tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58863030726580159662024-03-13T04:31:47.715-07:00The Benjamin Bunchrachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-43012654717892370302011-03-27T18:14:00.000-07:002011-03-27T19:11:59.523-07:00I Need To Move To Australia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6qTxUFrertg/TY_s5TZDqDI/AAAAAAAAAgo/9ViJlBpCDiU/s1600/Zusak%2Bsigning%2Bbook.doc"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6qTxUFrertg/TY_s5TZDqDI/AAAAAAAAAgo/9ViJlBpCDiU/s320/Zusak%2Bsigning%2Bbook.doc" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588946131792144434" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dkGR1qDdvAA/TY_rZzgvcII/AAAAAAAAAgg/z3LvzFfDM40/s1600/Me%2Band%2BZusak.doc"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dkGR1qDdvAA/TY_rZzgvcII/AAAAAAAAAgg/z3LvzFfDM40/s320/Me%2Band%2BZusak.doc" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588944491146866818" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I was in literary heaven. I admit I have a writer's crush on Markus Zusak. You may be saying, "Wait, is this like the really strange crush thing you have for Kevin Spacey?" which is a WHOLE other story. Anyway, ever since I read The Book Thief it has become apparent that Zusak is my favorite author of all time. And then when I read I Am the Messenger there could be no doubt at all. Lo and behold, my dreams came true when I found this icon was coming to the Provo library. Yes, you heard me right. Provo, got him and I had to go. My friends Cami and Annalisa, who was due to give birth the very next day jumped into a car and hightailed it to an extremely cool location. Who knew Provo had such a happening library and the architecture couldn't be beat. Wait, forget the architecture, the next thing I know an ADORABLE guy walks through the door and 500 of us are in a frenzy of hero worship.<br /><br />The only things I knew about this man were his words between book covers and his picture on the back flap. Let me tell you, he is even more charming, humble, and amazing then I could have imagined. He signed copies of his books for 500 people and we were 75th on the list and we waited in line for an hour and a half. He spoke with EVERY person for a few minutes and by the time we saw him he was exhausted and chugging down A&W root beer. He drew pictures in everybody's books and I was able to tell him what his words mean to me, how they are living things, and he told me how much that means to hear that.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mrezAQqsUzk/TY_q-UW-BtI/AAAAAAAAAgY/vAz-EtNWs7c/s1600/Cami%252C%2BAnnalisa%252C%2Band%2BI.doc"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mrezAQqsUzk/TY_q-UW-BtI/AAAAAAAAAgY/vAz-EtNWs7c/s320/Cami%252C%2BAnnalisa%252C%2Band%2BI.doc" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588944018927912658" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2xxlf9JGvQQ/TY_qrkIX42I/AAAAAAAAAgQ/6zkBUOzK_wU/s1600/Cami%2Band%2BI.doc"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2xxlf9JGvQQ/TY_qrkIX42I/AAAAAAAAAgQ/6zkBUOzK_wU/s320/Cami%2Band%2BI.doc" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588943696744145762" border="0" /></a><br />He gave the most awesome talk before he read an expert from The Book Thief. He says he writes a story so that people will believe him. He said he is the owner of the story because of the small details only he can tell. He says the reader will have a reaction when something unusual happens. He said has edited his pieces upwards of 150-200 times. He said that in his writing he doesn't posses a lot of imagination, just a lot of problems and it is through trying to solve those problems that his stories take flight. He said in his writing of The Book Thief that he wanted to write a book that meant something to him, but by the end he had written a book that meant everything to him. He also talked about how accessing creativity is like waiting for a wild animal to come out of its hole. If you try and put your hand in you will get bitten.<br /><br />I know this is going to sound make me sound like the nerd that I am, but it was one of the greatest days of my life. I love that I got to meet and talk to one of the people who has not only greatly impacted my life as a reader, but as a writer and after meeting him, as a human being as well. Markus Zusak = class act.<!--[if !mso]> <style> v\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} o\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} w\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} .shape {behavior:url(#default#VML);} </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]-->rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-47360494236426234472010-09-12T19:49:00.000-07:002010-09-12T20:38:39.905-07:00Breathe<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/TI2buUEEVdI/AAAAAAAAAfw/zDFihFZHHtI/s1600/DSCN1840.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/TI2buUEEVdI/AAAAAAAAAfw/zDFihFZHHtI/s320/DSCN1840.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516236338560783826" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I watch my daughter breathe in the tornado. Fascinated, terrified, stupefied. What is this grasping for air? Where does it come from? The day before toilet paper and Kleenex littered the hallway, entire rolls hinted an early Charmin frost. She only had a cold.<br /><br />Now she is choking on her own bile, unable to draw breath and part of me is embarrassed we are over an hour early to her pediatrician's office. The stupid part. It's just a bad cough, right?<br /><br />They are rushing her back to an empty room. They hook her up to oxygen, her levels so low, our amazing doc rushes in.<br /><br />"We need an ambulance now. She needs to go to the hospital or she is not going to make it through the night."<br /><br />I make a few calls, probably not making sense, my voice cracking through the receiver, my core quaking with a tremor I am still carrying piggy back on my shoulders.<br /><br />The EMT's put her in the ambulance. I am immediately car sick, heart sick, love sick as I jostle in my seat belt beside her. I stare in blue eyes. They stare at a stuffed pig dangling from the ambulance ceiling. Jason, our EMT, hands it to two chubby hands, but I am the only one who grabs it. He talks to her as he administers oxygen. We both strain to hear her answers.<br /><br />How old are you sweetheart? "Three."<br />How old is your dolly? (she has brought it with us) "Sixteen."<br />Sixteen, really? Can she drive? "Yes."<br /><br />We are going about 90 miles an hour. Blessedly, the sirens remain off. She would have been beside herself. She is already afraid and exhausted. Four docs are waiting. They love her on sight. She does not disappoint them. After a monster breathing treatment where she looks like she belongs in a B1 bomber, she begins to relax. She waves, blows kisses, makes faces, asks for things she has no intention of eating or drinking. I count. They have brought her 6 cups of ice water.<br /><br />"More ice cubes."<br /><br />Her dad asks for a Coke. So does she. I jump forward three feet. NO.<br />She collects 4 granola bars, 2 string cheeses, and an orange and apple juice. She touches nothing.<br /><br />They give her a steroid and another breathing treatment. She makes piggy noises underneath the mask which has the attending doc in stitches. Is she breathing in the smoke or blowing it in his direction? Her heart rate's up afterward. She's jittery and keeps says she needs to go now. The RU doc comes in.<br /><br />Who else lives with you princess? (He has asked if she prefers her name or her daddy's nickname for her and she assures him he is to call her princess.)<br />"My brother. But I want a sister and another brother and a kitty."<br />Do you have a kitty at home?<br />"No, but we are all kitties," indicating her dad and I.<br /><br />Is she meowing? And then she's singing "Busy Bee," and aria she's created in the ER though we all shush her as we are crying with the joy of her sharing the music she can't help but share anytime, anywhere.<br /><br />She falls asleep after a few more breathing treatments. Her oxygen plummets, the alarm goes off again and again. More breathing, chap-stick on parched lips. They try to attach the oxygen around her nose. She screams. She fights. She rips it out and the screams reverberate against frazzled nerves. She's not fully awake, I explain. She is done. Music is not calming her down and she it hitting the nurse away. Exhaustion is overpowering her , but still she fights. I hold her in my arms. I almost drop her, but no one is connected to her as I am. I know her anger, her fear, I know about being loud, about self preservation. I am not afraid of her screams. They are as familiar to me as mine are to her and I stroke the hair plastered on her head. I tell her the story of the Wizard of Oz.