement, I love the freedom of being completely
surrounded by water...no splashing necessary. Over time, I imagine my
inner-mermaid will come to life, and swimming will become a moving meditation.
But until then, I'll keep reminding myself what I often say to new
clients: <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>You've only
been doing this for a few hours out of your whole life. Be
patient...don't rush...it'll come along</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Two years ago
this month I self-published my memoir, then the backlog of books I've been
writing since 2000. Last spring I published <u>The Lace Makers</u> and
while it's been well received by readers who are familiar with my work, there's
been no real interest from the world at large. When I was younger, I had
hoped that one or more of my books would make a big splash in the literary
community, that an agent or a publishing house would read my work and offer me
the opportunity of a lifetime. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Alas, that
hasn't come to pass...yet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Thank God.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">For I've
learned that to make a big splash may be a lot of fun and rock the waters for a
moment, but one small drop in a pond can create never-ending ripples that float
on the surface and gently stir the waters beneath. It's been a lesson of
a lifetime to learn patience, to discover how to wait for circumstances to
change, to accept that the process of life is often more important than the end
result. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">As 2016 dawns,
I've been given the rare opportunity to write a book with my friend, Tony,
about his nearly four decades of experience as a Rolfer. We started this
past weekend after he told me the prognosis for his cancer treatment. A
lengthy surgery is planned that will result in a twelve-month recovery.
Hopefully by this time next year, we'll be opening up a smaller office in which
he can continue to work with clients and teach classic Rolfing. In the
meantime, I'll be interviewing Tony about everything from Jujitsu principles to
the experience of working with over a thousand people, watching their continual
and often miraculous evolution. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">At the onset,
I was incredibly intrigued. Now that we've started, I'm humbled by the
knowledge and wisdom I'll be privy to as the manuscript unfolds into something
neither of us can quite explain right now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">When I asked
Tony if he had any ideas about the format, he replied, "Why don't you just
ask me questions, although I don't know if I'll be able to answer them.
All I can think about is the surgery."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I nodded,
turning on the tape recorder. Gently I said, "Why don't we start at
the beginning. How did you first become introduced to Rolfing?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Tony began to
speak effortlessly about grad school, his mentors, his first meeting with Ida
Rolf. His voice shifted, became more calm and clear. I stopped
taking notes and sat in silence, for I trusted that everything I needed to know
would be captured on tape, and I didn't want to miss a moment
of listening to Tony unfold this incredibly dynamic part of his life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Later, when he
was talking about training at the Rolf Institute, I asked, "What was it
like to touch your first client and feel the work beneath your hands?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Tony's
response brought tears to my eyes, and it was then that I knew I wouldn't have
to write a word of his book. I would simply turn the transcripts into something
akin to Joseph Campbell's masterpiece, <u>A Joseph Campbell Companion: Reflections on the Art of Living</u>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">At one point
Tony was talking about how our society has atrophied into mayhem.
"The end of civilization as we know it is near," he told me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"Then why
do you still Rolf people?" I asked, intuitively knowing what he might say.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"Because
I can't change the whole world," he said. "But I can help
people change one at a time."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
smiled. "Yes...I remember you told me years ago how you quietly, but
persistently do some pretty subversive stuff in that little office of
yours."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Tony laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"I think
I do the same thing in my yoga studio...and in my office," I said.
"One student, one blog, one book at a time."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">It's not
splashy, but it's honest and enduring, this life I now lead...and not at all as
I had imagined it might be when I was younger. But as Joseph Campbell
wrote,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>We must be willing to
get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for
us.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Now I find the
joy in embracing quiet moments of kindness. The sweetness in an email
that completely takes me by surprise. The laughter of a little boy who I
love as if he were my own. An enchanted snowfall that covers my home in
silent beauty.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;">And the grace
in knowing that these quiet moments are all incomparable parts of a life worth
waiting for.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TdIrjnlHLk4/YC8XAYJeA9I/AAAAAAAAKUw/P2tP1n6fqg472N3OQOFFSMS-wNlmcETzACLcBGAsYHQ/s275/splash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TdIrjnlHLk4/YC8XAYJeA9I/AAAAAAAAKUw/P2tP1n6fqg472N3OQOFFSMS-wNlmcETzACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/splash.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="break-before: page; mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span>Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-75508190917685901562020-12-24T09:11:00.001-05:002020-12-24T12:20:53.330-05:00Another silent night<p><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Somehow it’s hard to
believe today is Christmas Eve. Sure, all of the presents have been
wrapped and delivered to doorsteps around the city. The baking is
done, the stockings are hung and carols are playing on
Pandora. Still, there’s a quiet sadness that permeates the season
for all of us. Nearly everyone I know is missing someone they’ve
lost this year, either through Covid or disease or estrangement. Some
are missing their grandchildren. All are missing the human touch of
loved ones near and far. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Yet even in the midst of
grief, Christmas always comes…no matter the state of our world, our nation, our
hearts and minds. And like the great conjunction of Jupiter and
Saturn on the winter solstice, the holiday season shines through the darkness
and lights the way through this unprecedented time in our lives. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> When I was seven, I
performed in a children’s choir at Zion Methodist Church. Matthew
Swora was our enthusiastic, charismatic director who led us in song on Sunday
mornings. Woe the child who misbehaved during rehearsals, for the
punishment was a seat directly beneath his podium. “And my nose runs,”
he said with a mischievous grin. “So don’t blame me if you go home
with a wet head.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">In the fall of 1973, Mr.
Swora pulled out Christmas sheet music, just in time for
Halloween. “This one is going to sound familiar,” he smiled, nodding
to the pianist who gently plodded out the chords for <i>Silent Night</i>. “But
I’m going to teach it to you in German...and if we do it right, we’ll make your
mothers cry on Christmas Eve.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I remember wondering why we
would want to make our mothers sad on the most special night of the year, but
didn’t question Mr. Swora for fear of having to take my place in front of the
choir – and right beneath his dripping nose. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Mr. Swora meticulously
taught us the song line-by-line to make sure we understood the lyrics and to
polish our diction so every syllable was pronounced with a perfect German
accent. Every week he would remind us that our Christmas Eve
performance was much anticipated by the whole church, but all I could picture
in my mind was a bunch of sobbing women, dabbing their eyes with tissues. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">By mid-December, we were
ready to practice on the altar. Being one of the youngest, I stood
in front and sang my heart out to the empty pews. “That’s just
wonderful!” Mr. Swora beamed after we sang it twice for good measure. “You
will be the hit of the Christmas Eve service.”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">On the night of our final
performance, Mr. Swora silently invited the children’s choir to the altar, then
gave us wink and a smile. The sanctuary was dark, except for candles
lit behind us and in the hands of the congregation as they sat in quiet
anticipation. Tapping his baton on the podium, Mr. Swora nodded to
the pianist who softly played the introduction. I looked at the
people staring at us, their eyes shining in the candlelight, and waited for the
waterworks to begin. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Sure enough, by the last
strains of “Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh” I saw many adults wiping away
tears. But they were smiling, too, and that didn’t make any
sense. How could you be both happy and sad at the same
time? It would take years before I could understand that tears
represent a host of emotions…and that Christmastime often stirs us all to
experience more than we bargain for. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">This year especially.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Christmas Eve holds a magic
all of its own. For me it’s a time of quiet reflection and relaxation
after all the holiday work has been done. Every year I spend this
evening in meditation, in silence, in stillness…in anticipation of the light
yet to come. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">This season, my mind often
wanders to that Christmas Eve long ago, when I stood in wonder at the power of
children’s voices singing so beautifully in another language that it moved our
mothers to tears. The tears we shed this year are more than
sentimental. At best they’re bittersweet, but I imagine the
collective grief we feel for our world leaves us feeling as though we have to
learn a new language in order to understand it all. And for many,
there are no words to describe our sorrow.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">In the silence of this
night, may you and your family and circle of friends be surrounded by
peace. May you know you are loved and held close in my
thoughts. May we all awaken from this darkness and create new
light. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">May you all be blessed.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="background: rgb(255, 242, 224); color: #333333; font-size: 8pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CT9gYJdJGNk/X-O0ofo42tI/AAAAAAAAJjE/vSf0cpam05kXuX-6x4pB2gabP7Jt4MV0wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/another%2Bsilent%2Bnight.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CT9gYJdJGNk/X-O0ofo42tI/AAAAAAAAJjE/vSf0cpam05kXuX-6x4pB2gabP7Jt4MV0wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/another%2Bsilent%2Bnight.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-21259818004176464092020-06-14T10:01:00.003-04:002020-06-14T10:01:44.677-04:00The Lace Makers - Chapter 2 - Karin<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt;">Karin</span></b><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">At four
o'clock in the morning Aufseherin Grese kicks my bunk.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I struggle to get up quickly because when I
don't wake fast enough, she hits the bottoms of my feet with her baton so
bruises won't show on my body.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Kapitan
Dieter would beat <i style="line-height: 1;">her</i> if she left a
mark that he could see, but he doesn't seem to take notice when I hobble around
for days with swollen feet.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">"Number
811993, get <i style="line-height: 1;">up</i>!" Grese
growls.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>"Kapitan Dieter wants
you!<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>NOW!"<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>She sharply pokes me in the ribs and shines a
flashlight in my eyes.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I hate her...everyone
does...and not only because she smiles when she thrashes one of us for not moving
faster.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>For not washing thoroughly.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">For still
being alive.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Kapitan Dieter
always calls for me before Appellplatz where I must stand and be counted,
sometimes waiting for hours to make sure all of the calculations are
correct.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>The dead must be accounted for,
the bodies hauled from the barracks by unlucky prisoners while I wait in
agony.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>But this morning I'm not sure
what will happen, if we will have to meet for roll call or not.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>There's been gunfire in the distance, and
everything is different since the S.S. ordered most of the prisoners to be
evacuated, since the officers started packing their belongings, rushing around
the camp yelling, "Schnell!<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>Schnell!"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Faster, faster.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span></span></i><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Even the
executions are done hastily, then the bodies piled up near open pits or stacked
in wagons.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>For weeks the unholy flames
of the crematorium never seem to stop and cannot keep up with the countless
corpses littering the camp.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">When Grese
pokes me once more, I rub my eyes and rise to my feet, careful not to wake
Simka, my friend who traveled with Mutti and me from Buchenwald a few months
ago.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>We share the bunk, one of the
better ones that's lined with straw, yet filled with bugs.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Mutti says I'm lucky to have it.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Lucky to be near the door where I can breathe
better air, unlike so many others crammed into their bunks where the air is
dank and rotten and heavy.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I don't sleep
well anymore as I dream of steam whistles screaming in the distance that startle
me awake.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I dream of boxcars crammed
with too many men, women, and children all crying out for water, for bread, for
air.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I have nightmares in which spruce
and pine trees are set afire, their elongated branches bursting into flames so
the endless piles of corpses can keep burning.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>I used to love the scent of the forest, but now the sweet smell of
evergreen will be forever tangled with the odor of death.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Before Grese
can stomp on my feet, I quickly shove them into a pair of worn-out wooden shoes
and follow her out of the barracks.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I
don't say a word, don't make a sound as we pass the piles of corpses, left to rot
in the open air.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I pretend I'm walking
past vegetables harvested from Mutti's vegetable garden, that the corpses
rotting on the earth are piles of corn she will soon grind into flour.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">The stench is
unbearable.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>The sight, even more so.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I no longer remember the smell of clean air
as the cloying odor of burning flesh remains lodged in my throat, smothering me
with a relentless warning.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I know that
with one swift decision, my life could also be snuffed out.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Every night, I close my eyes and say to
myself, <i style="line-height: 1;">If God wills it, I will wake
again tomorrow</i>.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>But<i style="line-height: 1;"> </i>I don't know what is the real
nightmare...what I see in my dreams or what I experience upon waking.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">As we pass the
Appellplatz, corpses still hang in the gallows - a warning to us all about the
dangers of escape.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Leah's body swings
from the rope and I remember what she had told me last week...that she would
rather die trying to escape than die waiting for the war to end.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>But death is an every day occurrence here and
my mind has become as tough as shoe leather so I can bear it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">When we reach
the disinfection building, I strip, then stand in the scalding shower, my raw
skin all but numb to the the hot water which feels like sharp pins and needles.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I gag as Grese throws a cup of delousing
powder on my head which stings my eyes and mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">"WASCH
DU!<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>SCHNELLER!<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><i style="line-height: 1;">SCHNELLER</i>!"
