tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68037810015223993262024-03-12T20:28:15.772-07:00Bee DreamsJust another worker in the hive...mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-77313992556713470582021-04-03T11:40:00.000-07:002021-04-03T11:40:31.534-07:00The Story of Spaghetti<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">As a child in a very dysfunctional home with a very unstable mother I was blessed to have the wonderful responsibility of cooking dinner every Wednesday. I was only 11 so I had to make something easy and I chose spaghetti. We had an electric non-stick pan and I browned the beef and added the sauce while the noodles cooked. I loved it.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">I married, at 20, a half Italian half Irish man whose Irish mother learned to cook meatballs from her mother-in-law. Likewise, my husband asked that I learn to make meatballs from his Irish, Italian-educated, mother. One of my proudest moments was my sister-in-law’s comment, “I love mom’s sauce,” when grabbing a taste passing through my mother-in-law’s kitchen, where my meatballs were simmering in the sauce I’d made on her stove.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">I no longer have the husband, but his Italian grandmother’s meatballs and sauce live on. One of my very favorite meals. Like heaven. Here is my recipe for tender, irresistible meatballs and gravy. I learned from my mother-in-law about 40 years ago, so I may have adjusted what she showed me. But this is my tried and true approach and it never fails to win praise (and ágida from eating too much!).<o:p></o:p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidE00P3FRlfdy7ThyphenhyphenFIydp-FfnpZbgoxHGcSDBJw8tooFsat78RKVpJ2ASB36CJKp5Pixeeav2EB6cl6eSPigQT6Poa832nUfC-CFyV9vIq0-t-xz8Zv8wieym6mlgBv0rHsxZxGIRcxw/s960/ImageOfMeatballs-4-2-21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidE00P3FRlfdy7ThyphenhyphenFIydp-FfnpZbgoxHGcSDBJw8tooFsat78RKVpJ2ASB36CJKp5Pixeeav2EB6cl6eSPigQT6Poa832nUfC-CFyV9vIq0-t-xz8Zv8wieym6mlgBv0rHsxZxGIRcxw/s320/ImageOfMeatballs-4-2-21.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Italian Spaghetti and Meatballs <br />with imported Italian pasta.<br /><i>Pasta bowl by Norma Messing</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">RECIPE FOR ITALIAN MEATBALLS AND GRAVY<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Serves 4<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Prep time: 20 minutes. Cooking time: a little over 2 hours<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></p><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-width: 1pt; border-style: none none solid; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; padding: 0in 0in 1pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; padding: 0in;">Ingredients<o:p></o:p></p></div><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>1 jar of your favorite pasta sauce (I use Classico brand Tomato Basil – Grandma’s favorite)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>1 large can of plain tomato sauce or chopped tomatoes (I use Tuttorosso brand)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>1lb ground beef (or combo of beef/turkey or beef/pork) <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>2 Tb olive oil<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>½ onion chopped fine<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>1 clove garlic (1 large or two small) finely minced<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>1 cup fresh bread crumbs (instructions below)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>1 large egg<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>Grated Parmesan cheese (in a jar – the powdery kind)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>Salt & pepper<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>One package of high-quality Italian spaghetti noodles<o:p></o:p></p><div style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-width: 1pt; border-style: none none solid; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; padding: 0in;">Instructions<o:p></o:p></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Add olive oil to the bottom of a large, heavy pot. Add ½ of the chopped onions and garlic (it’s not much, I know) and stir for a couple of minutes over medium heat.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Add both the jar and the can of tomato sauce to the pot. Add a few Tablespoons of parmesan cheese. Stir well, turn up the heat until it begins to bubble, then reduce to Low and cover with a spatter screen and put the lid on only halfway, so there’s plenty of room for steam to escape. The spatter screen will balance the lid. If you don’t have a spatter screen, just leave uncovered.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Take a big mixing bowl and make your cup of bread crumbs in it, thusly:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="BulletList" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>Hold tightly several ends or ends and slices of bread (I prefer whole grain) and grate on a cheese grater. Continue grating until you have a cup of fresh crumbs in the big bowl.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Add to the breadcrumbs: <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">The egg, the remaining small amount of minced garlic and onion, some salt and pepper.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Mix well.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Add a large spoonful or two of the sauce on the stove to this mixture. You want the bread and egg mixture to be wet and to stick together – think of it as the same consistency as raw ground meat. Add more sauce until you get this consistency. Your bread mixture should be only slightly less than the volume of your meat.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Add ground meat and mix with your hands thoroughly, squeezing the mixture through your fingers until it’s thoroughly combined. You can add more salt & pepper if you didn’t add much before. (I use a “peppercorn medley” grinder that has just a little allspice in it.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">If it seems dry, add a little more sauce. You want this mixture to be soft and easy to work with.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Form 1.5” meatballs and line them up on cutting board so you can see that they’re all consistent. Adjust sizes if necessary. You should get about a dozen meatballs from a pound of meat, that’s three each for four people.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Stir the sauce on the stove and drop the raw meatballs in all around the outside. You should see the tops of the meatballs, so you know where they are and make sure they’re not on top of each other. Next fill in the middle of the pot with the remaining meatballs. Now you can see all of your meatballs are spaced nicely. Very gently push them down under the surface of the liquid with a spoon, being careful not to move them or alter their shape.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Simmer them (uncovered, or with the lid halfway on the spatter screen) for about 15 minutes.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Now your meatballs are cooked enough to withstand some stirring and you can gently stir your sauce around your meatballs, pulling it up from the bottom.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">Simmer on low just like this with gentle, occasional bubbling – only half covered – for about two hours, stirring every fifteen minutes or so, to keep the gravy on the bottom from burning. You’ll see grease start to form on the surface if you have fatty meat. That’s ok, but feel free to skim a LITTLE off. The grease adds substantially to the flavor, so you don’t want to remove all of it (I didn’t remove any when I used my lean, grass-fed beef yesterday).<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span>Pasta:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span>You really want good pasta with this meal, so splurge on imported Italian medium spaghetti and cool according to the instructions when your meatballs and gravy are ready. I find the most success with adding a little olive oil to the drained pasta, and putting it into the dish plain with meatballs and gravy added on top. Don’t mix gravy into the noodles before you serve. It soaks the liquid from the gravy and changes the texture.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span>Serve with a buttered roll or bread, for that last drop of gravy in the bottom of your dish.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span>NOTES:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="BulletList" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>All measurements are estimates. My mother-in-law didn’t have a recipe and didn’t write anything down. She just showed me. Eying everything has worked out well for me over the years, so I try to describe what it should look and feel like to help you do the same.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="BulletList" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR"></span>If you’re only serving two, and eating half of the meatballs, then only cook half of the pasta. Make fresh pasta for the leftovers – which will taste even better, even microwaved, in the next day or two.<o:p></o:p></p><p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style></p><p class="BulletList"><!--[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]--><span dir="LTR"></span>If you’re doubling the meat, double the meatball ingredients - breadcrumbs, etc. - and add one more big can of Tuttorosso tomatoes to your gravy.<o:p></o:p></p>mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-12887456407909994132019-05-04T09:42:00.001-07:002019-05-04T09:46:39.041-07:00Drawing Houses. Writing the Book.I'm in Nutley, New Jersey, staying at my daughter Marisa's sweet little house. Her husband, Rob, is the contractor who restored and remodeled my home in Rockaway so I could sell it for a generous price. While visiting I'm working on the memoir I started about five years ago. It has evolved into a full-blown possibility and I'm more than a little overjoyed at the prospect of creating something I can be proud of for myself, rather than for a boss.<br />
<br />
Writing happens in the early morning, before the dog walk and the coffee. Before the Facebook catch up and the Likes and Follows check-in on Instagram. It's the first foray of my brain into consciousness after a much-needed rest in the passive realm where dreams and problem solving evolve unhindered by the too-well-informed editor of intentional thought.<br />
<br />
I'm there now. It's morning. I took a break to make coffee because it's Saturday. Saturday means more time writing. The luxury of a coffee break and more writing. I'm at the part where I'm drawing houses for money 28 years ago and I thought I'd pause and post here, on my trusty old blog. The thoughts swarming around this history are too vivid and tenacious to ignore as I am present today in that place: the Montclair suburban sprawl, where it all happened.<br />
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Today I am writing about the houses. The ones I drew, purchased by the privileged few, but my perspective has shifted with nearly thirty years of experience. My daughter Joy and fiancé Colin have just purchased such a home. A would-be mansion, for a cheap price in dilapidated condition, and they are in the throws of restoring, renovating and remodeling it. It will be amazing. But they are not stock brokers or lawyers. They have bought into the long game, embracing debt for the future, so their children's children can struggle less, thanks to their hard work. Colin is a master craftsman and will create most of the interior details by hand. In my imagination of homeowners thirty years ago, as we were losing our home, there was no such self-dedication and commitment. Every buyer was privileged. Every homeowner was at ease. How wrong I was.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimobIx_phlg_kklzM5KEBXDjV4UO_-wPezYgbWks9eMgzZ7zBGeqGSbWNSnWLUBu9oBd2iiX6pxRn9tLvS2xX3EDL0OJDn9j1W8kzxLIdNQW1YZX3Uhyphenhyphen6qq23iFoFFEz_Rp83BiKle3N8/s1600/ArabicWindow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="835" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimobIx_phlg_kklzM5KEBXDjV4UO_-wPezYgbWks9eMgzZ7zBGeqGSbWNSnWLUBu9oBd2iiX6pxRn9tLvS2xX3EDL0OJDn9j1W8kzxLIdNQW1YZX3Uhyphenhyphen6qq23iFoFFEz_Rp83BiKle3N8/s320/ArabicWindow.jpg" width="166" /></a>When you write your story, however, you write it true for that moment, and in that moment my lens was set, though partially in error, on the striking contrast of ease to struggle, privilege to poverty.<br />
<br />
From memory I sketched, on a flight the other day, the architectural detail you see here. I will always remember it: an Arabic-style leaded glass window on a Tudor revival house, hidden by a huge spruce tree, or maybe it was a cedar. I could see it from my point of view in the car with my three smallest children, as I sketched the house. I loved it, so I moved the tree in my drawing. Perhaps I loved that window more because it was hidden, like an afterthought. I fought for it. I fought for the architect, for the craftsmen shaping the wood and the hours of leaded glass work, insisting that it be shown, though only an inch or so in my drawing. My customer loved the license I took, and loved the drawing.<br />
<br />
I was drawing those architectural masterpieces in Montclair, New Jersey as we were being evicted from our tiny home in Bloomfield. Now I am here again, and I look back with tender gratitude.<br />
<br />
This morning I'm working on my book, a book I plan for thousands to read to see how anything is possible. This morning I am in a house owned by my youngest daughter and her husband. I am looking at an email with the architectural plans for the renovation of a home owned by my second youngest daughter and her husband. And this morning I own two homes myself in South Carolina. The one I live in, and the one my stepmother, Tani, lives in.<br />
<br />
I am writing the story of my impossible journey while envisioning that journey's future state as a promise to struggling young people that the reality you're in is worth living through. I was baffled by the existence of these architectural gems in a world where I could not feed my family. I drew houses as we were losing ours and I drew them with joy and with love, being present, appreciating everything. By a lucky genetic neurological defect, or crazy childhood conditioning, my natural state seems to somehow always be one of joy and gratitude. I hope, with all of my being, that whatever that is, it's contagious.mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-13930632630333735292017-03-24T04:28:00.001-07:002019-05-04T08:24:28.799-07:00Ode to Suffering<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivJDW6TirP8CtLIUskwcBbB1rOOw-Ptl9mlsIXsnm-ZwqEdzaMcgjQ5vZLam_LD1xDbyQwgDsZrZn8OnSj1zqvws2JRm-gAwFa2YzJFu0daQ3qNgfmNKDdtR_gQeAmJAweSZXnIOuo644/s1600/2015-04-06+18.23.22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivJDW6TirP8CtLIUskwcBbB1rOOw-Ptl9mlsIXsnm-ZwqEdzaMcgjQ5vZLam_LD1xDbyQwgDsZrZn8OnSj1zqvws2JRm-gAwFa2YzJFu0daQ3qNgfmNKDdtR_gQeAmJAweSZXnIOuo644/s320/2015-04-06+18.23.22.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12pt;">This past year I have navigated a completely foreign land—caring for my dying father in his home, then for his widow with dementia. It has been a year of sacrifice without a thought, or emotional bandwidth to consider a thought, of what I wanted or needed. But that was fine. I knew I had a rare opportunity to usher a dear woman down a difficult path to her final days, and she was all that mattered. I'll write about Jamie's last two months soon, but I'm not quite ready. Instead, I write this ode to sacrifice, to suffering, because I've learned to appreciate it profoundly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Suffering is a perfect foundation for
happiness. That doesn’t matter in the throes of it, but in retrospect I believe that the pure joy I feel just looking up at the sky might have something to do
with the deprivation of simple pleasures which lasted most of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">My longsuffering childhood included sexual
abuse at the age of five and desperately trying to thrive under the care of a
neurotic mother who preferred communing with the voices in her head over
interacting with her children. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I turned to art and poetry at a very young
age to fulfill myself where positive reinforcement was lacking. It ended up
being quite the fix – and I’ve enjoyed the catharsis and healing power of art
and writing throughout my long-suffering life. Many have said, and I agree, that I ought to share all of those adventures in hardship in a memoir. Soon I hope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">A teacher told me all good poetry is born of
loss or longing, I have a collection of more than a hundred poems on the theme
of romantic love – wanting it, celebrating it, losing it – and I think it’s all
quite good so I agree with her. I can categorize poems about motherhood the
same way – longing for an unborn child to leap into my life, longing for the
toddler to grow up and share adventures with me, a sick child, a house in chaos
– could be poems of loss in a sense. Anything you feel strongly can generate a
good poem, she once said. What a life of strong experiences and strong feelings
I’ve had – and what poems I’ve written!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Now in my fifties I am, at this moment, not
really suffering. I certainly don’t count routine aches and pains. The
novelties of making myself a delicious cup of coffee, walking my dog under a
big bright sky, and spontaneously creating some art on a day other than
Mother’s Day or a vacation day… these bring rapture against a backdrop of years
during which getting through any day took monumental effort. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I imagine that millions of people live
similarly – intensely straining to feed their family while fighting to remain
positive; lying in a post-surgery, pain-addled bed without the mental bandwidth
to conceive of the future; holding another human together—husband, child,
boyfriend—as if their every breath was your responsibility. And time. Who
doesn’t suffer at the hands of the clock? When work and kids and housework and
tending to appliances, cars, buttons or toys in disrepair seem altogether like
a magic trick that can’t be teased out by you, while friends and neighbors seem
effortless at it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Sensing that all of this suffering is
ubiquitous, if not universal, I can celebrate it with you to the extent that
some aspect of it must resonate. So I’m not at all trying to sound like the
queen of it or a rarity, but a poet who’s got hold of a theme, enjoying the
revelation that in this season without suffering I can look back and eulogize
it, inspect it, write an ode to it, and possibly give someone an empathetic
response to theirs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">In my 40s, after all the sex for having kids
was over, I finally found the joy of sex. And in my 50s, after all the sweat of
building a career from scratch had been wrung out, and kids face their
own struggles to support themselves, I finally don’t have to fear the grocery
store, and I finally have time to write a word or two instead of freelancing
evenings and weekends. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">But before I write fictional adventures about
a Westie or finish my sci-fi trilogy, I want to write an ode to suffering, the
foundation of solid rock that I build every day on. Not because I suffered, but
because I embraced it and rode it like a wave – a force of nature that could
not be tamed but could be harnessed and ridden, rough as you like, the way millions
of my fellow humans do every day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Now I’m going to walk down the hall and make
a cup of coffee and really, really enjoy it. I’m going to walk my dog under the
highest sky and breathe free air with pure delight, and I’m going to relish
working my ass off for a boss I love doing work I enjoy. All of this is bliss
because of years and years of every manner of suffering, sacrifice, pain,
struggle and hardship. How grateful I am for every day of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-72051138968965655162016-11-20T11:10:00.000-08:002019-06-21T14:43:56.956-07:00Time is Melting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEind3EbFpYiaS4oR_ysV0RaOhvblbgFFT2sQSuBZAEv65QJjwPDZkgk3wqf5H1nFOBXE1jVNFSMOPjEV_UbJ52B-cDFpD5g3fXdksQ_g-sAmMnN5onghZaH-vyyk1-vIpPf6uWpKJu_bqM/s1600/JamieJasperD-11-20-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEind3EbFpYiaS4oR_ysV0RaOhvblbgFFT2sQSuBZAEv65QJjwPDZkgk3wqf5H1nFOBXE1jVNFSMOPjEV_UbJ52B-cDFpD5g3fXdksQ_g-sAmMnN5onghZaH-vyyk1-vIpPf6uWpKJu_bqM/s200/JamieJasperD-11-20-16.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s exactly 10 am on Sunday, November 20<sup>th</sup>,
2016. I write to you from the frontlines of the battle against Time. I hold in
my hand a snowflake, just caught moments ago, and watch with grief and pity as
it rapidly melts before my eyes. I try with all my might to slow Time down, to
make it obey my broken heart, pleading for mercy and opportunities now lost… and
again… and now again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you raise a child you anticipate the firsts with a
certain anxiety. Why? Your child will inevitably crawl, stand, walk, say
“mama.” But if not, something is terribly wrong. Is it confirmation of health,
of progress? I remember well the years of diapers and baby food, firsts upon
firsts at every age of my six sprouts, as they sprouted bigger and more
accomplished with each passing month. Time was a frenemy then. Stop! Freeze
this moment! I want to remember forever that first laugh, that first grasp of
the spoon and successful entry into the mouth with sloppy, sumptuous apple
sauce. No, hurry up! Move faster! When will they finally talk, tell me
something worth waking up at 5 am for. When will they walk? They get heavier
every moment. Hurry up and get us past these terrible threes – I have yet a few
things in the house unbroken!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, as Alzheimer’s, that thief of self, robs Jamie of her
joy, her creativity, her words, her peace… I chase Time like a phantom that
disappears at every grasp I attempt. I’m left holding tight to empty air as
Time races away. Behind the door, around the corner, let me catch you! Let me
hold you down for just... one... day. Time has become as elusive as the man in the
house that, on a bad day, Jamie fears and we keep banishing with confident
bravado. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I promised I would write about an average day. My blog posts
seem to flow as catharsis after a day—or a moment—of anxious negotiations and
fumbling for balance and peace. Heroic battles against phantom threats and broken
memories warrant an entry in the journal of the quest I’m on. Every celebration,
or test of wills and patience, is worth recording, and, in time, reflecting on
when specific memories are lost in the sea of life’s details. I need to share
these days with you. I have not had a guide like this, an actual detailing of
events, words spoken and actions taken, only vague descriptions of symptoms and
suggested strategies. Helpful, but lacking in humanity. Humanity is what I need
right now. Every day. Every tweak of words and touch that might bring an
embrace or a shove. In the end, those are the moments that count and that is why
I record them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But these moments are piling up now. The need to record them
grows in urgency as Alzheimer's has, tragically, sped the
pace of Time for her. What is this magic trick, with which months have become
weeks and weeks days and days hours? This is nothing like childhood. These firsts are
tragic. And, one by one, they will become heartbreaking finalities. With a little reprieve, on a good
day, she might say a couple of words strung together. On a good day, she might
giggle at the antics of the puppy, or grin when we tell her how gorgeous she
is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I know we’ve had our last social event at a friend's house. Our last dinner at a restaurant. Those last events were easy to identify. She was
miserable. I remember those moments effortlessly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t forget the twisted expressions, the embarrassment as
food fell in her lap or tears burst suddenly, unwanted—that predator, fear,
pouncing without warning. We’ve had too many “lasts” now, but every failure is
not a finality. Not yet. There are still good moments, a good moment making it
a good day, in spite of the rest of the day. You never know when a good moment
may come, so you set them up again and again, set up the possibility with love
and compliments, a little humor, a picture book, a giggle, that you hope will be contagious, at the cat’s taunting
of the dog.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today is a typical day so far. Typical for where we are in this other dimension where Alzheimer's is a stricter boss, puffing out his chest,
demanding Time obey an accelerated schedule, robbing us a little more
each day than expected. Today there has been no drama. No charging at
windmills. Today I sit at the dining table trying not to weep as Jamie rests in
bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning she woke and let me help her in the bathroom
and put on her robe, but wouldn’t come out, insisting that she stay perched on
the side of her bed. I left her there and made her a yogurt smoothy. After a
few visits to check on her, she let me walk her to the dining table, where she
insisted on sitting sideways in her chair. Most likely for a quick escape if
she needed to flee to safety from me or some other phantom she can’t
articulate. I put the smoothy on the table, but she didn’t want to drink it out of spite or the assertion that she can do whatever she wants, including not
drink a delicious smoothy. But I know she loves them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I approached her once or twice as I cooked her breakfast, “I
know you’ll love it! You’re gonna love that smoothy!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, I put it in her hand which, shaking as she worked
to close her fingers around it, found her lips with the cup and she drank it
all down, capturing the yummy treat in one long series of rhythmic swallows. Perhaps
she knew that if she paused, her hand may have ceased to cooperate. I’ve learned that starting out with
putting something in her hand just irritates her. She wants to believe she can
still do all these things. Let her sit and think about it. Let her try to make
her hand obey her appetite; her dignity deserves this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last night was the first time I fed her an entire meal. This
is not a “last.” She will have better days still, when the spoon cooperates and
a little pile of deliciously prepared food holds into it and finds entry
between her grasping lips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But last night every spoonful tipped its contents out—forks
long dismissed as useless hardware stabbing at nothing. Scooping is the way to
go. But scooping at a bean or a bite of fish is tedious work, even when the
bowl is full of them. Is the spoon full enough yet? Is something in it, or is
it empty? If I tip it to snag that other bean, will the marinated salmon jump
out in protest? These are the challenges we battled last night until, finally,
with a broken heart, I stood at her side, gently offering a spoonful of rice, beans
and salmon. With awe I saw her lips part and her head tip ever so slightly
forward in the universal gesture that says, “Yes. You may feed me.” A moment I
knew would come, but I planned for a year from now. Not last night. Not yet. She
hates it when I try to feed her. She’s let me pick the food up with the spoon
and hand it to her, but not put it to her lips. It’s too soon for that. She’s
supposed to close them tight in stalwart defiance of dependence… it’s too soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After last night’s dinner I resigned myself to finger food.