<br /><br />My back is bone and fire. She is dead weight with an attitude. The ruby slippers calm her, Dorothy calms. her. Dorothy overpowering the wicked witch, losing her voice in the tornado.<br /><br />"Where did her voice go, Mama?" The storm was so strong and so powerful when she called her Aunty Em's name, her voice got lost in the wind.<br /><br />"Will it come back?" Yes, the storm will pass by and it will be awful, but then it goes away and it's quiet again.<br /><br />She settles against the pillow and the Albuterol resumes it's healing breath. I watch her fog up the mask. How did an unconscious movement of the diaphragm drawing in life giving gas get to be such hard work?<br /><br />Breathing has reduced my pain. By learning to breathe the right way, my thoracic pain is diminished, cervical pain reduced. Breathing done correctly brings blood flow to injured areas, strengthens my core, and is taking inches off my belly. It has taken me about two months in PT to get it right and I'm still working on it. Breath is bringing me strength.<br /><br />1.2.3.4.5. Blow out the candles, sweetheart. Good job, sweetie, you gave such a big breath!<br />"The tomato won't take it away."<br />The nurse stops and looks at my daughter. What?<br />"I don't like the tomato. It took Dorothy's breath away."<br />I supply that I think she means tornado.<br /><br />Do tornadoes have warnings?<br />Somehow my husband was home that day. Somehow my dear friend texted me to have my son come to her house after school before required homework and chores, which I am an absolute stickler for. He is not there to be terrified as they take his beloved Sis away. My hubby is there to carry, to shoulder, to process what I cannot and to run around as I snuggle with her, as I breathe with her. In and out, the new way I've been taught. I need help to do it right.<br /><br />So does my daughter.<br /><br />She still has her breath and her voice.<br /><br />Praise God, the tornado didn't take it away.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/TI2buJMwD1I/AAAAAAAAAfo/dFpIgNIuM38/s1600/DSCN1763.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/TI2buJMwD1I/AAAAAAAAAfo/dFpIgNIuM38/s320/DSCN1763.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516236335644413778" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />*<span style="font-style: italic;">Thank you to every angel who loves our baby girl. She will be just fine. She had an asthma attack brought on by a common cold. We have the best family and friends in the world. Thank you.</span>rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-68029455100957669592010-05-26T21:16:00.001-07:002010-05-27T08:19:43.907-07:00How Do You Compete With A Chick In Four Wheel Drive?
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/S_36hKoSwbI/AAAAAAAAAew/QhiG4xizrak/s1600/052.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/S_36hKoSwbI/AAAAAAAAAew/QhiG4xizrak/s320/052.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475808169648374194" border="0" /></a>
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CClara%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Good news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">My daughter can sing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Bad news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Only dogs can hear it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Good news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">No matter how high her range, she stays on key.<span style=""> </span>She’s fabulous.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Incidentally, excuse the sideways video. This is one of my favorites EVER. I love how she prepares for a minute at the beginning and I'm pretty sure a little burp escapes during a high note...this makes me ridiculously happy.
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxdUZZsclyj-YZwSvCEZzpM8teH1jcNcpt_wcLPLNq6eWyVe5NVR8JFlkiVAcqrIXJGJoMG5UKEaFreec4elw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Good news</span>:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/S_36iwn7UcI/AAAAAAAAAfI/9hGX84k-u6w/s1600/007.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/S_36iwn7UcI/AAAAAAAAAfI/9hGX84k-u6w/s320/007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475808197027254722" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Friday is my son’s last day of third grade and he still has three pairs of uniform pants.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Bad news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Wasn’t able to remove the pink bubblegum from out of his pockets.<span style=""> </span>Retired the fourth pair.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Good news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The other three are covered with red Popsicle, a ball point pen explosion, and one is just "holey".<span style=""> </span>Though there was nothing holy about my reaction to any pair of these now tie dyed khaki catastrophes.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">If they just can stay in one multicolored piece through Friday, we’re golden.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Good news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">My husband got a bonus for passing his big ole’ monster test.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Bad news</span>:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/S_36iewKWDI/AAAAAAAAAfA/dh3Ke0iO9Ac/s1600/DSCF0763.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/S_36iewKWDI/AAAAAAAAAfA/dh3Ke0iO9Ac/s320/DSCF0763.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475808192229955634" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Layla, the second wife with a muffler, got sick.<span style=""> </span>The repair bill is more than the spouse with a stick shift is worth and will cost more than the bonus.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Good news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Hubby got a deal and now like Seinfeld the whole exchange of money will make us even steven.<span style=""> </span>Easy come…easy go.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Good news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Scored U2 tickets.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Bad news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The U2 concert is delayed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Good news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Now there’s a chance to sell them and earn $ for the wife with wheels.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m not jealous of her at all in case that wasn’t crystal clear.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Good news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I found a clinic HERE in the valley to work with my TOS.<span style=""> </span>Just got the OK from the folks in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Denver</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>They know their stuff.<span style=""> </span>This is HUGE.<span style=""> </span>I would have loved to work with them for the last 5 years.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Bad news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">They aren’t preferred providers under any insurance plan, let alone mine.<span style=""> </span>They are around $85 a pop and I should be going to them several times a week.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Good news:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Occasionally I do filing in my hubby’s office.<span style=""> </span>Yes, I am a part-part-part time file clerk.<span style=""> </span>Not sure my pay will cover this one, but I may be able to afford a quarterly tune up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Great now I sound like the jeep…
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Maybe Layla and I really are sister wives.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/S_36h3gy1II/AAAAAAAAAe4/aS-zG9GBZs0/s1600/022.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/S_36h3gy1II/AAAAAAAAAe4/aS-zG9GBZs0/s320/022.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475808181696517250" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sorry honey, both your girls need an overhaul.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">And possibly a paint job.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">At least one of us is a cuddler...
