tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71868776855343779572024-03-13T17:37:18.370-04:00leftbrainwriteMusings on writing and the mind...Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.comBlogger673125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-45616572454595233192017-11-07T10:34:00.003-05:002017-11-07T10:34:54.711-05:00Change is Good--Right?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hello dear readers--are you still out there?<br />
<br />
It's been awhile, and I wouldn't blame you for moving on. I felt the need for change, and have spent some time with a new website, and setting it up is like learning a new language if, like me, you are a Luddite. So I am done writing here. It's been a great ride, one lasting more than a decade. I've made a lot of friends, and learned a lot about writing. Please join me as I start a new venture at <a href="https://lindawastila.com/">lindawastila.com</a>.<br />
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Peace...Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-5651653357585027502017-01-25T06:54:00.000-05:002017-01-25T06:54:34.177-05:00Bearing Witness--The Wall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Today they started building The Wall. When I woke
this morning and went down to the kitchen, Mum and Dad weren’t there. I
followed the low murmur of the television and found them in the living room.
Dad had his arm around Mum, and from the way her back shook I knew she was
crying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I watched the Docums for a few minutes. Picture
after picture of our Chairman, hardhat on his balding head, shovel in hand,
surrounded by smiling workers. All men, all white. I wondered if Heidi’s dad
was there, or Rachel’s. Mum and Dad didn’t know I was there. A weird heaviness
filled me, like I’d swallowed an anchor or a flat of bricks. But then it became
part of me, I’d absorbed the weight of it all, and I returned to the kitchen,
but I wasn’t hungry for breakfast. I shouldered my backpack and, even though it
was still dark, made my way to the corner to wait for the bus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">At the bus stop, I sat on the curb, sheltered by the
ancient maple better than any umbrella, and pulled out my DocBook. I wanted to
write—I needed to write—but my emotions tangled together and the words stuck
together like glue. Above me, the sky spit hard drops of rain that spattered on
the leaves. Down the street the dim yellow of headbeams lit the way for the bus.
I powered down my DocBook and as I stood, I remembered: Mum’s family lived in
Guadalajara, she was born there, and now The Wall would keep her away from her
family forever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Two months ago I started BEARING WITNESS, a new novel, one that will push me as I am writing speculative young adult, but one which I hope has an Atwood sensibility. The story grew from an ancient flash, never published, I'd written in response to a prompt about walls. This is the beginning of chapter 3 which I've been wondering how to start. I have to thank the current administration for it's announcement today that they are proceeding with blocking our borders for shaking out my block. Peace... </span></div>
Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-44086768241486584412017-01-22T08:40:00.000-05:002017-01-22T08:40:57.264-05:00Excuse Me, My Feminism's Showing<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ozQwf2EBB9U/WIS1P63r_CI/AAAAAAAAEV0/EmyzD0G4PwYihH1Txg9Rqu1QQEK_G_LWwCEw/s1600/DC%2Bmarch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ozQwf2EBB9U/WIS1P63r_CI/AAAAAAAAEV0/EmyzD0G4PwYihH1Txg9Rqu1QQEK_G_LWwCEw/s320/DC%2Bmarch.jpg" width="180" /></a>Once upon a time, in a land far away called Brookline, I was a feminist. I lived a block off Beacon Street, which included three pregnancy clinics within a mile of each other. I held signs and helped make human fences so other girls and women could gain entrance when individuals who called themselves 'Pro-Life' tried to block their way. I was an active member of my town's Board of Selectmen's Women's Committee (doesn't sound right, does it?). I was a card-carrying member of Boston NOW and an advocate for the RU-486 campaign. I boarded buses to Washington, DC on a regular basis to protest the erosion of women's rights and to affirm the passage of such.<br />
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Time passed. Abortion and birth control remained a right. Membership in women's groups dwindled because there seemed no need. Women rocked the world--we went to Harvard and Yale, became professors and CEOs and Senators. We raised our daughters and sons. We lived almost happily ever after.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ozQwf2EBB9U/WIS1P63r_CI/AAAAAAAAEV0/VYbXHg76CdQCixiTdD6ZEBHKLFxxOK83gCLcB/s1600/DC%2Bmarch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ozQwf2EBB9U/WIS1P63r_CI/AAAAAAAAEV0/VYbXHg76CdQCixiTdD6ZEBHKLFxxOK83gCLcB/s320/DC%2Bmarch.jpg" width="180" /></a>Yesterday, I dusted off my old peace and diversity and abortion rights buttons and boarded another bus to Washington, DC. This was my 7th such DC march and once I joined the stream of humanity making its way to Independence Avenue, I knew it was bigger than any other event I'd attended. Women and men of all ages and colors and religions stood and sat with signs at the rally, And then, we marched. Rather, we slouched our way to the White House--there were too many people to march. A most glorious traffic jam.<br />
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What I heard over and over again--we've become complacent. After 8 years of social, economic, and political progress, we have gotten lazy. For myself, more than two decades of complacency have passed. Certainly I have been ardent about many things--my children, mental health, substance use, education--but my ardor has been a quiet one. Time to amp up my commitment to a better world.<br />
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From now on, I will wear my buttons proudly. If someone will knit me a pussy hat, I'll wear that proudly as well. My feminism will wear itself as care and compassion for everyone, even those whose views I fail to understand, and I will fight for equal rights for all. Because that is what is democracy is all about. And, as a mother, this is what I need to insure for my children.<br />
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Call your elected officials and tell them what YOU want and need from them. Go to your town and county meetings. Join the PTSA. Write letters to the editors. Run for office, any office that affects policy. And I will see you at the next march.<br />
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Peace...Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-43580423241694957552016-12-24T09:07:00.000-05:002016-12-24T09:07:33.093-05:00Faux Joy (Writing Down the Year)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Christmas Eve feels more like Christmas than the actual day. As a child, we opened our presents on Christmas Eve, a slow process where every one opened a gift one at a time. Stockings were opened in the morning, after a pan of pannu-kakku, a Finnish pancake slathered with butter and cinnamon and sugar. But now I'm an adult--opening gifts is relegated to the kids--and Christmas Eve is often when I begin to bake my cookies and write my letters and cards.<br />
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Writing becomes a reflective exercise--what happiness occurred since the last letter? What travels? What milestones achieved? I receive many family letters in the mail, and while I enjoy reading them, it always seems those families celebrate so much joy, so much unity and good times. The children excel, the family trips filled with smiling faces. I wonder--did anything shake the lives of these people I care about? Did anything scare them? Did their children become ill, or refuse school, or try to harm themselves? I hope not. I truly hope not. But I know my own letter masks the sadnesses we have encountered, the crises and fears and shattered hopes.<br />