Nice solid bites in pieces she can manage. Not rice. Not pasta. Not so many
things. I know she finds being fed, still, a humility and I have to find a way
to spare her that until she’s ready to resign to it fully. The occasional last
bite. The tempting first bite to entice the appetite, yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But is it time for full meals to be fed
to her? I have to fight it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning, after she handed me her empty smoothy cup, I
gave her homemade hash browns in formed pieces, bacon, a cheese omelet I cut
into finger-worthy bites and raisin toast. No spoon or fork in sight to
challenge her. She ate it all but a few bites. I was happy. She was fed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are only a few words left now. Two of them are No and
Yeah or Yes. She didn’t want her morning pill. I didn’t hesitate to put the
water in her hand and pop the pill in her mouth. She didn’t bite me. She
obediently drank and swallowed it. I reassured her, “I will only insist on
something if it has to do with your health or your safety. I respect you. I
love you. You can do whatever you want today, but you have to take your pill.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She refused a shower. I handed her a moist wipe and told her
she had to clean herself really well if she wasn’t going to take a shower. But
that’s not really an answer. I have to bathe her. I showed her the wipe was
slightly yellow. “See? You’re a little dirty. A shower will feel really great.”
“No.” She said it clear as a bell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All she wanted to do was get back in bed. So here I sit,
writing, grieving, heartbroken, knowing that, in time, lying in bed will be all
that she can do. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 11 a.m. she
was still in the bed, eyes open, staring at nothing. I checked on her, talked
about her cat on the bed, just a few feet away, trying to get her to see him.
I’ll love her up the best I can without seeming to patronize her or challenge
her will. I make sure she’s safe and healthy and, just as importantly, the
master of her day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While writing, I’ve paused to throw the ball for the dog.
I’ve taken him out into the yard, I’ve melted chocolate on the stove, dipped
pretzels and coated them with toasted nuts and chopped cranberries. I hope she
likes them. Things she can eat with her hands. A treat she might recognize as a
gesture of love. Maybe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then at noon, as if it was the most natural thing, she came strolling out of her room, the
dog’s leash in hand and a smile on her face. The dog must have jumped on her
bed and started licking her. That can get her out of a funk. It’s a beautiful
thing. She had a little bit of an odor, so I walked her to the bathroom and
cleaned her up, again encouraging her to go for a shower – promising the heater
and that she would not be cold... how good it would feel. A real sales pitch. She
relented.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The shower was difficult. Her walking is unsteady now.
Stepping over the 3 or 4” threshold took a couple of tries. I knew I would have
to do most of the cleaning, but I handed her a soapy washcloth and let her
work. She used to go to town on her knees for some reason. I’d joke that she
was going to rub the skin off. Today she just patted them a little and motioned that she
was done. When she was all clean and her hair washed, the struggle to get her
out of the shower was intense. She was shaky on her feet, and I’m not strong
enough to lift her. I had dried the front of her while sitting on the shower
bench, and she was clutching the towel for modesty. This was hindering her
exit. I reassured her she could have it right back and took it away so she
could concentrate on standing up. With a little support and a lot of self-doubt
I got her out of the shower and onto the toilet seat, covered with a dry towel.
The bathroom was warmed by a heater and the rest of our bathing adventure went
off without a hitch or a struggle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, as I finish this record of a typical day, it’s 1:30 pm.
She’s resting on the couch, insisting with her simple, "No," that she doesn't want any lunch yet. But she's fresh and clean, with a loving dog for comfort,
listening to soothing music without lyrics. Lost, too soon, to a realm of
thought that none of us will ever be able to describe, if we ever journey there.</div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-29601951467567704332016-10-24T21:03:00.002-07:002016-10-24T21:23:00.179-07:00Do You Want to Go Home?<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYsie3OxbplYm_i8OuWJY4NvfI5qah4KxyI5iIhKlXdYy2ueNSlQtQO6jqTnbAsteI_v2rxDOvayqGbeECHexPrJPusgJWnZld_vBI2sDuA_ji92KpAGMca1QrhsDRHnlv0xhRWDc6chM/s1600/JamieNewHouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYsie3OxbplYm_i8OuWJY4NvfI5qah4KxyI5iIhKlXdYy2ueNSlQtQO6jqTnbAsteI_v2rxDOvayqGbeECHexPrJPusgJWnZld_vBI2sDuA_ji92KpAGMca1QrhsDRHnlv0xhRWDc6chM/s320/JamieNewHouse.jpg" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jamie enjoying a smoothie for <br />
breakfast in our new home, 10/12/16</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every day I put off writing these things because by evening
I’m spent without one cent of effort to spare. It’s 9:30. I’m in bed, having taken my last 300 mg
gabapentin for myalgia, two ibuprophens for a toothache and a probiotic with the
last dose of antibiotics. My head throbs achingly around the back of my neck, my
ears are ringing louder than my fingers on these keys and all my neurons spark
the same advice: Let go and watch something you can drift to sleep to. Think of
your health. But my heart tells me, as it has always believed, that I have to
let go of the comfort of my little dog and soft bed, and the expertly composed
Siren song of entertainment… and write a few things down. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jamie is 63, tall, slender, graceful and soft spoken. I want
you to know her as well as I do, so I write about her. But I don’t know her
very well. I can’t learn anything much from her. She’s losing words at a rapid
pace. Language is slipping away from her: expression and perception. They call
it Progressive Primary Aphasia. I arrived at that diagnosis myself when I read
an article a few months ago. Her caregiver Mary showed me the same article in a
different magazine at the neurologist’s earlier this week when we took Jamie
for an EEG. Not all those with PPA have Alzheimer’s, but Jamie has advanced
Alzheimer’s with pretty bad dementia. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seven months ago I came to live with her, because my Dad asked
me to take care of her when he died, and he did. I’ve known her casually for
about three years. In 2014 I took a trip to Nicaragua with her, my Dad and my
cousin Jane from London. In Nicaragua Jamie had some difficulty navigating
uneven terrain, and she couldn’t read at all, but she could find the restroom
in a restaurant by herself if you pointed her in the right direction. She could
laugh at jokes and tell you whether she liked the fish, choose something when
browsing souvenirs, stroll for an hour in the evening air down the main street
in San Juan del Sur. Pick a fight with my dad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just two years after Nicaragua, Jamie can barely speak.
Barely understand. When she sits in front of the TV, even her favorite shows,
she just stares at the floor in front of her. If you give her any kind of
direction, like “Please sit here,” she doesn’t do it. She’ll just start to
slowly walk away to who knows where. You have to walk her to the chair. If you
say “Look at me,” or “Look at this,” while pointing at something right in front
of her, she doesn’t look at it. She’ll turn her head in another direction
instead, as if doing what you’ve asked, but it’s never what you’ve asked. She
can barely use a fork. She usually eats with a spoon, or with her hands. She
can’t move apples from a bag into a bowl, or take a dirty fork and place it
into the dishwasher basket. Just six weeks ago she could do both of those
things with a little help and practice. Not any more. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jamie had a particularly lucid day today. Self-aware, she had
commented at dinner, “I can’t walk.” I asked her “Can’t walk or can’t talk?”
“Talk,” she corrected herself. She was more present and aware today than she
has been in a while. We just started a new drug – and maybe it was doing
something. I empathized with her lack of words and promised I’d speak slowly,
and use fewer words. She liked that idea. I gave her the advice to try not to
stress about friends coming over and talking too fast, but to work on sensing
what the person is trying to do by talking, ignoring the complicated words
they’re saying. Maybe they’re just being friendly. Maybe they’re simply saying
“I love you,” by telling you about their day. When seeing the intention, the
words matter much less.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She appreciated my advice, nodding a little condescendingly
– like, “I could have thought of that myself.” When she’s self-aware she’s the
teacher, the authority. She was an economics professor for many years, and
still naturally migrates to thinking she should be in control. That look should
have clued me in that trouble was brewing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She usually lets me put Andy Griffith on. and stays put
while I take out the dog. She didn’t want me to leave her for 10 minutes
tonight, however, so, surprisingly, she agreed to join me for a short stroll
down the street. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I asked if she wanted to wear her slippers outside. “No.” I
offered her clogs, she took them, walked into her bedroom and put them by her
bed, then turned toward the door. I didn’t correct her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She agreed with the light jacket I put
on her, nodding so it was her choice. We slowly navigated the porch stairs
together, eager pup leading the way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After one pleasant block she became a little unsteady so I
asked, "Do you want to go home?" She replied, “Yes. Better.” So we headed back to
the house with Jasper, my Westie. I noticed that I had to sort of pull her as
we got to the house. She reluctantly got to the top of the stairs and muttered
something that I interpreted as, “Do you know these people?” I laughed it off,
“This is our house.” She absolutely did not believe me and by the time we were
inside she was having a full-blown melt down, which she hasn’t had in a long
time. Maybe self-aware was not a good thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now she’s the boss and she’s scolding me – eyes wide –
demanding I take her home. She stammers, “You’re crazy!” Infers that I’ve
kidnapped her, “You took me!” and asks about the other people in the
house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Who’s here?!” For someone
with very few words, she really can communicate pretty well when she has to.
With broken sentences, gestures and expressions she lets me know that she is
not going to stand for this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suggested getting in her nightgown, hoping she’ll agree
that maybe she’s just tired. I let her do as much as she could herself because
she was in a very independent mood. She struggled but managed to undress. I
show the utmost patience helping her with her nightgown because I don’t want
frustration to devolve the situation even further. I normally hold the
nightgown so that the two holes for her hands are easily accessible and I guide
each hole over its hand so that she barely notices I’m helping, then she raises
her hands and slips it over her head. It’s a joint effort, as most things are,
to keep her feeling good about herself. Tonight she fought my help, insisting
her second hand belonged in the neck hole. I gently pull the neck off her arm
and slide the other sleeve hole over it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was dressed for bed, but then, without a word, she proceeded
to remove her Depends. This was her final gesture of defiance. She still meant
all those things she had said – that I was the enemy in this shocking story of
kidnapping and deceit. She hates those Depends (until they’re her best friend.
It’s a hate/ humbly accept relationship). Tonight she didn’t complain, cry or
argue – she simply took them off and left them on the floor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve raised six kids, so I know a tantrum when I see one,
even without the yelling or stomping. So I gracefully slipped out of the
bedroom and left her there, panty-less, her toothbrush by the sink loaded with
toothpaste, waiting. I had moved on to the parenting phase, “So you want to
play it like this? Let’s see how long you last without me,” and without a word,
or any malice, I simply went to the kitchen to do the dishes. I paused every
few minutes to listen for her. Finally the call came. “Come here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What?” I called out, walking only a few steps toward her
room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Come!” she said, a plea in her voice that I was happy to give
in to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Very quietly she said, “You’re right,” motioning me to come
sit next to her on her bed. She put her arm around me and hugged me. “You’re
right,” she said a few more times. What a relief!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did you brush your teeth?” She was proud that she had done
it alone. She let me walk her to the toilet. She even dropped the toilet tissue
in the toilet rather than on the floor. She let me put fresh Depends on her
without a complaint, or even a sigh, one obedient foot at a time—toes pointing
contritely as they slipped into their proper hole. She was trying to be good
for me, and when I tucked her in bed she quietly told me she loved me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now normally there’s a big chorus of “I love you!” that goes
on and on for about 10 minutes, both of us silly with how much we love each
other. Tonight it was a humble gesture of gratitude that acknowledged a hurtful
round of accusations. “You took me!” she had said – kidnapping was the only
logical explanation for how she got here. Now, as I turned up the ocean waves to
lull her to sleep, and I kissed her one final time, that single confession of
love was the lifeboat I needed to continue believing we can keep doing things
this way… a little while longer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
October 24, 2016</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com1Port Royal, SC, USA32.3790843 -80.69260689999998732.2717788 -80.853968399999985 32.486389800000005 -80.531245399999989tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-64778891024321635972016-06-02T04:32:00.001-07:002016-06-02T12:27:14.673-07:00Jamie is Self-Aware<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the most compelling reasons for living with Jamie
rather than putting her in a nursing home is <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcYLLRzZVs70VfT-1I4lJbT_wQ4SFd4JIsCULLsSvgAO_w_LdIgVOlHXEDRMypqgq-4Zky1mP605enQPjIuJm_xEYn3Sr_BAjQ_l7u2xVepVTtoInascKKjo2OjlHq6HfVE6V-TP-9dCo/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcYLLRzZVs70VfT-1I4lJbT_wQ4SFd4JIsCULLsSvgAO_w_LdIgVOlHXEDRMypqgq-4Zky1mP605enQPjIuJm_xEYn3Sr_BAjQ_l7u2xVepVTtoInascKKjo2OjlHq6HfVE6V-TP-9dCo/s200/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Jamie on Memorial Day, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">wearing </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">a necklace </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">we'd </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">just made.</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
that when she has a good, lucid
moment, her self awareness surpasses that of many completely healthy adults. I’ll give you two examples from this weekend.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First example:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jamie suffered a traumatic experience as a young child. She
was born in Puerto Rico but her father moved the family to
Cuba shortly after she was born. Jamie was in Cuba during the revolution and
remembers bombs and gunfire and other children being scared and suffering. In one particular incident she became
briefly separated from her family during an attack. No one knows exactly what
happened or how long she was lost, but when that memory comes back she is
panicked, fearful and even angry if we don’t listen to the story again,
empathize and validate her experience. Dismissing the incident as something she's already
told us, something in the past, or nothing to worry about now, is not the
answer. We must acknowledge her fear, reassure her that it was a horrible experience and
she should not have had to suffer it. It was horrible. No child should have to go through that,
and so forth. She then begins to calm down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, this weekend, after a wonderful (but perhaps too-busy?)
morning, as I was making her lunch she grabbed my attention, and with very
expressive facial expressions and hand gestures, told me she was about to go
into that black hole of memory. The Cuban rebellion was about to come alive
again. She was panicking BEFORE it hit, warning me that it was coming. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t know at the moment what she was trying to say. She
said, “Nasty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m nasty. I’m going
to be nasty!” and screwed up her face like she was mean, angry, even vicious
while making a clawing gesture with her hands. It was what parents
do to mimic a tiger while telling a story to their children. But this was
serious, like she was warning me that she was going to be mean to me. In hind
sight I believe she was sensing the coming emotional tornado of her flashback.
I grabbed her and hugged her and told her it was ok. “I don’t care if you’re
nasty or say mean things.
I love you no matter what. I know you love me no matter what. Don’t be scared!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A moment later she was there in Cuba, a little girl about
eight years old, terrified and alone as bombs burst around her. A caretaker
came to our condo just as this was erupting and Jamie began to be comforted by
the two of us assuring her that we’re here for her and we love her. But she
didn’t want to be calmed down. This went on for about ten minutes with Jamie insisting that she was right about how terrible and terrifying this is. “NO!” she finally shouted when one of us told her it was
“OK,” and slammed her hand down on the kitchen counter. When that happened I
went and got half a Klonopin, which I have never given her before to calm her
down, and she took it without question. I wasn’t willing to risk violence escalating and she had gotten plenty
of it out of her system already. I was hoping the pill would do something for
her, but, like a placebo, it almost instantly helped – sooner than the pill could
have had a medicinal effect.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The episode ended with her panic subsiding and our comfort
received. She had a wonderful afternoon. Much later I remembered what she had
told me only seconds before the flash back hit her. “I’m going to be nasty!”