<br /></p> rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-26892482627575049792010-04-06T14:08:00.000-07:002010-04-06T14:30:36.261-07:00A Post That Has No Name<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/S7uk15S6_eI/AAAAAAAAAeI/kh6WxdXSNJE/s1600/027.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/S7uk15S6_eI/AAAAAAAAAeI/kh6WxdXSNJE/s200/027.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457136619309694434" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I am in a hurry.<span style=""> </span>I am stressed and trying to get everything situated so I can leave in a few minutes for the evening.<span style=""> </span>My patience is paper thin. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">In the background I hear my son say to his sister, “Sshhh…Let’s be really quiet and then maybe Mommy won’t get mad anymore.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Time stops and I am in a modest living room adorned with house plants.<span style=""> </span>House plants I dote on; arrayed in terra cotta with nutritive spikes imbedded in warm soil.<span style=""> </span>I am kneeling in front of a forest green micro fiber couch, sunlight spilling onto my back like warm abashment.<span style=""> </span>I am young, I am thin, my hair is undone and I have much to learn.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I speak out loud caught up in the words.<span style=""> </span>“Please Father.<span style=""> </span>If you give me a son, like Hannah of old, I will raise him up unto Thee.”<span style=""> </span>I knew what the words meant, but I didn’t understand what the words meant.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">For almost four years I had pled for a child.<span style=""> </span>I was close, so close.<span style=""> </span>We knew within weeks I was pregnant and I would like to think it was that prayer, but my thrice weekly visits with a reflexologist for the past eight months could have made an impact as well.<span style=""> </span>I think both events conjoined into the space and time in which I was ready to receive him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I thought mothering would come easily to me.<span style=""> </span>I was the oldest child, had been babysitting since I was 11, and had been a preschool teacher for years.<span style=""> </span>I was told I had a way with children and could often be found surrounded by them since I was like a big child myself.<span style=""> </span>To my dismay it did not.<span style=""> </span>When my son was laid into my arms, I had the connection; the heaven meets earth connection where you’re allowed a glimpse into that heavenly sphere in order to take your child as he is placed into your arms by God himself.<span style=""> </span>It was that moment that I fell in love with the future, with my own potential, with a creature who stared into my eyes like the ancient sage that he is.<span style=""> </span>I knew I was in possession of a spirit who dwarfed mine, an intelligence who the Lord saw fit in his mercy to send me.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">My spirit reached out and shook his hand.<span style=""> </span>“Nice to meet you, sir,” my spirit seemed to say, but all my frail tabernacle could blurt out was, “Hi Bubby.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I handed him off to my husband for a bath.<span style=""> </span>I was a little afraid to take control of his little life.<span style=""> </span>I hesitated in nursing him, in changing him, in bathing him.<span style=""> </span>I had the baby blues, but would not recognize it for months.<span style=""> </span>Our days were little and orderly.<span style=""> </span>If I stuck to a schedule, I was okay.<span style=""> </span>I read The Baby Whisperer and stuck to her schedule by the letter.<span style=""> </span>It was the EASY plan:<span style=""> </span>Eat, Activity, Sleep, You time.<span style=""> </span>Both of us thrived.<span style=""> </span>We knew exactly what to expect from each other at any given time.<span style=""> </span>I took a lot of pictures and wrote in his baby book.<span style=""> </span>I stayed pretty much to myself.<span style=""> </span>It was RSV season and I didn’t take him to church.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t like anyone to hold him…I didn’t like going to the mailbox.<span style=""> </span>I got frustrated with my husband more and easily.<span style=""> </span>My son’s head had been squished when the <st1:place st="on">OB</st1:place> used the forceps and I was afraid to touch it, afraid I would break him.<span style=""> </span>I kept a hat on his head.<span style=""> </span>I was terrified he would get hurt, or sick.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">He grew and he was as delightful a child as I have ever known.<span style=""> </span>He was calm, temperate, and engaged.<span style=""> </span>His eyes were wise and he was patient with my awkward attempts to do the smallest tasks for his comfort.<span style=""> </span>My husband and I struggled to find our place during this time and to make matters worse, he would lose his job.<span style=""> </span>The added stress of having him at home trying to find work was taking a toll.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The bishop approached us one afternoon in our home and prayed with us.<span style=""> </span>He told us that he felt inspired that we should put our home on the market immediately and move into my parent’s basement apartment.<span style=""> </span>We were stunned and we didn’t want to do that, but we did not question him.<span style=""> </span>We both looked at each other and nodded our heads.<span style=""> </span>It never occurred to us to say anything, but yes.<span style=""> </span>We were stressed.<span style=""> </span>We were arguing.<span style=""> </span>There was so much to be done.<span style=""> </span>This was our first home and it was small and we needed to repaint the kitchen.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">We had had an argument and my husband was outside washing the windows and I was inside cleaning the walls.<span style=""> </span>My hair was in my face and I ran up to get a clip.<span style=""> </span>I put my little boy in his bouncy seat onto the counter for a second while I was gone and as I descended the stairs I watched in slow motion as my heart, my breath bounced himself off that countertop and onto the tile floor still in his seat and with it landing on top of him.<span style=""> </span>Part of me left in that moment.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps this sounds dramatic, but I can honestly say I have not gotten that piece back.<span style=""> </span>I have looked for it since, but it left that day. <span style=""> </span>I don’t remember a lot after that.<span style=""> </span>Yelling maybe, agony, me lying under his crib, crucifying myself for my negligence, his vomiting, lethargy, sitting in an ambulance, the young EMT holding my hand as my husband filled out paperwork.<span style=""> </span>The young man who looked into my eyes and must have seen that I was not okay, who gave me his card in case I needed to talk.<span style=""> </span>The helicopter descending because the ambulance would have been too slow, the stuffed alligator I placed onto the gurney, the deflation of emotion as I was told I could not fly with him, kneeling in the grass because I was unable to stand, watching him fly away not knowing if I would see him ever again, knowing I had broken my child. Then there was the man who appeared off the sidewalk and sat by me, the same man who asked me if that baby was my son, the same man who told me as I willed my head up and down, that my baby would be okay and then was not beside me anymore.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">We broke every speed law and reached Primary Children’s in eight minutes from <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">West Jordan</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>We were met by a grief counselor.<span style=""> </span>Somehow my parents were already there.<span style=""> </span>The bishop was there, some friends were there.<span style=""> </span>How did they all know?<span style=""> </span>How did they all get there so fast?<span style=""> </span>I don’t remember seeing them really.<span style=""> </span>Deep inside I knew he was going to be okay.<span style=""> </span>I clung to that, but the grief counselor made it seem like they just didn’t know and it was as if I walked two roads.<span style=""> </span>I was there in the hospital, but I was being led along in another place as well.<span style=""> </span>I asked to see him.<span style=""> </span>He was alone in a large room.<span style=""> </span>The nurse said he had cried himself to sleep.<span style=""> </span>The IV was sticking out of his head because they couldn’t find a vein, the stuffed alligator laid beside him.<span style=""> </span>I cried then, cried for the minutes I had lost with him.<span style=""> </span>I held his hand and stroked it.<span style=""> </span>My husband, bishop, father and our friend encircled him and the bishop spoke.<span style=""> </span>He blessed my son that he would be fully healed.<span style=""> </span>That he had a great work to perform on this earth.<span style=""> </span>They left.<span style=""> </span>All of them left.<span style=""> </span>I sat beside my son and that room was filled to capacity.<span style=""> </span>All of the souls who loved my son, all of the souls who loved me engulfed that white sterile space as sure as if I was in the temple of my God, as sure as we were in Heaven itself.<span style=""> </span>I can not explain it well enough to do it justice.<span style=""> </span>But I knew.<span style=""> </span>I knew we were surrounded-it was crowded in there.<span style=""> </span>The phone rang and it jarred me.<span style=""> </span>A friend called.<span style=""> </span>She was hysterical.<span style=""> </span>I was not.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I knew the veil was thin and that a miracle had occurred.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Over time, there has been more than a few nights I have wept wondering if someone else should have mothered these children, someone less quick to anger, someone more patient and whose constant mistakes aren’t on full display day after day.<span style=""> </span>My son and I have had the opportunity to discuss forgiveness, repentance, and the Atonement.<span style=""> </span>He is well aware of my shortcomings and we have had some very frank and deep doctrinal conversations.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Back to where I began.<span style=""> </span>That night as my son whispered to his sister, that they needed to be quiet, I stopped and it hit me like a ton of bricks.<span style=""> </span>I would not go to where I had planned to go.<span style=""> </span>How could I leave my children with a stressed out cranky mommy and go somewhere with others who would get my best.<span style=""> </span>The ones I love the most dearly need my best.<span style=""> </span>They need my best all the time.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes I am going to stumble and because of that I can’t afford to be distracted.<span style=""> </span>It’s just too easy to get distracted.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">There are times I lose focus.