...on a record-high day in toledo!
Monday, December 29, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Christmas Eve
After church on The Most Wonderful Night of the Year.
The Tooth Fairy AND Santa, all in one night!Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Sunday, November 09, 2008
c'est fini!!!
Hallelujah!!!!!!!!!!!
Six months of planning, three months of labor. I have done little else, as you've probably noticed!
I'm going to BED!!!
Sunday, November 02, 2008
geeks grown up
My old high school crew out for appetizers before our 20 year reunion this weekend. Among us at the table we have three of the top ten (and five of the top 15), five national honor society members, the valedictorian and salutatorian, three graduation speakers, and a whole host of other accolades. Among my closest buds we have three engineers, a Fullbright Scholar, a professional counselor (that would be ME), a police sargent, and several other highly educated and successful professionals. Not a bad group to be associated with!
The hubby and me, pre-party.
A collage of the highlights of my evening...
The die-hard "Rossfordians" went to Moe's Bar after the reunion. Our crew went to Denny's...
Friday, October 31, 2008
a poem by any other name...
I "made" the writer's group write sonnets the other night and talked about how form can unlock creativity, rather than stifle it. Bob would have hated it... oh, that he would have been there!
Here are the two I worked on:
forecasting
Her voice, like sunshine, flits among the clouds--
bright patches in his otherworldly day.
Dark weariness his spirit fully shrouds
until a word of kindness drives away.
For when she shines, she shines with brightness fair,
and all within his world is good and right.
He casts aside the shadows of despair
and basks within her glowing rays of light.
But when her spirit's fire loses flame
and coldness creeps across her face like ice,
he, too, retreats in silent fear and shame,
and anxiously begins to scan the skies.
She does not mean at all to cause him pain,
when, in her own, she sometimes sends the rain.
bon soir
Sandy heads of curls reflect the sunlight,
as golden, glowing halos frame each face.
Playing hard, 'til late into the twilight,
pretending at a frantic, break-neck pace.
Fireflies begin to tease the darkness;
the crickets softly play their lullabye.
Nighttime settles silent on the back fence;
There's nothing harder than to say goodbye.
With cries and tears they protest loud and long,
still clinging to the last remains of day.
But droopy eyes belie their protests strong,
and finally their drowsiness gives way.
As tired and spent they tumble into bed,
a blessing prayed upon each sweaty head.
Here are the two I worked on:
forecasting
Her voice, like sunshine, flits among the clouds--
bright patches in his otherworldly day.
Dark weariness his spirit fully shrouds
until a word of kindness drives away.
For when she shines, she shines with brightness fair,
and all within his world is good and right.
He casts aside the shadows of despair
and basks within her glowing rays of light.
But when her spirit's fire loses flame
and coldness creeps across her face like ice,
he, too, retreats in silent fear and shame,
and anxiously begins to scan the skies.
She does not mean at all to cause him pain,
when, in her own, she sometimes sends the rain.
bon soir
Sandy heads of curls reflect the sunlight,
as golden, glowing halos frame each face.
Playing hard, 'til late into the twilight,
pretending at a frantic, break-neck pace.
Fireflies begin to tease the darkness;
the crickets softly play their lullabye.
Nighttime settles silent on the back fence;
There's nothing harder than to say goodbye.
With cries and tears they protest loud and long,
still clinging to the last remains of day.
But droopy eyes belie their protests strong,
and finally their drowsiness gives way.
As tired and spent they tumble into bed,
a blessing prayed upon each sweaty head.
20 years
Tomorrow night is my 20 year reunion. I never thought I'd be this old. Who knew?
Top left corner is my BFF from HS, Candy. Next to that is me and my director, Mr. Wilcox. The next picture is taken in the middle of the road in Times Square right after the Macy's parade went through, then a carriage ride in Central Park, then me as Sarah Brown in Guys and Dolls. Sandy and Bethany and I in art class on Sr. Dress Up Day, then bottom row has my best buds James, Beth, Candy and Lance and I on the Sr. Steps, Candy and I, and Lance and I at Sr. Prom. Those were the days!
Have some stuff to post--hopefully over the weekend, or when I return!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
in the beginning...
Another writing prompt that I decided to finish, this one from July’s Writer’s Group. “I am thinking of…”
I am thinking, in my blank-mindedness, of how hard it is to begin. How hard that first idea, those first few steps into the wilderness to forge the trail can be. Which direction? Toward the mountains? The valley? The meadow? Where do I let my feet take me? Where do I let my pen take me?
How something can be so simple yet so complex is beyond me. There are days when words tumble from my pen onto paper so fast my fingers can’t keep up with my brain. Then there are days when I sit down with a pen and seemingly forget how it works. Forget how to put it to paper. Forget how to create. How to begin…
I’m thinking of all the ideas that fill my files at home. Essays, articles, books. All ideas. Like eggs banked for another time, they wait for life to come to them. Some I return to, others continue to wait—reminding me, mocking me, calling me. Ideas that need to be begun…and then begotten.