she shrieks.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Wash...faster...faster!<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Frantically, I
rinse my legs and arms, scrubbing harder at the tattoo on my left arm.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>It should have been six numbers long, but the
S.S. officer took pity on me when my mother shouted,<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>"Wir sind <b style="line-height: 1;">Deutsch</b> Christen!<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><b style="line-height: 1;">Deutsch</b> Frauen!<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Meine Schwester is <b style="line-height: 1;">Deutsch</b>!""<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">We are <b style="line-height: 1;">German</b>
Christians...<b style="line-height: 1;">German</b> women.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>My sister is <b style="line-height: 1;">German</b>!<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Mutti lied when
we arrived at Auschwitz.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>She knew we
would be separated if the S.S. thought she was my mother, so she told the guard
we were sisters and he let her live, let her walk with me to a room where we
were ordered to strip naked and shower, let her watch as a guard laughed while
shaving my head and body, then endured the same humiliation herself before we
were taken to be tattooed.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">The S.S. who
had a death grip on my arm put down the needle, then shoved me out the door,
but I was left with <i style="line-height: 1;">811</i> inked in
bluish gray over the triangle of freckles near my wrist.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Now I will never again be simply Karin Vogel,
my mother's oldest child.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Even if I do survive
this war, there will always be a truncated number to remind me of what I've
become.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">There's no
towel to dry myself, so I quickly throw a thin dress over my head, then tie a
kerchief around my head, thankful for even that bit of warmth.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>The wooden shoes rub layers of blisters on my
heels and toes.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I can't walk properly in
them, so trying to get from the barrack to the workhouse or the Appellplatz or Kapitan
Dieter's room is hell on earth.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>It's
been an uncommonly frigid winter, and even though I work making lace near a
cast iron stove, I'm never warm enough.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>I'm never full enough, though I eat more than most because Kapitan Dieter
is an important man and always gets what he wants.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>He doesn't want me to be skinny and dirty
like so many of the poor girls in the camp left to rot and die in their own
filth.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I don't speak
in his presence, but I know his name - Herman.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>And I know I'm nothing more than his prostitute because he tells me,
"Your payment is you get to live."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I'm supposed
to feel grateful, but I don't know why I've survived for years while so many
others have died.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Perhaps now I won't
live that much longer either.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Mutti says I have
to.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>She says I have to do whatever the
guards want.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Whatever Kapitan Dieter
wants.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Whatever Kommandant Kramer
wants.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Whatever Grese wants.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I have to do what they say in order to stay
alive so I can bring more food to Simka.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">"You're
young and pretty, and that's what they all want," Mutti once told me.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">So I lie in
Herman's bed, a hollow shell, all the while staring at the wall or the ceiling
or the knobs on the small glass cupboard that's filled with cans of evaporated
milk and chocolates and creamy caramels...the one Herman said I must never
touch.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I know he wouldn't hesitate to
shoot me with the pistol he keeps strapped to his leg.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I've seen him use it more than once, and he's
deadly when he's angry and drunk.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">"You can
take bread and cheese from the trunk," Herman told me the first time I was
ordered to his room.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>"But if you
touch that cabinet, you'll be dead before you can turn around."<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Herman digusts
me, yet I owe him for saving Mutti's life and my own.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Often in the middle of what he does to me I think,
<i style="line-height: 1;">How can a man be both a sadist and a
savior?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;"><o:p style="line-height: 1;"> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">This morning,
Herman is quick about it, his tight, angry body all at once on top of me and
then not.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>He doesn't make me sing before
or after, neither does he mock me by calling me his <i style="line-height: 1;">little songbird</i>.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I stare at
the calendar on the wall while Herman gets dressed and wonder why the compound
is so busy at this hour.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>The living are
made to carry corpses for burial or burning while the S.S. rush here and there,
yelling at each other to be prepared for the end.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">The end of what?</span></i><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;"><span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I think.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span><i style="line-height: 1;">The war?<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>This camp?<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>The end of our misery or the end of our lives?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">“I’ve been
good to you, 811993...<i style="line-height: 1;">Karin</i>,” Herman
says as he buttons his coat.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>“You will
say how good I’ve been to you, yes?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I frown. <span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>He's never called me by my name and I'm
surprised he even knows it...or cares to.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">“I’ve never
beat you or hurt you,” Herman insists.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>“I let you take extra food whenever you wanted it.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I protected you from the other
prisoners.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I saved you and your sister from
the gas.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I nod, my eyes
swollen with shameful tears.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">He knots his
tie.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>“So if anyone asks, you will tell
them I am a good man, won't you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Why is he asking this?</span></i><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;"> I
wonder.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>No one in power asks me anything.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Not who I am.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>Not what I want.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">When I say
nothing, Herman comes to the bed where I sit pulling my dress over my
head.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>He kneels, then gently strokes my
face.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>“I’ve always been good to you.”<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>He kisses my forehead, then whispers my name.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I cringe and
curl away from him, but Herman presses his warm, damp lips to my ear.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>“Remember what I said," he says.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>"If you tell anyone about what happens
in this room, I can't be responsible for what happens to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I look at the
floor and nod my head in compliance.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">“Good girl,”
Herman says, rising.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Then he struts out
the door as if he has won the silent war between us.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;"><o:p style="line-height: 1;"> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">A gray light
gradually fills the room where I've been making lace for more than three
hours...waiting for orders from the guards.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>For almost four months I've spent eight hours a day, six days a week
knitting hats and mittens and scarves.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I
knit cable-knit sweaters and woolen socks.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>I knit yards and yards of lace that are sewn into curtains and sent to
all corners of Germany where the S.S. live in luxury while those of us slaving in
the camps can barely remember what our parents' faces look like.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I shiver in my
threadbare dress and wonder, <i style="line-height: 1;">How many
girls wore this rag before me?<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Are they
all dead?<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Will I be soon?<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span></i>My shawl slips to the back of chair, and
as I pull it up over my shoulders, I study the other women's faces as we endure
the harsh silence of this cold, dank room, our knitting needles clicking and
clacking while we do our duty for the Fuhrer.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>They've all become shadows of their former selves...and I know I have as
well.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Simka sniffs
and wipes her nose.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Dark circles shadow
her eyes as she pushes a curl behind her ear.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>Kapitan Dieter let all of us grow our hair back so we would look more
presentable.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>He says women in his
service are to look like women, and yet my breasts and curves aren't like
Simka's.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>We've only been here since
January, but the food her friend, Vitya, steals from the kitchen and the bread
I bring from Kapitan Dieter's room keep her healthier than the rest of us.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Even though I long to taste the sweet yams
and mashed potatoes Vitya smuggles to her in little tin cans, I cannot ask
Simka for even one bite.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">The baby
hidden inside of her needs it more than I do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Still, my gnawing
hunger never goes away.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>When we were in
Auschwitz, my mother used to slip me her bread before the guards could
see.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Before any one else could grab it
out of my hands and shove into their eager mouth.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>If there were a stray pea at the bottom of
her soup bowl, Mutti would press it into my palm and beg me to swallow it.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>"Eat, Karin.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><i style="line-height: 1;">Survive</i>,
Karin.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Live one more day.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Then live another.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>One day when we are liberated, we will
remember what we saw here and tell others so that this madness will never
happen again."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Now Simka
winces, holding her stomach, and I'm afraid of what will happen when the pain
gets worse.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I've seen what the S.S. do
to people who can't work, who show any type of weakness.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>I try to forget as I mindlessly work the yarn
back and forth.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>My hands ache, but the
bony knuckles and tissue-paper skin toil until I can no longer feel my joints.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Instinctively, I work the needles back and
forth in a rhythm that still has the power to calm me, even now when everything
is so uncertain. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I think back
to more than ten years ago when Mutti taught me how to knit.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>At that time, everyone was worried about the
uprising of the Nazi Party.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>In 1935,
work was scarce.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Money even more
so.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>It was cheaper to light the stove
with the paper money my father had hidden in his fishing tackle box than to use
it to buy kindling.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Vati worked hard at
the theater he owned with his friend, Herr Zweig, whom he had known since the Great
War.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Herr and Frau
Zweig had three boys of their own, Heinrich, who was my age, Georg, who was
seven, and Fritz, who was only three.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>They usually visited on Sundays after we came home from church.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>The Zweigs went to Temple on Saturdays, so
they arrived with a nice brisket or a basket of freshly baked apple dumplings
while we were changing out of our good clothes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">My parents
visted with Herr <span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>and Frau Zweig while I played
tag in our backyard with Heinrich and Georg.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>Fritz preferred to hunt for worms, bugs, and other dirty things in
Mutti's garden.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>She gave him a small
trowel and a metal pail, saying, "Just make sure you don't harm my
vegetables."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">In the evening
all of us went to the theater for an evening of Volkslieder...<i style="line-height: 1;">folk songs</i>.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Vati invited a host of people from the
neighborhood and welcomed them warmly at the door.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Mutti played the piano, Frau Zweig the
violin, and I would lead everyone in song.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Vati especially
loved to hear me sing "In stiller Nacht" to end the evening.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Tears filled his eyes, and like Mutti who
loves twilight, he was carried away into the imminent darkness of the words,
the sorrow in the lyrics that foretold what our lives would soon become.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: center;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;"><o:p style="line-height: 1;"> </o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: center;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">In
the quiet night, at the first watch,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: center;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">a
voice began to lament; sweetly, gently,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: center;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">the
night wind carried to me its sound.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: center;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">And
from such bitter sorrow and grief<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: center;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">my
heart has melted.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: center;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">The
little flowers - with my pure tears -<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: center;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I
have watered them all.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;"><o:p style="line-height: 1;"> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Back then, Mutti
was expecting a baby.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>My brother,
Jurgen, was tucked inside her belly and I loved to feel his little hands and
feet kick and punch through Mutti's dress.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>I sang <i style="line-height: 1;">Guten Abend, Gute Nacht</i>
to him, leaning against our mother's side, rubbing the little knobs and bumps
of his elbows and knees. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">When Mutti saw
how much I loved Jurgen, even before he was born, she gave me a ball of yarn and
a pair of knitting needles, saying, "Karin, let's make something for our
baby."<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">For years I
had sat by Mutti, watching her create intricate pieces of lace which filled our
modest home with lovely tablecloths, placemats, and doilies.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Several delicate shawls hung on a peg near
the door so Mutti and I could wrap one around our shoulders when we walked into
the garden at sunset.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>My favorite was a Queen
Anne's Lace pattern interwoven with open stitching that Mutti had created all
by herself.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">So I was
overjoyed when she placed the polished rosewood needles in my hands.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>First she taught me how to cast on, then how
to knit and purl.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>After that I learned
how to make little hats and booties.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>Next came a simple sweater for Vati.<span style="line-height: 1;">
</span>Then a pair of socks for my baby brother.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>By the time Jurgen was two, I asked Mutti to
teach me how to make lace.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Under her
gentle guidance, I learned how to yarn over and knit two together.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>To pick up stitches and create tiny hearts
and leaves and shells.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Mutti marveled
at how quickly I garnered the skill.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>"Wie
deine Gesangstalent, deines Stricken ist auch ein Geschenk," she said
proudly.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Like your singing talent, your knitting is also a gift</span></i><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Now this gift
is saving my life...and Mutti's as well...such as it is.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>But I know that without her, I won't survive
either.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">So I make lace
like my mother taught me, and with every stitch, with every row, I weave in the
memory of those who are gone forever.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>A
stitch for Olga.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>One for Anne and Mary
and Elisabet.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>A stitch for the woman who
died of typhus in the bunk above me two days ago.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>A whole row for Frau Daiga and her daughter.<span style="line-height: 1;"> </span>Rows and rows for the Zweig family who perished
long before I came to this place.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Countless
stitches for my father and Jurgen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">And
always...every stitch for Bruno.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tgbRCIq73-g/XuYtpdkmh8I/AAAAAAAAGBc/1LEsiqTjDjcAscXuXzpPnr6AKYvgBRWMgCK4BGAsYHg/s384/51DsxXvxdpL._SX331_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="256" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tgbRCIq73-g/XuYtpdkmh8I/AAAAAAAAGBc/1LEsiqTjDjcAscXuXzpPnr6AKYvgBRWMgCK4BGAsYHg/s320/51DsxXvxdpL._SX331_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-22501104193782631342020-06-14T09:59:00.001-04:002020-06-14T09:59:35.879-04:00The Lace Makers - Chapter 1 - Emerald<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt;">Emerald</span></b><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">The sun
peeping over the old barn where I hear the cow moaning to get milked. The air sharp like little pins and needles
where my arms be peeking out from my shawl.
I watch the sky turning the color a egg yolks Mama like to break jest to
watch 'em get runny. She do that
sometimes. Break them egg yolks for
Massa and keep on frying 'em 'til they hard as shoe leather. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">He don't say
nothing. Jest gobble 'em up like they be
the best thing he ever et. Sometime
Massa even say, "Lord, Ruby...these eggs are truly delicious." <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">He know to
keep his mouth shut 'round Mama 'bout eggs and such. He the Massa and all, but he owe my mama a
lot. He owe her a husband. He owe me my daddy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Massa done
gambled Daddy away in a poker game two year ago. He told a mean old man that 'stead a paying
him money, that man could take any one a his slaves. My sisters and me was scared out our
minds...'fraid one a us gone be chained to his wagon and made to stumble 'hind
like a dern mule as Mister Rotten drove back to his plantation. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">They older
than me...my sisters, Pearl and Opal. When
my daddy got taken away, I was only six.
They was fourteen and twelve back then.
Big girls. Now they has husbands
and Pearl having a baby a her own come summertime. Opal say a baby coming over her dead body, but
I don't know what that mean. She gone
kill herself when the baby come? Or she
not want any babies at all? I hear some
slaves kill they own babies, but I cain't imagine my mama doing such a thing
'cause she loves me like a bird loves to fly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I know <b style="line-height: 1;"><i style="line-height: 1;">I</i></b>
don't want no babies a my own 'cause I know they ain't gone be mine anyway. Anything we got, it be Massa’s first. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">When I tell
Opal that, she say, "Emmie, you is smart!
I chew my cotton root ever day since Hale and me jumped the broom and
you ain't gone find no baby in my belly, no suh. Hale and me say that when we be free, we can
has babies then."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I has no idea 'bout
what it mean to be free 'cause I been a slave ever since I took my first breath. Since Mama put knitting needles in my hands
when I was only three and say, "Play with 'em, Emerald, and soon you be
making hats for Massa's chil'ren."
Mama say she done teach me how to sew and make lace and all them fancy
things so I can stay with her in the big house, not like my sisters who gots to
work in the fields and such. I's lucky
'cause I get to be with Mama always...and that jest the way I like it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">My sisters called
Pearl and Opal and I called Emerald 'cause Daddy say he got him a bunch a
precious jewels living under his roof, such as it be. Plus my eyes be green and that how I got my
name ‘cause they look like that pretty stone Missus wear on her ring
finger. Mama don’t have green eyes and
neither did Daddy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">But Massa do. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I figure I
gone be his slave 'til the day I die...or 'til he do. But Opal say the war that raging all over the
country 'bout setting us all free, that one day, they ain't gone be no more
slaves.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">What gone
happen then? Will I get taken from
Mama...or she from me? What from I
already done seen, they ain't no telling.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Two year ago, Pearl
and Opal was standing near the barn when that mean man, Mister Rotten, stumble
toward the place where my daddy do his work.
Mister Rotten not be his real name, but I's naughty and call him that
under my breath whenever he come on Massa's land. His real name be Mister Birch like them trees
growing in the back a our shack. But the
only thing white 'bout Mister Rotten be his skin 'cause his words be black as
tar and his soul be dark as the bottom of the well where I pull up buckets a
water to tote to the big house. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;"> When Mister Rotten went past the folks in the
yard, I heard him yelling, "You niggers get back to work!" He and Massa was drunk as skunks. I could tell by the way they was walking, and
ain't nothing good ever come when Massa be drinking.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Daddy look up
from the anvil where he been banging on a piece a iron. He be the best horseshoe maker in the
county. Or least he was. Now he dead, so I 'magine him in heaven doing
God's bidding. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Mama was in
the house with me on that horrible day.
She been cooking supper while I sat knitting at the table near the open
window so I could hear what was going on outside. Mama always say I has a gift from the Father
God Almighty. She tell me I make lace an
angel be proud to wear. When she say
that, I feel my chest puff up and my heart grow wings.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">But not on the
day Daddy got taken away from me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Mister Rotten
pointed his shaky finger toward the barn.
"That buck's uglier than sin," he snarled. "But he'll do just fine."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Mama knew
something bad gone happen, and she always been right 'bout things like that. "You
has the gift a lace-making, Emerald," she told me one time. "But you also has the gift a insight,
jest like I has it and my mama and her mama 'fore her."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">"What <i style="line-height: 1;">insight</i>?" I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">"Knowing
when things gone happen," Mama said.