<span style=""> </span>How can I ever forget that my greatest joys are in the walls of my own home?<span style=""> </span>That NOTHING else matters as much, that NOTHING I will EVER do is as important as what I am doing every day, albeit imperfectly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The Lord blessed my son and through the Atonement I was finally able to forgive myself for being gone even for a minute when he fell, and through the Atonement I can keep trying to stay focused on what’s most important in the here and now and forgive myself for not being the perfect strong mommy that I want to be.<span style=""> </span>It is only by clinging to my Savior that I can be the mommy that HE would have me be.<span style=""> </span>And in nothing is my weakness made more manifest than as I strive in my roles as wife and mother.<span style=""> </span>And that’s proof enough for me that nothing’s of greater value.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">We liked conference.<span style=""> </span>Here’s proof.<span style=""> </span>And here’s to taking this mommy thing one day at a time…</p><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxe0BWlugsNcIl2X7Qv5QVXYRKOSQqzscgcHxBoFszxnHQEV299mB5K65rLGHsbTDVI363jyqkGpn_k0dVdRQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-27476031544896168322010-03-16T22:26:00.000-07:002010-03-16T22:41:58.960-07:00There Are Nuclear Bombs In My BloodSome of my jokes work.<br /><br />Most don't.<br /><br />I get it.<br /><br />Growing up I watched my dad test his puns like nuclear weapons over Nevada. I would roll my eyes and think...really? <br />I have become my father. I try to not be punny. I try to not find the humor in a ball of lint, but the humor is everywhere and it taunts me. I hear it scratching at my brain and suddenly I'm saying something that if it works will get a laugh. And if it doesn't?? Just roll your eyes folks cause I'll probably try again sooner rather than later. <br />I worry sometimes I have hurt people's feelings, especially people who are just getting to know me or that I'm so comfortable with that my self deprecation and tendency to be sarcastic gets too close for comfort.<br /> I remember my mom telling me some people would get annoyed with my father for comments he made. I get it now. He was trying to be funny. His identity was in being funny.<br />I hide behind humor. It's my trusty shield and has served me well in a life that's had some tough spots. If I leave someone laughing, maybe they will like me or think I'm fun or forget that sometimes life hurts and there can be joy. I'm still working out the kinks. And those of you who know me well, know that for every one laugh, there's ten that fall flat.<br /><br /><br />A little humor goes a long way, but I can't help it, I LOVE funny...it's in my blood.rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-11474585060735503862010-01-06T12:59:00.000-08:002010-01-06T19:27:43.847-08:00Do I Have To Spell It Out For You?Usually my husband's spelling, doesn't affect our lives too terribly much, however this note I received from him this morning gave me pause.<br /><br />As a background,I am not a morning person. I have been known to say two words, but really before 10 AM you'd be better conversing with a DMV employee. Anyhow, in order to combat this personlity trait/opportunity for his sainthood and also because the hubby is the chipperest chiperoo you've ever encountered in the mornings, he does have a lot to say and will often leave me notes on the whiteboard. That, and the fact that I was snoozing away as he and my son left for their day.<br /><br />So I ask you what does it look like he's saying to YOU???<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/S0T8ENi3tOI/AAAAAAAAAeA/MTinoyyc-6I/s1600-h/041.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/S0T8ENi3tOI/AAAAAAAAAeA/MTinoyyc-6I/s400/041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423737000546514146" border="0" /></a><br /> Considering the rest of his message has to do with why he couldn't wear a suit to work and switching nights with me in attending the temple what I THOUGHT he said would still apply, don't ya think?<br /><br />PS- if this is how you personally enjoy spelling warehouse, then please accept my deepest condolences because I will laugh at you too.<br /><br /><br />LOVE YA, honey!!! Come straight home after work, 'K?????rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-83929234732296164142009-12-22T15:40:00.000-08:002009-12-22T15:53:28.599-08:00Pretty Pain-Final and RethoughtThe end of my story was ready to go weeks ago. I thought I knew how it would end. I was wrong and it left me reeling.<br /><br /><br />I was wrong:<br /><br />Something Tony likes it when I say and I probably don’t say enough. The final third of my story involved two surgeries, overdoses from several narcotics and the inability to see for a week and a half. It involved a blessing, the failure to follow promptings in regards to said blessing and thus the consequence of lost eyesight until the drug I was not supposed to take was out of my system. It involved me going to Denver to live for almost three months with my son and mother and going through extensive physical therapies and rehabilitation. It involved being able to have a second child against all odds and being able to hold her. It involved me being able to tell you that I know what the people of King Benjamin knew and that my prayer was indeed answered. All of that is true.<br /><br />Mid-October Tony was approached by a headhunter and a trip to Miami and three interviews later we awaited an offer. The process was arduous and nerve wracking. I did not want to leave my family, friends, and ward. I didn’t want to leave my son’s school, his friends, or the new temple. The whole step of the way I felt like I was going to be saying goodbye. I had an epiphany when I realized that the new temple that was announced over conference was in the district we would be moving to. I looked up my condition and the largest facility that works with TOS patients in the rehabilitation that I need was only mere minutes from the company Tony was awaiting an offer from. It seemed like more than mere coincidence. I emailed my people I worked with in Denver and they had received their training from the man who started the facility in Miami. They told me that if I got this opportunity to go there, that it would be wonderful for my recovery.<br /><br /><br />Meanwhile at home, things were breaking down…literally. The garage door, the swamp cooler, the refrigerator, the dishwasher, a leak in the basement, my car, Tony’s jeep, a leak in the ceiling and we joked that it seemed like all things were pointing to this move since it seemed like a lot was happening to us right now. We joked about it a lot. The day came that we were waiting for them to fax the offer over and instead the call came from the headhunter. The woman who was runner up had a friend who knew the president of the company personally and he talked the president into changing his mind. It was she who received the offer.<br /><br />We were stunned. That’s business and that’s life. But it was our life.<br />I didn’t understand why the facility that seemed tailor made for me had been RIGHT there.<br />I felt selfish.<br />I felt confused. It seemed right and we hadn’t gone looking for it, it had found us.<br />I realized that I have a lot to learn.<br />I realized that He knows the desires of my heart.<br />He knows what I need. He knows where I need to be. He knows what I am capable of even when I don’t believe it myself.<br /><br />A couple of days after this happened I was kneeling in front of my dryer folding clothes. As I knelt I began to pray. First thoughts out of my mouth: “I’m sorry for being bad.” (Can you believe I said this?) I am ashamed to admit it now.<br />Overwhelming feeling: That I am NOT bad. That I am HIS daughter and that HE loves me. I changed my thought process.<br />“Please increase my faith,” I said.<br /><br />The thing about it is this: It’s His will, not mine and sometimes things just happen. Who knows why? Our family has been incredibly blessed. Service has been rendered to us that enlarges my soul.<br /><br /><br />I am happy. I am finding peace. I am learning that life is not just to be endured and especially at this Christmas season when miracles truly do occur. If I could only convey how much my loved ones mean to me. I am grateful that we are staying because the people who surround me are priceless to me. My son, upon finding out we were staying was jumping up and down with excitement. He would be loathe to leave the friends he holds dear.<br /><br />The ending to my story is not what I thought. But it hasn’t ended yet. It never really will, that’s the great thing. I never want it to. I cannot imagine not learning anything more, not experiencing growth. Yah, growing hurts, sometimes like hell, but at the end of the day it makes me rely on Him and I rejoice in that. He is the author, but He lets me write it down. Sometimes I write word by word, not even realizing where the comma goes (pretty much true of all my writing) When I go back and read it somehow it all flows. I have to erase a lot, I find myself repeating the same antidotes, I occasionally take poetic license, but I can’t put my pencil down. He knows what my story will be and we write it together…every day.<br /><br /><br />We here at The Benjamin Bunch wish you a beautiful Christmas.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SzFZ2r5gx2I/AAAAAAAAAdo/VongurcA00Q/s1600-h/004.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SzFZ2r5gx2I/AAAAAAAAAdo/VongurcA00Q/s320/004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418210622735173474" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SzFZ3D9E_II/AAAAAAAAAdw/VGOMQTZxRik/s1600-h/007.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SzFZ3D9E_II/AAAAAAAAAdw/VGOMQTZxRik/s320/007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418210629192580226" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SzFZ3lhSqSI/AAAAAAAAAd4/P2Jj329a-48/s1600-h/018.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SzFZ3lhSqSI/AAAAAAAAAd4/P2Jj329a-48/s320/018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418210638202841378" border="0" /></a>rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-86121265273437538082009-11-17T13:25:00.000-08:002009-11-17T15:48:30.478-08:00Pretty Pain-volume 2<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CTonyB%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C05%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="State"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>Just a note before I begin this second part: I hesitated in sharing this story, because in NO WAY am I trying to illicit sympathy or say woe is me. I have felt like I needed to share what happened to me in the hopes that it might help someone as well as documenting a journey in which I did not walk alone. And I glory in that. I am not a victim nor am I a hero. Like all of us, I have been extremely blessed and have a story to tell. Thank you for your comments. They were beautiful.</i>
<br />
<br />
<br />One day I was the last patient in yet another doctor's office. Another promise of healing crumbled, though in this instance this benevolent man gave my money back to me. He had tried everything he knew. At the end of our session, he took out his business card. He wrote T.O.S (Thoracic Outlet Syndrome) on it and handed it to me. "I think this is what you have."