Whatever that meant to her, she spoke it moments before she became extremely
emotional, immersed in her childhood trauma. She's never warned me like that before, so I can only imagine now that she sensed the
episode coming on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is what most intrigues me. Moments like this tell me
that although this woman is a victim of severe brain damage, although she can’t
recognize the glass of water I put in front of her but reaches for mine across
the table, yet she explains to me on a regular basis exactly what having
dementia is like. And it breaks my heart. And I fall more and more in love with
her. I’ve never used the word pity much in my life. Not sure why. But for some
reason it’s the word that constantly jumps to mind when I go through these
episodes with Jamie. I pity her beyond words.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Second instance of self-awareness:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Monday night, we went to a sweet Memorial Day bar-b-que on the
dock with about 20 neighbors. I know that she listens and understands a lot. But I believe the moment that stood out to Jamie was when a friend of ours, a woman, jokingly shouted, "That's MY man! Don't touch him!" after her husband received a lot of praise for opening up the evening with a very moving Memorial Day prayer. Throughout the evening there was much socializing
and feasting and Jamie had enjoyed the attention of friends stopping by to say
hi to her and talk to us. We were joined at our table by about six or seven women and, although Jamie didn't usually participate much in the conversation, I think, in hind sight again, that Jamie was really thinking hard and had another self-aware moment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She emerged from the bathroom, as I was putting her to
bed, with her two wedding rings in her hand. Since my father passed away she had
seen her former husband Eric’s wedding ring, and been wearing the two of them.
She was trying to hand me the two rings but I asked her why she took them off. With the hand that held the rings, she gestured toward the kitchen, which always means she wants to throw
something out. She throws out everything. Luckily, the kitchen garbage is the
only place she does it, so we know where to look if we see she’s been “cleaning”
when we turned our head for a moment. Earlier that day she had tried to put a
decorative cushion she doesn’t like into the kitchen garbage and I rescued it
for donation. “Someone might have a fire and need any ugly pillow for their
couch.” Luckily she agreed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course I wasn’t going to throw her wedding rings out, so I
took them and told her we’d save them in the jewelry box in case she wanted
them later. They’re very pretty. Finally, after I had shown her where I was
putting them and shut the lid, she got out her message, “I want to me ME!” she
shouted! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, OK! That’s great! You’re an independent woman. You don’t
need a man.” She grinned, I got it right. Now if that isn’t a self-aware
gesture I don’t know what is. She’s done mourning. She’s ready to move on. She’s
been mourning both of her husbands since my father passed three months ago. At times she’d grieve Eric,
at other times Richard. But she always mourned the loss of someone who adored
her, who pampered her and spoiled her, which both of them did. It’s very easy
to do with Jamie, as sweet as she is. I can only imagine that our friend's declaration, "That's MY man!" had struck a chord. She doesn't have a man. Well, maybe she doesn't need one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
We walked to her bed and she crawled in, a grin on her face.
“Just us!” she declared as she lay down her head. “Yes, “ I assured her, “Just us.”</div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-68096515811261800822016-05-26T05:23:00.000-07:002016-05-27T20:35:19.213-07:00Jamie's Beautiful Brain<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s 5 am and Jamie is sound asleep in her
room. I’m stealing some time to write about her beautiful brain. I’ve had a
front row seat to Jamie’s struggle with brain function for nearly four months
now, and, rather than thinking of her brain as a problem, her brain is precious to me: wounded and vulnerable, every little function valuable and dear. You might be interested to know how dementia, or Alzheimer's, can be observed in everyday behavior. It's as fascinating as it is tragic. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With a great deal of love, the gift of patience from raising
six kids, and the experience gained from my daughter Heather’s traumatic brain
injury, Jamie has improved wonderfully regarding her attitude and emotions. She
greeted a new caregiver, a stranger, at the door yesterday with a hug. She wept
for joy when a caregiver used a playing card to help her recognize the number
2. When asked how she is, her usual response is one word, “Happy.” She smiles
all the time. She quickly reflects whatever emotion or attitude you present to
her. Smile at her, she grins, laugh out loud, she joins you. Why would you ever
be cross or impatient when faced with that miracle?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jamie is o.k. with sitting still and thinking. She does it a
lot. We don’t know what she is thinking, but when she tries to speak there’s
something important there, hoping to emerge for us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She begins with words familiar to us, like “I was just
thinking,” and when she just can’t say what she wants to say, “godammit.”
Normal phrases like, “I’m trying to tell you…” precede her attempt to
communicate an idea. This tricks you into expecting the next phrase to be just
as clear. But what follows is a hesitating stumble over words grasped from the
air like random apples hanging from a tree. If all of the apples were picked in
the right order, you’d have a beautifully expressed thought. But you can see
her looking at all those apples, knowing they have something to do with what
she means to say, but she just has no idea how to choose them in the order they
belong, or even how to pick them and say them at all. As soon as she moves out
of rote behavior – something she’s done or said a million times – she’s lost.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there are positives. It’s a joy to spend wordless,
carefree time with her, to share the space of a mind without filters or
agendas. Someone who appreciates with absolute sincerity. This experience has
given me more sunsets than I’ve witnessed in the last ten years. I’ll put a
movie in after dinner and we’ll get comfortable on the couch and she’ll turn to
me and look me in the eye and smile thoughtfully, expressing something with
simple words, in her way, that I can understand. Something about art or our
relationship, or simply, “I like it here.” The movie is no distraction for her.
She’s in her own mind at all times. But I always wish I knew what she was
thinking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m telling you all of this as context because yesterday she
experienced a decline. After a series of frustrating attempts to do familiar
things, she used her hand to mimic walking down stairs and said, “I’m going down.”
She wept woefully and I took her in my arms. “Maybe this is just a bad day.
You’ll do better tomorrow.” “No.” she said with a finality that broke my heart.
Who knows about tomorrow? But she knows her journey is one of continuous
decline and she feels the ground slipping beneath her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It started after everyone left for the evening and I was
cooking dinner. She was on the toilet and I heard her faint call. I’ve learned
to remove the pan from burner when she calls me. I quickly arrived to see the
toilet paper unrolled onto the floor and to smell that she had a bowel
movement. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked at me with
utter desperation and shook her head. She didn’t know what she was supposed to
do. I handed her a nicely wrapped little bundle of toilet paper and told her,
“Use this to clean your butt, just like you’ve always done since you were
little.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nodded obediently but her hand did not obey. She rubbed
her knee with her other hand and stood up, walking toward the trash can with
the tissue, which is what you do with trash, like tissues. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked her back to the toilet and asked her to sit down.
She looked at me like she didn’t understand. I said, “You have to clean your
butt. Sit down so you can do it. After a few seconds I gently pushed her thighs
so that she got the idea and sat down again. She cleaned herself a little and showed
me the dirty tissue. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That goes in the toilet,” I said, taking her arm and aiming
it around back. She hesitated. “It does?” and she looked very confused.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, just let go of it. Drop it.” And she did. I told her
she wasn’t done and handed her another one. It took a lot of patience because
that “aha” moment never came. I walked her through each step, each time. After
the fourth one she showed me was clean, I breathed a sigh of relief. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unlike cutting her food, which I don’t mind doing, and
putting her clothes on, which is no problem at all, and which she can on
occasion still do some parts of, cleaning her butt is something I really want
her to do herself for as long as possible. Hence, my extreme patience with
guiding her through the process. I’m hoping tomorrow it comes back to her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Gvb7nlslPTlzdJK1oazKye1dbFhWHHxv2DS8-MPFHF8BJ8kGHPjg5axYh89iaiFaFcwIu0I-qrwwY7Bk7UiG3PqbjdUtRhZIbiF9kIUg3GsN4vTl5bhy2u8KfRgaTpruBQ9mZzour6c/s1600/JamieHeadshotSad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Gvb7nlslPTlzdJK1oazKye1dbFhWHHxv2DS8-MPFHF8BJ8kGHPjg5axYh89iaiFaFcwIu0I-qrwwY7Bk7UiG3PqbjdUtRhZIbiF9kIUg3GsN4vTl5bhy2u8KfRgaTpruBQ9mZzour6c/s320/JamieHeadshotSad.jpg" width="231" /></a>Many functions like using the toilet are rote: brushing your
teeth, rinsing your mouth, taking pills, buttoning a sweater, even tying the
belt on a robe… these functions just happen. You don’t realize it because
you’ve been doing it for so long, but you actually use a different part of your
brain to do something out of habit. I guess that’s why forming good habits is
one of the keys to success: it reserves your higher brain function for more
important things like forming thoughts and communicating them. When she doesn’t
have to think about it, she can often just do it. It’s like a miracle, after
you’ve observed her struggle with any of these, which can happen at any time
when something in the routine gets thrown off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the most important tasks she must do for herself is
swallow her pills twice a day. Three after breakfast and about eight after
dinner (most of them are supplements). Taking her pills can be a smooth ride. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After dinner I tell her not to get up, or to sit back down,
and put a white dish of pills right in front of her and hand her a glass of
water, or, if she motions me to back off, I put the water down on her right
side. She has let me know that hovering does not help, so I set her up and then
sit across the table and observe, in case she needs help.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looks over the scene – a plain placemat with two objects
on it, a dish of pills and a glass of water. She slowly looks from one to the other.
Then, taking a deep breath of bravery, she lifts her hands to perform the
ballet of taking pills. The hands each have their role. The left hand will pat
the plate and find a pill. The right hand will find the glass of water and
raise it off the table. Both hands now hold something important and she knows
there’s a job to do, but it’s not easy. She looks at each of them in turn and,
sometimes she just starts drinking like crazy, going through half the glass.
“Don’t forget to take the pill,” I’ll remind her gently. As if I woke her up
from a dream, she jerks her head away from the water and looks at me, “Oh!” she
says, and looks at her pill in the waiting hand, as if it is a complete surprise
that she’s holding a pill. Then she takes it and proceeds to take the rest
without a problem. In this way she often runs out of water before taking her
pills. Once she starts drinking, sometimes she just keeps drinking because she
knows how to do it. Which is fine. Water is good for you. Automatic pilot is a
familiar problem. She needs to be reminded that she might be done brushing her
teeth after, eyes closed, she seems to have fallen asleep to the rhythm of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some days she’ll put down the glass and reach for a pill
with her “water hand,” then her pill hand waves around looking for something to
do, so she puts the pill down and her water hand rests humbly on the table, as
if punished for doing the wrong thing. Then the pill hand begins reaching for
the water – the thing that was missing from the equation a moment ago. OK,
she’s got the water now, but it’s in the wrong hand. She looks at the pills in
frustration. Why isn’t a pill in her hand? The water hand is not holding the
water so the pill hand can’t get the pill. She puts the water down. By now I’m
at her side. I put her water in the usual hand, “There you go!” and everything
starts to work as it should.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes she simply doesn’t see the glass of water and
desperately asks for. “I need water!” a pill in her pill hand as she implores
desperately, the water hand she’s waving just barely missing it, so I lower her
hand to touch the glass and she picks it up, “I’m sorry.” The struggle is real.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After dinner last night I put her little white plate of pills
in front of her with her glass of water. But there was also a folded napkin on
her placemat. She was confused by the third object. She picked up the water and
looked at the napkin, then the dish of pills, then the napkin, her left hand
hovering over one then the other, like a helicopter looking for the landing pad.
I jumped up from my observation post across the table and took the napkin away.
She landed on a pill at last, and began the ballet, each hand doing as it
should in the proper order.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something new last night was that she recognized that the
napkin threw her off. She also recognized that this was a sign that her brain
is not really functioning well. When she came to help with the dishes, which is
always a struggle anyway, she was particularly frustrated by what seemed like
her normal behavior – not knowing where to put the fork in her hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The silverware basket in the dishwasher
might as well be a Rubik’s Cube. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
additional level of dysfunction came when she forgot she was holding the fork in
her right hand and removed a bowl from the dishwasher with her left hand, as if
it was time to take things out, not put things in. I was very kind and patient
when I said, “That stays in. Here, put the fork in, and touched her right hand
with the fork.” She looked at the fork as if she was very surprised to see it
in her hand. I think that’s what really threw her off. <br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t do it,” she said. So I said, “Like this,” and put
another fork in the basket. She quickly chased my fork into the basket with
hers, as if she’d lose the moment had she hesitated. For the rest of clean up
she took her time, got things done as well as she normally does – glasses placed
right side up, plates askew in the rack – all of it easy enough to redo when
she’s not around later.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The final blow came when we were folding laundry to an Indiana
Jones movie. We had changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, and, as is our
way, were about to spend a half hour or so relaxing before her bedtime of 9pm.
The pile of laundry was on the couch, but she prefers to fold on the floor
where she can spread out comfortably. I gave her a little pile of laundry to
work on. Usually she needs plenty of time to flatten something out, then think
about folding it over, then over one more time, and whatever it is, it’s
smaller than it was and you can put it in a sweet pile to refold later. She
usually enjoys the accomplishment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But last night she did not. She couldn’t remember how to
fold. She laid the first item out flat, and kept flattening it. Then stopping.
Then flattening it some more. Then she started crying, “I don’t know what to
do,” she said, plain as day, as those familiar phrases always are. I reassured
her that it was ok, but she insisted that it’s not ok. She picked up something
else and flattened it. Then nothing. No fold over. Just the flattening. Her
quiet tear became a sob, “I’m going down,” she said, taking the effort to show
me the stair steps down, down, down, to be sure I’d get the meaning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart was breaking. There’s no pity in the world like
seeing someone you love in anguish, and her anguish was deep last night. We had
spoken several times over the past month or so about dementia, her brain function being compromised by
disease, so she knew <span style="text-align: center;">what this was about. She was expressing very clearly that
she feels the dementia gaining ground. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-align: center;">What could I do but hold her and love
her, and tell her I’m here for her and we’ll get through this together. I
tucked her in bed, tears still rolling quietly, as she whispered, “I love you
so much.”</span></div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-39107247645330933142016-05-18T05:18:00.003-07:002016-05-18T05:21:08.919-07:00Jamie: Art and Hallucinations<div class="MsoNormal">
Last night Jamie was depressed and reluctant to tell me the
reason. Lately she’s a little too careful of my feelings, which is very sweet
but unnecessary. I don’t mind being woken up from a nap or hearing a problem.
Ask my kids. She was very melancholy as I made dinner and finally, at my third
or fourth request, toward the end of dinner, she confessed what was on her
mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When she gets something on her mind it lingers there, in the
background, as her language struggles to form around it. You can see her
thinking, thinking hard, while she gestures with her hand, or both hands, and
wrinkles her nose or squints trying to hunt for the words to express it. Sometimes
she just shrugs her shoulders in defeat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said, “I can’t do anything.” I’m interpreting. She
actually said, “I can’t…” then waved her hands around gently, looking at each
of them in turn, and then looking at me with a helpless expression, ending
with, “Yeah.” Which is the way she always ends her attempts to communicate.
It’s as if she’s saying, “That’s what I’m trying to say.” But her “Yeah” often
follows no words at all, just expressions and gestures, and we have to really
dig with “yes” and “no” questions, starting with general topics and drilling
down to specifics. Many times we never arrive at what she thought she was
telling us with just that one word, “Yeah.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve found it very helpful for her to discuss her disease when
she’s depressed like this. Her inability to do things and her struggle to
express what’s on her mind really demoralizes her and leaves her feeling “less
than.” And I want her to constantly feel that she’s winning, not losing, that
she’s able, not disabled, my joy, not my burden. And these efforts on my part
are really paying off in her self-esteem, which is blossoming.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I told her, “You know, you’re actually very lucky.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really?” (A word she can always find) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes! Your disease is making it super hard for you to find
words. You can’t say what you think, what you feel, and it’s so frustrating to
you. But … you know me. You know everyone around you. You see someone at the
Farmer’s Market from your old neighborhood and you recognize them right away
and know exactly who they are. So what if you can’t say their name or describe
how you know them. Those are just words, but that woman knew that you
recognized her, and that big hug you gave her told her you knew exactly who she
was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Some people with your disease can speak very clearly, know
all of their words, but don’t know who someone is, their own family, their own
friends. They forget who they were, their old job. What they did and who they
loved is lost to them.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this point she’s incredulous. “Really?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes! But your disease has left your memory intact. Do you
remember teaching economics at the University of Missouri?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes!” Big grin – because this is something she CAN do! She
can remember. So I run with it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Were you a professor or adjunct?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The first one.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What did you like about teaching, was it the students?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No.” I laugh because I was sure she would have liked her
students. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The subject matter?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“YES!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You liked economics?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes!” (She’s really happy now)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you remember the other professors?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did you like them?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can you tell me anything about teaching?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I liked it. I really liked it. I really, really liked it.”
(Tears)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drilled down a little further and mentioned writing her
thesis, she had a PHD, and other accomplishments she should still be very proud
of. It was a moving conversation for both of us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyDPym6LnBfzTHrf1ng526XTnvpVwHXPZ76DtaV5nGTO3OqRvssqK5H_hrLxzmP-bhpgKN5-RwgUxaSqaKIQ_hkIxpIkJHLdxco3aJQ8LGTv6W8uk162AIiO3LWO8YDqRCUdWIUkasZgQ/s1600/ButtonFramePainting.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyDPym6LnBfzTHrf1ng526XTnvpVwHXPZ76DtaV5nGTO3OqRvssqK5H_hrLxzmP-bhpgKN5-RwgUxaSqaKIQ_hkIxpIkJHLdxco3aJQ8LGTv6W8uk162AIiO3LWO8YDqRCUdWIUkasZgQ/s200/ButtonFramePainting.JPG" width="200" /></a>Although she’s sad that she could not continue to teach,
she’s in touch with what an amazing person she is for having had a career she
loved and being able to remember it in spite of her disease. She’s in awe that
others with Alzheimer’s can’t remember everything the way she can. I never tell
her that it’s likely she’ll forget one day, too. Why? We’re here now. We’re
vibrant and we’re thinking pretty damn clearly right now. Being optimistic is
so important for her and it keeps her from those bad days we used to have, and
we may have again, when she shuts down and shuts us out and is just mad. So
far, having conversations like this has kept those days at bay.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We began to talk about her artwork. I said, “Not only were
you a professor, you were an artist. Not many people get to have a satisfying
career and something else they do so well.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I want to do it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You can still do it! Even though you don’t paint flowers or
landscapes, your abstract paintings are amazing!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I brought her one of the framed pieces we made together the
day before Easter, removing it from its place on the wall, and showed her how
lovely her recent work is. The colors she chooses, the shapes her faltering
hand paints, are luminous and worthy of her brilliant past. She smiled. Tears
again. “Let’s do it.” I agreed, of course. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the reality is that creating those two pieces that one
Saturday was a momentous task. She made the frames, gluing a hundred buttons
around the edges after I rubbed some paint on them. We chose portions of her
painting to trim and put in the frames. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That 2 or 3 hour project took every ounce of her mental strength,
and the day that followed was a very bad day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Granted, it was early in my life with her, but Easter Sunday
was the day she had her worst melt down, and, or because, I was completely
alone with her for 48 hours and didn’t yet really know what I was doing, I felt
very vulnerable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She started talking, again, about an incident on Friday, two
days before, when she swore there was a man outside trying to talk to her and
we scared him away. One of her caretakers was with her on the dock when she
started telling her to leave her alone, to go inside, so this man would come. I
got a panicked call, “Come down here right away, we’re having a bad time.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took us about 15 minutes to get Jamie into the apartment
again. She was stomping around the parking lot, sitting on the curb, waving her
arms and yelling, pacing back and forth, saying we had to go in and leave her
alone so the man would come.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We finally got her in when I threatened her with calling
911. I didn’t know what else to do. By bedtime that night she seemed ok. And
the next day, Saturday was wonderful. We created those two beautiful paintings
together, along with their frames.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the next day she insisted, again, that we had scared off
this man whom she said loved her and wanted to marry her, and insisted that he
was, right then, outside the door. I briefly opened the door to look, thinking
it would appease her to know that no one was out there. Instead, she insisted
that he was, and rushed me to get past me to the door and get to him. I wiggled
in front of her and locked it to keep her from running away. She’s bigger and
stronger than me and she figured out the lock and got out. In the end, after
quite an ordeal, she was sitting outside the door on the ground crying because
I had scared him away. She came in, I made dinner, we had our evening routine
and went to bed without words. She scowled the entire evening. She wouldn’t
look at me or talk to me. It was, to the best of my memory, the worst day of my
life. What had I gotten myself into? I cried myself to sleep that night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I called the neurologist the next day and the nurse
explained that hallucinations were normal and her behavior was classic, not
“bad” or an issue to be addressed medically. The trick, she explained, is not
to fight them, but to play along. Next time, the nurse said, say something to
keep her inside rather than tell her she can’t leave. You could have said,
“He’ll probably call before he comes to see you. Let’s stay in, in case the
phone rings!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I forgot to ask was, “Does working really hard mentally
make things worse for her?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since Easter I have learned that preventing aggravation and
anxiety are key. Like having this type of conversation with her, keeping her
aware that she’s fighting a disease and she’s really doing great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reassurances bring her a lot of peace
because otherwise she’s frequently worrying that she’s doing something wrong.