"Like a prophecy."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I looked at
her like I still confuse. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">"Don't
worry, baby girl," Mama told me.
"You gone learn how it feel soon enough."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">And ain't it
the truth if I do. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">When Mama ran
to the barn after Massa and Mister Rotten, I felt a little cornbread I jest et
start to curl up in my stomach and fix to pop right back out. It didn't though, jest ride up my throat a little, but I
swallowed it back down. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">"Massa
Sam!" Mama cried, running like her feet on fire. "Please Massa Sam...<i style="line-height: 1;">please</i> don't let him take my babies!" <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">By the time
she reached Massa, she was shaking 'cause she so upset. Angry and scared both, and I ain't never seen
her like that 'fore. I stood in the
doorway a the kitchen, my heart banging in my chest, but I couldn't move 'cause
my feets felt like they was nailed to the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Mama pulled on
Massa's sleeve, crying, "Please Sam...don't give him my Pearl or
Opal! I begging you! I do anything you want. <i style="line-height: 1;">Please</i>!"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Massa looked
at Mama and a strange look crossed his face.
He ain't never hit none a us. Run
a clean plantation where the slaves be happy to work -- or at least that how he
tell it. He be the boss, the overseer, <i style="line-height: 1;">and</i> the owner all in one. Not like some a them plantations we hear 'bout
from Earle, the slave who sometime ride along with Mister Rotten when they make
deliveries to the big house. Earle say
some slaves get whipped. Some get hung
'til they nearly dead. Some get sold to
places far away from Lincoln County, Tennessee.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">But Massa
ain't never been mean to none a us...least not that I seen. When he been drinking, it always be Missus he
take his anger out on and I feel right sorry for her. But when Mama beg Massa, I knowed she done
embarrass him in front a Mister Rotten. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="line-height: 1;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Maybe he gone hit her now</span></i><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">, I thought. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">But I ain't
never seen no whipping on Settler's Plantation.
No hanging neither. There been
slaves living here since Massa Settler's daddy built this place fifty year
ago. Long 'fore I was born, and ain't
nobody ever tell Massa what to do. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">'Til now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">When Mama
thought Pearl and Opal gone be taken away, she screeched like the devil and
pulled on Massa's sleeve. She screamed. She cried.
She begged something fierce.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">"You got
yerself one righteous nigger, Samuel," Mister Rotten said, his voice all
mean-like. "But I do like a spitfire...maybe
I'll change my mind about that buck."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">It then I
think Mister Rotton gone take my Mama, so I ran to her side and grabbed her
skirt, holding on tight.
"Mama," I cried.
"Don't let them take you away!"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Massa looked
at Mama and his eyes be wet with tears.
"You and your girls aren't going anywhere, Ruby. You have my word."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Mama fell at
his feet, taking me right on with her.
"Thank You, <i style="line-height: 1;">Jesus</i>,"
she wailed. "Thank you, Sam!"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">But when she
dried her eyes enough to look up, she see my daddy be talking to Massa and Mister
Rotten. Daddy's eyes was filling
up. He bit his lip. His shoulders shook. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">"Mas-sa,"
I heard him say, the word sticking in his throat. "Massa...please don't do this...I do
anything you want. I do <i style="line-height: 1;">anything</i>. Work like a dog all winter long. You can hire me out to Massa Birch here...I
go to his place to work and then come back and be with Ruby and my
chil'ren."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Massa Settler
shook his head, and I knowed this be the end, and I ain't never gone see my
Daddy again. By the way Massa looked at
Mama, I knowed he feel he gone owe us plenty for what he jest done.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Daddy didn't
fight. He didn't do nothing but hug
Mama. Hug Pearl. Hug Opal.
Hug me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">He whispered
in my ear, "Baby girl, you and I gone see each other 'gain. We is...I promise. I gone get free and we all going up north once
this war be done. I gone come back for
all ya."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I didn't say
nothing, jest let my tears fall while I hugged my daddy like I was trying to
memorize the way he feel. His face was
covered in stubbly hair. His muscles was
tight. His skin soaked in sweat. He been working hard, but I know this sweat was
from fear. Back then, I was too young to
know what of, but I learned right quick.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Daddy tried to
get free too soon.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">He run off
once and get his back whipped something awful.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">He run off again
and get hung from a rope 'til his tongue turned black. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">The third time
he tried to run and come back to us, Mister Rotten said he done had enough a my
daddy and hang him 'til he dead. Ever
day since then, I's scared he gone come back and take Mama, too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">But Earle say now
Daddy in heaven watching over us every day.
"Him and Jesus both," he told me while he be drying my eyes. "They ain't gone let nothing bad happen
to you or your sweet mama."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Poor Earle got
whipped for crying when Mister Rotten kilt my daddy. I heard it right from the dern horse's mouth
'cause Mister Rotten brag 'bout it to Massa.
He say any slave who spill a tear for another one deserve to suffer a
little, too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I know Mister
Rotten be the devil right here on earth and he gone suffer plenty on the other
side when hell be the only place wicked enough to hold him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Now the sun
rise higher over the barn and I hear a shrill train whistle in the
distance. Shivering in my shawl, I head
to the big house where Mama be waiting on me to help cook breakfast. It be early April, or so Missus Settler
say. She oughta know. Got her nose stuck in books and calendars all
day long. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Missus teach
me all kinds a things. Like I know it be
the day after Palm Sunday, and that be the celebration of Lord Jesus when He
come to Jerusalem and all a them folks be waving palm branches and yelling
stuff like, "Hosanna!" and "Blessed is He who come in the name
of the Lord." <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I read all 'bout
that in Massa's big Bible.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">I can read and
write good as his kids, even though that against the law. Missus Settler could get in a heap a trouble
if anyone find out, so I keep my mouth shut and my eyes busy whenever she hand
me a book. Massa and Missus' kids, Little Sam and Marybelle, be 'round the same
age as me, and we all learn together.
Marybelle be better at learning figures, but Little Sam and me be quick
as lightning with new words.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Missus nice to
me and all, but I know my place in the order a things 'round here. Ever time I finish my lessons, Missus say,
"Now Emerald, please go fetch me a cup of tea." <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">She ain't
never ask her kids to do nothing but put they books back on the shelf 'fore they
go outside to play. Mama say I may be
Missus Settler's student, but I always gone be her slave first. No matter how smart I is, I still gone be colored
'til the day I die. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">But then Mama
say not to worry 'bout such things.
"You cain't change nobody's mind but your own," she tell
me. "So keep reading and learning
so you can keep on changing for the better."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">So I do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Jest last
night I finish the second McGuffey Reader. I read all 'bout Jimmy getting up in
the morning. <i style="line-height: 1;">The sun is just peeping up over the hills in the east</i>, it say. I memorize them words so I can repeat 'em back
to myself while I knit or sew or dust or sweep.
<i style="line-height: 1;">Never forget, before you leave
your room, to thank God for His kindness.
He is indeed kinder to us than any earthy parent</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">This morning
as the sun be rising, I say my prayers and thank the Lord for all the things I love. Mama and my sisters. My lace making and reading and all the things
I be learning. And like always, I thank
Him for it being one day closer to when I gone see my daddy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 1; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1;">Then I walk to
the kitchen where I know Mama gone be breaking Massa's egg yolks and he gone be
eating 'em like they fit for God Hisself.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fndcp_d8g0k/XuYtAH7Dr4I/AAAAAAAAGBU/n4AMqhmLmos936CwXwNmAQa9Aht1ydR7gCK4BGAsYHg/s384/51DsxXvxdpL._SX331_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="256" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fndcp_d8g0k/XuYtAH7Dr4I/AAAAAAAAGBU/n4AMqhmLmos936CwXwNmAQa9Aht1ydR7gCK4BGAsYHg/s320/51DsxXvxdpL._SX331_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span><p></p></div>
Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-75082609643089588452020-05-07T10:29:00.002-04:002020-06-16T18:35:44.065-04:00Write on!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">Originally published in December, 2013</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I was a teacher at Greenwood
Elementary School in the nineties, I was blessed to have worked for an
incredible principal, Mr. George Baker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A consummate professional in every sense of the word, there was nothing
Mr. Baker would ask of his staff that he was not willing to do (or had already
done) himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only just realized I've
known him for more than half of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mr. Baker's undeniable strength of character has been the measuring stick for
what I could experience in a work situation, and since he retired and I moved
on from the classroom, there has been no one in my life quite like him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mr. Baker was darn near
perfect....except for one little thing:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>his handwriting was nearly illegible for most of the staff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But not for me.</span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">Every morning when I arrived at </span><st1:city style="font-family: "palatino linotype", serif;" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Greenwood</st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"> and checked in
at the office, there was a hand-written morning message from Mr. Baker that let
us know the news of the day.</span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">More often
than not, I was called back to the office to decipher Mr. Baker's
seemingly-encrypted code.</span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">And every
time, I was able to do so with ease.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I teach first grade," I
once said to someone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"I'm used to
wobbly letters and having to get into the right side of my brain to understand
what he's trying to say."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There's a box in my basement filled
with cards and letters, pictures and stories written by my students during the
eleven years I spent teaching little ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have saved letters from parents and even a "welcome to our
family" adoption certificate from one of my favorite first graders who
signed his name in beautiful script.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What a joy and a gift to lift the lid and revisit happy memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To read the invented spelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To remember the gap-toothed smiles when each
child presented me with his/her creation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How sad it is to hear that schools no
longer have the time to teach handwriting skills, as teachers must comply with
the demands of testing and ever-changing concepts of how children learn
best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Make no mistake....I value the
speed and ease of email.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned how
to type when I was in second grade and oh, what a joy to BANG, BANG, BANG on
that old Smith Corona!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I learned
how to use a word processor, I felt like a bird being released from a
cage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a freedom to finally have a
tool that could keep up with the speed of words that passed through my
imagination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Still, I journal by hand as well as compose
thank you notes and cards I send through snail mail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writing this way not only slows me down, it
allows me to personalize a gift, a gesture of goodwill, a kindness with
something that is uniquely my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When my grandmother died, my mom
gave me a stack of letters all tied up with a ribbon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"We found this in Grammy's desk drawer,
Kate," she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There in my hands was every single letter
I had ever written her...from the early 1970's through my college years and
beyond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I brought them home and then,
after pulling out a stack of all the letters and cards <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she</i> had written <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me,</i> I put
them in order by the postmark and spent a bittersweet weekend reading about her
life...my life...and all that two lives can experience over the course of a few
decades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just yesterday I received a
Christmas card from Mr. Baker in which he wrote a very kind and sweet personal
note.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even now...twenty-odd years later,
I could still read every single word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For you see, as a writer myself, I intrinsically know the power of the
pen (and pencil and crayon) which often express what speaking cannot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No matter how it arrives in my
hands...it always goes straight to my heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-79049522385417701392020-03-21T12:56:00.002-04:002020-03-30T13:12:02.861-04:00One world<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Two
weekends ago Steve and I were reading magazines on a lazy Saturday
morning. I flipped through back issues
of <i>Better Homes and Gardens</i> while
Steve perused the latest issue of <i>Sierra
Club</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“If
we don’t do something this year to reverse global warming, it’ll be too late,”
he lamented. “The deforestation of the
mountains out west just to make grazing land for cattle and the burning of the
Amazon just to make farmland…those two areas alone supply quite a bit of the
world’s oxygen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As
I sat and listened to him read about the upcoming Earth Day events, I thought
of a song I taught my first graders more than twenty years ago. Every April during our morning meeting, I’d play
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XSxpwiRHTF0" target="_blank"><span style="color: #660000;">“Conviction of the Heart<i>”</i></span></a>. It only took a few days before the kids knew
most of the words. By the end of the
month, their collective voices overpowered Kenny Loggins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">An
hour later a text arrived from one of my kids who’s now almost thirty. We stay in touch and sometimes meet at the
park for a long hike to catch up. <i>I’m texting you while vacuuming the house
because I started singing “Conviction of the Heart”,</i> Dustin wrote.<i> I
was instantly brought back to memories of sitting on the carpet and singing
along with the class. You’ve taught me a
lot of great life lessons about loving myself and others while being conscious
about the environment around us. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If
I’ve learned anything after all this time, it’s that there are no coincidences. We are
all <i>one with the earth, with the sky…one
with everything in life</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now,
two weeks later, our world has been united in crisis. For the first time in our lifetimes, we are
all deeply affected by a virus that knows no limits on sex, age, race, or
social status. Right now the unknown
has enveloped us all and the uncertainty of what the future will bring has
already shown us what we are made of worldwide…physically, emotionally, and
spiritually. For many of us, we could feel something coming
– a global warming crisis, a financial meltdown, a breakdown of our society
through division.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Right
after Christmas I felt an indescribable heaviness. It
reminded me of the sorrow that overwhelmed me two days before 911. Something was imminent and it wasn’t personal
to me. Call it psycho-spirituality, call
it woman’s intuition, call it whatever you want, but I knew in my soul that we
were on the verge of a crisis. Any mother
can tell you that premonition is a reality. With no children of my own, I often feel for
Mother Earth the way many of you feel for your sons and daughters. For the
past ten years, more often than not, my heart has been breaking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";">In
mid-February I was hiking at the park and looked up through the forest into
the sky. As I shared a photo on social
media, I wrote, “</span><span style="background: white;">Looking up through bare trees
mid-winter reminds me of x-rays of lungs. Mother Nature is a wonder....the
lungs of the earth give us every breath we take.</span>” For decades I’ve been fascinated by the fact
that the sun we see in northwest Ohio is the same sun shining over Australia
and Europe and South America. The moon
shines on Toledo as well as Cairo and Mumbai and Lenningrad. The air I breathe in Wildwood Park has its
origins in someplace I can’t fathom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the wake of this global
crisis, division of our one world, thinking we are separated by geography or
theology or biology, will no longer allow us to survive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I wake up every morning holding
our world in prayer. I’ve been a school
teacher, so I know what it’s like for parents to have to home-school for the
time being. I ran a small business for
twenty years, so I know what it feels like to struggle financially in the face
of a downward spiraling economy. I lived
in Big Sur, California during the Basin Ridge Fires of 2008, so I know what it
feels like to be isolated during a month-long quarantine. I spent three days in an ICU bed struggling
with sepsis and pneumonia, so I know what it feels like to have my body
turn against me - to the point of not being able to breathe. So
when I pray, I hold a space in my heart full of empathy, full of hope, full of
acceptance of this moment in our history that none of us could imagine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dustin and I had to postpone
our walk at Wildwood today, but I know that he will take care of himself and
his loved ones …just as we all are. Until
we are on the other side of this moment in time, may you all experience
kindness in the midst of the unknown. May
you have all that you need. May you know
I hold you close in my prayers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">May you be blessed with peace