<br />
<br />He was the first to give it a name. I researched the condition on the internet and felt like I was finally coming home. I read a girl's story who was younger than I was. Her journey was remarkable and she had traveled to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Denver</st1:place></st1:city> for treatment. I did more research and <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Colorado</st1:place></st1:state> was home to a brilliant surgeon who primarily did vascular surgery, but took thoracic patients as well. I did extensive research on his training, his facility, his patient testimonials, and booked a flight.
<br />
<br />Within two minutes he had diagnosed me. He gave me a 3D CAT scan that was powerful enough to show the extra ribs as well as the fact that my sternum was rotated forward 25 degrees. He said that he had not seen an injury like that except in football players at the bottom of a dog pile. I assured him that I didn't play football, but I began to realize how badly I had been hurt.
<br />
<br />He did a series of tests and warned me that the surgery I would undergo would be arduous and that he could not recommend it unless I had undergone every other treatment option available. At the time, I had never had surgery, with the exception of getting my wisdom teeth out. I was an all natural gal fond of reflexology and the health food store. I had stopped taking any type of narcotic long before because it wasn't touching the pain and I wanted to be lucid and present in my own life.
<br />
<br />I flew home and for the next few weeks with my official diagnosis in hand, I saw more doctors, the head of the Utah PT Association, another chiropractor where I went through a torturous procedure that I wouldn't wish on anyone. I was so frustrated. I didn't want to have surgery. I didn't want to have major surgery where they would go up under my arm and cut out not my little extra cervical rib, but the first thoracic rib and that the chance of nicking a nerve and giving me permanent nerve damage was great. It was a long, risky and delicate procedure and I didn't want to have to endure it. Even having been in pain that long and wishing for relief, I was afraid.
<br />
<br />During all this time, I was praying to know if I needed this surgery. I had no idea that one of the symptoms of my condition was that my nerves would misfire and warmth would spread throughout my entire body. I would have pins and needles, my heart would also feel warm and fluttery and I would feel comforted. On the day I realized that part of my condition were these symptoms that mimicked how I always felt the Spirit, I.WAS.LOW. I can’t tell you how useless I felt. I questioned how I would ever know if I was receiving divine guidance again. If I would know the difference. I knew that I needed to receive my inspiration differently than I had been, or worse yet, thought I had been receiving. <o:p></o:p></span> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <u1:worddocument> <u1:view>Normal</u1:View> <u1:zoom>0</u1:Zoom> <u1:punctuationkerning/> <u1:validateagainstschemas/> <u1:saveifxmlinvalid>false</u1:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <u1:ignoremixedcontent>false</u1:IgnoreMixedContent> <u1:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</u1:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <u1:compatibility> <u1:breakwrappedtables/> <u1:snaptogridincell/> <u1:wraptextwithpunct/> <u1:useasianbreakrules/> <u1:dontgrowautofit/> </u1:Compatibility> <u1:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</u1:BrowserLevel> </u1:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <u2:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </u2:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><u3:p> <o:p></o:p></u3:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">It was a turning point for me. I knew I had to understand how I would receive future promptings. I knew I could not lean on old ways because those ways may or may not be working. It was a scary place for me to be and I learned something. No matter the intensity of physical pain, spiritual anguish is so much worse. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><u3:p> <o:p></o:p></u3:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I prayed late into the night with Tony by my side. Finally, I was given my answer. I was able to feel the spirit in a way I had never experienced before and it eclipsed the former ways I had always felt it.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">One could argue that my prayers were not answered because my pain was not taken away. However, at this point I was no longer praying that it would be taken away. I found this excerpt of a poem entitled "At Journey's End" by Elaine Christensen that sums up nicely how I was feeling:
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Now we kneel here...grateful for every unanswered plea that proved us</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Faith is the mountain that does not flee,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The water that does not part,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The rock that won't turn into bread-</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Instead, marks our dead."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <u4:worddocument> <u4:view>Normal</u4:View> <u4:zoom>0</u4:Zoom> <u4:punctuationkerning/> <u4:validateagainstschemas/> <u4:saveifxmlinvalid>false</u4:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <u4:ignoremixedcontent>false</u4:IgnoreMixedContent> <u4:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</u4:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <u4:compatibility> <u4:breakwrappedtables/> <u4:snaptogridincell/> <u4:wraptextwithpunct/> <u4:useasianbreakrules/> <u4:dontgrowautofit/> </u4:Compatibility> <u4:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</u4:BrowserLevel> </u4:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <u5:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </u5:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I became a bit obsessed about looking into a mirror. I know it sounds prideful. I was checking my collarbones. I couldn’t see one of them anymore. I worried that the broken body I had witnessed in the 3D CAT scan was apparent when others viewed me. I tried not to think of myself as damaged, but I admit I struggled with loving my own body.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I was at the temple during this time and in the session was a lovely young woman sitting in the row in front of me. She could have been a model and I found myself wishing I could look like her, be like her. Writing this now, I sound so ungrateful, but I was having such a hard time coming to terms with pain, with my present circumstances and I longed to think of myself as some lovely creature, not the wounded soul I felt I was.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><u3:p> <o:p></o:p></u3:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">After the session, I was in the foyer waiting for Tony to come out. I looked up to see the same woman I had taken notice of and she shyly approached me. She told me she had observed me in the session and wanted me to know how beautiful she thought I was. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><u3:p> <o:p></o:p></u3:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I was stunned and could not do much more than thank her. But as we regarded each other, I began to weep. It was a miraculous moment and a tender mercy of the Lord. I have never forgotten it. And there have been numerous times I have needed to draw upon that reminder.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p>
<br /></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p>Finally, I knew it was enough. Tony and I called all our family and friends and they joined us in a fast.