She’s a person with a great deal of accomplishment and pride and she wants to
do the right thing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being defective drives her nuts, frustrates her, and makes
her angry with herself. So I give her things to do. She helps me cook and clean.
It takes her about a minute per dish or utensil to get it into the dishwasher,
but I want her to do it. First, it keeps her busy and prevents boredom, the
enemy, second, it reinforces that I trust her and need her and she’s not the
only one who needs a hand. At the end of the night I thank her for helping with
dinner or the dishes or picking up or folding laundry, even though I had to
redo just about everything she did. It’s important and she appreciates it more
than you could ever imagine. Feeling useful gives her a great deal of happiness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tonight, after helping in the kitchen, she was thinking
about our dinner conversation regarding her disease and looked at me with this
very pensive expression and said, “I’ve been coming up!” while lifting both of
her hands. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you mean you’ve been doing better?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes! Better!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know it’s true. She’s doing much better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So art, though it’s as much a struggle as getting a fork
into the dishwasher basket, is going to be important for us. It’s the only
thing from her past that she can still do. She has tried to crochet, but became
so frustrated and sad. Art can be messy. It can be freeform and abstract. I
will have to find a way help her not burn out with it. It exhausts her mentally,
and a day that exhausts her mentally can lead to hallucinations and other
problems the next day, so I’ll have to be gentle. But I will keep trying. Early
in the day? Very brief projects?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One solution might be to paint in front of her. Let her vicariously
experience creating. One day, when I had gotten all of the supplies out and set
her up and put the brush in her hand, she looked at the brush and said, “Later.”
Another time, before I did all of the set up, I asked if she wanted to do some
art, but she said “I’m tired.” And the expression on her face as one of
resignation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
But last night she said, “Let’s do it,” again. I know she
wants to experience creating art, as exhausting as it is for her, so I have to
make it happen in some way. I have not tried the letting-her-watch-me method to
see if it gives her the same satisfaction as creating art herself. But I’ll try
it.</div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-31092742810631841822016-05-17T05:28:00.000-07:002016-05-17T05:58:08.976-07:00Jamie and the Long Cough<div class="MsoNormal">
After my father passed away, Jamie went through a very
natural process of grieving. Without the filters or editors we all know so
well, her grief was genuine and heartfelt at any moment it struck. It was an
honor to behold. Without warning the tears would flow and without much command
of language, the simple words. “I miss him. I loved him,” told her story of
deepest sorrow as well as any sonnet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She gave poignant expression to mourning the loss of a
lifestyle she had truly enjoyed: “Who will take me out? I want to go out. I
want to go dancing.” My father was on a scooter for the entire time he knew
Jamie, but he was the third husband she had lost. Her last husband, Eric, died
of cancer around 2008, and she missed him as well. She wanted to go dancing
again. She wanted to be doted on by a man in love with her, wined and dined and
carried across a dance floor. She grieved the loss of this romantic side of
life very deeply.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dad (I usually call him Richard when speaking to Jamie) had
a military ceremony at his funeral and Jamie clutched the flag afterward
saying, “I have three of these.” I’ve seen one in her cedar chest, but I don’t
where the other one is. There may not be a third flag. She handed me Dad’s and
it’s in my closet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNAcdAE1nNUyQQbAgnXDc55z5iydBGI9WL_TvX5orku2yVcyhhKlVat2N4I5BjxLjDuz0h5SuNqSGHRTKOSufbw2u-btk3mY8_eDDLO_qTXEFVvzQ816ihmdvy8zVjlx9aW3ZWImsFppc/s1600/CoughDrops2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNAcdAE1nNUyQQbAgnXDc55z5iydBGI9WL_TvX5orku2yVcyhhKlVat2N4I5BjxLjDuz0h5SuNqSGHRTKOSufbw2u-btk3mY8_eDDLO_qTXEFVvzQ816ihmdvy8zVjlx9aW3ZWImsFppc/s200/CoughDrops2.jpg" width="200" /></a>One of Jamie’s habitual behaviors was what I’ll call “the
long cough.” My father was very frustrated with it and took her to an asthma
doctor who told him she does not have asthma, but gave her an inhaler to
appease her. He took her to their family doctor who said she did not have a
lingering cough, walking pneumonia, any chest congestion or any reason to
cough. But several times a week she would have a coughing fit that ended in
complete misery with her sitting on the floor, nose running, bawling her eyes out
because no one cared that she couldn’t breathe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was unaware of this behavior, but when I started living
with her I was told that every morning Dad used to give her a cough drop to
help her not cough that day and it worked pretty well. There was a bowl of them
in the kitchen drawer. I faithfully dispensed the cough drop when she staggered
out of her bedroom every morning coughing and clutching her throat very
dramatically. The cough drop cured that morning episode instantly. Every time.
As soon as it hit her tongue the coughing stopped. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hmmm. As someone who’s had six kids, and one with anxiety, I
recognized very early that I was dealing with a psychosomatic situation. What
was the trigger? She had been sound asleep. On bad days, days when the house was
confusing with people stopping by to give their condolences, my family staying
for a few days for the funeral, then we’d have the full blown effect. It was
wild.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’d start with the same little cough as in the morning,
clutching her throat. But the cough drop would not do its magic trick, so we’d
try water. Water would not help so we’d ask her to sit down, or we’d say,
“breathe slowly,” or “calm down.” This would only make her mad. “NO!” she’d
insist, “Call him! I need meds!” I really didn’t want to call a doctor, what an
ordeal! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So she’d end up on the floor, which was her ultimate
rebellion. Coughing, spitting saliva everywhere, nose running, eyes blinking
rivers of tears, in a classic “Woe is me” scenario. If we left her alone
she’d say something to the effect of, “you don’t care if I die.” So we coddled
and soothed and gave her a placebo – a calcium pill, and told her it was her
meds, and she’d calm down after a little while.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fear of this incident kept us from going out on any day
when she seemed iffy. Iffy means agitated. When she was stressed or agitated,
the long cough wasn’t far off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frequent episodes seemed the result of my father’s passing,
the chaos that followed, the grief of his absence, and adjusting to the new
paradigm with me in my little bedroom and her alone in hers, and women coming
every day to care for her. She wanted the old lifestyle back in the worst way,
but it was not happening. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll skip all of the psychology and cut to the chase: she
was acting like a spoiled child who wanted attention. Having not spoiled my
children I didn’t want to give in to this manipulation. If she didn’t get her
way she started coughing. If she was mad about anything, or you left her out of
a conversation, or you didn’t do something and had no idea what it was because
she couldn’t express herself and tell you what she wanted, she’d start
coughing. It was not a sustainable situation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was exhausting to live on pins and needles dreading the
long cough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We tried tough love. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Stop
coughing. You can do it. You’ve got this! Just breathe slowly.” Backfired big
time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We tried the placebo. As soon as it started we’d go to the
cabinet and ceremoniously give her the little calcium pill to cure her. That
worked like magic, except that now she was addicted to this new behavior. As
soon as she’d have a little tiny tickle in her throat and cough once –
something that a cough drop used to help, she was clutching her throat and
choking out, “I need meds! Get me my meds!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today she never coughs. If she starts to cough a little bit,
we fix it quickly with a drink of water and the occasional cough drop. We’ve
found the cure. And the cure fixes her hallucinations (I’ll enjoy telling you
that story later!) and her temper tantrums as well. They come up every now and
then, but I think it’s been about nine days now since we’ve had any negative
behavior and, although I don’t expect that run to last forever, I have to say
that life is good and it’s wonderful not living on pins and needles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ve stopped the long cough with two things: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One was a cure for any possible physical reality to her
behavior. We thought it might be a little phlegm that she found in her throat
and didn’t know what to do with. So we took her seriously and started giving
her, unknown to her, an allergy pill at night with her other pills. Now, if her
cough was caused by post nasal drip from pollen or her cat, we’d head it off at
the pass before it could start. This worked. She had less of a cough in the
morning. She continued to stagger out of her bedroom asking for a cough drop –
but she wasn’t really coughing or clutching her throat! She was just sort of
clearing her throat like it was a little dry. Eventually that even stopped and
I only give her a morning cough drop a couple of times a week now. Plenty of
water, of course and always.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Number two was a cure for her need for attention. I began
noticing that not getting attention was the main trigger for the long cough. So
I began to hug her more. A lot more. Hugs all day long. Guess what? No more
long coughs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For about nine days now we have had a blissful existence.
Good days every day with little hiccups that we overcome by dinnertime. For
example, on Sunday I was exhausted and, since she often takes a nap, I
suggested one. She gladly complied and I laid her down in bed and went to my
room where I slept like a log for an hour and a half. When I woke up on my own
I rejoiced that she had also had a good, long nap. But when I came out of my
room, there she was, sitting on a chair crying! She said she had not slept at
all. She was apparently just waiting for me to wake up. This was surprising
because she never hesitates to come into my room at 4 in the morning if she
needs more water or hears a strange sound. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dried her tears with many apologies and tried to get on
with our Sunday, making her a snack to eat while I worked on dinner. But in her
little passive aggressive way she decided to ignore everything I said to her
for the next few hours. It was comical. It reminded me of a child’s behavior,
but I try to constantly remind myself that she is a brilliant adult with brain
damage, not a child. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I made her a snack and put it on the kitchen island, but she
walked past it and started moving chairs at the dining table. I made her a
drink and put it by her favorite chair and put the snack on the table next to
it, inviting her to sit down and have her snack. She headed toward the chair,
then took a right turn and started moving the books around on the coffee table.
Anything I suggested that she do, she would start to act like she was about to do
it, then do something else. It was comical. But I didn’t mind. I got it. I had
left her alone for an hour and a half.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A little payback was in order.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Anything is better than the long cough.</div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-87041907234302079582016-05-16T05:06:00.002-07:002016-05-17T12:05:06.791-07:00Life with Jamie - How I Got Here.I was in a pretty comfortable rut until my father passed
away unexpectedly in March of this year, 2016.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few years ago I freed myself from a live-in relationship
that grew awkward when my man began to drink too much. My home became peaceful.
I didn’t mind living with my adult son with lupus, because we had grown into a
comfortable give and take. He pulled his weight the best he could and that made
the sacrifice on my part o.k. We coexisted happily. His music resonated through
our old house and soothed my soul.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I worked from home at a job I enjoyed for a boss I
loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I connected with my friends
frequently through online conversations and Facebook posts. Now and then I
drove an hour for a poetry reading or someone came to have dinner with me. I
enjoyed creative outlets like poetry, making jewelry and drawing and painting.
And I even got myself a puppy in December to fill in the blank spaces and get
the exercise I really needed. My mind was free to roam on our walks with the
open sky above me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At night, before I fell asleep, I watched something fun on
Netflix – something I really wanted to watch, or I read something I really
enjoyed reading. I had visions of making my own movie and plans for writing my
own books. I wrote down ideas and sketched paintings in journals. But all the
books and screenplays I started to write, and big paintings I wanted to paint,
waited patiently for me somewhere down the path. My life was comfortable,
almost perfect, once I had my puppy and started to feel healthier. I was very
content. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For about two months.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then on February first my father choked on a bite of cherry
pie and my world turned upside down. Forty days later he passed away from
aspiration pneumonia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During that
40 days I had come down twice to South Carolina, and ended up staying,
providing hospice care for him for his final five days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I learned how to give him tube feedings, empty his catheter,
help him feel cared for and comfortable, and a nurse came once a day to bathe
him. Now and then his wife, Jamie, who had dementia, would lean over him and
sob. She would tell him how much she loved him, and he would do the same with the
little bit of breath he had. His chest compressed with her weight, he was
unwilling to ask her to move. His first night home he called for help three
times, asking me to roll him on his side this way, then that way, because he
could not get comfortable. I paid someone to spend the night after that so I
could sleep and be alert to care for him during the day, but he never called
for help again at night. I assume when he realized I hadn’t slept that he
suffered through his difficult nights and never complained. He was very aware
of the burden of caring for him and expressed his gratitude frequently. He accepted
restrictions like "nothing by mouth" with a final resignation to mortality and,
without a whimper, left us on the morning of March 11 at 8 am as Jamie and I
stood at his side.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO95yniNGTXC-vdINss5igaCst9A-Nw6_D0W7a1LJWsGEIsFsY4J75b-zVn7VUBRw_rz4aicf1NtOzOvT-ID5T48XIeP8KIltwuB9i-__rDijTcxgxF0YweiC4zOueWWLrk-1CZw0atHM/s1600/Gay-and-Jamie-May2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO95yniNGTXC-vdINss5igaCst9A-Nw6_D0W7a1LJWsGEIsFsY4J75b-zVn7VUBRw_rz4aicf1NtOzOvT-ID5T48XIeP8KIltwuB9i-__rDijTcxgxF0YweiC4zOueWWLrk-1CZw0atHM/s320/Gay-and-Jamie-May2016.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At that moment I inherited the responsibility of caring for Jamie.