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My letters and cards always go out late--it's the nature of the beast of someone on an academic schedule. I call them my New Year's cards. But if no cards or letters go out it's because the sadnesses were too much and too big to hide.<br />
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This year, I will write my letter. I will try to make it honest by touching on both happy events and those that filled me with grief. I am grateful that this year I can write a letter at all.<br />
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So in between batches of butter stars and nut biscottis, I will draft my words, find my pictures, commemorate another year passed.<br />
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May you find peace with those you love, and yourself...<br />
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LindaLindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-69798586318701351052016-11-13T08:32:00.000-05:002016-11-13T08:32:01.018-05:00Women, Walls, and War<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I haven't posted for some time, The reasons are mostly mundane (work, the end of daylight savings and the resultant fatigue) and personal (kids come first, at least in my home). And it has taken me some time to thaw from the results of this election.<br />
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Like many, I am afraid. I am afraid that women will never budge past the glass ceiling when it comes to running this nation. I am afraid of walls, literal and metaphorical, that will arise to keep out those who don't look white and Native-born and have male genitalia. I am afraid that the global wars will be further fueled, and more, I am afraid of war building in our country.<br />
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(Correction: I contend we already have a war of sorts in our nation--just look at the violence we heap upon each other.)<br />
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I am afraid my international graduate students will find it difficult to find jobs, despite their kindness, their brilliance, their potential to make a real difference in health care. I am afraid people with mental health and substance use disorders and other chronic conditions will find their health care no longer affordable, and that their conditions will forever be used against them when they seek insurance in the future.<br />
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I am afraid the children of this nation, including my own, will believe that bullies do win.<br />
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The election of He Whose Name Shall Not Be Uttered, as well as the election of his minions (or soon-to-be minions) into Congress, has awakened me out of complacency. Like the slap of cold air when I roll out of bed. Like the way I felt as a middle-school student reading Shirer's <i>The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich</i>. I have been quiet too long. <br />
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My pledge and promise:<br />
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I will practice the art of non-violent discussion.<br />
I will support individuals and groups who share my vision.<br />
I will speak up and act out when I witness injustice.<br />
I will resist the new norm.<br />
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Peace...Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-45833756547706168362016-09-04T07:51:00.000-04:002016-09-04T07:54:49.231-04:00A Single Leaf, Fallen <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Am I the only person who doesn't mind the end of summer?<br />
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I don't miss the looseness of summer. While (theoretically) I have more 'time' in summer to write, I find writing comes harder when the days blaze hot and long. With the advent of autumn, my time shrinks into manageable packets, and it's in these packets that I can write because I need to--time is scarce. With summer, time looms to infinity, and the urgency to write dissipates. <br />
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It's been a week since my kids have returned to school, high school for them both, and I welcome the schedule like a favorite pair of worn-in jeans. As my children edge into young adulthood, I find myself worrying more about their well-being than when they were helpless, reckless toddlers. Having them in school gives me that emotional break for a few hours during the work week.</div>
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While glad summer is ending. I'm less happy that darkness comes sooner and leaves later. The past few mornings I've barely been able to edge out of bed because of the dark, cool air. I amble down to the kitchen and my coffee tastes better, has the edge it lacks in summer.</div>
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My writing feels mired in possibility. It seems I am forever editing and marketing, and the desire to write new words waxes and wanes. And what to write? I have several new stories in my heart, but they all call out equally. And there is something new, an idea that is not fiction, and that calls me, too. I need to decide which to pursue, and when, and stop pondering. I need to write.</div>
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I finished Lidia Yuknavitch's <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Small-Backs-Children-Novel/dp/0062383256/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8">The Small Backs of Children</a>. What to say other than this exquisite story makes me giddy and sad all at once? She's graphic, pushes the reader to the edge of alive. And the writing? Here is an example of not a wasted word, and where each word pulls double duty. I want read all of her now. </div>
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FINE, a small fiction, launched at <a href="https://bluefifthreview.wordpress.com/2016/08/31/summer-quarterly-summer-2016-16-9/">Blue Fifth Review</a>. A huge thanks to editors Sam Rasnake, Michelle Elvy, and Bill Yarrow for publishing my work. It's a fine issue, and I'm humbled to have my words alongside those of poets and writers I admire.<br />
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Let me know what you're reading and writing and thinking.<br />
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Peace, Linda</div>
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Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-61189064458231099832016-05-21T07:23:00.001-04:002016-05-21T07:23:26.082-04:00TRANSITIONS<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Another gray
morning. Rain smacks the roof, a sound I once loved but have become immune to.
Just as January signifies a new start, so does this month as school winds down,
summer looms, and the season of leisure begins in a few short weeks. This year
I worry about the tomatoes and the berries—will they ripen? One year when I
lived in Massachusetts, summer never showed up. Many plants never bloomed,
fruit never set, it was that cold.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">One of my
graduate students flew the coop this week. She is a brilliant young woman, an
ambitious one, but most of all, kind and compassionate. Her parents flew from
Taiwan and I met them, gracious people and proud parents. They are the lucky
ones—they get to claim her forever. My student will start her new life in
Boston, where she wanted to go, working with a colleague that once was my student.
She will do well there—her new work group does important work and they are
great folks. I feel pride and joy for her, but also sadness because we’ve
worked together for almost five years, and there’s a little hole in my heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">At work, soon
I will shed old roles and take on new ones. Exhilarating and petrifying… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">My dear
daughter got into the high school program she applied to—bio-medical sciences.