and hope and conviction of the heart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-83441945851278868212020-03-04T20:44:00.001-05:002020-03-04T20:44:46.617-05:00Sister Catherine kicks the habit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">While on a quick jaunt at the Home Depot to pick up some paint, the man behind the counter overheard a conversation I was having with a young girl. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She was giving her mother a hard time while we were waiting for our paint to mix, so I cajoled her into telling me all about the color she had just chosen that would soon grace the walls of her bedroom.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"I really want pink, but I have to get purple," the girl said glumly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Purple's more soothing," replied her mother. "You'll calm down and sleep better."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I nodded. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"My bedroom was a cool green when I little."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Green's my favorite color!" the girl piped up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Mine, too!" </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">After discovering she was heading into second grade, I winked at her. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"I used to teach first graders!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Yeah?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Yep," I nodded. "And my aunt was a teacher, too...she even had a purple <i>bathtub</i> in her classroom where the kids could curl up and read." </span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">The man behind the counter handed me my can of paint along with a couple of small stirring sticks. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Good luck with your project," he said. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"And since I hear you're a teacher, take one of these." </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">He handed me a longer stick. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Just in case you need to use it."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">It took me a moment to realize what he meant, then I shook my head and frowned. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Oh, I'd never use this on my kids!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">He grinned. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Well, maybe for your husband then."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I just laughed and wished the girl and her mother good luck with her new room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">As I walked away I thought about all the challenging situations I've had to deal with this week, the businesses who have been less than professional, the neighbors who have shot off fireworks until</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">my</span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">nerves were shot. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">In another lifetime I might have channeled a nasty nun wielding a ruler like the ones in my friends' horror stories, but these days I'm finding there are better ways to express myself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">When I was a Senior I was voted second most likely to become a nun...and I'm not even Catholic. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">There were days when I couldn't walk down the halls of Bowsher High School without being called</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Sister Catherine</span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">at least once. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I was a square, a bookworm, and the person everyone wanted as their study partner the night before an English exam. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">And even though I had friends who were boys, I never had a boyfriend. Still, I did hide myself in loose clothes that resembled a habit: </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">tent dresses or jumpers or baggy Forenza sweaters...and I suppose nobody wanted to date a girl who wore stuff like that.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> As the resident goody-goody, I went to church every Sunday and taught Bible School in the summer. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I sang in the choir and attended Youth Group every week. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">In private I could be a hellion in the first degree, but to the world at large I tried to live up to what most people thought of me and never raised my voice, never started an argument, was always agreeable, deferring to the needs and desires of others.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">As a teacher I tried to set a good example for my kids. I modulated my voice, modeled kind behavior, and always used good manners. And yet, after eleven years in the classroom, it was getting increasingly more difficult to set the real Kate aside every time I stood up as <i>Miss Ingersoll</i> in front of my kids. I never faked it, but I often pretended away who I really was out of the necessity of decorum or responsibility. Once I started taking better care of myself, everything eventually changed. It was time to hang up my denim jumpers (yes, I was still wearing them) and dive into an unknown existence as a writer and yoga instructor.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">When I started teaching yoga in 1999, </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I was often introduced to people thus: </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"This is Kate my <i>guru</i>" or "This is Kate...she does</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">yoga</span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">!" Yoga wasn't the hot commodity it is today and I was regularly considered to be a nut or a novelty by people who didn't know me very well. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">But those who did lovingly said, "It's nice to know you do yoga, but also have problems like the rest of us." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Oh, yes," I'd reply. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Yoga gave me a whole new way of being."</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">But as I've mentioned in other blogs, there are still those who think that because I've been practicing for so long, because I'm a vegan, or because I meditate, I should always be peaceful, always loving, always kind and gentle and forgiving. I might not be called <i>Sister Catherine </i>anymore, but <i>Yoga Kate</i> can still carry the same connotation.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Well, if those folks lived with me for a week, they'd be in for a big surprise.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">This summer I'm revisiting the wonderful BBC series "Call the Midwife." </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Set in an Anglican nunnery in the late 1950's, this delightful show blends the lives of bright-eyed young women and seasoned sisters of the cloth who work side by side delivering babies all over the Poplar district in London. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">While I admire Sister Julienne, the calm, cool, and collected mother superior, my favorite character is salty Sister Evangelina who tells it like it is and whose bawdy antics often make me laugh until my sides hurt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">She's seen enough to know how to relate to the poor in her district, but is never at a loss for words or kindness in the face of adversity. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I'm not so sure Sister Evangelina would slap someone with a ruler, but she's hit the mark with many of her acerbic comments that tell the truth yet also try to mask her tender heart. No wonder I perk up every time she's in a scene, for </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I've finally figured out that's not the only thing we have in common. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I may not</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">wear</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">a habit, but I've had a bad habit of keeping my deepest feelings hidden, particularly the ones that are the most vulnerable or uncomfortable. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">It's only been in recent months that I can be honest with myself about how I really feel in the moment without trying to minimize or justify it...and sharing my feelings with others has certainly taken some practice. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Somehow i</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">t doesn't matter what's going on in my heart. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">My head always wants to take over so it can analyze and proselytize and compromise by short-changing my emotions through intellect. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">These days it never works for long...and I'm infinitely thankful that I no longer wish to "yoga" or "meditate" my feelings away. Those can be wonderful tools in helping me move through them, but I've learned that pushing something aside instead of really seeing it for what it is and how it can open me up is simply another form of denial.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">And I've denied myself enough for a dozen lifetimes. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">A couple of weeks ago I dreamt that I was getting ready to go out to dinner with a man who was waiting in my living room. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">It's not like me at all to be late for anything...or to be unprepared while someone else has to bide their time. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">So as I hurriedly searched through my closet for something to match the denim jumper I was wearing, I hastily snatched a green fleece vest from its hanger. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">It was much too large, so I walked out to give it to Mr. Dinner Date.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Do you want this?" I asked. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"It's too big for me now."</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">He tried it on and it fit perfectly. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"It's summertime," he said. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> "</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I don't know when I'd wear it."</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"You could save for when you go running this winter," I suggested.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">He smiled. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Okay." </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I headed back to my bedroom and tried on a blouse with a Peter Pan collar, then caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Oh, man!" I sighed, looking down at my clothes. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"I look just like a nun! </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I don't wear stuff like this anymore!" </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Without hesitation </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I tossed the blouse and jumper on the floor and slipped on a pair of straight-leg jeans, a tank top, and a green and blue gauzy top.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">When I woke up moments later, the dream wasn't lost on me at all. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I do tend to keep the best of my emotions close to the vest, and now they've grown too big for me to keep for just myself. Perhaps by sharing them with another, I might just find the right fit. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Mr. Dinner Date may turn out to be the male version of Cinderella, but instead of donning a glass slipper, he might be running around this winter, warm and well-loved.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">In any case, I find that all these years later, I'm still peeling off the layers of modest, yet outdated <i>Sister Catherine</i>, kicking the old habit of keeping my feelings hidden, and wondering where all of this might lead. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">And yet, an endearing conversation from "Shakespeare in Love" keeps echoing in my head, one that reminds me of the often-bumpy road-less-traveled that I've traversed for more than fifteen years.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Theater owner Philip Henslowe tells his benefactor, "Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain about theater business. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Mr. Fennyman asks, "So what do we do?"</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Nothing," Henslowe replies. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Strangely enough, it all turns out well."</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"How?"</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"I don't know...it's a mystery." </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><br />
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-60598226894365332292020-02-16T19:13:00.003-05:002020-02-16T19:13:42.985-05:00Plant a tree...watch it grow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">Last month at a church rummage sale, I discovered a book by one of my favorite authors. More than ten years ago, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sue-Monk-Kidd/e/B000AQ1N14/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1503796491&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Sue Monk Kidd</a>, who penned <u>The Secret Life of Bees </u>and <u>The Invention of Wings</u>, compiled a host of essays she had written for Guideposts magazine since the 1980’s. Reading <u>Firstlight</u> has lovingly reminded me of Christmases long ago. My grandmother always gave me a copy of <i>Daily Guideposts</i> from the time I was in eighth grade and I spent the better part of every holiday afternoon holed up in my room, eagerly searching through the book for Sue’s essays. Each one was captivating because of her incredible attention to detail and open-hearted way of looking at life, from the simplest moments to the most perplexing. Perhaps what struck me the most was the feeling of as she writes in <u>Firstlight</u>, “a soulful being together between the reader and the author".<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">Many of the essays I’ve been rereading remind me of some of the ones I have written for <i>Open Road</i>, so I now fully realize it was back then the initial seed of inspiration was planted. A little more than a decade later, I would begin writing essays of my own. One turned into a novel which turned into a sequel which turned into eight more books. And I’m not done writing yet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">In one of my favorite essays, Sue writes about how growth takes time. A seed must be buried in the darkness of the soil, releasing roots invisible to the eye, but necessary for the sprout to appear above the surface. Over time the sprout becomes a seedling, and the seedling a sapling, and so on until a strong, healthy tree grows from what was once hidden in the earth. A caterpillar begins its life cycle as an egg, then a larva, then a pupa where it completely transforms itself into an adult butterfly, never to return to its original state again. It takes a butterfly only twenty-eight days to go from egg to its magical metamorphosis. Sadly, it only lives for four to six weeks. Of course a tree takes much longer to grow to its full height, but its beauty can last much longer than one human lifetime.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">A couple of weeks ago, Steve and I were heading up to Posey Lake, Michigan for a much-needed vacation. While I sat in the car waiting for him to fill the gas tank, I checked my phone for messages. To my surprise, one of my former first graders sent me a private message on my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/katiesopenroad/" target="_blank">professional Facebook Page</a>. <i>Remember the trees you gave us and told us to plant them when we got home? </i>Eric wrote. <i>Look at her now!<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">He sent a picture of a gorgeous pine tree that dwarfed a two-story house. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><i><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";">Oh my gosh! </span></i><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";">I wrote back. <i>That’s amazing! How old is that tree?<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><i><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";">I planted it when I was six, </span></i><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";">he replied<i>. You gave it to me when I was in first grade, so it’s been going now for twenty-six years.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;"> I quickly did the math. <i>How in the world are there kids I taught who are now thirty-two years old? </i>I wondered. Then I realized that there are kids much older than that…and it made me laugh. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">Steve got back in the car and I showed him the picture.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">“Who is that from?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">“One of my first graders…I gave them saplings on Earth Day the year Eric was in my class. I think someone from a nursery donated a bunch of them.” Smiling at the picture, I sighed, “That made my whole day.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">When I asked if I could use his photo in this blog, Eric enthusiastically replied, <i>Sure! I’ll get a better picture at my mom’s later today. Can my daughter Mariah be in it?<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">What a joy a few hours later to see their smiling faces standing at the base of the tree and to read Eric’s profound caption: <i>I planted the tree with my dad. I’m really proud of it and talk about it often. I try not to be boastful about it, but I think that talking about it will hopefully plant a seed in someone to do the same.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">Mariah is one blessed young woman to have such an incredible father. I remember Eric fondly and am not at all surprised to know that he has loved and nurtured that tree for decades, much in the same way I’m sure he has and will love and nurture his daughter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">We can never know how our presence will impact another person. I’ve not given birth, but I did spend my twenties and early thirties with hundreds of kids who I’m happy to still call my own. Now every time a man or woman who I had the privilege to teach contacts me, it always lifts my spirits and connects me to the distant past in incredible ways which remind me once again that I didn’t have to have a child of my own to be a mother. I’ve attended weddings of my former students, spent time with their families at graduation parties, and often run into people who ask, “Are you Miss Ingersoll?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">I laugh and nod. “Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">“You were my first grade teacher!” they smile broadly. “You don’t look the same, but I could tell it was you from the sound of your voice.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #660000;">Then I laugh some more because that’s often how I recognize them as well…even the men.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">They reminisce about stories from our classroom, and each one reminds me that even though teaching was incredibly demanding, it was time well spent…and then some, for many of the lessons I shared with them when they were little are now, decades later, being passed down to their children. What an incredible blessing to know that the seeds which were planted back then have magically metamorphosed into a soulful being together between what was once the teacher and the student, but has now transformed into something even more beautiful, yet indescribable. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GWTuLpecIXM/XknajrQI_pI/AAAAAAAAFhQ/jA_pldI_SoEobj4LmlRLFV3kKc5PCqheQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/plant%2Ba%2Btree%252C%2Bwatch%2Bit%2Bgrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GWTuLpecIXM/XknajrQI_pI/AAAAAAAAFhQ/jA_pldI_SoEobj4LmlRLFV3kKc5PCqheQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/plant%2Ba%2Btree%252C%2Bwatch%2Bit%2Bgrow.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric with his daughter, Mariah, 2017</td></tr>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-88378228008574855912020-02-08T19:57:00.000-05:002020-02-08T20:11:57.865-05:00Step by step<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">As I was changing the calendar from January to February, I thought <i>Where in the world did 2019 go? </i>If I look back on my journals, it’s been a time filled with unexpected adventures. Not that that’s any big surprise. Ever since I left a traditional job in 1999, I’ve been making life up as I go along. There’s been no template, no rules, no rubric, no role model to follow. In many ways it’s been completely terrifying, but for the most part, it’s been an incredible ride. </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Not that I’m even close to the finish line. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: left;">Still, if I’ve learned anything along the way, it’s that the slower I go, the faster I get there. Sounds like a paradox, doesn’t it? </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: left;">Now </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">that I’ve lived several rounds of the same lessons, I figured out that to consciously move step-by-step means I won’t skip one up the spiral staircase of my ever-evolving existence. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Yesterday I was working out at the gym with a few men who were pumping iron. As I'm looking forward to hiking season, </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’ve been training on the steps, the wooden benches, and the highest incline on the treadmill. </span></span><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Still, last night I took some ribbing from one of the trainers who jokingly ordered, “Faster, Kate! Go </span><i style="color: #660000; font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">faster</i><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">!”</span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">That struck a nerve. I grew up with a father who constantly told me to work faster. Just the other day my neighbor was watching me shovel snow and playfully admonished me to move faster. It seems this entire culture is hell-bent on rushing productivity and I used to be as well. Now I’m no longer interested in speed. After years of pushing myself too hard, it’s a joy to let my body lead the way, telling me how far it can go, reminding me when to stop.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“No, thanks,” I told the trainer, shaking my head. “I’ll lose my balance and fall. It’s better for me to add weight or use a higher platform.” Then, just to prove it to him (and myself) I picked up the mid-range bench and steadily climbed up and down, holding eight-pound weights in my hands. Not an easy feat after a long day. Even so, I was thankful to be able to do it at some level, for I don’t have a specific workout plan or target goal and I don’t really need one. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">As a writer, nothing in my professional life has ever been predictable, except for the fact that it’s always been inconsistent. Some days are diamonds. Some days are stone. Some years are feast. Some are famine. Yet along the way there has always been more than enough work to sustain me. More than enough time to accomplish the things I want to do.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">More than enough freedom to move at my own pace.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It’s been five years since I wrote <u>The Lace Makers</u> </span><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">and I’m a little anxious about starting a new novel. I always get like this at the beginning of anything, as staring at a blank screen when I sit down to write can be daunting. Particularly with <u>The Lace Makers</u>, I agonized about what the characters would sound like, how to fully express the images that floated through my mind. At first, I thought I knew what I was doing. For over a year I had researched both the Civil War and the Holocaust. There were stacks of notes at the ready. A library of books to reference. Yet for the first third of the novel, it felt as though I was pushing too hard, rushing the story, trying to meet a self-imposed deadline. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Then, like always, a miracle happened.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Someone asked me what it’s like to be a writer. “How do you do it? I mean, how do you pull ideas out of thin air and put them on paper?”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I just sit down and write whatever comes up in my imagination.”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Do you know how the book will end?”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Yes, I always have the last scene in mind,” I told him. “But I never know how I’m going to get there.”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Are you going to write tonight?”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Yes,” I nodded.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“What’s coming to mind now?”