<br />
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >And we flew back to Denver.</span>
<br /></span>
<br /></span> </p> rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-38145485189833100232009-11-12T09:31:00.001-08:002009-11-12T12:01:09.642-08:00Pretty Pain-volume 1<span style="font-style: italic;"></span>In 2002 I was reading the Book of Mormon on King Benjamin's dissertation to his people. When he was through "they all cried with on voice saying: Yea we believe all the words which thou hast spoken unto us; and also, we know of their surety and truth, because of the spirit of the Lord omnipotent, which has wrought a mighty change in us, or in our hearts, that we have no more disposition to do evil, but to do good continually."<br /><br />I wanted to feel the way they did.<br /><br /><br />I didn't yet understand what that 'mighty change' was and I wanted it more than anything. I got on my knees and I pled, I begged to feel as they did, to truly be converted. I didn't understand what this journey would entail, perhaps I thought a feeling would come over me or I could wake up the next day changed. I had no idea what was in store, but I have never regretted praying for this gift on that day.<br /><br />Within 2 days I had fallen down a flight of stairs. I would unknowingly go to an unlicensed massage therapist who would hurt me terribly and set in motion a condition that lay dormant and that I didn't even realize I had.<br />I was born with two extra cervical ribs and because of that there is very limited space in my brachial plexus which causes my arteries and nerves to become impinged. It is called <a href="http://www.vascularweb.org/patients/NorthPoint/Thoracic_Outlet_Syndrome.html">Thoracic Outlet Syndrome</a>.<br /><br />I will not attempt to describe in too much detail how it feels, but mine was severe enough that it felt as if someone was sticking icepicks into my shoulder, back ,arms, neck, head and face. And it never went away. I stopped sleeping, I began dropping things so had to stop holding my 18 month old son. He would take a stool and climb into my lap and I would silently weep, but never so he could see. I never wanted my baby to know how much I hurt. Everyone else would keep their distance because the slightest touch would be agony.<br /><br />I went to neurologists, orthopedic surgeons, chiropractors, physical therapists. No one knew what was wrong and several told me it was in my head and to go get 'help'. Xrays and MRIs showed nothing. I thought maybe I was crazy. I received so many blessings that my baby would lay his hands on my head and bless me and the experience gave him an empathy that I cannot regret that he carries.<br /><br />I pled for the pain to go away. I prayed for deliverance. I prayed for a year. That's how long it took to get a diagnosis. I would visualize myself literally taking the Lord's hand and holding it for comfort. He was the only source of relief. My nerves misfired all the time, I would have unbidden pins and needles, my extremities would go numb and I wondered who this creature was that my body had become. My spirit yearned for release from this physical prison.<br /><br />During this time I was called to teach Relief Society to the women of our church. I couldn't understand this call. I could barely move. Other people cleaned my home and cared for my son and the Lord wanted me to stand in front of all these other women for forty minutes? What could I possibly teach them? What was I except the one others pitied?<br /><br />I accepted the calling. I sat in my chair and I immersed myself in the scriptures, in great books of gospel doctrine and I learned. I continued to pray for deliverance and then my prayers began to change. I went through the classic stages of grief though I hadn't lost a loved one, I'd lost myself.<br />The first Sunday I would teach approached and I prayed that somehow by my diligence I could be healed of this phantom malady that racked my body. The day dawned and I stood in front of the sea of faces and the pain left me...I opened my mouth and was filled with sweet relief. I taught the lesson and testified and the words were not my own. I had a profound witness that God loved me and I had a powerful love for these women I would teach.<br /><br />I said "Amen" and sat down and immediately I came to myself again and the pain chained itself back to my body. I would go through the same process every month I taught. You can imagine how I looked forward to that temporary respite. How I truly sought to obtain the word so in that moment I could truly declare what he would have me declare. How this 'weakness' became the catalyst for the opportunity to walk with HIM.<br /><br />The scripture in Ephesians by the apostle Paul took on a poignant personal meaning for me:<br /><br />"There was given to me a thorn in the flesh , the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure. For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me. And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />to be continued...</span>rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-34404623484058695092009-10-12T14:40:00.000-07:002009-10-12T15:25:08.345-07:00Life Guard<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/StOq3tkoy3I/AAAAAAAAAdI/9Ib38INPnP8/s1600-h/tony+and+rachel+walk.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/StOq3tkoy3I/AAAAAAAAAdI/9Ib38INPnP8/s320/tony+and+rachel+walk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391841052995406706" border="0" /></a><br />I just answered the door. My husband sent me flowers. On the card reads,<br /><br />'Everything's going to be alright, rock-a-bye.'<br /><br /><br />I wish I could explain what my heart did when I read this...<br /><br /><br />This is the man who holds my fear, my sorrows, my pain so no one else has to perish under the weight.<br /><br />And it has to be hell...<br /><br />I know he wonders where his fun-loving, gregarious sweetheart goes and where the walking bundle of nerves wrapped up in scraps-of-scary comes from.<br />We tread water together sometimes, waterlogged with life and all too often it is I who must be rescued, but he can't pull me to safety because I'm holding him down, my arms flailing and legs kicking and he swallows too much water.<br />Still, he keeps his arm around me and drags me to the shore.<br />AGAIN.AND.AGAIN.<br />He lays there in the sand safe for a moment and I gaze at his form pummeled and bruised by the endless waves.<br /><br />Sometimes he needs rescuing too.<br /><br />And we plead to the Benevolent Soul who loves us perfectly. Plead for the Atonement to bind up our wounds and to hold us when we are incapable of holding each other and we plead endlessly for we fall back into the deep water ad nauseam. And HE saves both of us...<br /><br />That being said, as an answer to the lovely lyrics of Shawn Mullins my sweetheart penned, I invoke the stylings of John and Paul (there is a controversy as to their true collaboration on this song):<br />'Though I know I'll never lose affection<br />For people and things that went before<br />I know I'll often stop and think about them<br />In my life I love you more<br />In my life I love <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">you</span> more'rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-30575493533650833902009-09-21T19:21:00.000-07:002009-09-22T08:06:44.318-07:00"This is MY mom!"Yesterday morning I had procured all the necessary books off the library shelves: Disney Princesses, Tinkerbell, A Princess and Her Horse, The Princess and the Pea, and Rapunzel. The munchkin and I sat at a small table in even smaller chairs and I read the tales to her two-year-old heart's content.
<br />
<br />A boy, not much older than this daughter of mine, hoisted himself into a chair beside us and laid his offerings on the table: Marvel Superheros. He sat and listened to all the tales politely, though they were clearly not his forte'. He would interject facts such as "Have you seen this movie?" pointing to Wolverine, and "I like this movie," indicating The Incredible Hulk.
<br />
<br />And all the while the clock continued it's circular cycle until an hour had passed and no one had come to claim this precious boy. It was time to leave and I was beginning to wonder if I needed to find his caregiver and who that could be who would abandon him with books they were not reading to him and answers they were withholding from his endless questions.
<br />
<br />I held my little girl's hand and the boy toddled beside us and I must admit my feisty daughter scowled at him and said, "This is MY mom!" The little boy fell out of step with us and I ran off chasing down my long haired thundercloud as she stormed around the library.
<br />
<br />As I approached the front desk, I saw him again. Growing tired, he was laying beside the checkout. A woman was walking toward the computers and he got up and stood beside her. She did not look at him, she did not speak to him, and he did not mention Wolverine and The Incredible Hulk to her. The last hour of his life was unknown to her and I admit I wanted to shake her as I walked by and shout, "WAKE UP!!"
<br />
<br />I wish I had read a non princess story. I wish I had read him his Wolverine book or that he had said to my offspring, "This is MY mom!", but he didn't. He just looked at me and I clung to my girl, grateful that she is grateful (or at least possessive) that I am her mother.
<br />
<br />I learned a valuable lesson. I am not just a mother when my two kids are with me. I am a mother in whatever circumstance I find myself in. As a woman, I have been blessed with compassion and empathy, but there are so many times I am guarded and careful. I've never regretted being too kind and in the moment I had an opportunity to mother a child who needed some time.
<br />
<br />I'm hoping that someone somewhere is reading that little one a story. And I hope it's his mother...
<br />
<br /><h3 class="post-title entry-title">
<br /></h3>And now for something completely different:
<br />
<br />I was invited by my friend <a href="http://howellherald.blogspot.com/">Melissa</a> to play a blog game kind of like the old slumber party game “Telephone.”
<br />One blogger starts a story and passes it on. Each blogger adds a part. It should be interesting to see where it goes.
<br />So here it is:
<br />A Writer-Mama’s Tale –
<br />The Seduction of Vintage Grapes
<br />
<br /><a href="http://zookbooknook.blogspot.com/2009/09/writer-mamas-tale.html" target="_blank" title="TITLE">Even the crickets had rested their legs when she sat back in her chair and sighed with a final sip of vintage grapes. Darkness swallowed……..