She wishes to be a forensic anthropologist. Truth be told, she'll be an amazing
scientist: curious, seeking, persistent. In a few weeks my dear son returns
home after nearly two years away at private school. He enters his senior year,
though we’re still not sure where. I feel grateful and excited that my nest
will be full again. And then… the nest will begin to empty again. I see
families with babies and toddlers and I yearn for those times, long for the first
words, first steps, first every things… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">In three weeks
I’ll fly to Denver for a week of writing. I’ll meet up with my good friend
Barbara, an amazing writer and my soul sister. We met three years ago in Taos,
and bonded immediately in the line for drinks at the opening reception. Another
writer friend, whom I’ve not yet met, will also be there. We’re taking a juried
workshop with Jenny Offill, author of the phenomenal <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/03/31/mother-courage-3">Department
of Speculation</a> which managed to touch every nerve I possessed and rubbed it
raw. I’m excited, and nervous; my own book, still in process, touches on many
of the same themes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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My friend and writing colleague Jacqueline Bach has a cool blog called <a href="http://writingprocessinterviews.blogspot.com/">THE PROCESS PROJECT</a>, where she interviews writers about their approaches to the craft. I'm up this week, so please take a look and read the wise words from over two dozen other writers.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">What’s new
with you? What’s old? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Peace…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-45388735338333617072016-04-26T07:02:00.001-04:002016-04-26T07:02:32.740-04:00THE WORLD IS THEIR OYSTER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For us academics, late April signals the end of a semester. There's busyness around exams and papers and grading. This Spring I have 160 pharmacy students on 2 campuses in a required class. It's all good, and they're an energetic bunch, and I'll miss them. This Spring I also have a doctoral student who will graduate, her dissertation a rigorous meditation on how where you live determines what medications you get to treat mental illness--and how geography and treatment combine to determine one's probability of hospitalization.<br />
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For these students, this Spring signals an end. And a new beginning. Just not with me.<br />
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Which saddens me because lately, as I grow older, it seems I stand still while the rest of the world streams by. The world is their oyster; for me, it's already eaten and digested.<br />
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I know I should welcome this time of relative stillness. I can write (and I am). I can meditate (and I'm not). I can spend time doing nothing, which we all know confers tremendous health benefits (and I'll try). But still... I have a growing hankering for more. But more what?<br />
<br />
When younger, I'd satisfy my itch with travel. Now, travel is a lot of work, although once at my destination, I usually appreciate the views, the people, the food, my single room with control of the remote. Or new experiences, like zip lining or karate or learning how to piece together a handbag (and use the sewing machine). I have been cooking lots of new recipes, inspired by my daughter's vegetarianism.<br />
<br />
But I sense a need for change. The last time I felt this yearning, about ten years ago, I woke up one morning and started writing. The words flowed from me like lava, hot and uncontrollable and vivid. And unexpected. So whatever comes next, I will be listening, waiting.<br />
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Of course, maybe this perceived need for change will be solved with a new pet or a new pair of sandals. And I know, from experience, that wishing for change sometimes brings about change you don't want. So for now, I will quietly gather my energy, enjoy the peace, and wait for the Next Big Thing to announce itself.<br />
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Peace...Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-3638297474179731572016-03-01T06:37:00.000-05:002016-03-04T10:16:30.285-05:00The Longest Month<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am very glad (thrilled? ecstatic?) today marks the beginning of March. The extra day added to February made that longest month seem even longer.<br />
<br />
Not sure why I dislike February so much. It's likely the weather--bitter winds, lots of gray, and here, in Maryland, indecisive about whether to pitch snow or freezing rain from the heavens. Or maybe it's the lack of holiday breaks. President's Day? Washington's birthday? Mean little to me, I still go to work. A few friends get excited over Valentine's Day, but I prefer the day after, when chocolate gets marked down.<br />
<br />
There's nothing to look forward about February except getting it over with.<br />
<br />
And so now this dreaded jail time is over, and I am free. Spring lurks around the corner; grackles populate the lawn like mushrooms after a sogging rain. On Sunday, posted pictures of croci flooded my Facebook feed. For myself, spring gets real when I find the first purple-green asparagus tips pushing through cracked earth.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>What I'm Reading...</i></b> <b>Amy and Isabelle</b> by Elizabeth Strout, the master of getting into character using close third. And I love the dynamic between frustrated mother and maturing daughter--a dual coming-of-age story. And Jenny Offill's <b>Last Things</b>, a story about love and loss. For non-fiction fun (and edification), I'm reading Steve Silberman's <b>Neurotribes</b>, about the discovery--and future--of autism.<br />
<br />
<b><i>What I'm Writing...</i></b> Small pieces, for sheer pleasure. I'm marketing my work more aggressively, including both novels. Working on a memoir--why not? And revising, always revising.<br />
<br />
I'm honored to have <a href="http://www.flash-frontier.com/february-2016-dance/#mainstreaming">Mainstreaming at the Middle-School Social</a> up at <a href="http://www.flash-frontier.com/february-2016-dance/">Flash Frontier</a> an international journal of small fictions founded my Michelle Elvy. Thanks to Guest Editors Elizabeth Smither and James Norcliffe for selecting my work. Take a peek around--some excellent writers and stories.<br />
<br />
<br />
Spring. Around the corner. It invigorates me and productivity surges. I'll be writing and reading and doing karate with my daughter--what about you?<br />
<br />
Peace...Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-63307039551975547992016-01-19T06:55:00.001-05:002016-01-19T06:58:17.718-05:00It's All About the Writing (or, My Insecurities For All to Read)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For the first time in ten years, since I've been writing, I'm finding myself unable to focus on the project at hand. Which is odd because my head and heart aren't as encumbered as they've been the past three years, so I should have all this room to write.<br />
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In part, it's my day job. I'm a professor, so I don't really have a job I can clock out of at 5 and then go home, kick back my feet, and suck down a glass of Cabernet. It's a job which I mostly love but which sucks me dry at times.</div>
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But even so, I should be able to get into my writing when that blasted alarm clock blares at 5:30 am. I DO get up, but even as I walk down the stairs telling myself to open word and not gmail, email, facebook, or that blasted twitter, I still do exactly that. Minutes pass, my hour goes, and I might have half-heartedly put in edits for a couple of pages.</div>
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I think the major reason I'm not into writing, though, is that I have two many projects. I have two books, finished, that need homes. I am pitching them, and this also seems to suck me dry--the tedium of researching agents, the tedium of writing query letters, the fear galloping ahead of me that these books will never reach the world, that I'm a hack, I'm wasting my time with this 'hobby'. The rejections slowly roll in, usually on a Friday afternoon (ever notice the timing of declines, fellow writers?), usually with some form of personalization but always with the latest market lingo, "I didn't connect with the writing the way I'd hoped to." </div>
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And then there's <b>The Minister's Wife</b>, which I have just picked up again after a year. This work is a Mess. A Very Big Mess, and as I poke through pieces I realize I need a thousand pages to tell this story, it is too big, so what do I do? Change the story line? Reduce the POV characters? Make it into multiple projects with overlapping characters?</div>
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What really frustrates me is that all of the above isn't 'writing'. It's editing and revising, pitching and marketing, and I really feel I can't afford to stop these things because I need to get something published. And this need paralyzes me from writing new words, even though I have other ideas and projects lining up like jets on the runway waiting to take off.</div>
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I will plod along. This too shall pass. But I ache for more time to just write, I ache for some conclusion for the words I've already written. I ache for a modicum of validation that my writing is worthwhile, that it makes a difference.</div>
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How do you push past self-doubt? Any and all advice welcome. Peace...</div>
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Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-72700158343083787502016-01-01T07:27:00.000-05:002016-01-01T07:27:10.258-05:00Looking Forward...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I went to bed last night (well before the witching hour),
plotting in my head the wise words I’d share today, the launch of a new year. I
love the first day of a new year—it’s akin to shedding old clothes and wearing
new, shiny togs. I was going to say something about a new year providing a new
chance for hope, which led me to ponder what it was I hoped for. And of course,
I hoped for calm and peace for my family, health and resilience for my
children. But these are ‘things’ I can’t change, through persuasion or brute
force; these are things I’m graced with, through luck or God or both.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve said before I’m not one for resolutions, and I’m not,
especially as I realize what I want most I can’t guarantee. But I can help
shape peace and calm and health, and I can do this by living my best possible life.