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Rolling my eyes to the ceiling, I saw a clear image floating up to the surface. “Something about shoes and feet.”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“What does that mean?”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m making it up as I go along.”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">As I drove home, I thought about one of my favorite movies of all time. In <i>Raiders of the Lost Ark</i>, Indiana Jones is on a quest to discover the Ark of the Covenant, and not without some incredible plot twists and turns. In one pivotal scene, he’s about to chase after a truck with no vehicle available.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“<b><i>How</i></b>?” asks his friend, Sala.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“I don’t know,” Indy replied dryly. “I’m making this up as I go.”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="color: #660000;">When I got home, the flood gates opened and I finished writing the first draft a week later. What a miracle.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">One of my friends recently enrolled in an improv class at our local Repertoire Theater. “It’s so great!” Shannon gushed. “I get to let my inner Tigger come out! It’s just what I need in my high-stress life.”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“I’ll bet you look forward to it all week,” I said.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Yes! And the best thing that I’ve learned is that you can’t plan ahead when you’re doing improv,” she grinned. “It’ll ruin the whole thing if you even try. </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The director taught us that the three most important things to remember while doing improvisation with other actors are to love, trust, and play. We have to love each other so we can be ourselves, trust each other so that no matter what happens, we know we’ll be safe. And then of course, once those things are in place, the play part just comes easily!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Love, trust, and play,” I echoed. “How simple and yet challenging.”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“It is,” Shannon agreed. “But oh, how wonderful to practice! Improv is life!”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Kinda reminds me of another great line Indiana Jones said in <i>The Last Crusade</i>: “We don’t follow maps to buried treasure and X never, ever marks the spot.” </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I sometimes think it would be grand to follow a list of directions that guaranteed my success as a </span><span style="font-size: 18px;">published</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> writer. Still, I’m inspirited by an interview with a twelve-year-old Native American boy who is being raised by his grandmother and uncle in a small trailer along with numerous other children. President of his class, captain of the football team, and an accomplished tribal dancer, </span></span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJapHc7B8Xs" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Robert Looks Twice</span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></span></a><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">wisely knows how to value his own path and not strive to follow an easier route.</span><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">When asked if he’s jealous of more affluent kids, he replied, “No, because my uncle told me that there’s gonna be a muddy road and an easy road. The rich kid takes the easy road and the poor kid takes the muddy, rough road…and they’re building up strength the whole time.”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="color: #660000;">I’ve waited decades for my heart’s desire, all the while taking a muddy road on the way to the mountain top that finally seems within my reach. There’s been no map. No X marking the spot. No indication of how much longer I’ll have to climb. But none of that matters. I know who I am. I know why I’m here. I know that even when I reach the top, there will always be another mountain to climb.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Moment by moment, I'll go at my own pace, building up strength, building up my character. I'll improvise when I need to, take action when I can, and stay on the lookout for buried treasures which are always revealed every step of the way.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-89316953001852160282020-01-22T12:41:00.001-05:002020-01-22T12:41:31.919-05:00Who we all are<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;">This week I was reminded of a blog I originally published in
November, 2016 and felt compelled to post it once more in light of the ongoing
rift in our country. In researching <u style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">The Lace Makers</u>, a novel I wrote five years ago, I
realized that human beings endlessly categorize themselves into groups by
gender, race, political affiliation, religious affiliation, financial
status, and a host of others. Yet, the further a person moves from recognizing the
fact that we are all human beings, the more they can objectify anyone they see
as different.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;">Who we are is evident in what we do over time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What we say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What we post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What we believe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every single one of us is defined by our
actions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one is ever going to </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">perfect. But to be aware of our ongoing ability to choose what has dignity, what has purpose, what has character can evolve us past division toward a greater wholeness, not only within ourselves, but with each other as well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">“Who
we all are”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">Originally
published November 11, 2016<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Y<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eah, it
stinks bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we all covered up in it,
too. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Ain’t nobody
clean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be nice to get clean though.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">from the Civil War film, “Glory”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">Years
ago, I heard an incredible story about an anthropologist who worked with
children in an African tribe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He proposed
a game in which he placed a basket of fruit near a tree and told the children
that whoever got there first won the sweet reward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, when he told them to run, the children
joined hands and ran together so that they might reach the reward at the same
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">While
they then sat in a circle, enjoying the fruit, the anthropologist asked them,
“Why did you run like that when one of you could have had all of the fruit for
yourself?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">They
replied, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ubuntu</i>…it means <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am what I am because of who we are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>How can one of us be happy when the other
ones are sad?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">When
I teach yoga classes to children, we sit in circle because a circle has no
beginning and no end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No hierarchy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No pecking order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What our circle embodies is a sense of
equality, a way for the children to see everyone’s place in the group as
valuable and necessary; that without one person, the sphere would not be
complete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While every child is
encouraged to speak, to voice an opinion, to contribute to the group from their
own experience and perspective, I also encourage them to remember that we are
stronger as a whole.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">On
election night, like so many other Americans, I was unable to sleep, tossing
and turning until four in the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
thought about the year and a half I spent researching the Civil War and the
Holocaust in preparation for writing <u>The Lace Makers</u>, grimly realizing
that history is beginning to repeat itself in ways we won’t fully recognize
until the future unfolds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I finally
accepted the outcome of the election, I burst into tears, not because the
candidate for whom I had voted was defeated, but because of the undeniable rift
in our country’s soul. The hatred and anger that motivated people on either
side to make their choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The endless
rhetoric, hypocrisy, fearmongering, and “my way is the only way” mentality of
the president-elect that will continue to echo in our culture for years to
come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">However,
my grief is not from fear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">I’m
deeply saddened in much the same way I felt on the morning of 9/11, for when
the Twin Towers fell to the ground, I burst into tears for our country, for I
knew then that our nation would never be the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I’m concerned about the people I love who
come from different cultures and backgrounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My heart goes out to people in their extended circles who have been
attacked, demeaned, and verbally abused because their skin is a different color
or they worship differently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
concerned for my LGBTQ friends, for international relations, for our fragile
environment, for a host of other things that connect us as human beings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">It’s
not been easy to teach yoga this week, but I’m doing the best I can to be a
calming presence for my students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
infinitely thankful for my meditation practice which allows me to connect to the
peace that eternally resides deep within, a place that we all have, no matter
our politics, our religion, our color or creed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">At
the end of class yesterday, I said to my students, “It’s good to be with people
of like-heart.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">After
they had left, a text message arrived from a dear friend who has differing
political views.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I love you, Katie Belle</i> Angie wrote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">Tears
filled my eyes as sent back heart emojis and wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You, too</i>, for she and I know that love means we respect and embrace
each other, even if we don’t see eye-to-eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That we don’t have to agree to be kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That we can be of like-heart, even during the times when we may not be
of like-mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">Now,
more than ever, I know more fully I am who I am because of who we all are in
relationship to each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">There
have been many times in the past year when I’ve wanted to write commentary
about the state of our political nation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve wanted to put my two cents in on a host of issues that have been
talked to death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time and again I made
the decision to remain quiet, not because I didn’t have anything to say, but
because it wasn’t necessary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">I
was raised in close proximity to a man eerily similar to the
president-elect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I worked for people
who echoed his bigotry and entitlement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve been assaulted by one who got away with it because he was allowed
to escape accountability for his actions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What I’ve discovered is that bullies often get their way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That money greases the palms of
injustice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That political napalm is
often heralded as a fresh start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">But
the story is not over yet…for more will always be revealed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I grieve for the state of our nation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m deeply saddened by the generations of
frustration, of anger and fear that brought us to this time in history when
many of us will have to make the choice between what is easy and what is right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">I
only pray that there are people who are brave enough to join hands and
work together, knowing that the fruits of compassion and human kindness can
heal even the deepest divide.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-12661090477225076672019-12-31T16:42:00.000-05:002019-12-31T16:50:34.141-05:00Incomplete<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Incomplete</span></b></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Excerpt originally published December 31, 2014</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><span style="font-kerning: none;">I've lost track of time this holiday break as each morning dawns and I can't quite remember what day it is or what I have planned to do until the sun sets. Usually it's a coffee date with a friend, a walk in the park, or a trip to the library. In the evening I read or knit or watch episodes of "The Wonder Years" until I'm sleepy enough to go to bed. Yes, it's been a relaxing couple of weeks to recycle, review, relax, and renew. And I almost forgot it was the end of the year until I was reminded by a friend that it is indeed December the 31st.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I've no big plans for this evening, save a quiet night in my yoga room writing in my journal, reading through the ones from the past twelve months. I'm happy to say another year will soon dawn and I can let go of what has been to embrace what is to become. Then again, if I've learned anything this year, I realize that I'm never done learning, that I'm never fully complete.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">What a blessing in disguise.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When I was younger I thought that my life would begin anew when I had the perfect job. The relationship I longed for. A publishing contract. When none of those came to pass, I shifted my perspective and thought I could begin again every New Year...that with a single tick of the clock, all the drama of the past would be washed away and I could emerge clean and whole and finished with lessons that were often overwhelming.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But of course, life doesn't work that way.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yes, we can make resolutions, or in my case, name the year and set my intention to delve more deeply into whatever I'd like to explore over the next 365 days. Last December, it was my hope to learn more about kindness in 2014. What I had anticipated was quite different than the reality, and I've learned that it's very difficult to be kind in a world that's often cruel and out of balance. It's hard to turn the other cheek, to forgive hurtful words or actions, to step out of my anger or fear and into a place where I can see the other person more fully, as both a human being and a teacher.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My journals reveal experiences that have repeated themselves, but in a slightly different package. Once again I discovered I was living in close proximity to heroin dealers. At least this time around I don't have to live in terror, knowing the FBI did their job well. And I also didn't have to lift a finger to report them as I had for over a year in 2009 when a group of gang bangers were dealing out of the duplex next door. Still, the lessons of vigilance and courage I forged at that time are still with me, honing themselves each time I open the curtains and look into the back yard where a brand new fence is a daily reminder of what might have been.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">2014 was also a year to work hard and see the fruits of my labor shine forth in my garden, with my yoga students, and in the books I've published. But that's nothing new. I love to work...the more challenging the project, the more I enjoy it. Yet this year I learned my limits, not only professionally, but personally as well. I've finally figured out that an endless struggle is often an omen of what is not meant to be...and I need to let it go. For now. Or for always. The tearing apart of the tapestries I've woven has been difficult, but always yields a greater awareness in time, fo</span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">r more will always be revealed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was going to call this blog "Wise women," for I have been surrounded by them lately...ladies who have known me for decades and some I've only met this year. All of them have given me much food for thought, a different perspective, and the emotional support I yearn for as I make my way into a newer life...a more authentic way of being. But then again, there have been a few wise men as well. Men who show me another way to experience life. Who cut to the chase when I'm busy spinning my wheels. Who allow me to give to them my encouragement and love as they walk through their own life experiences, often barking their shins on the furniture as we all do from time to time.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Through their eyes I see who I used to be and how very far I've come in the past twenty years. I've seen reflections of my healing through their words and touch. Through their own stories that weave effortlessly into mine. I've softened to the reality that even though I sometimes long for a tradition life, I'm not really cut out for it, that my spirit longs to be an eternal maverick in whatever form it might take. In reflection, I lovingly embrace the fact that I'm never done...that I'm incomplete, and meant to be that way.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My evolution has been like a spiral, an ever-upward moving circle that revisits what I need to learn, but on a higher level each time. Every new year pulls the thread of the experiences of the past into the present and shines a light on where I may have missed something. Where I need to practice compassion or patience. Where I need to expand into wholeness. Like a spent sunflower, the seeds of what has been plant a new life, an existence that will look similar to the one before it, but always growing in harmony with how well it is nurtured in its new form.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Now I joyfully embrace that which is incomplete within me, knowing that the spiral of my life will lead me into greater understanding, abundant creativity, and the willingness to keep growing, year after year.</span></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P4_NkmUpjP4/Xgu_7M-QszI/AAAAAAAAFfo/2bE6sjoJAHMbWQxypHBMxRXrZscI6A8OQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/84890937-B2A5-461B-8A1D-6573E5ABF966.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P4_NkmUpjP4/Xgu_7M-QszI/AAAAAAAAFfo/2bE6sjoJAHMbWQxypHBMxRXrZscI6A8OQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/84890937-B2A5-461B-8A1D-6573E5ABF966.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my favorite songs by Alanis Morissette...<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=974T4dBeOes" target="_blank">enjoy it here.</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-14392209758836007912019-12-24T12:10:00.002-05:002021-12-07T20:21:36.386-05:00Bittersweet<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Bittersweet<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Originally
published on December 19, 2014<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Twenty
years ago I sat in a church committee meeting discussing plans for the
Christmas Eve midnight service. As the Elder in charge of finding people
to serve communion, I found the job quite a challenge, particularly because
of the late hour we would need them. However, I was able to compile a
list of names and shared that information with the committee members.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"That's
great, Katie," a woman to my left sniffed. "And we think you
should stay after the service and clean up the communion table. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>We</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>all have families to get home to and<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>you</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>don't have any children for Santa to
visit."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">At the time I was in my late twenties and surrounded by friends who were
getting married. Having baby number one. Baby number two. Even marriage number two. I wasn't dating anyone, but not for lack
of want. That woman's thoughtlessness cut me off at the knees, but I
pasted a smile on my face and nodded while blinking back tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yes,
I was single. (I still am.) Yes, I was childless. (I still
am.) But why, oh why, did she have to make me sound like such a pariah
just because I didn't belong to the Mommy and Me club? And why did she
automatically assume that because I didn't have a nuclear family of my own that
I also had nothing else planned? I drove home that night both furious at
the woman's callous comments, but also licking the open wound of wanting what I
didn't have. It was nothing new. For more than a decade, every time
the holidays rolled around, I was blatantly aware of being a bachelorette in a
sea of couples and new babies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">On
Christmas Eve I did my duty. I stood in front of the entire congregation
with a plate of bread in my hands and watched family after family share
communion. I stood in the choir loft and watched them share the
hymnal. At the end of the service, I lit candles at the end of the pews
and watched while parents helped their children hold their little cups
carefully so they wouldn't drip wax on their tiny hands. And when it was
all over and everyone had gone home, I stood at the kitchen sink washing the
platters and pitchers and silverware. Alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Well,
not really. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The
janitor was busy sweeping the vestibule and I could hear the whirl and buzz of
the vacuum while I swiped at my tears and kept working. I wanted a
husband to help me. A child to read to before bedtime. A little
stocking to stuff by the fireplace and toys to leave beneath the tree.