<br /></a>
<br /><a href="http://bloggingmama-andrea.blogspot.com/2009/09/random-tuesday-thoughts-writer-mamas.html" target="_blank" title="TITLE">the sob that threatened to tear from throat as she watched her only child drive away. What did he know about the world outside of….</a>
<br />
<br /><a href="http://misstyslifeisgood.blogspot.com/2009/09/writer-mamas-tale-what-now.html" target="_blank" title="TITLE">our small town. Was he ready for what laid ahead of him? Her lip quivered as she thought back to the days when….</a>
<br />
<br /><a href="http://thecoolcoxclan.blogspot.com/2009/09/writer-mamas-tale-seduction-of-vintage.html" target="_blank" title="TITLE">Jason toddled behind his father through the vineyards and copied his every movement. Mark was young and full of hope and desire then. His face…..</a>
<br />
<br /><a href="http://factwoman.blogspot.com/2009/09/writer-mamas-tale-seduction-of-vintage.html" target="_blank" title="TITLE">,now lined from time and stress, still shined with pride for their son. As Jason's car drove away, they…</a>
<br />
<br /><a href="http://howellherald.blogspot.com/2009/09/seduction-of-vintage-grapes.html" target="_blank" title="TITLE">embraced as the breeze, pregnant with the scent of ripe grapes, swirled around them. Their eyes remained transfixed on the car until....</a>
<br />
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CClara%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><a href="http://thebenjaminbunch.blogspot.com/"><u><span style=";font-family:";font-size:14;" >Mark cleared the emotional phlegm from his throat and held his faded blue goblet aloft.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>“Here’s to new beginnings.” <span style=""> </span>Her first instinct was…</span></u></a>
<br /><span style=";font-family:";font-size:14;" > <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--> <!--[endif]--></span>
<br /><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" > <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--></span>You can click on any of the sentences above to go to the author's original post then head on over to <a href="http://mindiandelrey.blogspot.com/">Mindi's blog</a> on Wednesday to see what happens next!
<br />rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-17542327603136528912009-09-15T13:20:00.001-07:002009-09-15T13:27:22.634-07:00Toffee<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/Sq_3LmOJkzI/AAAAAAAAAdA/U6MAvHd_9rs/s1600-h/003.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/Sq_3LmOJkzI/AAAAAAAAAdA/U6MAvHd_9rs/s320/003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381791858341548850" border="0" /></a>
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CClara%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">The breeze catches my skin as I gaze at your retreating form</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Your back is a scrawny gazelle </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The t-shirt clings like a doey hide</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Your legs pump the pedals with all the intensity of my maternal heart</p> <p class="MsoNormal">You aren’t moving very fast.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Over asphalt refuse and destination’s allure </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Your red bicycle carries you from my person</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And my organs weep</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I can feel my soul, my purpose</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Clatter, shatter, dare to hope.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I am only a silhouette in a lonely doorway </p> <p class="MsoNormal">You are riding away from me</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It is what I long for you to do</p> <p class="MsoNormal">What I spend my time preparing you to do </p> <p class="MsoNormal">And I miss you before I say goodbye.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I miss you as I halt, stiff and unnerved in the glare of your horizon eyes</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Your toffee face slightly melted in the red tired sun</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Reflecting the particles of hair that I long to brush aside</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tufts of which salute me when I’m the mom I should be</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And flip me off when I am less than I know I could be.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Your cheeks shift over the black bicycle seat </p> <p class="MsoNormal">You dangle your foot until your momentum is stifled </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Your hat hides your face as you look over your shoulder at me</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The mere mortal who gave you birth</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Tell my sister I love her.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I attempt to form a word</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My brain unable to render my tongue muscles useful</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So overcome am I</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But my arm escapes its jailer </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finally free of inept uncertainty it waves at you.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">And you unsullied, unburdened continue on</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Further and further past the scarlet octagon</p> <p class="MsoNormal">That flashes the word I so often mutter</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And which I long to cry out at this moment</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I won’t.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I can no longer see you</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Though my heart is still holding on to yours like a hand</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Fingers entwined and I glimpse the future</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The curb where you will exit stage right for two years</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Where every respiration will conjure your reality to my remembrance.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">You are the embodiment of my divinity </p> <p class="MsoNormal">You are the bearer of my guilt</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The reminder of my potential</p> <p class="MsoNormal">You are the reason that mothers and sons are wrapped up together in knots</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Twiny, impossible, frayed, woven, intricate.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">You slay me and I die over and over again</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Into the inferno that is motherhood</p> <p class="MsoNormal">A searing heat which burns out all that is unnecessary, impure</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And you my son rake aside the carnage and cradle what is left:</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My soul.</p> rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-48095605099349358272009-09-10T19:35:00.000-07:002009-09-11T06:47:22.575-07:00A Poo Post- First Thoughts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/Sqm_KDI_vXI/AAAAAAAAAbY/OG_WsgYyUTI/s1600-h/008.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/Sqm_KDI_vXI/AAAAAAAAAbY/OG_WsgYyUTI/s320/008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380041409233403250" border="0" /></a><br />Potty training's a messy endeavor. There's a lot of naked 'bum'ness and doing one's business becomes the highlight of the day. "YAY! Poo poo in the potty!" I've started to sing this to myself, truthfully.<br />Life comes full circle: We begin in diapers, we end in diapers and in between those times we just try to excrete with a locked door and a mere five minutes of peace. No one claps for me when I get that...but they should.<br />Truly the highlight to potty training is teaching our children that there's nothing more rewarding than a 'job' well done...ahem.<br />But in the transition time between diapers and cloth there's a few other perks as well:<br />The extra coinage that will jangle in our purses.<br />The diaper bag being put out to pasture.<br />The retirement of hogtying and holding down the child as we maneuver wipes with delicate aversion.<br />Yes my friends, this is a poo post. My daughter is on her way and has been using the potty for the past three days...mostly. So remember, life's not just about what happens to you, it's about what you leave behind.<br /><br />Just remember to flush it when it's appropriate.rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-86270499439586090632009-09-09T21:43:00.000-07:002009-09-09T21:59:47.024-07:00Cheap TherapySo I took a sabbatical from my blog.<br /><br />I thought that by pulling myself back and re prioritizing my life I would find everything I was seeking. I immersed myself in Isaiah, I wrote less, I still didn't eat sugar, cheese, and I was trying to do everything just so, being who I thought I should be, being who I thought He would have me be. <br />And you know, so much has been better. I feel a lot of peace, but here's the thing: I haven't been happy. I've forgotten how and in all my restylization (did you miss my made-up words?), I forgot that somewhere in all this crazy life, there needs to be room for joy. And you know what brings me joy???? Writing this blog. I need this outlet to express my giant "YAWP" to the world (okay maybe 10 people)<br />My name is Rachel Benjamin and I am not going to hide; I'm not going to be someone I'm not anymore. I'm not going to share my second or third thoughts, but my first thoughts. I'm not going to place my value on how many followers I have, or comments, or if some of my posts are crap and some might be...I know...<br />I'm not perfect, I am fantastically flawed. I beat myself up severely for every weakness I perceive in myself while holding the rest of the world up on the pedestals I have carved for them.