Her dementia is at stage 3 on a scale of 4. I instantly jumped trains from the
burden of hospitals and feeding tubes to 24 hour responsibility for a
beautiful, healthy woman who, at only 64, cannot remember the words for things,
get herself a drink of water, or put on a shirt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About a year before, Dad had asked me if I would take care
of her after he died. But he was doing well and that seemed far away. They were
traveling internationally, he was taking care of her at home, he was
considering assisted living because of his post-polio syndrome. Had he moved
into a place like that with her, everything would be different now. She would
be familiar with it and could have stayed. My responsibility would have been to
visit her frequently and make her feel loved. That was one vision. Another
vision was to put an addition on the first floor and bring her to my house
where helpers would come and watch her while I worked from home. It seemed
doable enough. I loved my father and I loved Jamie, and I didn’t mind the idea
of one more person under my roof that needed me. He told me “she would more
than pay her way.” So it seemed doable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My father and Jamie lived in a luxury condominium in a
thriving tourist town—Beaufort, South Carolina. The view is spectacular and the
rent is commensurate. His navy pension, as a 100% disabled veteran officer for
more than 10 years, supported their comfortable lifestyle when combined with
some of her income from pensions and social security. This is where I’ve been
living since February. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am writing from my room in the condo about to begin my day
of working from home. Jamie is still asleep, but someone is coming in about 15
minutes to stay with her while I work. This is our life at the moment. I don’t
know how long we can stay here, but right now it’s very good for her. She loves
this place and has many friends in the building that treat her like gold. It’s
a life I never dreamed I’d live in a place I never imagined I’d be with people
I never would have encountered as new, dear friends. I want to share this
adventure with you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve left port, raised my sails and found the wind. The sea
is choppy, my course uncertain, and my destination a complete mystery. But the
wind is with me and I feel that I’m doing what I have to do. Am I doing it the
best way? What are the repercussions for my son in New Jersey? How many years
can I sustain a life that centers around someone becoming ever more dependent
on me 24 hours a day? What will happen as her dementia progresses? What will I
do if I become frustrated with her behavior, or depressed over missing my adult
kids and easy life back in New Jersey?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why have I left them all, and my puppy, behind to pick up
the responsibility my father gave me? That’s the easiest question of all. Because
I love Jamie and I see in her the brilliant woman she once was, and I pity her
beyond words. This is what sustains me, now two months into living with her
here in the condo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been told several times by several people to keep a
journal and note her behavior and our interactions. This is my journal. I’ll
post as frequently as I can to track her progress and my education as I learn
to navigate the uncharted seas of life with dementia.</div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-28978421773316889982015-08-08T14:48:00.003-07:002015-08-08T14:50:58.884-07:00Twelve Days Homeless<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">
It was early fall, 2006 and I was walking quickly with friends toward my favorite French restaurant, Alouette, on Broadway and 96th. We were laughing loudly, caught up in the playful spirit of the moment, lunging toward the decadent feast I had anticipated all week. I loved being spoiled with the likes of duck confit. I was feeling particularly self-confident that night, partly because I was very happy with my outfit. It was warm for fall, so the Malaysian wrap that fluttered around my shoulders added color, not warmth, and I was also very pleased with my shoes. Just enough heel to force a certain walk—not my usual flat footed gait.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Fifteen feet from our destination I was jarred by a loud moan and spun around to see an old woman, hunched over, walking slowly and awkwardly away from us. With almost every step she moaned, but I had caught one loudly, exactly as I passed. It reached through my eardrum into my cochlea, traversed my auditory nerves and, with determined precision, skipped through my brain and straight into my heart. I was struck, as if by love and shock simultaneously. This pitiful human was crying out in pain, and starving to death by the look of her tiny, crooked body. She was desperate to be seen. But amid the swirl of flowing Upper West Side scarves and the staccato of stilettos, no one saw her. But I did see. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
I turned to my friends with a frantic glance, but, savvy about these things, with one look they educated me on the indefatigable specter of poverty in this, Their City, and hurried me into the restaurant. I was obliged to shake off my naive empathies like unwanted crumbs from my otherwise confident ensemble.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
But she remained. She couldn’t be so easily dismissed. Her cry demanded it. She was of course long gone when we re-emerged with our stuffed bellies. But I tried to fool myself that, had I seen her again I would have stopped to help, given her food, done something in spite of my friends. I denied her my help that night, but her cry has never left me.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
_________</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
It was a winter evening in 2012, and below zero with the wind chill, much colder than normal for New York City. A group of us were walking to keep warm as we tried to hail a cab to our dinner meeting. I don’t remember the event, the location, or the coworkers I was with, but I remember the subway grate that a homeless man crouched over, leaning against a mailbox. You could easily miss him in the shadow. He was not trying to be seen. He was not moving or making a sound. His coat was lightweight, his hat was thin. My coat, on the other hand, was filled with down, and inside my down hood I word a thick hat. It was so cold that the wind froze the humidity in my nose as I breathed, so when I saw him out of the corner of my eye, I was taken aback by the sight. It wasn’t logical. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Why was he there? What was he doing there? How could he sit still in this cold like that? Wherever you looked everyone was in constant motion, shrugging their shoulders, stepping back and forth as they waited for the light to change, or the bus to come, or the cab door to open. No one was standing still. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
But there he was. Not moving at all. Was the subway grate really that warm? I didn’t walk over to find out. I didn’t crouch down to see if he was ok. I didn’t even stop and take a good look at him. I stayed in the stream of anxiously moving bodies, rushing against the wind to warm destinations where we would be welcomed with food and conversation, and discuss topics like the size of the shrimp or the ingredients in the signature drink.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
As we ate dinner I commented on the constant sound of sirens outside, which did not seem to let up at all. Someone replied matter-of-factly, “That’s because it’s so cold. They go around the city picking up the homeless who are freezing to death outside.” The perfunctory explanation hit me like an ambulance that had driven right through the plate glass window, past the matre d’, over six other tables and into my chest. “Freezing to death.”</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Of course he was freezing to death. And in the shadows he may not have been seen by the cops or ambulances going by. Maybe I had been his only hope. Maybe he really did freeze to death that night. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
He, too, remains with me. For, like the woman, he was too close to too awful of a fate to deny. Too unseen. Too easy to ignore. Both of them practically begging to be ignored. She was easy to ignore for her strange walk, loud moans and awkwardness. He, for the opposite: his complete silence and invisibility.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
It’s been a few years since those encounters. Now, when I venture to the city I always keep an eye out for an opportunity to help and a few singles handy, right in my pocket so I can hand something out without stopping to think too hard or fish through my purse. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Have you heard the one about the seminary professor? He wants to know what kind of priests his students will be, so he arranges the schedule and location for the final exam such that it will be almost impossible for the students to get to the exam on time, with the stipulation that the door will be shut, and they will get an F, if they are even one minute late for the exam. Then he places himself in the shadows under a bridge that they must pass under to get to the exam. He wears shabby clothes and sprawls out as if he’s just fallen down and as each of the young people passes he reaches out and, in a pained voice, asks for help. I believe the story goes that one of the students stops and helps, accepting the fate of the F, while all the others rush by, just as I had done.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ4ICmLi0L7dyhGKWNa3yAMjCbWvxrwR4RBiiydhtjyToN95ABiGOIYL7pQKEBvgvS9c3mh5MdbyCIjMfCLIjVykJnkII8niqQKFrOR3C09mQmqaVOkxbd7ee7jLxrDtKr0Bwde0bk_DY/s1600/Larry1c-8-7-15.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ4ICmLi0L7dyhGKWNa3yAMjCbWvxrwR4RBiiydhtjyToN95ABiGOIYL7pQKEBvgvS9c3mh5MdbyCIjMfCLIjVykJnkII8niqQKFrOR3C09mQmqaVOkxbd7ee7jLxrDtKr0Bwde0bk_DY/s320/Larry1c-8-7-15.png" title="Larry by Galen Warden 8-7-15" width="262" /></a>I think about that story a lot, and I’m the first to admit how screwed up my priorities were on the occasions I’ve shared with you. But I’m working on them.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
_________</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
I had a very different experience on Monday morning. I was going into the city and I had to take the bus, which I really dislike. The train is much better. I left home late due to a 7 a.m. international call that I wanted to have at home. I commuted into Port Authority Bus Terminal, rather than Penn Station. My whole trip was a little off, and because of my 10 a.m. arrival time, the crowds were not as dense and the press of people not as tight as a normal commute.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
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When you head into the subways at Port Authority there’s this long, wide ramp with swinging doors at the top and at the bottom. With fewer people, it was easy to see that a homeless man was sitting on the floor, propped against the wall on one side of the ramp. In my normal fashion, I pulled two dollars out of my pocket and stopped to give them to him. But for some reason I couldn’t just hand him the two dollars and keep on walking. Maybe it was the slower pace of the crowd, or the fact that I was already late due to my call, but I just stood there and looked at him, puzzled by the look on his face as he took my money. His look seemed to say, “I guess this is the best you can do for me right now, and I have to be grateful for it, but it’s not enough.”</div>
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So I just stood there. And he just sat there, looking at my two dollars in his hand. He said, “Thank you,” but then he started talking to me. I guess he could tell that I had planted myself there for some unknown reason, and maybe I wanted to listen. Why else would I have stopped?</div>
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His name is Larry. He’s about 40 years old, tall, thin and handsome, which would be easier to see if he wasn’t homeless … but he’d only been homeless for 12 days. That was why he looked so different, why I had to stop. He didn’t have the hopeless, mechanical, resigned to the crumbs people throw his way demeanor I was so accustomed to. He was upset. He was frustrated. As he told me his story he fought back tears.</div>
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“You don’t know what it’s like,” he started out. And, yes, that was stating the obvious. But he was talking to me like a fellow human being. He was honoring me with our equality. A gift I could not ignore. So I listened intently to the events that led up to these first 12 days of homelessness as a man who wanted to work, wanted independence, was ready to do whatever that would take. But now, instead, was being daily humiliated, ridiculed and insulted by those who “don’t know what it’s like.”</div>
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He had landed a job training class for this week, but he had no way to get to it. He finally started to cry when he told me, “I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do.” In the end I bought him a weekly unlimited Metro Card so he could get to his training. He tried to give me all the dollar bills in his pocket to help with the expense, but I asked him to keep it and get some food. “I’m hungry,” he said. “I’m so hungry, but I’m not going to get food with this. I’m focused. I’m determined. I’ve got to figure out how to get laundry done. Everything is so hard out here. What do you do about deodorant? About a shower? About laundry?” And his eyes met mine with a sincerity of bewilderment that I could truly relate to. Yes, what DO you do?</div>
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I gave Larry a big, long hug before I left… but I left. I walked away. I didn’t take a selfie so I could remember him, or give him my number so he could keep me posted. But Larry has stayed with me all week long. It’s Friday night now, and maybe I should be watching my favorite show or reading a book with a cup of tea. But I can’t. Instead I drew a picture of Larry so that you could see him. It’s not a real likeness, just from memory, but I want to honor him and honor the rough road he’s on. </div>
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I wish I had given him my number. I wish it as hard as I wish I had stopped to help the moaning woman or the frozen man. I believe in Larry. I wept as I prayed for him on my way to pick up my daughter today. I wept for the beauty of his spirit, his humility and determination. He is my equal. His frustration and helplessness call to me. He made some bad choices, sure. But he’s paying a greater price than I have ever paid for my bad choices, and I’m not going to say his were that much worse. I lost Larry when I walked away and got on my subway to work. I lost touch with his progress. How is he doing today? Did he do well in the training this week? His week is over too, is he happier than when I met him on that ramp with his dollar bills? He put that fistful of singles into my hand, but I gave them back. He didn’t understand so he quickly neatened them, ironing them out into a nice stack, 10 of them, to help pay for the Metro Card. </div>
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If by 10 in the morning you’ve earned ten precious dollars for your troubles, along with a helping of insults and humiliation, I’m not going to reject your gift because they’re wadded up. I just want you to eat today. </div>
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I had a granola bar in my backpack, which I should have given him, but I held it back for some crazy reason. I finally ate it this afternoon. All week I thought about Larry when I thought about that granola bar, purchased outside of my gate at Port Authority for my breakfast that day. But after meeting Larry I couldn’t eat till I eventually went out for lunch with coworkers.</div>
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Now that I’ve done my poor drawing of him, I can gladly keep Larry in my heart. His sad, determined, humble eyes telling such a story that they froze me in my tracks. If you see Larry, please give him my number. I want him to call me so I can buy him some new clothes and a monthly, instead of a weekly, Metro Card.</div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-16373747961872939452015-07-29T22:04:00.000-07:002015-07-29T22:11:52.996-07:00That Most Ancient, Most Effective Instrument: Our Collective Voice<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Rachel Carson's 1962 book <i>Silent Spring</i> lead to the public outcry which eventually brought about the banning of DDT for agricultural use in the US in 1972. Why was Carson's spring silent? The birds had been killed by DDT. She saw them writhe in pain as they died on her own property after it was sprayed for mosquitos without her permission. DDT was used with abandon in those days and children were born deformed, people became very ill, and wildlife died everywhere it was used, especially birds and the songbirds she loved. DDT was pronounced safe by the manufacturer, but it was far from safe and no one was protecting us from it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A new public outcry is needed to bring an end to the chemical warfare being waged, again, on humans and nature alike. As Jane Goodall declared, "How could we have ever believed it was a good idea to grow our food with poisons?" And not just our foods, but the lawns our children play on, the parks our families visit — the herbicidal poison Glyphosate is being used all the time everywhere we live, play, work... and on the food we eat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now, thanks to Europeans actually <a href="https://www.foeeurope.org/weed-killer-glyphosate-found-human-urine-across-Europe-130613" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">testing people for evidence of it,</span></a> we know that it's in us. It's very likely in all of us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The<a href="https://www.schmidtlaw.com/roundup-lawsuit/" target="_blank"> <span style="color: #3d85c6;">Schmidt Law Firm</span></a> has launched a national class action law suit against Monsanto for falsely claiming that Glyphosate is safe for humans. Their website points to research which has finally <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/18623080" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">linked Glyphosate to cancer</span></a> and several other diseases.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI380LSDeUAKS02gZHSdGMYB7XLOnB0YT2_FhATkIwXxS3HumyDVk1B2Azqm3Xkwex4kB-HPIzscUx8psODZqG0Ioz0okeF3fc9bkzq-RA2dBSVCjs9MzoSnzHZUr0YJnpuAMFhSuc5C0/s1600/PlantHeart.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI380LSDeUAKS02gZHSdGMYB7XLOnB0YT2_FhATkIwXxS3HumyDVk1B2Azqm3Xkwex4kB-HPIzscUx8psODZqG0Ioz0okeF3fc9bkzq-RA2dBSVCjs9MzoSnzHZUr0YJnpuAMFhSuc5C0/s320/PlantHeart.png" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Whether or not you believe that crossing jellyfish and spiders with our food is safe science, engineering crops that can stand more poison is <b><i>not</i></b> safe science and, at the very least, the poisons GMO crops tolerate need to be banned. Not now. Not yesterday. A decade ago. The diseases which have become rampant since around 1990 when Glyphosate began to be widely used are ruining our quality of life. All indications are anecdotal because proper longterm research has not been conducted but it's pretty damning to follow the timeline. A tremendous rise in food allergies and auto-immune deceases coincides with the rampant increase in the use of the herbicide Glyphosate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Speaking for myself, I have an inflammatory auto-immune disease called Sarcoidosis. My son has lupus. My other son has central nervous system vasculitis. None of us have ever engaged in unhealthy activities or been exposed to toxins... except what we're exposed to in our food.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You've heard of millions of bees dying from colony collapse disorder and the many suspected culprits including neonicatinoids, chemical </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">pesticides</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> that harms the nervous systems of bees. There's also evidence now that </span><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.examiner.com/article/new-study-shows-honeybees-harmed-by-herbicide-used-on-gmo-crops" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Glyphosate is harmful to bees</span></a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Monsanto has invested millions of dollars in savvy marketing, including political influence. The positioning goes like this: "Those leftwing nut jobs want you to be afraid of your food. There's nothing to be afraid of. We've tested it and it's perfectly safe. They just want more regulation, bigger government, more restrictions on business. That's bad for America. We know what we're doing, we've done the research, we know it's safe. Let the experts handle it."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">DDT's manufacturers also fought regulation. When it was finally banned in the '70s, however, it had already made its way to the arctic and, decades later, was <a href="http://www.arctic.noaa.gov/essay_calder.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">found in the blubber of ringed seals and polar bears</span></a>. We have no idea today how far reaching and long lasting the effects of Glyphosate will be. But it must be banned.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The success of <i>Silent Spring</i> to bring about the ban on DDT use for crops was, according to Carson, not the book itself, but the public outcry that resulted from it. What does a public outcry look like? It's everyday people becoming alarmed enough to take action—simple action like writing a letter or boycotting a product... or a store.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Both The Home Depot and Ace Hardware stores are national chains with a combined 6,500 retail locations and $34 billion in annual sales between the two of them. These goliath retailers both carry Monsanto's Roundup, the most popular Glyphosate products, for use by homeowners, municipalities and farmers alike.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Let's send a message to these retailers. Let's sound an alarm in the only language they'll understand. I spoke to the managers of my local Home Depot and Ace Hardware stores and let them know that I was boycotting their stores because they sell Roundup, now shown to cause cancer. Both responded that they have no say in the matter. They stock what corporate requires them to carry. So I told them I would write to corporate. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Below, for your easy access (these things are never easy to find) are the name and address of the CEOs of The Home Depot and Ace Hardware. I plan to invest a fair bit of time in crafting my correspondence to them which, I am fully aware, an assistant of some kind will open and, perhaps glance over, or perhaps not. What is important is not that every word is read. What matters is that the headline is clear. "I'm boycotting your store until you remove Roundup from your shelves."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My two little letters may not have a very big impact. But what about a public outcry? I participated in the grape boycott initiated by Cesar Chavez when I was just a teenager. I saw firsthand that laws were passed to protect migrant farm workers who were struggling, even dying, under inhumane conditions. Now, today, it's time to put to use that most ancient and most effective instrument, our collective voice, and fight for the health of our families, the bees we need, wildlife we love, our planet in all of its glorious diversity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You don't want to read a poetic or philosophical tome, so I'll leave you with this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Share these two addresses. Ask your friends, neighbors and family members to boycott these two retailers and to send even a postcard to these CEOs letting them know what they're doing. Then let's just sit back and see what happens. I realize that boycotting very convenient stores like these is a hardship for you. I realize you want to just pick up a few pieces of wood or a wrench, I do realize that this is a sacrifice. And I really, really missed eating grapes in high school. But ask yourself this: If there were something YOU could do to save your loved one from a chronic disease or from cancer, would you do it? If the answer is yes, then you've already agreed this is really not too big of a sacrifice to make.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0e0e0e; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Craig A. Menear, CEO<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #0e0e0e; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Home Depot</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0e0e0e; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0e0e0e; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2455 Paces Ferry Road NW <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=john+venhuizen&stick=H4sIAAAAAAAAAGOovnz8BQMDgw0HnxCnfq6-gVFRgWmyEheIWWmSkpNkrKWYnWyln1-UnpiXWZVYkpmfh8KxSk7N95-xbc7hkx8DNmUXxvUxPF1wegfTZgBTTP5-WQAAAA&sa=X&ved=0CJYBEJsTKAEwEWoVChMIh5qC2Mb-xgIVizY-Ch0jhgIk"><span style="color: windowtext; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">John Venhuizen</span></a></span></b><b><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">, CEO<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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Kensington Court<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Let's you and I start something today. Let's use our collective voice and start a public outcry.</span></div>
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mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-44077765905128618782014-01-20T11:24:00.000-08:002014-01-20T11:32:01.583-08:00Theories on Poverty in America<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13px;">The most difficult threshold to cross is the tangible barrier between comfort and discomfort when that journey is a voluntary acknowledgement that we've been wrong. Every neuron and synapse screams to stay on the side of comfort, where denial is king. Many of us embrace discomfort and sacrifice. The discomfort we choose is not usually the truly difficult kind of admitting we've been wrong. Self-righteous self-deprecation is just as damning as self-righteous self-glorification. I should know. I've lived on both sides of that righteous fence.</span><br />
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Today I'd like to address the threshold between the easy scapegoat of theorizing and the painful admission of inaction, sins of omission, when it comes to the suffering of others, specifically the poor in America.</div>
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I've read the in-depth justifications for cutting poverty aid, cutting SNAP (food stamps), and keeping wages low. I'm not going to argue point-by-point on the reasons these theories are inaccurate or unfounded in reality. Arguments on theoretical points would continue to hold the situation on a theoretical plain. An insult to you, the reader, who lives daily in a real world, not a theoretical one.</div>