But I knew I would soon be going home to an empty house. A quiet living
room. A silent sanctuary. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When
I had finished, it was nearly one-thirty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"You
need me to walk you to your car?" the janitor asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Nope...I'm
good," I said, pulling on my coat and mittens. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Well,
you be careful now," he smiled. "Merry Christmas."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I
nodded. "Same to you."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As
I crossed into the parking lot, a light snow was falling. Dazzling flakes
sparkled in the glow of the streetlamps and as I looked up, the hazy full moon
shone down on the shimmering streets. I stood next to my car and gazed
around the intersection that for the entire holiday season had been abuzz with
shoppers galore. The corner of Talmadge and Sylvania is notorious this
time of year...and an area I avoid like the plague. But at that moment,
on a silent night in the heart of Toledo, I was the only person standing
there. The only one to witness that miraculous moment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I
walked to the edge of the street and listened to the hush. Felt the
snowflakes dotting my cheeks and chin. Marveled at how I would have
missed this moment if that woman hadn't been so pushy in insisting I stay late
after the service. I imagined she and the other ladies were at home
frantically pulling toys from the closet. Wrapping gifts to stash under
the tree. Searching through drawers for batteries to pop into the fire
engine, the new game, or whatever else needed a missing power source.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yet
in that moment, I realized my own source of power wasn't in having what I
wanted...but in experiencing what I had -- all of it. My grief and
sadness over another year gone by and being no step closer to having a family
of my own. The anger and resentment I felt at having been singled out
once again for being single. Yet also the joy and peace I was
experiencing all by myself in a moment I didn't expect at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I
drove home through the snow and when I pulled up in the driveway, the lights
inside were burning bright. One of my cats was peeking through the
curtains. I knew that a hot cup of cocoa and a warm bed were awaiting
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would survive another holiday
season and move forward, just like I always had in the past.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Fast
forward twenty years. Here we are with Christmas looming just six days
away. Thank goodness I was well prepared as I've been uncommonly busy
with publishing projects that were to be delivered this week. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And
they were...but <span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">not as I expected.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The
interiors look great. The spines and back covers are intact. But
the cover photos are non-existent...on every single one. It was
devastating to excitedly open a package that held the very first printed copies
of work that has been more than fifteen years in the making, only to discover
that the publisher's glitch would mean another delay in delivering the goods to
my readers. To see a stack of white paper instead of the colorful covers
I had uploaded over the weekend brought tears of frustration...and I
have to make peace with yet another roadblock, another setback.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'll
be diligent in rectifying the problem, even though the automated phone
run-around is rampant this time of year. In time the new books will arrive
complete and I'll be able to move on to the next project, the next blog, or
maybe even enjoy a little Christmas cheer. But it's still a bittersweet
thing to hold the blank ones in my hands in this office while I sit here
alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I've
never been married and don't have a significant other. There will never be any
babies of my own. But this year I've been able to birth six books, and
for me that's quite an accomplishment. Even though my literary kids
arrived naked, I guess that's how we're all born. And I suppose that's
how many of us feel this time of year...tender, fragile, and incomplete because
we're missing someone. Something. Someplace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I've
made peace with much of what I wasn't able to as a twentysomething young
woman. I know how blessed I am to live the life I do...to embody my
choices in the person I am becoming. In the home I nurture. In work that
I love more each day. But when the holidays roll around, little things
push on bruises I thought had healed long ago. I feel tiny pinpricks of
pain from things that would have no power in the spring or summer or
fall. I find that I'm not alone in this place of mixed emotions.
Many of my friends are experiencing joy and grief and excitement and
exhaustion. It's a bittersweet time of year for us all, this time of
intermingling nostalgia and hopeful anticipation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But
I keep thinking about that Christmas Eve when I stood in silence watching the
snow fall. Smiling at the full moon. Knowing that the best gifts
don't need to be wrapped. They don't need a cover photograph or even
acknowledgment by others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">They
are moments of clarity and unexpected grace. An email from a dear friend
who has loved me since I was eleven years old. A little puppy's
kiss. A hug from a person in need. A good cry. A hand to hold. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And
the ability to embrace them all with gratitude.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-64392191788513653512019-10-17T11:57:00.001-04:002019-10-17T11:57:14.027-04:00Headstrong<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anyone else
still reeling from the full moon in Aries this past Sunday? I could feel it revving up the week before
and even now, the fallout is still crashing to the ground. The sign of Aries is symbolized by the ram
and rules the head, so many of you may feel as though you’ve been banging it against the wall. Likewise,
hotheads prevail this time of year so conversations, social interactions, and driving
may be particularly precarious. In any
case, this is an intense time when it’s crucial to cultivate patience, focus,
and an awareness that it will surely pass.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is no
other time of the year when the full moon blasts its energy through our psyche
than in October. Like a sprinter jumping
off the starting block, Aries is all about the launch. When the moon is influenced by this energy,
there’s a tendency for an overload of blow-torch firepower. You may have gotten into more than your share
of heated discussions or been the target of someone else’s wrath. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now that the moon has shifted away from this influence,
it’s time to sift and sort what’s left behind.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Full moons
represent a culmination and a balance between the sun and moon. We’re in the sun sign of Libra
which strives for beauty and balance.
Libra energy seeks to be in harmonious relationship – with another
person, with the earth, with the light and dark within itself. The thinking here is <i>How can I work with
another energy and maintain harmony</i>?
On the other hand, Aries energy is all about being number one. As the first sign of the zodiac (March 21 –
April 19), Aries is at the head of the line, so in its highest form, this energy
creates dynamic leadership. Yet the
shadow of Aries (which is amplified by the full moon) is self-centeredness...and not in a good way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My natal chart
isn’t directly influenced by Aries as I have no significant aspects or planets
connected with it. Still, living on
planet Earth means the rain falls on everyone, not just parched ground. In the past two weeks I’ve been in two near-miss
car accidents because the drivers were either speeding or darting across four
lanes of traffic so they could be first in line at a stop light. In both cases, because my car happened to be
in their way, I was called a choice name with a malicious expletive in front of
it. And in both cases I was left shaking
by the intensity of their anger which had nothing to do with me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lately, there
have been more intense experiences in my personal life which demand I answer
the question, <i>How in the heck did I get here and what do I do next?</i> Sure, we can all laugh and blame it on the moon,
but I beg to differ. The change of
seasons and astrological signs is designed to keep us from stagnating. I’ve come to realize that the degree to which
I suffer is directly related to the degree I resist change. Transforming our lives can be truly difficult,
harrowing, and unpredictable. But as Anais Nin wrote, <i>And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a
bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The full moon in
Aries asks each one of us to recognize times when we are headstrong or when we
need to stand up for ourselves. It can help us learn how to protect ourselves
from others’ overwhelming intensity. Because
it’s so incredibly potent, Aries can force us recognize the need for consciously
creating change by focusing our energy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">To be sure, it’s
a challenging influence, but if you think about the kind of energy the earth
embodies to be reborn out of the bitter cold and frozen ground of winter, the
ignition of Aries is vital for anything brand new. In October, the earth in our hemisphere may be
slowly falling asleep, but we are now being asked to awaken to our highest potential.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">If you’re interested in scheduling a private astrology session to discover your own strengths, challenges, and spiritual path, please contact me at ingersoll.katie@gmail.com. I look forward to connecting with you.</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-57654939277409691372019-10-07T19:59:00.002-04:002019-10-07T20:14:27.471-04:00All I really need to know I learned teaching first grade<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Every month my friend and I meet
at Panera by the mall for a long, leisurely lunch. Christy and I used to teach together – she was
a kindergarten expert and I was lucky to have her kids in my first grade
classes until I left Greenwood in 1999.
Since then I’ve had the pleasure of working as a yoga instructor with
kids from age three to eighteen. Still, I’ve
always thought that if I had to go back to formal education, I’d want to teach
first grade again.<br />
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> This past Saturday I said as much
to Christy (who now has moved up a grade herself) and we both agreed first
grade is such a vital year for kids. There’s nothing quite like watching a child’s
eyes light up when they realized they can read…or discover how to subtract…or
spell the word “school”. Yet the lessons
I remember most -- and the ones my former students recall whenever I run into
them around town - aren’t the ones I wrote on the overhead projector or handed
out for homework. Robert Fulghum’s poem </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2399046-all-i-really-need-to-know-i-learned-in-kindergarten" target="_blank"><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten</span> </span></a></i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">graced the walls of many a classrooms at Greenwood,
encouraging kids to </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Put things back where
you found them </i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">and </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Be aware of
wonder. </i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> My person favorite is </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Live a balanced life</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">. </span></div>
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Now, in my early fifties, I’ve
come to find that all I really needed to learn to navigate this ever-changing,
ever-chaotic world in which we now live, I learned teaching first grade. Feel
free to add your own life lessons in the comment section below. I look forward to hearing from you.</div>
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<b><u>All I Really Need
to Know I Learned Teaching First Grade<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->The world is full of people who come from vastly
different home lives and histories. Practice
patience. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Not everyone thinks or believes as you do…nor
should they. Be open-minded. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Sometimes you’ll have to say or do something
ten, twelve, or even one hundred times before it will sink in. Be persistent.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->On a rainy day, the most wonderful thing in the
world is a cozy corner and good book. Indulge
for at least fifteen minutes every day, rain or shine.</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->The best way to remember something is to involve
as many senses as possible. Live a lush
life and experiment with as many scents, tastes, sounds, and textures as
possible. </div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Learn a new poem every month…with sign language
if possible. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Everyone is good at something. Find your talent and while you’re at it, celebrate
the gifts others bring to the world.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->The greatest way to stay curious and creative is
to discover the way in which you learn best.
</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->It’s okay to cry in front of other people,
especially on the last day of school when you have to say good-bye.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Trust that even on the hardest days, what you’re
doing moment by moment makes a difference.