Two years ago, through necessity, I started to live my best possible life.
Those of you who don’t know me but who might have met me at a conference or a
grocery store would likely think to yourselves, “Jeesh, that woman, such a
mess!” And I was a mess, but I was the best I could be at that time. Back then,
there were days when getting myself on the metro to work was a triumph. Fear
has a funny way of paralyzing me (maybe you, too?) but at some point something
snapped in me and I got pissed off and decided to rub fear’s nose in my
happiness. Which was feigned, but another funny thing is when you fake your joy
and peace, it becomes a state of being.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As 2016 marches down its preordained road (and we get an
extra day of joy this year), my game plan is to continue being the best
possible me every second of this year. That means checking myself when I find
impatience and frustration growing in my gut, approaching life as a listener
rather than a talker, and establishing boundaries that provide the ability to
be the best I can be. It also means forgiving myself when I screw up (and
forgiving others when they do), because I (and others) will screw up—it’s part
of our messy humanity. It means seeking daily balance in my physical, social,
emotional, and spiritual needs, and keeping each well fed. Being the best
possible me means having goals (not resolutions) and striving toward them. I
want to tumble into my sheets each night feeling I accomplished much, have
nothing to feel badly about, and knowing I did the best I could—and that I can
do better. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So no expectations for dramatic change this year; merely paddling
down the same creek in hopes the water and my work carve the earth ever deeper.
What are your goals for this year? What paths are you hoping to meander down? </div>
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Happy New Year, and peace...<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-67401710749989543652015-12-25T00:30:00.000-05:002015-12-25T00:30:02.146-05:00THE LONELIEST TREE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iuXS6dbuL2E/Vnqyc9ltfNI/AAAAAAAAELI/f468Jya6w-Q/s1600/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="269" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iuXS6dbuL2E/Vnqyc9ltfNI/AAAAAAAAELI/f468Jya6w-Q/s400/tree.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Once upon a time, high on a golden hill, lived the smallest fir tree. His older brothers and sisters often sent him special gifts: a spider trailing on a silken thread, milkweed spores drifting on a summer breeze, soft pollen that painted him yellow. These presents made the littlest fir tree tremble with joy. But when the spider lifted away, the downy milkweed fluttered to the field, and the wind dusted off the pollen, the littlest fir tree was lonelier than ever.<br />
<br />
One Spring day, a wren chose to nest in the smallest fir tree. Mornings, the baby birds chortled as their mother searched for grubs and worms. One afternoon, as the littlest fir tree and the baby wrens drowsed in the wan sun, the wren squawked loudly, rousting her family from the tree. A man and a boy, both clad in overalls, walked through the orchard, throwing fertilizer around the firs.<br />
<br />
"There, there.” The boy tossed pellets under the littlest fir tree’s boughs. “Grow strong and healthy and green.”<br />
<br />
He squinted up at the nest perched in the littlest tree, his Red Sox cap on backwards. His fingers stroked the needles and the tree shivered.<br />
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"So soft, papa,” the boy said. “Like a kitten’s tail.”<br />
<br />
"Yup,” said the man. “He’s the youngun here – just like you.”<br />
<br />
That summer, the wind smelled of sweet hay. Buzzing bees filled the air with song. The farmer and his son came to the hill almost every day, watering the trees when the sun withered their needles. The boy panted and groaned as he hauled the full pails up the hill, but he always watered the littlest fir tree. Afterwards, he collapsed in the cool shade cast by the littlest fir tree and told stories about the puffy cloud creatures scudding across the sky.<br />
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One morning, the farmer came with a machine that whirred and twirled. The smallest fir tree watched the farmer trim his brothers and sisters into triangle shapes. The other trees danced in the breeze, happy with their new look, but the buzzing tool scared the smallest fir tree.<br />
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“This won’t hurt,” the boy said.<br />
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And it didn’t, the tool tickled. The fir tree shivered with delight.<br />
<br />
The leaves of the forest Maples flamed red. Shadows stretched long across the meadow. The man came to the orchard, but always alone; the littlest fir tree missed the boy’s visits. On the first hard frost, the hill sparkled with diamonds. The man walked the orchard, still alone, pulling long red and white and yellow ribbons from a leather bag slung over his shoulder. He tied a ribbon on each tree and soon, the ribbons fluttered like flags in the brisk autumnal air. The littlest fir tree wondered what color ribbon the farmer would tie on him. But when the man reached the hilltop, he paused before the littlest tree and sighed a deep sigh, then walked back down the hill.<br />
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The sun dropped behind the forest ridge. The fir tree shivered, sending needles to the ground.<br />
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The ground rumbled. Cars and trucks filled the bottom field. Shouts of children filled the air.<br />
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“There! This tree!”<br />
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“No, this one!”<br />
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The children swarmed around the small fir tree, sometimes even saying “This one!”<br />
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But the fathers said, “This tree is too puny. Besides, it has no ribbon,” and strode past, saws and axes thrown over their shoulders. The littlest fir tree trembled as his brothers and sisters groaned and fell to the ground.<br />
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Snow dusted the stump-stubbled hill. Without the protection of his brothers and sisters, the northeast gusted hard and cold, coating the trembling fir tree in ice. The mockingbird trilled as the wagon, pulled by the man, bumped and creaked up the hill. When the man reached the top, he pulled off his wool hat and wiped his sweat-shined forehead. In the wagon, the bundle of blankets moved; the small boy, pale and drawn, poked out his head. He smiled at the littlest tree, but the smile seemed as big an effort as lugging pails of water.<br />
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"This one?” the man asked the boy. “You’re sure?”<br />
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The little boy nodded and closed his eyes. The man gazed at the boy for a long moment, then turned away, a tear frozen on his cheek.<br />
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The fir tree looked down the hill at the stumps of his family one last time. Then he pulled his limbs tight and waited for the axe’s blow. But the man plunged a shovel into the frozen earth. He chipped a circle, deeper and deeper, around the tree, loosening the dirt around the fir tree’s roots.<br />
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The man pulled the tree tight to his chest; more than anything, the littlest tree wanted to stay in his embrace. But the man tugged hard, yanking the tree from the cold ground. The boy clapped his hands, his laugh sounded like birdsong.<br />
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“Your little tree will grow strong in the front yard,” the man said. “There, we can see him from the kitchen.”<br />