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In the real world, the poor live in shadows, hidden from the media and your eyes. In the real world there are millions of poor in America. Not a few overweight, loud-mouthed women, tattooed, angry youths, and old, lazy winos showcased for convenient display. No. These are not the millions of poor in America.</div>
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The millions of poor in America are the ones you don't want to see, so the media conveniently does not show them to you. Conveniently, they have no voice. No podium. No middle-class platform for you to comfortably observe them on display.</div>
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They are millions of children who did not choose to not be born where there's plenty of healthy food and a parent who's not exhausted from working two menial jobs and fighting off sickness. Queue the theory: "That parent should not have had children they can't afford. That parent should better themselves, get job training, get a skilled job."</div>
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Finger wagging doesn't make job training magically become accessible, nor the skilled jobs magically follow because of training. Nor does finger wagging put food on the table for millions of children just unlucky enough to be born to the parents you want to scold. </div>
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Maybe you had a poor upbringing. Your parents struggled, worked two jobs, and made it. And look at you, no privileged past, no free ride, but you're ok. Why can't they do it if you can? These are comfortable justifications for not really looking at the real lives of poor people. It's far easier to pass judgement on the millions we don't know and can't see. It feels fine. We can sleep quite well at night. We know they <i>could</i> make it if we did. If our parents did. It's their own fault if they're suffering. It's not necessary, after all.</div>
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I challenge all of us to consider that threshold for a moment. To just take a look at it. Myself included. What would it be like to peel back the veil of theories and stick our neck out just enough to see on the other side. To venture into the shadows of Chicago or Appalachia, to look into the eyes of hungry children, sick, worn out parents, to see the tattered text books and crumbling schools, to examine the low quality produce in the markets and the coats that cost too much, even at the Goodwill store. Maybe you'd rather see the $100 sneakers and expensive tattoos we've come to judge so well. But beyond the veil of sneaker theory is another reality for millions of Americans. And today I'm challenging all of us so that we can make an honest choice to look at them or to choose not to.</div>
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I've heard the comfortable say, "There's no real poverty in America. Africa has poverty. We don't have anyone in America who's starving to death. They're not <i>really</i> poor." This theory conveniently avoids confronting the reality that millions of Americans live in constant fear of sickness or injury, of being thrown out of their homes, of being victimized by predators and violence, with no hope of escape from their hopeless world. It's painful to look at them. It's easier to theorize about Africa.</div>
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In America thousands of laborers in factories, on farms, and in homes toil for less than half of minimum wage with threats and coercion holding them prisoner. They succumb to dangerous working conditions and are carted off to die, disposable, with another ready to take their place out of the same desperation that first enslaved the other.</div>
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Pull back the veil of theories. Blink a little because you have to adjust your eyes to the bright light. It burns a little, it stings at first. Our comfortable lives are the lie. Not the poverty we've hidden in the shadows. If we let the light shine into their shadows, we'll see that our assumptions, our comfortable theories, are actually crippling us, preventing us from the richest life we're capable of. Our most profound joy comes from embracing truth and acting on it.</div>
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We want to be firm in our convictions. We believe our theories are right. If that's true, then there really isn't a damning population of millions of Americans, wagging their fingers at us, condemning us, not from podiums and the media, not in banquet halls and convention centers, but in their beds at night as they hold their children tight, and know that we <i>could</i> understand their plight but refuse to.</div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-24068619442301394512013-09-29T12:22:00.002-07:002013-09-29T12:22:48.585-07:00SNAP Challenge Reflections<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After the SNAP Challenge (trying to eat on just $4.50 a day, or $1.50 a meal—what the government allocates for those on assistance) I am sharply aware of the great relief of not having to watch the price of every bite I put in my mouth. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's similar to the relief I felt, years ago, when I was no longer food insecure myself. I had gotten a good job. My kids could finally eat anything they wanted. There was always fruit in the house, and fresh meat and vegetables. I cooked roasts and chickens and hams. I've always loved to cook.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was, and am, by all counts, a very frugal person. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">However, </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">not having enough food to feed my family had left a permanent impression.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> So, </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">when it came to food, I stopped checking prices. I never thought twice about putting something in my cart that we wanted. I didn't skimp on food. It wasn't that I bought caviar. If the store brand was just as good, I happily bought it. But I bought name-brand mayonnaise. It tasted better. I bought snacks like chips and ice cream. I was careful, not extravagant, but I didn't check the price. I'd find out at the check-out what I was spending. Next time I'd be more careful if it was too much. But I was set in my mind to not add up or check prices, while pushing my happy, bountiful cart through the aisles. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had been traumatized, I think, by having been so broke for so long (a few years). Not having enough food is a frightening experience. Eating is as basic an instinct as personal safety from danger. Imagine if someone were chasing you with a gun in their hand. Your heart would race. Your adrenaline would pump. You'd be scared—and you'd do anything to get to a safe place, free from your attacker.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That's exactly what it's like to have no money. To have no food. To lose your home. A panic sets in. And if you're Type A, like me, you wear a strong face and you set at getting the job, getting shelter, getting food... with a determination and resolution that is unsurpassed by any athlete running a marathon in the Olympics. Every resource exploited, every opportunity created that you can create for yourself, every neuron in your brain firing on this puzzle with no clear clue to how to solve it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I was food insecure and receiving WIC and soup kitchen donations, and losing my home in the early 90's, I sent my two middle children to live with my father in Florida. We would only have four children to feed, and bring four children to look at housing for rent, because no one would rent to us. No one. Six children were too many. I thought four might seem more reasonable. At that point I had a job. I could afford the rentals we looked at. But everyone in our county turned us away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My daughters wrote sad "miss you" postcards from Florida. We weren't any closer to getting a home or financial security. I had $3,000 in uninsured emergency room visits for severe abdominal pain, undiagnosed. I began to lose bladder control. Another doctor visit. The diagnosis? Stress.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Trauma aside, the physical rigors of not enough money are grueling for your body. You work long, hard hours, then come home to care for your family, help with homework, and stretch the dollars. Deal with bill collectors and lawyers. You can't sleep. You're exhausted and this is the moment in your life when your brilliant mind and resourcefulness are needed—alert and strong—more than ever. The poor don't need less food, less nutrition. <i>They need more!</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When it was all over... When we were in our new home, in a different county </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">where folks accepted large families in rentals... When, about a year later, a new, higher-paying job finally came along... That's when I stopped looking at prices in the grocery store. It was the most liberating, exhilarating, euphoric experience. I'd come home with my bounty and thank God with a gratitude that's hard to describe. A deep, resounding song of gratefulness in my heart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I began to give again, as I had in the past. And give regularly. I gave to non-profits that I vetted and trusted, and to homeless shelters and the homeless. That felt so wonderful—a richness far beyond possessions—comes from the joy of giving, especially when you know the preciousness of every penny to those who need it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So here I am, after the SNAP Challenge, which was completely voluntary. But it's different now. There was no trauma. It was simply a visit. I didn't have to live there. And now I have a different response. I'm happy to go to the store and not count the pennies, but I'm careful about what I buy. I don't want to buy anything we won't eat. I don't want to waste a morsel. I want to be ever-mindful and respectful of the value of the food I buy. I will eat more of the meat on my chickens. I'll eat more of the core of my apples. I'll drink black coffee—something I never would have considered before milk and sugar added 35¢ to my coffee in the SNAP Challenge.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And when I put extras on my food—toppings like cranberries on my salad and sour cream on my taco—I'll be grateful, deeply grateful, that I can afford such luxuries. And I'll keep giving, now more than ever, to those who can't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-15599300339469256112013-09-25T19:53:00.000-07:002013-09-25T19:55:53.201-07:00SNAP Challenge – Cotton Swabs & Poetry<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaz0-y2hmlqgEjmX7wmd9zhlQtn-_rkiFdKXLQu_jhCpuRaU-E9y1BxcJddYnncB9vqpBLW36zKk8qeBs5uDLiRy4ryyCuu8_tpNuCeoXHnUH8XhJ1O_CDQnav2nqAwInLKxhWfJR7IDs/s1600/RiceLunch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaz0-y2hmlqgEjmX7wmd9zhlQtn-_rkiFdKXLQu_jhCpuRaU-E9y1BxcJddYnncB9vqpBLW36zKk8qeBs5uDLiRy4ryyCuu8_tpNuCeoXHnUH8XhJ1O_CDQnav2nqAwInLKxhWfJR7IDs/s320/RiceLunch.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On day five of my SNAP Challenge, I think about what is lost when you can't afford to eat. Luxuries like toppings: nuts, cranberries, or sour cream. Sauces and dressings. Pickles and olives. The extras are what make the meal a delight – more than just nutrition. This week I have experimented with toppings. I had a salad yesterday. the sunflower seeds cost more than the kale the salad was made of, but boy did I enjoy them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today I had a small bowl of organic brown rice for lunch - moistened with a little leftover broth. That ounce of rice was an 18¢ meal, washed down with a glass of tap water. I enjoyed every bite, but I would have enjoyed it a wee bit more with some almonds and raisins, maybe a little onion or fresh tomato chopped in there. The extras make the meal. But when you're hungry, and you only have $4.50 to spend on all of your food for a day, the extras become less important.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I've heard it said that there can be no "extras" like poetry or art when basic needs are not met. And I've always accepted that unquestioningly. it made sense. But I now know it's not true. When you're fighting for your life, poetry, art, music, whatever your creative outlet, might well be the wings that carry you through tragedy with your sanity intact. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When my life was at its darkest, in spite of all of the demands on me, I took Mother's Day off for myself and painted all day long. I made one painting, sketch to finish, on that one day. I knew that if I didn't finish it then, there would be no moment to set my paints up another day. Taking Mother's Day felt like robbing Fort Knox. It was radical. So radical, in fact, that I felt the need to warn my family, for weeks ahead of time, that they would not have me that one day. They'd be on their own. I was going to be selfish for one day. They were great about it, and gladly gave me my space to create. From the moment I awoke to the moment I drifted off, that day was miraculous. No burden of the world on my shoulders, for just one day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When you are the mother of six young children and your husband is suffering from major clinical depression, when you work all day and do all of the cooking and housework every evening, when you have the only job in the family and don't bring home enough money to hold onto your house, every day is actually, accurately, a fight for survival. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But there are moments when you can't contain a poem bursting out of you. You have to put down the baby and pick up a pencil. You scurry out of the shower, dripping wet, to capture a phrase. You crawl into a chair under a lamp at 3 a.m. shivering because the words can't wait until morning. If tragic, painful periods in life can't make a poet write, nothing can. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The catharsis is incredible. A breath of life comes into you—a hope, a light, a joy—that you are more than a castaway, financially helpless, full of self-doubt. You have a heart and a dream and a story to tell. And the birth of that poem, rising from the very material your pain is made of, momentarily shuts out your sorrow and brokenness, and anchors you to who you really are, even if only temporarily. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The artist in me, the poet in me, was not dead, only biding her time. Besides those momentary bursts, she stayed in the background, all her dreams, visions and words hovering, swirling, forming future work that would be far more insightful and commanding than anything possible before this journey.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So poetry came, here and there throughout my darkest hours. Short and to the point or elaborate and sprawling. It knew when it was needed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And eventually the art, more than just on mother's day, began to flow as well. As my tides began to turn, paintings could be found all along my shores. The hurricane was over and these treasures appeared from my depths: gifts for the dawn of a new day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When you don't have money for food, you can still write a poem. You can't clean your ear with a cotton swab, or do many things that most people take for granted. But if I had to choose between poetry and cotton swabs, I'd always choose poetry. If I had to choose between painting and eating steak—you guessed it—I'd choose to paint.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'll leave you with one of the poems I wrote while deep in the belly of the beast:</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 4.5px; margin-top: 4.5px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.3px;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Crucible of Eviction</span></i></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am in the crucible alone</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and with my six children</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">alone and with my husband</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and with my unborn poems</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">that swim around me naked of words</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">as I am naked of any explanation.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; min-height: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am in the crucible of eviction</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">approach me and you’ll feel the heat.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am liquid gold</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">on trial by fire</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">in the crucible that burns away fantasies.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It is the fire-brand of reality.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; min-height: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am in the crucible now</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">but let me visit you again when I am not</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">when my poems will no longer be naked and silent</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">but eloquently robed with words</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; min-height: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">words that celebrate frivolous things</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">like love...</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and dreams.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; min-height: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1995</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-20727917394376613372013-09-24T19:52:00.000-07:002013-09-25T05:29:49.407-07:00SNAP Challenge - The Gift<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqIiUr0yULmmSiDpt2D70nE0R8e69LYvL-PbyBW8hZyWmqP6v1YRnp1oyI4PwX7RaSsTlCQzMaaPwXUYiAad2fIcV9X0HPjrbroSlp1ppDR8S5umnXdjMeb1YLvZrKehihmPZnlIiaaM/s1600/DinnerDay4.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqIiUr0yULmmSiDpt2D70nE0R8e69LYvL-PbyBW8hZyWmqP6v1YRnp1oyI4PwX7RaSsTlCQzMaaPwXUYiAad2fIcV9X0HPjrbroSlp1ppDR8S5umnXdjMeb1YLvZrKehihmPZnlIiaaM/s320/DinnerDay4.gif" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://frac.org/initiatives/snapfood-stamp-challenges/" target="_blank">SNAP Challenge</a> Day 4. I'm writing this at about 9 pm. I'm hungry, like I have been every night, but it will pass. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I had a nice kale salad for lunch today. The kale was inexpensive so I loaded 3 ounces of it into my salad bowl - that's 24¢ for a lot of kale, not organic. I added an egg, 33¢. That brought me up to just 57¢. From then on I weighed everything as I added it so I knew exactly how much I could have and ended up with an ounce of healthy, sprouted sunflower seeds, a few cranberries, 4 pecans and a smudge of dressing for a grand total of exactly $1.50, the allotment for one meal on SNAP (Supplemental Nutritional Assistance Program).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">When 3 p.m. rolled around, it had been a little less than three hours since lunch and I was pretty hungry. I looked in my desk and saw that I had a dark Peruvian chocolate bar from the health food store. Man, did I want a bite! So I broke off a piece—it was about an inch square—and ran down to the kitchen to weigh it. It was an expensive chocolate bar so I knew there'd be a price to pay. My bite weighed a quarter of an ounce and cost 33¢. Wow! That's nearly a third of a meal. But I ate it anyway. Boy was it yummy. My first desert in 4 days.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Breakfast had been an organic nectarine cut up in organic milk for $1.58, lunch was $1.50 and my organic chocolate snack was 33¢. That left me with $1.19 for dinner. Sheesh. Rough. I cooked a nice meal of rice and beans with tilapia and tomato. My serving of tilapia was 3 oz - that's 75¢. A small piece. But 1/3 of the can of organic black beans was more filling, and that was 33¢. The small amount of rice and the 1/3 ounce of fresh organic tomato brought me up to a total of $1.27. I was 8¢ over my limit for the day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Several friends have questioned my food choices this week. It's strange to try to eat organic food on a poor person's budget. Yes, of course I could just go fill a shopping cart with ramen noodles and the cheapest bread and pasta I can find. That would certainly fill me up and I could eat all week within budget. But I just can't do that. I've got an inflammatory disease called hepatic sarcoidosis, and one of the symptoms is gluten intolerance. It gives me such severe fatigue that I can't function. I wouldn't be able to work. And I'm a cancer survivor as well. Who knows the role that insecticides and genetically modified foods have played in these life-threatening conditions? I can't afford to be sick <i>far</i> more than I can't afford to eat good food. So I choose to eat less and eat the best food for my body. I have energy. I enjoyed a long work day, cooked dinner, and now I sit here writing these words tonight. I could never do these things without a healthy diet. I know because I remember how little strength I had before I changed it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Others have said they were worried about me, and can't I just eat normally and pretend to take the SNAP Challenge. I appreciate their love and care for me, but I'm really fine. I'm not suffering. I might break out in hives from all this math (just kidding), but I'm really fine.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The truth is that because of what I've been through, I'm a pretty tough cookie now. I want to be able to encourage others going through tough times, even simply by the gesture of taking on this Challenge. I want to let them know that their rough times can be a gift, not a curse. Let me explain my own experience and why I say this.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It was rough not knowing how long my financial nightmare would last. Everyone was saying, "It'll work out, it always does." But I knew it wasn't true. Of course it doesn't always work out. Look around. There are too many homeless families, too many struggling to get by, too many with no access to medical care. It does <i>not</i> always work out. But each day I tried to do everything possible to change our circumstances.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">When I think about my very worst moment, when every attempt had failed so many times in a row that hope seemed like the cruelest joke, mocking me, I am still so grateful for that day. I got to that desperate place after one more thing had failed so many times that I finally got it. I wasn't going to fix this. Of course I'd keep working harder than I'd ever worked in my life—but that wasn't enough. I was going to keep smiling and laughing with the kids and celebrating life with the same optimism I'd always had—but that wasn't enough. I was going to knock on doors, make phone calls, hunt down my congresswoman and beg for information, assistance, guidance... but it would not be enough. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">At the end of the end of the end of myself, I found that I was 100% at the mercy of forces I could not influence. It took about a year for that utter helplessness to come about for me, a very self-assured, self-confident, self-reliant person. But when it finally came, things finally began to change. Being helpless is not being hopeless. Hope may have seemed futile, but I remained hopeful all along. Helplessness is vulnerability. It's humility. It's surrender. When I came to the end of my self—when weeks turned to months and I had not thought I could bear even another day—finally a door opened slightly and little miracles began to happen, and one step at a time I left tragedy behind. I had sold everything possession of worth and lost my house, but the freedom that loss gave me is priceless, even today. I'm not afraid of anything. I'm not afraid of losing my home or my possessions... </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Nothing can own you when you've lost everything.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The world's pity doesn't make you a better person or equip you to climb mountains. Taking in, fully experiencing, whatever pain you're in, teaches deep lessons you can't learn from any book, blog, or therapist. You come to the bottom of the core of you and meet yourself, genuinely, for the first time in that fire of utter vulnerability and helplessness. You are alone there, truly. More alone that at any other time in your life. Those that love you can't go through that fire with you. Their love may give you some form of comfort, but compared to the intensity of that abyss, even their love is not capable of changing your experience. You must experience that helplessness alone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">If I could tell a woman like myself just one thing, a mother with a flock of kids at her feet and no money to care for them, I would tell her this: endure today's nightmare. Embrace each moment of this passage through darkness. Let it melt you down and roll you flat. When it's all behind you, you will be fearless and limitless—and I want to know that amazing woman you'll become.</span></div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-15064330656612039322013-09-23T21:49:00.000-07:002013-09-23T21:51:12.804-07:00Taking the SNAP Challenge—Motivation<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjH_pJxKT246z1gNk1pebmjfGgGsjkh6p-xzEHGMJk-3orU3Gqrd-j2ZPhiYhFa_Vn4FeZ2iYOBtW1-KphnJlVWksZYSeS20mSEEnrT8wHA8i0akZ8VrO-lzrrinROuK_aaX8dDPNk04/s1600/AppleText.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjH_pJxKT246z1gNk1pebmjfGgGsjkh6p-xzEHGMJk-3orU3Gqrd-j2ZPhiYhFa_Vn4FeZ2iYOBtW1-KphnJlVWksZYSeS20mSEEnrT8wHA8i0akZ8VrO-lzrrinROuK_aaX8dDPNk04/s320/AppleText.jpg" width="204" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">This week I'm taking the SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program) Challenge. I'll be attempting to eat on the amount allotted </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">per person per day in the SNAP program: $4.50. That's $1.50 per meal. Quite a challenge. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The choice to take the SNAP Challenge was easy for me. I liked the idea of seeing what it would be like to eat on such a restricted budget, now that I have health issues and need a gluten-free, organic diet. Can it be done?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The challenge of figuring out what every meal costs is difficult for me. I had forgotten what it was like to watch every bite of food, make sure nothing is wasted. To stand in the grocery store counting—and stretching—my dollars. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">About 20 years ago I was food insecure. My family faced the challenge of hunger. The SNAP Challenge brings back visceral memories of rough days in 1991 when we had no income and eight of us to feed. No unemployment because my husband had been self-employed before he lost his cabinetmaking shop. The tale of a livelihood going down the drain is always a painful, complex story. It's never cut and dry. There's no one to blame. No one to rage against. You're there, empty hands that used to be filled with plenty, dumbfounded that your wits, your resourcefulness, your track record, your optimism are all powerless against this giant monster called CIRCUMSTANCE that you could not have predicted and cannot overcome.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I remember a few small tears rolling quietly down my cheek as I stood in the middle of the grocery store one day, surrounded by shopping carts that whisked by me filled with plenty, while I had barely a few scraps in my cart and $40.00 to feed 8 people for a week. I remember the night my daughter asked for more to eat before she went to bed, and I had to tell her the hunger pains would pass in a few minutes and gave her a glass of water. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">That was the only day my kids actually went to bed hungry. Help came to us in the angelic form of a neighbor I had never met before. She invited me into her house and told me she knew what was going on—though I don't know how she did. She was in charge of a food pantry for her church and would start bringing me a box every week until we were back on our feet. She asked what my kids liked to eat and dropped off a big box that Saturday. I heard the doorbell ring and excitedly ushered the box into the house to peak through our treasures. Tuna. Spaghetti sauce. Pasta. Macaroni and cheese. Cans of vegetables. Peanut butter. Bread. And the biggest relief: formula and diapers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The relief and joy we felt came only halfway from the bounty we desperately needed. The other half came from the love we felt through those precious gifts. Between that generosity and WIC (Women Infants and Children) coupons for milk, cheese, cereal and a few other things, kids weren't going to bed hungry. I finally got a job, but we were evicted anyway, lost our house and left the neighborhood. But I'll never forget the privilege of learning these priceless lessons for me and my children:</span></div>