</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Be kind.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Be kind.</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Be kind.</div>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-1676336345119135942019-10-04T16:24:00.001-04:002019-10-05T15:28:50.570-04:00Gathering stones<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">Last Monday I spent the entire afternoon unearthing a rock garden that runs the length of my front yard. When I moved in nearly thirty years ago, the craggy stones surrounded a bunch of ugly evergreens. That first summer, I dug out the shrubs and dutifully hosed down the rocks every single time I cut the grass. Those gorgeous pieces of shale made the garden stand out, even as the years went by when I planted everything from begonias to wildflowers. But since I was sick a couple of years ago, I’ve been lax in weeding and with all the rain we had this spring and summer, the rocks eventually sunk beneath the ever-growing turf. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">October is one of my favorite times of the year, so I thought I’d wait until cooler weather set in before tacking what I imagined would be a tough job. But with autumn’s late arrival, I figured I’d better get started. Fall cleanup, while exhausting and seemingly never-ending, is vital if I want the following spring to be fruitful (and nearly effortless). I’d much rather pull on a flannel shirt and jeans than bundle up in cold weather gear to clear the beds and cut back the trumpet vine. Plus it’s super satisfying to enjoy the lush greens and late-blooming perennials of my garden in the fall. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">It didn’t take long to shovel up three layers of stone, but it was taxing, especially since it was a hot, humid day. Yet the soil was moist and digging out the weeds proved to be easier than I thought. A few hours later I marveled at how beautiful it looked and now every time I leave the house, I’ll pause and enjoy how beautifully the rock garden ties everything together. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">The ever-changing earth this time of year is a miracle.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">In years past I’d be harvesting basil and tomatoes and squash, but this season I turned my raised bed into a nursery of sorts, transplanting lilacs and lily-of-the-valley and lovely Rose of Sharon. I’ve gathered the best my garden can offer in one place so that when I move into a new home, I can easily unearth it all to take with me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "baskerville";">In many ways, I wish I could take the rock garden with me, too, but it will stay for the next owner to enjoy. In unearthing and refurbishing the garden, I used every single stone, and while I may not have put them back in the same order from which they were lifted from the ground, they all fit together perfectly…just like a puzzle. It reminds me of all the times I rearranged the furniture in my house. The elements were there, but in moving things around, the energy of the room was transformed. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I suppose being a Virgo makes me more aware of the incredible power of change. I was born then the earth begins it’s rapid transformation from summer to autumn, so it’s easy to embrace that which has outgrown one form and is ready to be recreated into something new. 2019 has been a year of tremendous upheaval. In the past few months, my life has shifted significantly. The way I work, the way I live, the way I spend my days has completely changed. Sometimes it’s hard to remember what life was like pre-June, but in the midst of finding my feet, I feel incredibly blessed to have had the foundation of what the past twenty years have given me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">As I reflect on the season that came before this one, the harvest is only just beginning to reveal itself. All the years I taught yoga have given me a centeredness that I can’t really describe in words. The books and blogs I’ve written have given me faith in myself. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "baskerville";">In gathering the stones of all of the struggles I’ve had, the lessons I’ve learned, the blessings I’ve experienced, it’s a wonder to recognize what an enduring foundation they have created. I’ve had to recently unearth it as well, but I trust it will give me the stability I need as I step once more into an unknown future</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "baskerville"; font-size: large;">.</span></div>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-36008384837861336792019-04-17T22:21:00.000-04:002019-04-19T12:16:16.805-04:00An Easter Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">An Easter Story<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Originally published on March 25, 2016<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's Good Friday, one of the most sacred days on the Christian calendar, but when I was a child I couldn't understand why it was named thus. Why would a day when a holy man was crucified be called "good"? Where was the logic in that? Over time I came to understand that Jesus lived an incredible example by His incomparable courage in the Garden of Gethsemane, His calm forbearance of the betrayal of His friends, and the ultimate acceptance of His death, all of which were gateways to His subsequent resurrection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As an adult, I've reframed Holy Week as a time not only for honoring events from the distant past, but also bringing to light what I need to learn in the present. Now I fully accept that any rebirth in my life can only come through enduring something that's been uncommonly agonizing, accepting something I can't change, surrendering to the unknown, and ultimately trusting that even though I might lie in darkness for a while, Light always comes afterward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When I was fourteen my life was in shambles. Even though I was a straight "A" student, sang in musicals, participated in church events, and put on a brave face in public, I was also struggling with anorexia nervosa, chronic anxiety, and a budding addiction to over-the-counter stimulants that kept me awake at all hours so I wouldn't have to endure repetitious night terrors. When I was in school, I could channel my nervous energy: I helped my teachers after hours. I rehearsed for plays and choir concerts. I edited the yearbook well after dark so I wouldn't have to go home and face another dinner that ultimately went to waste on my plate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">By the time summer rolled around, I was frantic. Now where could I hide? Most of the time, when I wasn't riding my bike or running at the park, I cocooned myself in the cool, dark basement, reading encyclopedias and paperback novels. I hid my body in baggy clothes. Hid my food in napkins, then deposited it into the trash when my mother wasn't looking. Hid myself as best as I could, all the while knowing that no matter what, there would always be something wrong with me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When we went on our annual beach vacation that year, it was a relief to spend most of the day outdoors, body surfing, building sandcastles, and crabbing in the lagoons around Kiawah Island. But at night, I still couldn't sleep, couldn't stop wondering if anyone could really understand how it felt to be trapped in a body I hated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">On Friday, the last day of our vacation, I left the villa after dinner, telling my mother I was going for a run up the beach. She didn't try to stop me, but her disconcerting look was code for<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>don't you want to be with your family</i>? "We're going to play cards tonight, " she said. "Don't you want to join us?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Maybe," I shrugged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But I didn't. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'd rather run as fast as my legs could carry me to the south end of the beach where the inlet curled around the island and high tide often came in with pods of dolphin. So I laced up my shoes and stepped out into the muggy southern air, both happy to be by myself and desperate for something I couldn't quite explain. After running a mile up the coast, I started crying. Tears fell down my face, blurring my vision, but I didn't care. By the time I reached the edge of the island, I was physically, mentally, and emotionally spent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>I'm so tired of living like this</i>, I thought, peeling off my shoes and tossing them near a sand dune. As I walked in the sea foam that ebbed and flowed along the shoreline, I continued my silent conversation. <i>I can't live like this anymore. I don't know where I belong. I don't know who I am. So God, please send me a sign that You hear me. Please show me I'm not alone. Please...I'm begging you.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For a while I stood and watched the sky, looking for a rainbow or a sundog or maybe even some God rays shimmering through the clouds. But the sky was clear, the sun was sinking, and time was running out. Looking back on that moment, I know I was desperate enough to walk into the ocean and let it claim me. But I was also hopeful enough that my silent prayer would be answered, so I walked to the edge of the inlet and sat down, dipping my feet into the cool current. For a long time I sat in silence, watching the waves, looking for dolphin, waiting for a sign. There was nothing to buoy my faith.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Until I looked down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the time I had been sitting there, the tide had gently washed away the sand and right next to me emerged a large, lovely conch shell. I picked it up, then rinsed it in the cool water beneath my feet. Turning it over to see if it was home for a little sea creature, I found that it housed a completely different kind of miracle. For there, plain as day, embedded in a lush, lovely background of crimson and ginger was a bright, white cross. I cradled the shell in my hands while I watched the horizon as the sun set behind the dunes. The sky turned peachy pink, mirroring the interior of the precious gift I had just been given, mirroring a place that had miraculously opened up inside of me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then I walked back to the villa and into the rest of my childhood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I kept the shell for almost two decades. It sat on my bedside table all through high school. It traveled back and forth to Miami through four years of college. It was a harbinger of courage when I moved out on my own at twenty-one and rented a little apartment in Troy, Ohio where I felt like an adult for the first time in my life. It was a talisman I held onto eight years later when I finally began to unravel the unhealthy motivations beneath my workaholism, eating disorders, and inability to have a meaningful relationship. The shell more than buoyed my faith; it was a miracle that kept me mindful of the fact that I was never alone, never truly hopeless, never unloved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When I turned thirty I knew that I no longer needed the shell to remind me of who I am or where I belong, so I gave it to one of my first grade students who was traveling to the Carolinas with his family that summer. I asked Andy to throw the shell back into the sea, to return it to the place where it had found me sitting on the shoreline, lost and alone. I knew that someday someone else would need to find it, just as I had all those years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Earlier this week I was running, and out of the blue, tears started to fall. It's not been the easiest month and I've done a lot of soul searching about many things. Why I seem to live a cyclical life. Why I often make the same choices, albeit for different reasons. I've had to surrender a lot of what I thought I wanted in order to accept what<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>is</i>, and I don't much like it. But who does? We've all got our proverbial crosses to bear and this year, I've discovered that I'm finally ready to put mine down, to allow a part of myself to die to the dreams I once had so that I can be reborn into a something new. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I just made the difficult decision to delete a novel I started writing three years ago, a fifth book in a series, for it reminds me too much of a past I've already healed, and I no longer want to write about characters who have long since been put to rest. I've been watchful for what will fill this void in my life, this place that was once occupied by drama and unrest and most recently by long nights lying awake in bed, waiting for a sign of things to come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I didn't have to wait long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few days ago, I spent a glorious afternoon in my garden. The trellises were anchored, the flower pots set on the porch to welcome the warm, spring rain. The backyard swing was put back together so it can be ready for long, lazy summer afternoons, and the raised bed has been prepped for planting. While I was raking some leaves out of one the beds, I found something that had gone missing a couple of years ago, a stone I had found on the beach in Big Sur on a gorgeous Friday in September, a speckled gray rock with a lovely white cross in the middle which has become an anchor in my garden and a reminder of quiet miracles<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">With every yoga class I teach, I'm reminded that even our human bodies create a cross, the most ancient of holly symbols. If we hold out our arms, they become the horizontal line; the space from the crown of our head to our feet, the vertical. Where they intersect is in the heart, the place where everything begins and ends, the place of healing and love and grace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And if we allow it, the place of infinite peace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-59953742773041608252019-03-27T15:42:00.001-04:002019-03-27T19:07:29.104-04:00Kiss my bass<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">I
like to do things my own way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose
it comes naturally, for my mother often lamented about how stubborn I was once
I learned to speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a temper, too,
and combined with pigheadedness, it made for a volatile concoction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, having been a strong-willed child
served me well when I taught preschool children and habitually heard the
mantra, “<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">NO</b>!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do it <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">myself</b>!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Understanding that independence is a trait to
be encouraged with small children, I stood back and watched while they
struggled with tying their shoes or zipping their coats. Eventually, they
mastered those seemingly simple tasks and learned that small successes meant a
lot, especially when perseverance was part of the process.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">Even
now, I still like to go my own way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
an adult, I don’t ignore advice from trusted friends; I simply filter their subjective
counsel and apply what works.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the
years of giving requested guidance myself, I know that I can talk until I’ve
exhausted every avenue of advice, but in the end, people are going to do
exactly what they want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I respect
that, for no matter what anyone else says, in the end I’m going to do what I
feel is best for me, too.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">Take
learning to fish, for example.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
significant other has been an avid fisherman for decades, but I hadn’t a clue
how to cast a line, let alone reel one in until we started dating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of years ago, Steve took me to a
local park where he hooked a bluegill, then handed me the pole saying, “You
bring it in, Kate.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gave me pointers about
how to avoid the reeds so I wouldn’t break the line and how to give the fish a
little slack when it struggled so I wouldn’t lose it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was fun, but not as entertaining as
watching me…or so Steve said on the way home.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">In
the summer of 2017, we spent a week at Posey Lake which is filled with all
kinds of fish --<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bluegills and walleye, trout
and crappie, but mostly bass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Smallmouth, largemouth, white, striped, and spotted, bass is plentiful
if you know where to look…and Steve intuitively knew exactly where to find
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every morning he took the boat out
before sunrise and returned mid-morning with a bucket filled with fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One afternoon while relaxing on the dock, I
noticed burbling in the water.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">“Look,
honey,” I pointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is that a school of
fish?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">Steve
squinted in the sunlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s
bass…that’s for sure.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then he showed me
how to cast my line using a floppy rubber worm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Come get in the boat and practice casting overhead, Kate,” he told
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Aim for the bubbles.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">After
Steve headed for the house, I switched tactics and cast the line off to the
side, finding I had much better control, landing the worm exactly where I had
aimed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cast after cast after cast, I hit
the mark dead on, but alas…didn’t hook a fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fifteen minutes later I was still practicing, but boredom slowly crept
in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steve sat in the distance, talking
on the phone while I scanned the nearby water in search of movement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly I saw a ripple in the distance and
cast my line, not how Steve had taught me, but how I had figured it out for
myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure enough, a fish tugged on
the worm and I hooked him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">“Steve!”
I shouted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“STEVE!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got one!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Reeling it in as best as I could, it was difficult to keep the line
tight with the bass thrashing and fighting the hook.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">Moments
later, Steve jumped in the boat, shouting, “Point the tip up so you don’t break
the pole.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hurry</i>…get the net!” I shouted back,
elated to have finally caught one all by myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">Steve
took a picture of me with my first catch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“That’s a respectable bass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good
job, Kate.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">Alas…the
victory was short lived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After casting
out a while longer, I soon lost interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Catch one and I’m done,” I laughed, handing him the pole so I could go hiking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">As
you can see, I’m not what you’d call an avid fisherwoman.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">When
I turned fifty time became more precious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A lot of women have told me that there’s a freedom in aging because we no
longer feel we have to answer to everybody else, that our life becomes more
about what we want to create for ourselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lately, growing older has shown me the value in doing things my own way
all of these years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, I’ve made
mistakes and I’ve suffered the consequences of stubbornly sticking to my
guns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in the end, I wouldn’t change
a thing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , "serif";"><span style="color: #274e13;">It’s
rewarding to know that all of the difficult choices I’ve made have
given me the confidence to keep growing…and catch a fish or two along the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-89282772142150010322019-01-01T10:41:00.000-05:002019-01-01T10:41:41.424-05:00Inside out<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Inside out</span></b><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Originally published on June 27, 2013<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";"> I have a decision to make. It's not important to give you the details, but suffice it to say, I've lost some sleep over this one. While not earth shattering or difficult, it would be joyfully life changing if I tipped the scales in one direction. And yet, if I leave well enough alone, life would still be comfortable. For now, I'm sitting in the middle of two realities, both of which are desirable. It's in moments like this that I have the opportunity to walk my talk. To sit back and detach. To see the bigger picture, let it breathe and then when the timing is right, make my move. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Or not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">When I was younger, I needed to have all my ducks in a row -- the sooner, the better. I made quick decisions, pivoted easily toward one direction or another and moved on. Looking back, it's no wonder I was often faced with the same type of choice again and again. Which job should I take? Which group should I join? Which person should I become involved with this time around? I often made a choice so quickly, I missed the clarity within the details and because steps were missed, I needed to go back and retrace them in order to make more conscious assessments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">I still like to have some sense of structure in my life, but am more content to let things rise, to wait for the eggs to hatch, and to live in the mystery of "what next?" I just came in from gardening and needed to prune back a lot of growth that's sprouted up this past week. We've had a lot of rainfall in the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Midwest<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>and along with it, a plethora of beautiful blossoms. The day lilies surprised me this morning, their trumpets wide open, ready to soak in the sun while it lasts. As I was clipped errant trumpet vine that loves to gnarl its way around their long stems, I told them, "It's your turn to bloom." For I know they only get one opportunity a year to strut their stuff and shine. Next month the hydrangea will flourish, and then the lavender and then the sedum in August. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Everything has its time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">The same is true for many of the choices we all must make. Life's circumstances are often thrust upon us and we have to respond instantly -- in a traffic jam, when dealing with home repairs, or enduring power loss during a thunderstorm. And so I find it comforting to be visited once again with a down-to-earth life decision that doesn't need immediate response, that can evolve over time. I can sit with both sides of the coin, knowing that if I allow it, more will be revealed so that I can make a wiser choice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">One of my favorite responsibilities while working in the garden at Esalen was taking care of the chickens. Each morning I would arrive early so I could let them scamper around the hen house with Henry, the cocky old rooster, calling the shots. If there were any eggs laid overnight, I would carefully gather them and take them to the lodge where they would be stockpiled in the walk-in refrigerator until we had enough to feed the whole garden crew. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">In the summer, my boss allowed us to leave a few eggs in the nests and see what would happen. We were blessed with several tiny fuzz balls that hatched, then celebrated their new life by making "bee bee bee bee bee" sounds all day long. We were never quite sure if an egg would result in a chick, but it was always exciting to feel the anticipation as I walked through the farm and across the bridge every morning on my way to the garden to see if a new baby had arrived. Perhaps it was then that I learned to enjoy the spaces in-between an initial intention and the providential result.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">As for now, I'm content to sit in the middle. To let things evolve. To cradle both eggs in my hands and watch for signs of possibility and new life. I'm curious to see which one will emerge first to guide me onward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">For it's in moving from the inside out that I make my best choices.<span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-16810641815384941132018-11-22T17:52:00.002-05:002018-11-22T17:52:24.016-05:00Popcorn and jellybeans<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Popcorn and jellybeans</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Originally
published on November 6, 2014<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One
of the most lovely and haunting sights at the park this season is the
bittersweet bursting with oranges, reds, and yellows as it finally has the
opportunity to show off a little. Autumnal weather has withered my garden
and with it, my chores have changed. No longer needing to weed and water,
I've been pruning and purging and raking for the past several weeks. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This
season, I saved the biggest job for last, or rather, I waited for the bitter
north winds to do half of the job for me, transforming the wild trumpet vine
that grows along the backyard fence from a lush and vibrant privacy hedge into
spindly twigs and woody stems.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Last
year I was incredibly busy, so my neighbor, Dean, was kind enough to do the
honors of taking the vine down to the studs. This year, I repaid his
kindness and did the job myself. After two and a half days, the work is
finally done, and I've said a sad good-night to my gardens which are ready to
sleep the winter away until next spring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Still,
November has its charms as my favorite holiday is just around the corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At
the grocery this past Friday I happened past an older woman who was perusing
the Christmas displays. "I'm all for getting my shopping done
early," I admitted. "But I sure do wish there was more
attention paid to Thanksgiving."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I
do, too," the woman nodded. "It seems like it's just getting
swept more under the rug each year. Too bad our culture can't take even
one day to be truly thankful."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I
couldn't agree more," I smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The
woman patted my hand. "It's good to see young people with that
attitude," she said. "It seems everyone nowadays is only
interested in buying more of this or that instead of taking time to just enjoy
what they already have."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The
United States was the first country in the world to establish a national
holiday to give thanks. But it seems our country's great expectations for
Thanksgiving have shifted from "Where's the turkey, stuffing, and
yams?" to "How many stores are going to be opening early so I can get
Black Friday deals that much earlier?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Over
the weekend I watched<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>A
Charlie Brown Thanksgiving</i>. Curled up in bed with the electric
blanket toasting my toes and a mug of hot tea on the bedside table, I had much
to be thankful for already. Yoga classes are going well. The novel
I started this fall is beginning to take shape. My health is good.