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"And I can visit him in the spring?” the boy whispered.<br />
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"Yes.” The man wiped at his shiny cheek. “Yes, you can.”<br />
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The man wrapped the trembling tree in burlap and nestled him in the wagon beside the boy. The boy snuggled into the littlest fir tree all the way down the hill and across the bumpy field. When the wagon stopped, the farmer unfurled the littlest fir tree from the cloth and propped him in a large hole. Shovels of dirt and snow covered his roots. The boy clambered from the wagon, falling twice in the deep snow. When he hugged the littlest fir tree, icicles tinkled to the ground.<br />
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***<br />
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I originally wrote this story three years ago but wanted to share it again. I think often of the lonely tree, and the lonely children in the world. May your winter nights be full of talk, of laughter, warmth and love. May you never be lonely.<br />
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Merry Christmas.<br />
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Peace...Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-66832145667193594172015-12-23T09:20:00.000-05:002015-12-23T09:20:20.060-05:00Where I've Been...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Amidst the zany-ness of the holidays and the busy-ness of semester's end, I get glimmerings of what the next year might bring. Small flashes--I think of them as portents--come to me in my night and day dreams, and likely reflect my hopes and desires. Of course, these glimmerings come from where I've traveled this past year. So to make sense of my future I need to take stock of its foundation.<br />
<br />
Physically, I've traveled many places this past year. In visiting my son, I've gotten to know Utah more than I'd ever thought possible, and come to appreciate her grand mountains and gentle people and mercurial weather. With my graduate students, I attended a conference outside of Los Angeles, and we've walked Venice Beach, dipped our toes in the warm Pacific. I've visited family in Massachusetts and North Carolina, always a blessing. I traveled briefly to New Orleans and marveled at that City's resilience and grace and eccentricity. I spent a week in Taos, a magical place, with a gracious and strong writer friend who I consider a soul mate. I could spend every night watching the skies in New Mexico shift under God's paintbrush.<br />
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Literally, I've struggled, for the first time, with my writing. My novels overwhelm me; just as I think they're finished, something surprises me--an omission, a plot hole, a character flaw--and I fix these, and revise again. And again. And again. I ache to write new words, fiction and non-fiction ideas that wake me up at night. And I will, once I have wrangled these other two beasts to the ground and sent them out to others. I <i>have</i> begun that quixotic search for agents and received personal rejections already. Which feels good because it means I'm almost hitting the sweet spot, and I am letting these stories go.<br />
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Physically, I have pushed envelopes. I zip-lined down a mountain in Park City, surfed on synthetic waves, climbed a rock face. Big deals for someone afraid of heights. I'm learning karate with my daughter, which also pushes me.<br />
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Spiritually and emotionally, I've moved from a reactive place to a proactive one. I am learning to let go of the emotions surrounding expectations and outcomes. As a Type-A, this is difficult for me. But as I relinquish control to outcomes--mine and others'--I find myself feeling lighter, freer somehow. Also, I realize that there is very little 'real' control; rather, it's my perception of control that has paralyzed me in the past. I've also come to value relationship above all else--spending time in the creek with my daughter, climbing rock faces with my son, coffee and yoga with friends, Saturday nights with my husband. People ground me.<br />
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In a nutshell, this is where I've been this past year. What about you? Where have you traveled, physically or literally? Peace...<br />
<br />
Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-20888580545839328052015-12-14T06:32:00.001-05:002015-12-14T06:32:41.854-05:00'tis the season?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This time of year gets nutsy. My friends in academe understand the rush to the end of the semester. These friends, and most everyone else, also understand the psychological pressure to wrap up all those unfinished projects and lose ends before 2015 shudders to a halt.<br />
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And then there's the holidays.<br />
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I'm feeling a tad grinchy this year. Not ungenerous so much as irritable. Or maybe it's the bah-humbugs that bubble around my heart. It seems the end of the year came at a rush, and all of a sudden it's time to bake and shop and write cards. And thinking (and kind of doing) it all simply exhausts.<br />
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I did manage to drape lights on the Nandina bush outside my front door, and get my wreath, decorate it, and hang it up. THAT felt good, felt Christmasy. While the mood lasted I tied our stockings on the stairs railing.<br />
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My family is in 'eh' mode too this year. Probably because the last year's been tough, and it seems whenever we kind of breathe slow and dare to relax, BOHICA* happens.<br />
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I realized late last night that I was working too hard to get myself and everyone else in that holiday spirit. So I think I'm going to lean back, take each day on my terms. Hanging the wreath, lighting the bush reminded me why I appreciate this nexus of the year. So for the next week I will try to remember to bring the outside into my home, bring the light into the dark, then settle in for the rest of the winter.<br />
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Peace...<br />
<br />
Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-34223133578972878732015-11-25T06:30:00.000-05:002015-11-25T06:46:22.002-05:00NO PLACE LIKE HOME (Giving Thanks)<div class="MsoNormal">
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It's the time of year when we gather with friends and family
around turkey and pies. I’ll be doing that, too, and today will be a mad dash
to get everything done before The Big Day. Sometimes, in the rush, I forget
what I’m celebrating, and why. Yes, Thanksgiving is the quintessential family
holiday, and despite the joy and frustration family members provide, we’re
thankful for the opportunity to gather.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Thanksgiving is more than family, though; Thanksgiving is
about the courage to go to new places, to dare to try something new. The people
who settled America found enough bravery to sail across the unknown ocean to a
land they’d never seen. And ever since then, people have flocked from every
corner of the world to settle on this quirky piece of real estate.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m thankful to live in this great country where I am free
to gather, for in some places this is illegal. I’m thankful that I have
opportunities to choose my path, and that my children have the same
opportunities because in some places your job is chosen for you from birth. I’m
thankful for the men and women who care for my nation, who protect it from
those who wish to take away my freedoms (enough said).<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m thankful for my health care providers, and thankful to
be able to pay for those services. I’m grateful for my education, my home, my