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<ol>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Misfortune can happen to anyone.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Never judge the poor. They are very often not responsible for the condition they find themselves in.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Always be generous and always be kind, the kindness is as important as the generosity.</span></span></li>
</ol>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Taking the SNAP Challenge this week reminds me of those rough times. Those times are behind me now, but they're very present for millions of our struggling neighbors who could really use some love and generosity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I'm going to post my experiences every day of this SNAP Challenge week, though I'm a few days into it already. I deeply appreciate your time reading these posts, sharing this journey with me, and considering your neighbors across the street or across the land, that need a little help for a while, so they can get back on their feet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://secure.feedingamerica.org/site/Advocacy?pagename=homepage&page=UserAction&id=105" target="_blank">Feeding America</a> first brought the Challenge to my attention, and provides an easy way to get involved and support hunger relief with a letter to Congress, if you're interested. Plus </span><a href="http://frac.org/initiatives/snapfood-stamp-challenges/" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;" target="_blank">learn more about the Challenge here</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Stay tuned for daily updates this week as I share my food choices, my results at keeping costs down, and this difficult challenge of eating healthy food on an unhealthy budget.</span></div>
mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-92052616512284702092012-08-16T05:09:00.000-07:002012-08-16T05:10:35.902-07:00Summer Poem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6IbsblwSnpsLuETwqyi_Kt4K4AGHGykDL0YKiHO-U3S5SnFzhle5Wl3KXgUbsvUPq_fNTsyphEKQ0aczVsCxr4fEnXRuopLXPnWShPsuJL56-wlR7bLpL18RuMM7BKL5xIe6N0noOyU/s1600/IMG_1452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6IbsblwSnpsLuETwqyi_Kt4K4AGHGykDL0YKiHO-U3S5SnFzhle5Wl3KXgUbsvUPq_fNTsyphEKQ0aczVsCxr4fEnXRuopLXPnWShPsuJL56-wlR7bLpL18RuMM7BKL5xIe6N0noOyU/s200/IMG_1452.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">Beach Comber</span><br />
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I’m a scavenger fisher collector</div>
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extremely picky picker<o:p></o:p></div>
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sea shells hunted inch by inch:</div>
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perfectly whole and unchipped<o:p></o:p></div>
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or so completely worn out (or in)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
that they take on a whole new form<o:p></o:p></div>
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and a new identity<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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A passerby passes me by like me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
looking down along the<o:p></o:p></div>
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line of flotsam and jetsam propelled handily onto the beach </div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
for us.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Window shopping not making a<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
committed selection.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
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I wonder if she, like me,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
thinks of writing a poem as she walks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
further and further away from her note pad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
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Imagining that, like fragments of jelly fish<o:p></o:p></div>
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the words shimmer perfectly now but<o:p></o:p></div>
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may never be pieced together again</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
fragmented by interruptions like surf<o:p></o:p></div>
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sand, seaweed, sea shells, and syllables<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
competing for attention.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
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This is a day the Lord hath made for </div>
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laughing curls of surf and sand (a zillion trillion pieces </div>
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over millennia of ocean life </div>
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and death beneath and all around me).</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
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Who am I kidding? She wasn’t a poet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She was an escape artist.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pretending that the shells her eyes never even focused on<o:p></o:p></div>
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could mask the sadness in her mouth<o:p></o:p></div>
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(she never selected a single shell).<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I know the solitary venture down the beach<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
the ambient, wondrous crushing waves<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
a personal Greek chorus for pain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It echoes any sad tale you need to memorize<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
while planning your future escape from something<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
in your real life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
Am I an escape artist?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Carefully finding only the right sea shells<o:p></o:p></div>
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fragments worn into perfect trapezoids, triangles<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
and crescents – geometry redefining their<o:p></o:p></div>
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purpose from life to art. From one of many<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
to one of few from discarded<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
to chosen from overlooked to obsessed over.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
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Each perfect piece becoming an ornament<o:p></o:p></div>
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I create</div>
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for some future collector, selector, or<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
window shopper’s brief attention.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
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So much time and energy will surely<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
take me far from the worries and pressures of my daily grinding<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sure to be a perfect escape for an artist like me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
for a poet like me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I revel in the - slow - beach - walk -<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
the few perfect selections<o:p></o:p></div>
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the poem erupting from the journey the<o:p></o:p></div>
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whole new experience unlike any other<o:p></o:p></div>
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beach I’ve combed or man I’ve combed it with...<o:p></o:p></div>
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all wonderfully re-formed by life into a new shape<o:p></o:p></div>
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worn out (or in) to a new purpose<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
considered carefully then held tight</div>
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or maybe just</div>
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window shopped.</div>
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mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-75607111144672317092012-07-29T10:06:00.001-07:002012-07-29T10:19:11.608-07:00Curry Chicken SaladI spent a couple of years trying to reproduce the delicious curry chicken salad we so enjoyed at the Flying Saucer Cafe on Atlantic Ave in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn. When I discovered it in Gourmet Garage, which must be where the cafe got it (they said they didn't make it at the cafe), I stopped trying to replicate it. For a while we were content with buying it.<br />
Then we moved completely out of NY.<br />
Now, after a couple of years experimenting, I figured it out and its so simple! So here it is! So delicious!!!!<br />
<br />
Ingredients:<br />
Cooked chicken meat<br />
Mayo<br />
Turmeric<br />
Curry<br />
Golden raisins<br />
Slivered almonds<br />
<br />
1. Dice cooked chicken - about 1/2 inch<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhXEqAcM1kzit9QKp-l5JDwC9m1yeyWwec5b0w9WeZzXDNyW3bvnLNbuNV5icP-Fc0AIvqmJ5itH5Ei5VuO5d17jMvcBnFKH-LuNuZjZwFJxE89WWK1cdG-8OFYiDqzf87hyphenhyphenak1dB3ck/s640/blogger-image--2099571625.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhXEqAcM1kzit9QKp-l5JDwC9m1yeyWwec5b0w9WeZzXDNyW3bvnLNbuNV5icP-Fc0AIvqmJ5itH5Ei5VuO5d17jMvcBnFKH-LuNuZjZwFJxE89WWK1cdG-8OFYiDqzf87hyphenhyphenak1dB3ck/s320/blogger-image--2099571625.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a><br />
2. Add enough mayo to coat thoroughly.<br />
3. Sprinkle Turmeric over all of the chicken and generously sprinkle curry powder, so that the chicken is coated. It will seem like a LOT but it's not too much!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi07-VODJA6R4WcCwhJ_t3474uMUGEoZlYJfoO8T9ZfKjPFH09YJGdDxp1Jp5FGCmci5GrDZQsd73L1PYiprCIiBsglh1iNGj95Tfkc5qp3LJeIDQebRCfB9OYPXvlA0RZhvcvOVcSHZHo/s640/blogger-image--1207766064.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi07-VODJA6R4WcCwhJ_t3474uMUGEoZlYJfoO8T9ZfKjPFH09YJGdDxp1Jp5FGCmci5GrDZQsd73L1PYiprCIiBsglh1iNGj95Tfkc5qp3LJeIDQebRCfB9OYPXvlA0RZhvcvOVcSHZHo/s320/blogger-image--1207766064.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="239" /></a><br />
Mix well.<br />
<br />
4. Add a generous amount of raisins and almonds. Again, a lot is not too much.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI5mMQ-TLF98dixTLCT9gmhe7R-hsIYEXD3_YSpJRyUcZOOJ_pwzJwTXZtT2JDZghl9JTm5ZRcDpzp0P5b0RAquH_68igGTKgR1tzJ0VVyIFfvxScewJrqfH2ZwcMAIJIpnWUb7y9C5qo/s640/blogger-image-974476947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI5mMQ-TLF98dixTLCT9gmhe7R-hsIYEXD3_YSpJRyUcZOOJ_pwzJwTXZtT2JDZghl9JTm5ZRcDpzp0P5b0RAquH_68igGTKgR1tzJ0VVyIFfvxScewJrqfH2ZwcMAIJIpnWUb7y9C5qo/s320/blogger-image-974476947.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a><br />
Mix well.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzt3S4ErxosTkNrTzl2r_DXiE9RhbT1LVm3eHZrBlALOE5Lob3JJVF_hqaEh5BazYtfq8H8jayEbcyH1WkJj0WYvj6fXNusyTMSCjjvbU1cOS8qmdx4k_uPAM63CHJY0SBub_TolFvW8g/s640/blogger-image-1858938752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzt3S4ErxosTkNrTzl2r_DXiE9RhbT1LVm3eHZrBlALOE5Lob3JJVF_hqaEh5BazYtfq8H8jayEbcyH1WkJj0WYvj6fXNusyTMSCjjvbU1cOS8qmdx4k_uPAM63CHJY0SBub_TolFvW8g/s320/blogger-image-1858938752.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a><br />
Color will brighten and flavor will mature if refrigerated overnight. But we usually can't wait that long!<br />
<br />
Serve over a bed of lettuce and tomatoes, or on bread or toast.<br />
If eating straight (which we do) mix in chopped apple, halved grapes or cubed avocado... Enjoy!<br />
<br />
Isn't something always better when you've worked long and hard at it? I started out using way too many flavors - when the simplest of recipes was waiting to give us this treat! I've heard it's great for canned tuna as well... I'll have to try that.<br />
<br />
Let me know if you try this recipe, vary it, etc. and what you think!<br />
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<br /></div>mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-76744947998147626442012-06-08T11:06:00.000-07:002012-06-08T11:06:11.979-07:00Looking Past Appearances<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 11.0px Verdana; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I didn't have time to do my weekly shopping trip last weekend and ended up going to the grocery store alone at 9 pm last night - a time I never shop.</span></div>
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The store had an open, casual vibe. Several foreign languages floated by me and I felt like the only tired one, plodding down the aisles, as shoppers casually conversed with sons and daughters. The foreign speaking children were well behaved and in a good mood. The boys stocking the shelves were pleasant and conversational as they wheeled their pallets around on big dollies. The store felt more like an event than the place I normally dread to go with crammed aisles and shouting mothers during busy weekend days.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In my travels around the store I crossed paths several times with a very handsome young father and his small son, about five years old, who chattered happily around him, or clung to him like a Koala. They spoke Spanish. I smiled once, then avoided eye contact because this guy was so handsome that I was certain he was used to women flirting with him and I didn't want my friendliness to be mistaken for flirtation. </div>
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I finally headed to one of the checkout lanes and started loading up the conveyor belt. As I worked I could not help noticing there was a bit of a commotion in the lane next to mine. A manager had come over and there was a discussion about what to do. The handsome young father was on the phone speaking Spanish with a forced calmness as the manager and clerk discussed who was available to return all of his purchases to the shelves. He could not pay for his food.</div>
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Several times his little boy took, and had taken away, a candy bar. He was hungry. Distracted by the phone call and the activity at the check-out, the grownups didn't notice that he finally got that candy bar open and started eating it. When the clerk saw it half gone she said in a loud voice to the father, "Did you pay for that?" Still on the phone, his eyes opened wide. He started reaching for his wallet.</div>
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Just about 20 years ago, when we were losing our home, I stood one evening in a grocery store in Bloomfield, NJ trying to think of a way to make $40 feed eight people for a week. It was among the hardest moments of my life—knowing that the children in bed at home would want more than I could give them, in spite of how hard I worked to get a job and how much I did with my resources. I was in the place where people tell you, "It will all work out. It always does," because they have nothing else to say. They don't consider that for thousands of homeless women and children it does NOT always work out. There are no guarantees, no matter how many times people tell you, "It always works out."</div>
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That shopping trip 20 years ago was branded on my memory. I know that the most desperate feeling you can have is the knowledge that your child will be hungry. </div>
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I didn't speak in Spanish to him, but I understood the young father, and during the course of my checkout I heard him say into the phone, "I don't have anything for breakfast." That's when I knew the cupboards were bare. Even one piece of bread would be "something for breakfast" when times are hard. </div>
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"I can pay. I have $10 on my card," he offered, as I took a dollar out of my wallet and gave it to his cashier for the candy bar. When I gave it to his son, I quietly said, "I can give you more. How much do you need?" He refused my help. And that was fine. But my quiet gesture will stay with him as a reminder that the world is sprinkled with people who care.</div>
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I wrote this poem thinking of others who are not as they appear. The stigma of no money, extreme beauty, or a less-than-perfect appearance, fades away when you really look at someone. I offer it here now, thinking of the young father. A stunningly handsome young man on the receiving end of disdain when his account was unexpectedly empty. Even still, it was not his handsome appearance, nor his financial dilemma, but his gentle love for his son that I saw in him.</div>
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The Light in You</div>
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I see the light in you.</div>
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That flesh and blood and bones and clothes</div>
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that hair and skin and fat... or thin...</div>
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don’t matter much to me.</div>
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I see the light in you.</div>
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So hold your apologies</div>
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‘bout the car you don’t own or the heavy loan</div>
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or the foreclosed home...</div>
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Those aren’t what I see.</div>
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I see the light in you.</div>
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I don’t really notice that EKG blinkin’ or low IV beepin’</div>
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Yeah, that hospital room is a long way from </div>
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where you’d like to be...</div>
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but it’s not what I see.</div>
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So sweetie, don’t think twice.</div>
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There’s nothing as nice as taking a bird’s eye view of life.</div>
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The big picture is the truth of you — That sets you free!</div>
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So don’t worry about the way you look</div>
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‘cause I see the light in you </div>
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when you look at me.</div>
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Galen Warden </div>
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5/25/12</div>
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</span>mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-54342500642004298852012-05-22T18:32:00.002-07:002012-05-22T18:33:50.241-07:00Why Poetry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBJoe6dk6A5H5x4zjhtwHCoND-JjjvrkZ8PJqkjYTE-HObCxHUKFfGfhqLcBjmxCP_zMbKt1XtMfy25LI0gBRZmUiYk49R_PEXDG3aGuomEje_niLGEgvT_rNqTK3_lbatbtegcihH8U/s1600/Book2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBJoe6dk6A5H5x4zjhtwHCoND-JjjvrkZ8PJqkjYTE-HObCxHUKFfGfhqLcBjmxCP_zMbKt1XtMfy25LI0gBRZmUiYk49R_PEXDG3aGuomEje_niLGEgvT_rNqTK3_lbatbtegcihH8U/s200/Book2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There's a cadence to poetry, whether rhyming or metered or not. There's a flow that one can ride like a wave from the gentle swell of figuring out where it may be going to the final, gentle push onto the shore of its actual destination. You can't control it, but you might really enjoy the ride if you can loosen up and let it be.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There is an honesty in poetry. Even if the words are lies. Poems cut through the static of explanations and get to the spine of the matter. Poems bring out truths (even with lies). They connect on a visceral, subconscious level - that part of your brain where dreams wait for night and visions wait for mediation time... poems take you right there. Hook you right up. My vision expressed as a poem locks in a Vulcan mind meld with your own bright brain which filters and interprets my mother stories for you so that, even not being me, you get it. And your father stories somehow become clearer as a result.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I read or recite a poem it's like riding a horse. The thing is alive under me. It responds to who's in the room, how light or dark, what came before. It's not the same poem it was the last time. Not exactly. That's why readings are so much more exciting than reading. If you can spare the time.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I've been spellbound by a poem at least a dozen times. My experience so resonated in me down to my spleen that I tried to tell the poet - "That's one of the best things I've ever heard" - but her smile said she didn't have any idea how great it was. It's a spiritual experience to be grabbed by the throat and yanked into someone else's past or dream or nightmare... only to arrive out the other side sparking and snapping like you've just sat through an electrical storm, or kissed a Tessler bolt.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I've had women come up to me as well, weeping, eyes large and round with amazement that I had told their story by telling mine. Poetry does this.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">More people know about songs than know about poems. But wait until your highest high or your lowest low. Your marriage day. Your father's funeral. Your baby's birth. I guarantee sometime in your life there will be a moment when nothing will serve as well as a poem. In the future maybe poets will fill stadiums and build hospitals, but right now most of us just do it for love.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm performing my poetry, for free of course, this Saturday, May 26th at the Classic Quiche Café in Teaneck, NJ at 9 pm. I'm hoping folks will come. I have a multi-media extravaganza planned. I think it will be fun. Plus I intend to reveal truths, expose lies, celebrate tragedies that gave birth to victories and basically just let the poetry happen, riding my poetic horses, navigating the brains and hearts and spleens in the room so that everyone gets something worth their time.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here's a poem for you, comparing childbirth to writing poetry. Maybe it tells the story better than all of this explanation...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><u>To The Reader</u></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Having six babies, at least a dozen strangers have </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>examined between my legs </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">and reached inside.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I invite you to examine, too, my most private thoughts</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">realizing that, unlike childbirth </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">which is always luminous,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">pushing out poems need not necessarily be.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">You are my judge, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">critic, midwife</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>sadist, friend.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Poems are like babies</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>you could not have planned but</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>loved having.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Caught by surprise on the highway</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>pulling over to hunt for a broken pencil, leaky pen, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>paper bag, deposit receipt.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thrown out of bed </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>hurled down the stairs to a </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>quiet little light shivering</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>under its warmth.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">One does not consider at that moment</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>who they might influence</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>what enemies they may incur.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">They simply are.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And you hold them for a moment, admiring</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>each word correctly spelled,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Then let them go </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">to do </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">the good or damage that they may.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I may not have intended a single word for you,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">but here you are suddenly</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">the center of my poetic universe</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">observing me as I grit my teeth </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">leaning into the pain.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Feel me silently reflect </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">between each impulse.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then another contraction comes</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I am swept along with the current </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">even over the falls.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Watch me close my eyes and listen only to myself</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>not considering that the results may be </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>more humiliating than spreading my legs for strangers,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>or just as luminous.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-70238779071955966092012-03-26T19:21:00.001-07:002012-03-27T05:12:54.307-07:00Bridge Building 101<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Trayvon Martin took great offense that he was being treated like a suspicious character for walking down the street, and refused to be stopped and interrogated by Zimmerman, a threatening stranger. Trayvon's indignity, and having the nerve to confront Zimmerman, rather than submitting himself to him, cost him his life. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Taking a good, long look at this dynamic has brought the whole country to the discussion of assumptions, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">misconceptions and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">stereo-typing... and the great and small daily injustices that continue to persist because of ignorance and fear. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Politically correct" rhetoric is no substitute for actually experiencing the richness of friends who come from different backgrounds, lifestyles, and beliefs. Rather than providing the same comfortable hues we're accustomed to, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #741b47;">friends that are different from us add the most brilliant colors and textures to the tapestry of our lives.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04;"> </span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I believe that just about all of us could use more friends whose lifestyles are so different from ours that we </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">haven't yet learned whether they share our most important values, activities, and interests. We've </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">hesitated to embrace them because of that which makes us visibly different. We are all the poorer for it. </span><br />