And so how is it that one begins? How is it that Julie writes daily and I write monthly, at best? Where does the difference lie? Is it a lack of discipline? Of creativity? Of time? Or is it a lack of courage?
Beginning takes courage. Saying, “This is the path I am going to take. It starts here.” Putting pen to paper, letting the words come even then you don’t like the words. Letting the feelings come even when you don’t like the feelings. Letting your pen bring forth life whether you like the life it brings forth or not. This is risk. This is faith. This is writing.
I am thinking, in my blank-mindedness, of how hard it is to begin. How hard that first idea, those first few steps into the wilderness to forge the trail can be. Which direction? Toward the mountains? The valley? The meadow? Where do I let my feet take me? Where do I let my pen take me?
How something can be so simple yet so complex is beyond me. There are days when words tumble from my pen onto paper so fast my fingers can’t keep up with my brain. Then there are days when I sit down with a pen and seemingly forget how it works. Forget how to put it to paper. Forget how to create. How to begin…
I’m thinking of all the ideas that fill my files at home. Essays, articles, books. All ideas. Like eggs banked for another time, they wait for life to come to them. Some I return to, others continue to wait—reminding me, mocking me, calling me. Ideas that need to be begun…and then begotten.
And so how is it that one begins? How is it that Julie writes daily and I write monthly, at best? Where does the difference lie? Is it a lack of discipline? Of creativity? Of time? Or is it a lack of courage?
Beginning takes courage. Saying, “This is the path I am going to take. It starts here.” Putting pen to paper, letting the words come even then you don’t like the words. Letting the feelings come even when you don’t like the feelings. Letting your pen bring forth life whether you like the life it brings forth or not. This is risk. This is faith. This is writing.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
the beat goes on
While I didn't do much posting this summer, I DID manage to do some writing. With the help of a book by Natalie Goldberg titled Old Friend From Far Away, I began doing writing practice a few days a week. I had hoped to post some of them, but never found the time. But now that the kids are back to bed at 8:00 (HALLELUIA!!!), I hope to share a few of them with you. The prompt for this one was "I remember..." I thought it fit well with the back to school theme, so I finished it along that vein...
I remember when I was at the center, not around the circumference. Eyes six inches from my own, searching, seeking, finding. I remember when only I could satisfy, only I could calm, only I could delight. I remember the days when Momma was everything—the mender of boo-boos, the singer of lullabies, the holder of hands, the keeper of secrets, the receiver of kisses. And I remember the fullness of my heart mixed with the sadness of knowing that which every mother knows. This will not last. This will not last. This will not last. With every heartbeat, I’ve tried to remember. Be here. Be here now. This will not last.
Some mothers accept this with ease—the natural rhythms of life flow through their days and they are always in step with its beat. I, on the other hand, seem continually lost in the music, swaying off-tempo, hoping the song won’t come to an end. Long known for overstaying my welcome, I still struggle with letting go and knowing when to make my exit.
My daughter is nine now, and I am moving to the periphery. I try to accept it with a smile, encouraging her independence with no small amount of fear brewing within. But my smile is strained—not the full, teethy grin of happiness but the forced pull of the cheeks upward to reassure her, and everyone else, that I am okay with this.
But I am not.
My son, my baby, is five, and I am no longer the center of his days. I share him with a delightful woman named “Mrs. Smith,” splitting my precious time with him between us. She is wonderful, but I share him, nonetheless. I do not like to share. Just ask my husband. Just ask my children. I try to share, but it is compulsory at best, insincere and begrudging at worst. And it makes me grumpy, to boot. I am not okay with this.
I remember my training. I remember the years of childhood development classes and experience working with children and families. I remember my own struggle toward independence. I know I must let go. I know I must let go well. But knowing and wanting to are two entirely different things, and the second comes much less easily than the first. (And the first doesn’t come easily in the first place.) I remember the advice to put our marriage first, because when the children are gone, we will only have each other. I remember thinking, “Well, DUH. Of course we’ll put our marriage first.” And I remember when I first recognized that my priorities had inadvertently shifted.
My children have become the center of my world, and I am slowly but surely moving out of the center of theirs. I must learn to be okay with this. I must. I will. It just isn’t going to happen tonight. Because tonight, as my children grow up before my eyes, you will find me thumbing through baby books, wondering where the years went, listening to the beat of my mother-heart…
Be here. Be here now. This will not last.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
i think it's really a corola, but the syllable count was all off...
3 generationsin 1 toyota camry
headed 4 the beach
incoming storms (a daily occurance)
costal breezes mixsetting the night sky ablaze
with passionate fury
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