poor accident-magnet Honda. I’m thankful I can shop at small local stores or
chains or Wal-Mart or Amazon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thankful for my children; until recently, in some
countries I might not be able to raise more than one child and certainly not a
girl.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m grateful I can write and read anything I wish, without
fear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In this era of terrorism and corruption and inflation and
Mother Nature run amok, I’m thankful to be alive and experiencing the world,
for it reminds me that even though I’m small and only human, I’m still capable
of doing good.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What are you thankful for?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Peace…<o:p></o:p></div>
Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-25865134415419035472015-10-11T07:02:00.002-04:002015-10-11T07:02:53.699-04:00Control Mind<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MtGYxc3UUJQ/VhpBd7zybVI/AAAAAAAAEIM/T4CithuC5m0/s1600/mind-control-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MtGYxc3UUJQ/VhpBd7zybVI/AAAAAAAAEIM/T4CithuC5m0/s320/mind-control-1.jpg" width="320" /></a>Last week, on yet another murky day after a sunny teaser, I found myself absorbing everything I witnessed on my short walk to work: the woman obviously high and helpless propped up by a man who was not; the squalling of a toddler after his mother shook him hard; the empty booze nips rolling under brittle oak leaves; the pigeon picking at dried vomit.<br />
<br />
I felt the gray. I felt the bleakness. And the air filled me with a hopelessness I found difficult to shake.<br />
<br />
By afternoon, I was in quite the funk, further compounded by news that not one, but two, people I knew had died. One after battling chronic illness, the other by his own hand. I guess you could say he also battled a chronic illness.<br />
<br />
I suppose intensity of feeling is a hallmark of being a writer, a painter, a creator. After more than a year of intense personal turmoil, I'd practiced a way to moderate those feelings: meditation. I practiced meditation so I could find peace and strength to stay in the moment, no matter how hellish the moment. I also practiced to be able to ride through those moments of intense anxiety and depression that my life was peppered with for so long. I like to save meditation saved me, because it helped me to stay mindful of instants I needed to be mindful rather than lose my shit.<br />
<br />
But this day last week revealed to me how after six months of relative peace, I'd become complacent again. I went to meditation practice the next night, and the leader, a wonderful wise woman, asked: why do we meditate? After discussion, she summed it up neatly:<br />
<br />
We practice meditation so the mind doesn't control us, we control our mind.<br />
<br />
As a writer--as a person--I am learning the challenge of allowing feelings to wash over and through me, to let them permeate me, and then: to let them go.<br />
<br />
Do you have a meditation practice? Do you wish you did? Let's talk.<br />
<br />
Peace...Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-10041895690150026282015-09-04T07:21:00.000-04:002015-09-04T07:21:51.698-04:00Just for Fun: 7-7-7 Challenge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KgQQSeAsQD4/Vel-jDuBupI/AAAAAAAAEHc/DyYLKcYiibU/s1600/Greeting-cards-pile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KgQQSeAsQD4/Vel-jDuBupI/AAAAAAAAEHc/DyYLKcYiibU/s320/Greeting-cards-pile.jpg" width="311" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's Friday, I'm feeling whimsical, so I'll play. <a href="http://jamesstryker.weebly.com/blog/777-challenge">James Stryker</a>, a fellow writer warrior from #PitchWars, invited me to the 7-7-7 Challenge. The 7-7-7 (sure beats the 6-6-6 Challenge, heh?) provides the world a glimpse of one's novel, namely 7 lines from the 7th line on the 7th page. Here's mine from PURE, undergoing FINAL edits before it wings out into the world of agents and editors. Here, my MC Post-doc Benjamin Carandini shuffles through the detritus left in his mother's studio after she's died.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 25.6px; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span lang="X-NONE">I shoved the cards to the side and surveyed the room. So many boxes, so many canvases. I’d spent most of last night going through boxes filled with half-used tubes of oils and brushes, the sable bristles hardened from lack of cleaning. So much crap. </span>I should have started going through her studio years ago, when she first went into the nursing home, even when she told me not to. <span lang="X-NONE">I considered junking it all</span>: <span lang="X-NONE">the reams of scrap books, the pages upon pages of paisley-patterned diaries, the loose penci</span>l<span lang="X-NONE">ings of trees and hands and more trees. But like any decent scientist I hoarded data. I’d have to plow through all </span>of <span lang="X-NONE">Mother’s </span>belongings<span lang="X-NONE"> to discover who </span>she’d managed to<span lang="X-NONE"> fuck at least once</span> to produce me<span lang="X-NONE">.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span lang="X-NONE"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'll tap 7 others via twitter--watch out! And please play!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thanks, as always, for reading.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Peace...</span><br />
<br />Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-2340978197167415412015-08-31T07:18:00.000-04:002015-08-31T07:24:44.021-04:00Wassup?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QtueuhO8Nus/VeQ2ig67WmI/AAAAAAAAEHA/MOVjxoSzflo/s1600/dh%2Blawrence%2Btree_taos_7-2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QtueuhO8Nus/VeQ2ig67WmI/AAAAAAAAEHA/MOVjxoSzflo/s400/dh%2Blawrence%2Btree_taos_7-2015.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
In between the time of my last blog post and this one, I could've birthed a baby. A preemie, mind you, but a healthy one. So wassup with me? Where have I been?<br />
<br />
Lot's is up, and I've been lots of places. Mostly, my attention's focused on family: my kids, my husband, the animals (one deaf cat, bunny, three mice, and two betta fish). My son is in private school in Utah, which is mighty far from Baltimore. He's doing well; it seems a good dose of maturity kicked in on his 16th birthday. Ditto with my daughter, three years younger. Dear husband will get his extra dose of maturity later this week, when he turns a year older.<br />
<br />
This year, I've pushed envelopes: I've zip lined down mountains, surfed in a man-made wave machine, sewn two handbags, and even ridden a horse. I have hugged the huge pine that Georgia O'Keefe once rested under, her face to the sky. I've hiked into wind caves and swum in icy mountain lakes. On the emotional and spiritual sides, even more envelopes pushed. All have served to make me more whole and more grounded.<br />
<br />
And I have learned to say no.<br />
<br />
Travel? Mostly due to family and work--and my writing. For work, I've traveled locally, to Washington DC and the Chesapeake Bay. For family, I've visited Mom in North Carolina and Mom-in-Law in Massachusetts. As a family, we've traveled to Utah twice, and I'm heading out again for a third trip. I spent a long weekend in a hobbit cabin with my daughter and her friend in deep Creek, Maryland, where we wrote, swam, and ate. And I spent a week writing in Taos, one of my spiritual homes, with a dear friend.<br />
<br />
But the best journeying I've done in my head and with my hand, helping my characters continue to fumble through their lives. I am writing again, and revising; I've suffered not from writer's block but more a paralysis of the soul. For I have written, but in my personal journal, stuff I'll never share (though it make permute into my stories and poems eventually) because it is too raw.<br />