<div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Being young and artistic, I wished for any race but my boring vanilla. I traveled a lot as a child and was exposed to a wide variety of people from a very young age. I was enchanted by the amazing varieties in humankind—from everyday behaviors and tastes in clothes and decor, to the very look of our skin and texture of our hair. When I was nine years old, in 1965, my mother was the first white school teacher in a black elementary school in the state of Florida. She took us to school one day for a visit. When I saw that sea of happy, brown faces, I wanted to fit in.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">In 1967, when I was eleven, we lived in New Jersey, but we took our summer vacation at Koinonia Farm in Americus, Georgia. Driving around the area, I saw poor black families living under corrugated metal lean-tos with no walls, no toilets, and no electricity. Koinonia had a housing cooperative that built cinder block houses to shelter some of those families, and I saw one being built. I also ducked under a table in the Koinonia dining hall with everyone else, when someone threw a brick through the window. My summer vacation was full of experiences that have stayed with me all my life. Years later I learned that Habitat for Humanity grew out of Koinonia Farm, just a year or so later.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">In middle school in Montclair, New Jersey, we went to school with kids from all over town and made friends with kids from other neighborhoods. It was great. I loved it. During high school I attended a black church and we went on the summer youth retreat with our sister church from Harlem, where the girls my age had never met a white person. They’d seen them, but never talked to one. We learned a lot from each other living in close quarters, braiding each other's hair and talking into the night. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">My mind was expanded with all of these childhood adventures. I'm so grateful to have touched deeply fulfilling brotherly love—<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #741b47;">only possible with awareness and empathy, and only fully realized with acts of kindness</span></i>. As an adult I want this personal knowledge of “others” for everyone willing to invest the effort. It truly makes life better.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Many are raised to be afraid of those that are different from them—whether the difference is race, religion or sexual orientation. Fear keeps you from learning about others, and ignorance is your worst enemy. Vanquish ignorance with familiarity. Go out of your way to make friends that are not like you. It might take some effort. It may not be natural where you live, so it might start out a little awkwardly, but you’ll get past that quickly and the rewards will last a lifetime. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Help to end this epidemic of ignorance by sharing this message with your friends and family. One-by-one we can make a difference. Little-by-little, love can overcome fear. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 11px/normal 'Cronos MM'; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 9px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Cronos MM'; font-size: 14px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">How to Build a Bridge</span></i></span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Only love can build a bridge that joins people across their differences, in spite of their ignorant backgrounds and the contrary examples of parents. We can break down even big barriers to love and acceptance in our towns, even in our country. But <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #741b47;">barriers will only come down when simple, small bridges are built between two or three people, one little bridge at a time</span></i>. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">There's no easy cure, like a blog to read or a sermon to hear. It takes many small, personal, tangible experiences over time to combat ignorance. Reach out. Invite someone different to your home. Share a meal. Accept an invitation to their home. This is where the true differences between you will be highlighted... and where your bridge across those differences will be built. I challenge you to accept this as a goal: befriend one different person before your next birthday. Invite them to your birthday celebration.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Just last week I was fortunate enough to sit down next to a perfect stranger who, after just a few moments of casual conversation, felt like an old friend. If I had avoided being friendly because she had darker skin, I would have lost the potential for a new friend. Opening up... opened up a sweet door.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Speaking Spanish has also opened my life's door to many friends. I’ve been able to meet brilliant, creative people—people from whom I’ve learned some of my most important lessons. My life would be so different, and so much poorer, without their influence. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #741b47;">So many wonderful, loving people in the world are different from you, and live differently than the lifestyle you live.</span></i> Make the effort to learn about others. You’ll fear less, the whole world will open up with its wonderful possibilities for love and friendship and, perhaps to your surprise, you’ll be much happier in the areas of life that matter most. Your singular joy at connecting with those who are different, building bridges of love one by one, will change your world... and ours. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijxdDyKgwuVZVoBsKSpa3_WveNgATMPI_xvKAcF72IfhLZxTy-Y8QBQS_74OFOupEGp0LqoXsNdsXKnSiNJBMR4UNUUwW0P1kXjam_tASgHq0G03E8oWYLpQxvl9Qp3APLFI3lUwUXib0/s1600/2008-Holiday002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijxdDyKgwuVZVoBsKSpa3_WveNgATMPI_xvKAcF72IfhLZxTy-Y8QBQS_74OFOupEGp0LqoXsNdsXKnSiNJBMR4UNUUwW0P1kXjam_tASgHq0G03E8oWYLpQxvl9Qp3APLFI3lUwUXib0/s400/2008-Holiday002.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br />
</div>mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-6587384952638041262012-03-11T17:56:00.000-07:002012-03-11T17:56:19.093-07:00Leave a trail of bread crumbs<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvihR0KK6rK35Y8SVftFuYO8BcOQL5O0j4BM5L0AK2J31_geJhkUXI0x5OrIybfP3QM1MTauVIjuOG0MX31pm3cIhnQ6rOu0pOgq-5XX308eoOoNYaC38ksNH9lT_5BW7haz8hyphenhyphen24neVk/s1600/MarisaReadingBW.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvihR0KK6rK35Y8SVftFuYO8BcOQL5O0j4BM5L0AK2J31_geJhkUXI0x5OrIybfP3QM1MTauVIjuOG0MX31pm3cIhnQ6rOu0pOgq-5XX308eoOoNYaC38ksNH9lT_5BW7haz8hyphenhyphen24neVk/s200/MarisaReadingBW.tif" width="160" /></a><br />
<div style="font: normal normal normal 14px/normal 'Cronos MM'; margin-bottom: 9px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 9px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #7f6000; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On your journey to discovering and enriching your inner artist, the most important thing you can do for yourself is to pay attention to your moments of inspiration</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">.</span></span></span></div><div style="color: #211d1e; font: normal normal normal 11px/normal 'Cronos MM'; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 9px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Your world will be filled with compromises because of your job, your family and your living situation. When a moment for your art occurs, pay attention. </span></div><div style="color: #211d1e; font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="color: #211d1e; font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="color: #211d1e; font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="color: #211d1e; font: normal normal normal 11px/normal 'Cronos MM'; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 9px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Words will leave a trail of bread crumbs you can follow back whenever you want<span style="color: black;">. </span>Write down exactly how you feel<span style="color: black;">. </span>What you see<span style="color: black;">. </span>That idea<span style="color: black;">. </span>Right now<span style="color: black;">. </span>Don’t wait<span style="color: black;">. </span>It won’t be the same... Do it at 2:28 a.m. when it startles you awake as pure genius<span style="color: black;">. </span>Do it at 3:10 p<span style="color: black;">.</span>m<span style="color: black;">. </span>when someone in the line in front of you says something that throws a different light on your idea, or at 6:05 during dinner when your mind drifts for a moment and suddenly you see the solution to that problem you’re trying to solve<span style="color: black;">. </span>Grab a little pad you can carry around, jot a note you’ll understand later. This moment is magic. Capture it before it’s diluted.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Driving in the car, standing in the shower, sitting at the bus stop... even when you have no pad and pencil, record that thought in your mind and write it down as soon as you can. You’ll never be bored. Your art is your constant companion—a river of ideas you can tap into anytime your mind has a little space to breathe. Tap in. Write it down. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Later, when you read those words, written under the influence of that inspiration, you can follow the bread crumbs right back to that moment. You’ll feel the spark, see the vision, touch the reality of that dream, captured by you... for just you... and be able to act on it and fulfill the promise of that painting, poem, song, whatever!</span></div><div style="color: #211d1e; font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ve kept journals my whole life. It’s been much more difficult since I’ve been sick, so I’ve neglected it over the past year or so, but I probably have more than a thousand pages of thoughts, ideas, inventions, designs, plus a record of events in my life. There are always surprises when I read them<span style="color: black;">. </span>Just a paragraph pulls into bright relief an episode in my life<span style="color: black;">. </span>Every page adding up to the person I am now<span style="color: black;">. </span>I want that for you.</span></div>mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-78153253807044870032012-03-04T18:35:00.000-08:002012-03-04T18:35:06.771-08:00Relationships are Life<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj1xeezFMdVVHkE-KheH_6d7EwFDDSqrJhLdln54cJAXqPLU0WGfCV__L2Jtj9_5Nzm3fcfedZrpxdTEj-x6WVV7ug1HOpncpM5TJVQG9Zo6XBDycWyJnenZnlgNI6eR_nrSs1lMfdFu8/s1600/GetSatisfiedBW.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj1xeezFMdVVHkE-KheH_6d7EwFDDSqrJhLdln54cJAXqPLU0WGfCV__L2Jtj9_5Nzm3fcfedZrpxdTEj-x6WVV7ug1HOpncpM5TJVQG9Zo6XBDycWyJnenZnlgNI6eR_nrSs1lMfdFu8/s320/GetSatisfiedBW.tif" width="232" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In <i>Life, love ma</i>, I spell out some of the wisdom I've shared with my kids over the years for getting along with others. Life is rough enough without our close relationships being a struggle. Smoothing out friendships, romances, and family relationships brings a level of peace and prosperity unmatched by financial success. I hope these words help you or someone you love enjoy richer, more honest relationships.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Cronos MM'; font-size: 14px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(too many) great expectations</span></i></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The truth is that our expectations drive our happiness more than our actual experiences. I love Pema Chodron’s books – teaching us to experience the present moment for exactly what it is. Period. Are you cold? Feel the cold; don’t fight it. It’s an experience all its own, not to be missed by rushing to avoid it. And who is this person you’re with? Experience them as they are. Not as you wish them to be. There's your bliss.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Attitude <i>IS</i> everything. If you want something to be fun, make it fun by having fun with it yourself. Don’t wait for someone else to meet your expectation.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Do you want romance? Create it for yourself. Set the mood you want. Don’t wait for someone else to meet your expectation. Do you want flowers? Tickets to a game? A piece of jewelry? An evening out? The laundry done?</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Cronos MM; margin: 4.5px 0.0px 4.5px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.3px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You have two choices:</span></i></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 13.5px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1. Do it for yourself.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 13.5px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2. Ask for it.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But if you ask for it, remember that this is a request to be reciprocated. What do they want of you? Hopefully they’ll be honest and let you know, rather than having an expectation you’re not aware of.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Expectations like these are traps. Weapons against yourself. They sabotage your happiness as well as your relationship. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So where does trust, kindness, generosity, and all of the other attributes you need in a relationship come in if you don’t want to sabotage it with expectations? Shouldn’t you expect these things? Yes. These attributes are the natural result of love. You should expect them as much as you demonstrate them. Forgiveness, patience and faith as well. Have faith in your friend, family member or partner, and expect them to have faith in you. Just don’t make the leap from expecting kindness to expecting him or her to do your laundry. It’s a separate discussion. </span></div></span><br />
<br />
<div style="font: 14.0px Cronos MM; margin: 9.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.4px; vertical-align: 2.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">negotiate for peace</span></i></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Every close relationship needs a little negotiation. Ask for the things that you need. But remember that this is how to get what you need – not how to change the person into someone who reads your mind. If you each have un-met needs or wishes, you are obligated to share them and to negotiate a fair balance that you can both agree on – so that no one feels they carry a greater burden in the relationship. If anyone is harboring resentment or bitterness you will quickly sink deeper and deeper into miscommunication and unhappiness. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Admit to yourself that you want certain things in your relationship for your own selfish reasons. For example, you’d like to be seen out with a beautiful woman – it really boosts your self-esteem. Or you’d like to dress up, do something dangerous with your hair, have an excuse to buy a little black dress. Admit these things are for you instead of pretending they are for your partner and you’ll enjoy them a lot more when you do them.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Reject the temptation to withhold your disappointments and hope the other person figures out what you want or need and makes things better for you. Express your needs. But when you air them, remember that this is a negotiation. They may have disappointments just as great as yours. Be ready to hear them and to reciprocate with meeting their needs, too. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Cronos MM; margin: 9.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.4px; vertical-align: 2.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">conscious dialogue for understanding</span></i></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 8.9px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The most effective weapon against friction is conscious dialog. This is a technique I learned from a wonderful therapist in New York. Here is my oversimplified version:</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A person with an issue asks for time to be set aside when you won’t be disturbed so they can have a conscious dialogue with you about it.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When that time comes, the one with the issue gets to say what is on their mind – how they feel, what’s wrong, etc. – uninterrupted until they are through expressing themselves. This is the Speaker. The Speaker is responsible for articulately sharing what they want the Listener to know and understand.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The job of the Listener is to set his or her opinion aside and focus solely on what the Speaker is saying. Really hear every word – with the goal of understanding the other person’s point of view.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Next, the Listener has the job of repeating back what they’ve just heard, but not verbatim. What do you now understand? What is this person’s experience, feeling, pain, frustration, or dilemma? In your own words, the Listener must relate to the Speaker that the Speaker has been heard and understood. Period. No editorializing. No injection of attitude, debate, contradiction, justification, etc. etc. etc. This is not about the Listener. This is all about the Speaker. Whether the Listener agrees with or is wounded by what the Speaker says is completely irrelevant. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Speaker gets to determine whether or not the Listener can take a turn as Speaker at this point. Perhaps they need time to feel safe and a later date is scheduled for the other person to convey their thoughts, fears, concerns, or to express what they feel is not readily apparent or understood about them. Or maybe the Listener did such a good job of understanding that the Speaker now feels safe enough to listen.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It takes a certain amount of maturity to participate in conscious dialog. That said, if maturity is an issue in the relationship, this is an excellent way to help with that. When you can speak without fear of being interrupted or challenged, and you are heard and understood, half of the battle is won. When you can get outside of yourself and really listen and see where the person you love is coming from – free of judging them – the other half of the battle is won. There you have it! The entire battle is won when you embrace the difficult and mature work of conscious dialog. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Give it a try. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">..........................</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If you try out this advice, please let me know how it goes. You can write to me at mamagalen@gmail.com.</span></div>mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6803781001522399326.post-56603891997844941242012-02-29T05:25:00.000-08:002012-02-29T05:25:49.285-08:00Finding Your Artistic Path<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRGI8g9PUTyYlS78p_fcwbcjeSvxJd4ITyUnuxVfag7ADV50q2tvKo84_gD40PEaOQWp2J5BBPf-OsmEEP7MwBIdUhyphenhyphen6W_6Rf80FDPBcpdQBjTbfuH10yHOiyvAcv5BvHjR-hoMvzMM8/s1600/shhh.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRGI8g9PUTyYlS78p_fcwbcjeSvxJd4ITyUnuxVfag7ADV50q2tvKo84_gD40PEaOQWp2J5BBPf-OsmEEP7MwBIdUhyphenhyphen6W_6Rf80FDPBcpdQBjTbfuH10yHOiyvAcv5BvHjR-hoMvzMM8/s200/shhh.tif" width="158" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While writing <i>Life, love ma</i> for my children, I spoke with my daughter's friend who expressed frustration at having too many artistic talents and not knowing where to focus. I could relate. I went through phases of fashion design, interior design, painting, poetry, and on and on. Always wondering what would unlock the secret to that stream of productivity, that prolific gush of work that I could ride like a wave, that would truly satisfy my inner itch to create. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Happily, that journey is just as important and satisfying as its goal. Your life as an artist is as joyful and productive as you allow it to be when you take yourself seriously. Nothing is keeping you from that path of exploration and discovery, but here are a few hints that might help narrow your focus if you really want to devote your efforts to your most worthy pursuits.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="font: 14.0px Cronos MM; margin: 9.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.4px; vertical-align: 2.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">finding your path</span></i></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I am certain that Martha Stewart found joy in entertaining, preparing a beautiful feast and sharing it with friends. Her joy was infectious, and the love she poured into each stunning dish and table accent exuded her enthusiasm, passion and pleasure. She succeeded in a huge way when she combined that passion and perfectionism with business sense and marketing savvy. She built an empire on her passion for entertaining. That’s a little shocking, isn’t it? An empire from a passion for entertaining. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">What is your joy? Is it music, poetry, painting, leather work, jewelry making, writing, herbal remedies, graphic design, animation, calligraphy, fashion design? What gets you going, gives you energy to work all night on a project, to dream that you’re succeeding at it as you sleep at night? If you know what that is, embrace it. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I have had too many passions, myself. I LOVE designing clothes and sewing them. I love painting. I have hundreds of poems I’ve written—scrambling for a pad and pen at 3 in the morning when words can’t wait. But what should I focus on? Where should I spend my precious free hours when I’m not earning a living? Here are five simple questions that I’ve answered for myself that might help you choose which of your talents to focus on right now. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">1. <span style="font: 12.0px Cronos MM;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">How easy and natural is it for you to do? </span></i></span>When learning the skills needed to execute this type of art, do you learn it easily or is the training a struggle for you? Better yet—even if it’s a struggle—do you get a rush from learning, so much so that you’re always hungry to learn more?</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">2. <span style="font: 12.0px Cronos MM;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Do you like all of the aspects of it or just the dream of it? </span></i></span> Every art has a nitty gritty side. The supplies, the set-up and clean-up, the maintenance of your equipment. Sometimes we imagine a romantic view of art—a vision of our finished piece—but it falls apart in the drudgery of execution. Do you love “getting your hands dirty” for <br />
your art?</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">3. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font: 12.0px Cronos MM;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Do you find yourself constantly coming up with ideas for your art?</span></span></i></span> </span>Do you have a sketch pad or note pad you carry around full of jotted-down ideas? Lyrics? Concepts that come to you as if on their own? Do you dream up designs in your sleep?</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">4. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font: 12.0px Cronos MM;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Do you do it differently than anyone you know?</span></i></span> </span>Do you have a unique edge, a certain quality that is all your own? When your work is compared to that of others in a similar situation, can yours be identified as distinctive? If it isn’t yet, <i>could it be?</i></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">5. <span style="font: 12.0px Cronos MM;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Lastly, does your intellect believe in it as much as your heart?</span></i></span> Is it logical to you? Or do you spend hours struggling to justify your art to your practical side? If you don’t believe in it, you won’t succeed. But rather than struggle with it, go back to the source of your spark. Spend time there, with your heart, and call it a passion, a hobby, whatever takes the pressure off. Eventually you may come to believe this is is your calling. Then, if you believe in it... <br />
“<i>Begin it! Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.</i>” – Goeth</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Your answers to these questions will help you understand which talents in your life to pursue. There may be many. And what you pursue may change over time.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Cronos MM; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">—excerpt from <i>Life, love ma</i></span></div>mamagalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14289130169742207341noreply@blogger.com1