I have a warm and comfortable home. I'm content with who and where
I am in life, so in watching this show from my past (I was only seven when it
was first broadcast on CBS), it was effortless to see it from a different
perspective and still enjoy the whimsical story of Charlie Brown sharing an
unusual holiday dinner with his friends.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Then
and now, it's great fun to watch Snoopy commandeer the kitchen, joyfully
toasting up bread and enthusiastically popping a mountain of popcorn.
When he proudly serves the non-traditional meal to a bewildered Peppermint Patty, I
feel for him when she bitterly complains, "</span><span style="background: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Look
at this! Is this what you call a Thanksgiving day dinner?"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">Of course, the message of the show is to be thankful for
friends and for what we already have. To know that our expectations of
what a holiday is "supposed to look like" can't truly be met,
particularly if we put no effort into the process. And perhaps most
importantly, to understand that while Norman Rockwell might have meant well, I
doubt that even<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>his</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>family had the type of fictional
holiday experiences he often painted on canvas. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Like the wild and gnarly trumpet vine that needs a thorough
pruning every autumn, my expectations of who I am and what I should be doing
this time of year have had to be taken down to the studs...again and again and
again. There have been those who don't understand my choices. Those
who pity me or project how they might feel if they had to face the holiday
season alone. But I don't know any different, and over the years, I've
redefined what this time of year means to me.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">Last week, one of my friends asked, "What are you doing
for Thanksgiving?"</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I smiled. "Well, I'll probably take a walk at the
park and then sit in silence for a while. I may write in my journal or do
a little yoga. Usually I think about the year gone by...and all of the
things that have happened and not happened. All of the things I have to
be thankful for -- mostly the things you can't really see with your eyes."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"That's really what the day's all about, isn't it?"
my friend said kindheartedly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don't eat a traditional Thanksgiving meal anyway...and
haven't for years, so when friends invite me to their homes for dinner, I
gently decline, saying I'm perfectly content to be alone. However, I do remember a Thanksgiving meal I
shared with my friend, Sandy, in the late nineties. Colleagues at
Greenwood, we had just finished the very long and tedious process of putting
together the annual First Grade Feast. The celebration went off without a
hitch on Wednesday and we decided to spend a quiet day on Thanksgiving sipping
tea and talking about anything but schoolwork. Sitting in Sandy's
kitchen, we watched the sunset through the darkening window.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">"Do you want anything for dinner?" she asked.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">The year before I had made a pot of vegetarian chili and this
time it was her turn to cook, although we had been having so much fun doing
nothing, the day slipped by.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">"Sure...but don't bother to make anything," I said,
grabbing my coat. "Let's head over to Food Town and see what they've
got left."</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Fifteen minutes later we were back in her home. Sandy
enjoyed a warm and wonderful meal of turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing.
And what did<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>I</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>have? A very memorable meal
of baby carrots, hummus, and a little bag of chocolate-covered almonds.
It was the best Thanksgiving Feast imaginable. At least for me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">"Spending time with good friends...and sharing a quiet
day," I said, smiling at Sandy. "This is what Thanksgiving is
all about."</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sandy's since moved away, but sometimes my friend, Barb,
comes over for Thanksgiving breakfast. I'm not sure what I made the last
time around, but while I'm writing this blog, a loaf of gluten-free banana
bread is baking in the oven -- a test run for the big day in a couple of weeks.
I'm trying out a new brand of flour and pray the bread turns out a lot
better than the hard-as-shoe-leather cookies I made a month ago that my friend
ended up feeding to her dogs. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But even if it's not perfect, I'm sure Barb won't mind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">I look forward to decorating the table with simple place
settings. Brewing a pot of tea. Creating a light, delicious
breakfast for a friend who has been a great support this past year. We
may not be sitting at a ping-pong table enjoying a plate of popcorn and
jellybeans, but the sentiment will be the same. For as Marcie said to
Charlie Brown, "We should just be thankful for being together. I
think that's what they mean by<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Thanksgiving</i>."</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So this year, I'm thankful for Dean who took the time last
November to do an incredibly difficult job that made this year's fall clean-up
that much easier. I'm thankful for yoga students who grace my own house
with love and light. For my health and my pets and work that allows me to
heal and become more whole. For all the quiet, unseen aspects of my
life that I no longer take for granted.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">Mostly I'm thankful for my friends. Near and far,
they're all a part of my wonderfully eclectic extended family. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-39629966328877253512018-10-24T15:30:00.002-04:002018-10-24T15:30:49.224-04:00Persephone<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Persephone</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Originally published on October 16, 2014<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love Autumn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Everything about it is enticing: the brightly colored leaves, the crisp and cool air, the beautiful fall flowers that bloom in my garden. I enjoy wearing a comfy sweater while hiking at the park and I'll often pull on a pair of handwarmers to hang around on the sun porch as the days I'll be able to enjoy it rapidly dwindle. This is the time of year I bake cookies and apple dumplings and quick breads of all kinds. My cats cuddle more and rekindle their friendships as they stroll around the house looking for a warm sunbeam.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yes, there's much to revel in this time of year, but this time around, I find myself a bit melancholy. Like many Midwesterners I know, I'm experiencing a bit of PTSD related to last winter's howling winds, sub-zero temperatures, and a record-breaking eighty-five inches of snow. Yes, I love autumn, but this year...for the first time in my life...I'm not looking forward to what will follow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This past spring, it took a long time before I put my snow boots and mittens and shovel away, before I knew for certain it was safe to really believe warmer weather was here to stay. For weeks I worked in my garden, remembering daily the endless hours of shoveling, the kindness of neighbors who helped me dig the ice and drifts from my downspouts, and the horrifying nights I sat up worrying about my furnace when the temperatures dipped to -17 degrees. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Finally, around Flag Day, I began to enjoy what has been a lovely, if not cooler-than-normal summer. But I'll take that. It's been a joy to create a darling fairy garden near my front porch. To sit in the back yard and swing to my heart's content while I read books and research a new novel. To ride my bike here, there, and everywhere around town. But now, it doesn't seem like it was nearly long enough, and I long to stave off what's coming next, if only for another month or so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When I was in eighth grade, my Language Arts teacher introduced me to the <u>Iliad</u> and the <u>Odyssey</u>, two books that opened my eyes to the cycles of life, death, war, peace, and everything in-between. Mrs. Peterson graciously spent many a lunch hour in her classroom with me, eagerly answering my questions about the plot, the plethora of gods and goddesses and their roles and lessons in our modern life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My favorite was the story of Persephone, the goddess often called "Kore" in her youth, who was stolen by Hades one afternoon as she frolicked in the flowers while her mother, Demeter, stood by helpless to save her. Hades took Persephone as his intended wife to his land in the Underworld and Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, left her responsibilities to the earth behind while she frantically searched for her daughter. Preoccupied with her grief, Demeter left the land to desiccate and die.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the meantime, although Persephone was horrified to be separated from her mother, she eventually grew accustomed to her marriage and to the Underworld, finding that she was a benevolent greeter of those who entered death and darkness at the end of their lives. Eventually her father sent a messenger to Hades and demanded the release of Persephone, and Hades agreed, but with a price to be paid. Before setting his wife free, he gave her some pomegranate seeds to eat which magically bound Persephone to the Underworld for a portion of the year. So Persephone returned to her mother who in turn rejoiced and the earth awakened and flourished. Then six months later, when Demeter had to relinquish her daughter to fate, the harvest withered and winter came once again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Persephone's story represents the cycle of birth and death and the ability to embrace and celebrate them both. Each year, I'm reminded of the mystery of the little deaths in my own garden -- the wilting leaves, the yellowing stalks, the energy of the plants returning to the earth, to the underworld where their roots remain steadfast and strong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I know that some of the deepest transformations, the most powerful growth comes from what lies beneath the surface...beyond what our eyes can see or our hands can measure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A couple of weeks ago, a friend and neighbor gave me an exquisite clay flower pot in the shape of a Greek woman's head. She's a delicate reminder of Persephone, who, in the summer will hang on my house near the side door I use the most, and in the winter will rest on a shelf in my basement near the treadmill where I will run to keep warm during the long, dark winter months.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Seeing her calmly waiting for spring will remind me that all things will change eventually. The snow, the ice, the bitter winds. My fear of death in any sense of the word. The loneliness that can creep in when I struggle with cabin fever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the end, all things must pass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the midst of winter, each day will be what it is meant to be, just as each day in the springtime and summer is destined for its own joy and beauty. I can embrace both life and death, knowing that as the seasons change and bring new growth, so too does my own quiet life in the Heartland.</span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype"; font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5510488304530526952.post-72211488652132827832018-10-10T21:26:00.000-04:002018-10-10T21:26:35.008-04:00First memory<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>First Memory</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">from <u>Open Road: a life worth waiting for </u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>This is my first memory</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>It's the summer <span style="background: white;">of my fourth year.
A huge truck rumbles in the driveway while I sit on the front lawn eating
Oreos, twisting them apart and scraping my teeth along the white icing. I
watch my parents direct the movers who carry furniture and boxes into the
truck. Mr. and Mrs. Sanders, our next door neighbors, are nearby,
watching over my sisters and me. I'm vigilant as I observe the
countless boxes that contain all of our things, wondering, "What does it
mean to move away?"</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background: white;">It's not until we say our good-byes and I climb into my
mother's car that I begin to understand. We are leaving our little house
on Richland Street in Maumee, Ohio -- forever.</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background: white;">"Say 'bye-bye' to the house, Katie," Mom
chimes. </span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background: white;">I look over my shoulder and squint at its rapidly
retreating silhouette. "How come?"</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background: white;">"We won't live there anymore."</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background: white;">"Why?" </span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background: white;">"Because we're moving to Virginia for Daddy's
work."</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background: white;">"Why?" </span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background: white;">"Because that's where he needs to be."</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background: white;">"Where's all our stuff?"</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background: white;">"In the van...I told you."</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background: white;">That night we stay in a motel and moments after being
tucked into bed, the movers knock softly on our door so they can wish my
sisters and me a good night. They are kind and friendly. I'm glad
they will protect all of my toys, books, and dolls which are right there in the
parking lot, tucked away in boxes we will soon open in our new house. </span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background: white;"> Wherever we will live next, I feel more secure
knowing that all of my safety nets are coming with me.</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Transitions have been a part of my life since I was young. It
seems I was destined for perpetual movement since I was born in the heart of
the Year of the Fire Horse. September 9, 1966. If my birth
date is inverted, it's still the same: 9-9-66. Either way, I'm destined
to be a free spirit, uninhibited by the mores of society, by the constraints of
that which my culture believes to be normal or desirable. Like many Fire
Horses, I'm independent, hardworking, and fierce enough to bounce back from all
types of adversity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can also be incredibly reclusive and often sensitive to
over-stimulating environments, desperately needing to escape the deafening echo
of senseless noise. Having lived alone for more than twenty-five years, I
know how to keep my own counsel -- particularly when surrounded by the safety
nets of my books, gardens, and a variety of creative projects. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mine was once a life of contradictory energies, a consistent push and
pull of simultaneously wanting two incongruous things, all the while
recognizing that, in the end, neither is completely satisfying. In
midlife, I've come to understand the incredible power in finding the reality
that is somewhere in-between.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">I came to it naturally as I was born into a generation
caught between the conflicting mores of the fifties and the revolution of the
women's movement. No wonder I sometimes find myself longing to have it
both ways...the proverbial "having my cake and eating it, too."
Only this time, after decades of self-discovery, I now intentionally long for
the decadence of a homemade vegan chocolate soufflé instead of a boxed Betty
Crocker mix. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">I've learned that quality transcends quantity...every time.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My mother loved to tell a
story about my sister's kindergarten woes. An older boy waited for her at
the bus stop and teased her mercilessly. Sometimes she would come home
crying; on other days, Patricia refused to ride the bus to school. I gave
her suggestions about how to get him to stop, but with no success. One
day, I asked Mom if I could go with Patricia to the bus stop and show her how
to take care of the problem. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">"Don't worry, Mommy," I said.
"I'll make him stop."</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">When I came back home, I told my mother that the boy
would never bother Patricia again. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">"What happened?" she asked. "What
did you do?"</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">"I told him to stop teasing my sister," I
said bluntly. "Then I kicked him in the shins."</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">Sure enough, from then on, Patricia could ride the bus,
free from the taunts of the little boy who must have been terrified I would do
worse than kick him if he ever dared to bother my sister again. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">Yes, I was sassy and I was naughty. But I was
also in need of the assertive protection I provided for my older sister. Ironically
enough, as the years went by, it was Patricia who would taunt and tease <i>me</i>.
And when kicking her in the shins merely earned me a spanking, I used other
ways of protecting myself.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">I became a master at disappearing.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">Even now I love the shielding harbor of my home.
The silence of my yoga studio. The peacefulness of an early morning spent
in the garden. When I am alone I am safe. Safe to be all that I
am...all that I've unearthed...all that still needs tilling. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">I can be more than a Fire Horse. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">More than my mother's strong-willed daughter. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white;">More than what this world can see.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can be free.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iX95sGuGiWE/W76l71FXANI/AAAAAAAAFHA/Zlrc1zGALpIxYT2u9lCh2xkeI7HEG_gSACLcBGAs/s1600/sassy%2Bpants%2B001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="568" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iX95sGuGiWE/W76l71FXANI/AAAAAAAAFHA/Zlrc1zGALpIxYT2u9lCh2xkeI7HEG_gSACLcBGAs/s320/sassy%2Bpants%2B001.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Circa 1971, in the kitchen of the Richland Street house.</td></tr>
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Kate Ingersollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09712230402541345571noreply@blogger.com0