<br />
I'm back on facebook. Back on twitter. Find me. there or here. Tell me what's new with you. I <i>have</i> missed you.<br />
<br />
Peace...<br />
<br />Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-23866300788845338262015-01-01T09:15:00.001-05:002015-01-01T09:15:24.293-05:00Sometimes Resolutions Mean Just Breathing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y4XO7sXnuCg/VKVWaq2o_aI/AAAAAAAACTE/jWgRwRT1jTo/s1600/mirage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y4XO7sXnuCg/VKVWaq2o_aI/AAAAAAAACTE/jWgRwRT1jTo/s1600/mirage.jpg" /></a></div>
I can't say I am sad to see 2014 become part of my archives. It was, in a word, fraught. A year of tensions and uncertainties and a lot of tests.<br />
<br />
But the past is just that--the past. The future looms ahead, a bright, shiny penny. In my dreams that penny symbolizes my hope, a hope that will likely dissolve into a mirage.<br />
<br />
My tests have taught me a lot: I can't change the past; I can't predict the future; I can't fix anyone but myself. Incredibly freeing lessons.<br />
<br />
I don't make resolutions. But for this new year, one that I can't imagine being any worse that the last one, I will endeavor to remember the lessons I learned. I will apply them in ways that keep me happy and healthy, and that keep my children safe and healthy. <br />
<br />
I will breathe.<br />
<br />
I will not wallow in regret.<br />
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I will not worry about what has yet to come.<br />
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I will remember I am strong, and kind.<br />
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I will remember that intuition is more honest than anything I read or think.<br />
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I will move forward.<br />
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I will do my best, knowing I can always do better.<br />
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I will forgive myself.<br />
<br />
<br />
Thank you, dear friends, for being my pillars. Your cards and notes, prayers and emails, all make a difference. Think of me as a mirror, beaming all your love and joy and peace back at you.<br />
<br />
Happy New Year, and peace...Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-91091495454879613502014-11-27T07:20:00.000-05:002014-11-27T07:20:01.128-05:00Giving Thanks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s19JsXoQT3Q/VHcWuy7zmoI/AAAAAAAACSg/paVxQb5PyqQ/s1600/roller-coaster-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s19JsXoQT3Q/VHcWuy7zmoI/AAAAAAAACSg/paVxQb5PyqQ/s1600/roller-coaster-2.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
These past months it's been hard for me to find things to feel grateful for. Anxiety has thrummed through my body like a tom-tom drum on vivace. There have been days--many days--when instead of driving to the metro parking lot to go to work, the desire to keep driving has so overwhelmed me that I had to talk myself into taking the exit.<br />
<br />
I wanted to run away from my life.<br />
<br />
Because it is that bad at times.<br />
<br />
But then I remember, this IS life. Good and bad. Calm and nerve-wracking. Beautiful and devastating. My friends console me with multiple cliches: "God won't give you more than you can handle"; "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger"; "You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have."<br />
<br />
And they're right.<br />
<br />
Life is a rollercoaster, full of ups and downs. The last five years have seen a lot of downs, And like a rollercoaster, I feel I've been barely able to breathe between each plunge, to grieve, to mourn, to rail against the seeming unfairness of it all. But now, today, I'm still standing. I am still alive. My son and daughter and husband are alive. We love each other, and we know about that love, and we're learning how to strengthen it.<br />
<br />
I've been able to weather life these past five years for lots of reasons. For these reasons I give thanks:<br />
--My family, here and afar<br />
--My friends, real and who live through my computer portal<br />
--My mentors, especially those who have taught me to sit with my scary emotions<br />
--My students, present and past<br />
--My writing friends and colleagues<br />
--My mental health community<br />
--And, not least of all, the higher spirit who shines when I need the spirit most<br />
<br />
It all comes down to people, and the relationships we share. Thank you for being a part of my life.<br />
<br />
Happy Day of Giving Thanks.<br />
<br />
Peace....Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-2278150406293640682014-11-08T06:23:00.000-05:002014-11-14T08:23:44.250-05:00Thanks, Barry!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L_FzqlwD8BQ/VF387Tbc7OI/AAAAAAAACRw/ckbSVZzCgu4/s1600/baby%2Bsock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L_FzqlwD8BQ/VF387Tbc7OI/AAAAAAAACRw/ckbSVZzCgu4/s1600/baby%2Bsock.jpg" /></a></div>
A tremendous thanks to extraordinary editor (and writer) <b>Barry Basden</b> for publishing two of my very short fictions at <a href="http://www.camrocpressreview.com/search?updated-max=2014-11-12T00:00:00-06:00&max-results=1">Camroc Press Review</a>. I am honored.<br />
<br />
These are my two publications for 2014--I've been 'noveling' the entire year, working on <b>Pure</b> and my Master's thesis, <b>The Minister's Wife</b>. But these two shorts are among my favorite written--ever. I hope you enjoy them!<br />
<br />
Thank you again, Barry, for sharing my words.<br />
<br />
Peace, LindaLindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-2367784752413075632014-09-10T08:44:00.004-04:002014-09-10T08:44:57.115-04:00Preventing Suicide<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BfffMzae6Pc/VBBHlXvJoCI/AAAAAAAACPo/vC6kBRuQd9o/s1600/suicide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BfffMzae6Pc/VBBHlXvJoCI/AAAAAAAACPo/vC6kBRuQd9o/s1600/suicide1.jpg" /></a></div>
Today is World Suicide Prevention Day.<br />
<br />
As someone with a family member who's actively considered suicide, I can say that preventing it is about as difficult as finding that proverbial needle in a haystack. Luck is more involved, I think. Luck that you find your loved one before it is too late, luck that your loved one was inexpert at handling guns or calculating dosages or carving into flesh.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CdT_5kt2Zog/VBBHpicnMSI/AAAAAAAACPw/LwCi9MFi5lo/s1600/suicide2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CdT_5kt2Zog/VBBHpicnMSI/AAAAAAAACPw/LwCi9MFi5lo/s1600/suicide2.jpg" /></a>But there are ways to address the underlying risks for suicide. Screening our children--and ourselves--for depression and other mood disorders is a start. Seeking treatment. Supporting increased research in finding better treatments.<br />
<br />
MAKING OUR INSURERS REIMBURSE MENTAL HEALTH CARE PROVIDERS ADEQUATELY AND MAKING THEM COVER LONGER-TERM TREATMENT THAT WORKS.<br />
<br />
I hope that got your attention.<br />
<br />
Because here, in the state of Maryland, it is close to impossible to find outpatient adolescent psychiatrists and therapists 'in network'. If your child is hospitalized for depression, once 'stabilized', your child is discharged to outpatient care. If your child needs more intense treatment, there are few resources available, and those that are require you to relinquish your child to the Department of Social Services.<br />
<br />
Private resources are located out-of-state, and are obscenely expensive. Insurance doesn't cover these expenses, nor does the public education system, which won't pay for out-of-state placement in educational programs that can help emotionally ill children. To obtain access to in-state private resources in Maryland, you almost always have to be dually-diagnosed with a learning disability (ADHD) and/or a spectrum disorder (Autism, Asperger's) in order to get the placement and resources needed.<br />
<br />
So yeah, I am angry. And committed to yell and stomp my feet and make noise until we really do achieve parity in treating emotional illness. Depression IS a brain disease, just as is bipolar and schizophrenia and addiction. We wouldn't deny diabetics their insulin or cancer sufferers their chemo and radiation. So why deny our children the help they need?<br />
<br />
Help me prevent suicide. Make some noise. Be vigilant for the signs and symptoms that signal depression in those you love. Love them by asking if they want to harm themselves, and if they say yes, get them help.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lynn-keane/world-suicide-prevention-_b_5778170.html#">One Survivor's Story</a><br />
<br />
Peace, LindaLindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-80048412472289389912014-08-09T16:11:00.005-04:002014-08-09T16:11:53.402-04:00RE-ENTRY<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wXzRY8pzelA/U-Z_Gd8blrI/AAAAAAAACOg/inRy-KmSUSM/s1600/taos+grave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wXzRY8pzelA/U-Z_Gd8blrI/AAAAAAAACOg/inRy-KmSUSM/s1600/taos+grave.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>The thing about going away is every day you stumble upon surprises. Like the morning I walked out the back of my hotel in Taos after breakfast. I dragged my fingers through the sage, and lifted them to my nose. The ground was damp from the remnants of the prior night's thunderstorm, and I noticed how my feet sunk a bit in the sandy soil. And then, in the midst of my wandering, a grave. An infant, from the teething toy left on the cross. It made me wonder how this child died, who she or he was, did the mother still mourn. Such a mystery.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I’ve been back almost 3 weeks from New Mexico, it still
feels like yesterday. That’s when you can tell a break does what it's
supposed to do—recharge, rejuvenate, reinvigorate. Every morning, I write,
something that had stopped for a few months. What I want to do is dig back
into PURE, move around the scaffolding, force Phoebe and Kevin to emote more. I
have more troubles to throw Ben’s way, and a few more for the others. I want to
feel like God with this book… but first, I have to finish my thesis, a totally different
project, one a bit different from my first two novels. THE MINISTER’S WIFE is
about family and home, and what that all means after betrayal and lies. It
plumbs deeper psychological dirt than PURE, and interests me because of that
depth. So I work hard on TMW, due September 4, and while my thesis advisor reads and
critiques, I'll spend my down time on PURE. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Down time. Right. School starts in a couple of weeks. School for my kiddos, and school for the kiddos I teach. But I'm committed to re-enter both my books, and will find the time.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1QPweKuxnmk/U-Z-_0FmEkI/AAAAAAAACOY/EALAVgZUvmI/s1600/taos+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1QPweKuxnmk/U-Z-_0FmEkI/AAAAAAAACOY/EALAVgZUvmI/s1600/taos+1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a>I miss my Taos friends. We talk by email, but I
wish I could see them again, talk about books and writing under the sky of
stars. There's something about the vast lonesomeness of the mountains that inspires conversation that matters. We intend to keep pushing each other through the next set of revisions,
and I welcome their kind but exacting eyes on my words. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Mostly, I miss the intensity of Taos. Everything there feels magnified--the blue of the sky, the lightning that rips apart the summer night, the sage that grows to the horizon. The moments feel separable, unto themselves, not the blur that is Baltimore time, the dizzy rush from work to home to sleep. Taos time is like the pause one makes after the inhale and just before the exhale. </div>
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And that is my inspiration in the morning. The space in between breaths. Peace...</div>
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Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-75881223316630200642014-07-20T08:41:00.003-04:002014-08-01T07:32:27.676-04:00Taos Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been away, in Taos, New Mexico. In this small town tucked almost two miles above sea-level, nothing happens with any regularity or schedule. No internet? No phone service? Oh well. I spent the week learning how to go with the flow, an easy feat since I was surrounded by mountains and writers.<br />
<br />
I spent a week at a writing conference working with <a href="http://bkloren.com/">BK Loren</a> who, if you've never read, you should. An award-winning author, she's a woman who wields words that way RC Gorman wielded a brush. In THEFT, a novel about stealing on multiple levels, BK immerses the reader in both character and setting. She writes with transparency, something all writers should strive for. Emotion drives her stories and essays; an undercurrent which makes every page believable and satisfying. A generous teacher--a mentor--I'll miss the intensity of our classes. <br />
<br />
My classmates and I--six of us--work-shopped our entire novels. Months before the conference, we read each other's books. Nothing develops intimacy between people faster than reading each other's stories. By the time we met, it felt as though we all knew each other. I am blessed to have developed friendships that will extend beyond the novel.<br />
<br />
Taos is beautiful county. The sky doesn't stop, even when interrupted by the blue-green of mountains. Back in Baltimore, I close my eyes and see the clouds rolling in from the west, enveloping the mountain ridges, the sun streaking their underbellies in red.<br />
<br />
More later--on BK, writing, the process, the experiences. But I just wanted to say I was back.<br />
<br />
Peace...<br />
<br />
<br />Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7186877685534377957.post-74154722874171723532014-06-15T06:53:00.002-04:002014-06-15T06:53:52.658-04:00So...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Once again, it has been awhile. And once again, it's all life's fault. Or should I say, life has diverted my attention. The Troubles, I call this time. Which is still ongoing, but what the hell.<br />
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April was rather horrible, and May even worse. I am afraid to say anything about June so far because I do not want to jinx the last half.<br />
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So let's focus on the positive.<br />
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The morning feels like a New England summer morning--crisp air, the smell of grass and songbird fills my yard.<br />
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I have an urge to write again. I have not really written in over two months.<br />
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Most people in the world are very kind. This is one thing that I have discovered during The Troubles. I had forgotten this fact.<br />
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Remembering I cannot fix other people or situations is most freeing.<br />
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Every moment, every feeling, will pass. So accept it and move to the next moment and feeling.<br />
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I have a great job and work with some amazing colleagues. This is my 'for life' job, so how can I complain?<br />
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I have a great husband and children, who try their best. What more can I ask for?<br />
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I have a circle of friends who gently ask how I am doing, who provide small kindnesses which mean more than extravagant ones.<br />
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So, what's up with you? Peace...<br />
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<br />Lindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01110078016784294934noreply@blogger.com11