<br />Do you know what I am going to do tomorrow? I am going to my darling friend Lyndy's (I owe you one, my friend) and we are going to sing at the top of our lungs and I am going to write and write and I am going to follow and embrace the light inside of me and be who I am...do you know how healing it is for me to finally say this? I have been terrified my entire life that if I'm not the person everyone else needs me to be, I will end up alone. It is my deepest fear. I am afraid of being alone...wow, I admitted it.. I'm not though. There are so many people in my life who I adore.<br /><br /> So here I am. I've missed you all terribly. I'm back in the saddle...rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-78024513397662234892009-07-29T09:05:00.001-07:002009-07-29T09:13:27.975-07:00Love To You All<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SnB0oIZ6YWI/AAAAAAAAAbA/olHxMWLE1hc/s1600-h/tony+and+rachel+4.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 169px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SnB0oIZ6YWI/AAAAAAAAAbA/olHxMWLE1hc/s200/tony+and+rachel+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363915388998017378" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SnB0oSQfZaI/AAAAAAAAAbI/XFUcVtjB3bI/s1600-h/conman+2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 124px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SnB0oSQfZaI/AAAAAAAAAbI/XFUcVtjB3bI/s200/conman+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363915391642854818" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SnB0oxAyXqI/AAAAAAAAAbQ/SGdKhubI2PQ/s1600-h/blog+2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 130px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SnB0oxAyXqI/AAAAAAAAAbQ/SGdKhubI2PQ/s200/blog+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363915399898488482" border="0" /></a><br />The Benjamin Bunch will be on hiatus. Thank you for your friendship and loyalty. I apologize for my lack of posts and not visiting all your wonderful blogs for awhile. I feel an urgency to be fully present in my life...and these guys ROCK my world.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">please know how much I appreciate each and every one of you. I will return when I can.</span>rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-17325597898079740402009-07-06T09:33:00.000-07:002009-07-06T10:20:15.756-07:00Throw Down With Mother NatureNow that summer's here, I thought I would share with you my love of nature. There's so many natural wonders to name, but for the sake of time I've narrowed them down to only three of my ABSOLUTE favorites:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3096/2745015537_064c3ace40_m.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3096/2745015537_064c3ace40_m.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>1-Ants who want to be my roommates: Look, you might as well know now ants, if you come inquiring about a lease, I WILL kill you. I have a thing about killing roommates who steal my food and crawl over my things. I couldn't kill difficult roommates up at Ricks because of the whole honor code, but it's the real world now ants and you are so dead. Oh, and the toddler who feeds you every meal? Well, she will still feed you because she can't seem to help dropping a truck load of crumbs under her chair, but she will probably kill you anyway too when she picks you up and loves you a little too hard. Either way, get your affairs in order at the anthill...NOW.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3212/2864619501_399dc8ae07_m.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 171px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3212/2864619501_399dc8ae07_m.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>2-Weeds: Sure, the snow on the ground six months or more out of the year does get old, I admit it. But at least it provides a nice white, generally gray covering that hides the green disease the engulfs the yard. So bring me your tired...husband, your poor...man's weed killer, your huddled...kids blowing dandelion seeds faster than you can possibly remove them, and you've joined the yard maintenance game that the Benjamin bunch loses each and every year. Oh, we've won a few battles, but have yet to even show up to the war. And there's a little Benedict Arnold of the ground covering fight who thinks the morning glory in the lawn is pwetty. Crap, now it's only 3 to 17 billion and 1...traitorous toddler.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/53/151131733_2df20f2815_m.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/53/151131733_2df20f2815_m.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>3-Snails: Ok, I admit here is a creature I feel sorry for. They are painfully slow, their shell provides an inadequate protection, and they are in need of some serious personal hygeine tips as they trail this embarrassing ooze wherever they go. But when I open the door and they are on my porch, the steps, the garage door, the kids' playthings, and are eating my garden, I have to think that they are getting the last laugh. And they multiply; the term breeding like rabbits seriously underestimated the power of two willing, albeit slow slime balls. Are they male? Are they female? Who cares. Where there were 2 yesterday, there are 73 today and I personally can't squish them, pour salt on them (barbaric I will never do this EVER), or drown them. Wait! My husband, giver that he is, has found the solution. He will drown them, but before you cry in outrage know this; they will go down happy.<br />Apparently, he tells me that they really love a good brewsky and will throw themselves into the alcohol and drink themselves into oblivion. Who knew that snails were just waiting around hoping for the next kegger.<br /><br /> Party at my house...rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-62998487086395309402009-06-27T19:57:00.000-07:002009-06-27T20:16:31.523-07:00Sitting On A Rock Will Get You Noticed<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CClara%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">I have been away for a week at a writing conference.<span style=""> </span>It will take me a while to fully process the experience.<span style=""> </span>There are layers that I must peel away like an onion and that will make my eyes sting as I prepare to slice through them.<span style=""> </span>The experience changed me, as I needed to be changed.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On Thursday I met with the most distinguished man of the literary world that I will ever meet.<span style=""> </span>It was as if I knelt at his feet; my offering of twenty pages stained with innocent ink, and hope littered in its white spaces.<span style=""> </span>The chair he offered me was broken; a single cheek hung precariously off the one safe edge, my dignity struggled on the other.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He gazed at me through midnight transition lenses.<span style=""> </span>Were his eyes making the glass darker or were his glasses turning his almond orbs into tiny spotlights revealing my absolute ineptness?<span style=""> </span>Inept:<span style=""> </span>That was the word he used to describe my story; or was it my writing, perhaps it was the author of it.<span style=""> </span>He spoke to me as if it pained him; like the tin man grinding his un-oiled jaw, he was able to squeak only, “Drivel, folksy, backwoods.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I felt the tears as they crawled up my organs, gaining momentum from all the emotional exercise I give them.<span style=""> </span>I set my own jaw, knowing in this one heart beat of my life that I would not let the king of self-importance see my spirit leaking.<span style=""> </span>I asked him a couple of questions:<span style=""> </span>What did he think of the brother’s voice?<span style=""> </span>He paused and for a split second his jelly-donut face oozed a cream-filled doubt.<span style=""> </span>I asked him about my main character’s age and muteness, and he himself suddenly could not speak.<span style=""> </span>If I could have moved my wooden hand, I would have slapped my forehead:<span style=""> </span>He had not read beyond the first page-and-a-half.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He admitted it and told me he thought there was no market for my story and that he wasn’t sure anyone would understand it anyway.<span style=""> </span>To make up for this slight, he picked apart my lack of a comma and a poor word choice until I understood my proper place once more:<span style=""> </span>I was nobody.<span style=""> </span>I understood it very well and a drawer shut in my mind.<span style=""> </span>My story was placed inside and covered with a linen cloth.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I stood up when I had had enough; oh, and when he told me that he would only answer any questions that were related to what he had just discussed with me.<span style=""> </span>There were none…only the barbed ones slicing through the sinew of my soul.<span style=""> </span>I offered him my hand and thanked him for his ten minutes of time; twenty minutes less than we had set aside.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I left him in his unbroken chair.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My feet carried me away in a strange town.<span style=""> </span>The tears marched their armies down my face until my lack of tissue was a problem.<span style=""> </span>The bathroom was beside where he still sat.<span style=""> </span>I unabashedly used my arm; it was a very ‘backwoods’ thing for me to do, maybe even a little ‘folksy.’<span style=""> </span>I decided not to tread too far from the afternoon session of the conference.<span style=""> </span>My two sweet friends were saving me a seat inside; a seat I wasn’t planning to fill.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I chose a rather secluded bench and sat down, resting my aching pride.<span style=""> </span>An elderly couple approached me and asked if they could have the seat.<span style=""> </span>I obliged and stood outside the building my friends were in, until a camera man who was filming the conference set up his tripod right where I was standing.<span style=""> </span>I found an unassuming rock and I did the only thing I knew:<span style=""> </span>I wrote furiously in my notebook.<span style=""> </span>I looked up and the camera was facing me.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I flinched.<span style=""> </span>“Oh, am I in your way, AGAIN?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The camera guy smiled, “Oh no.<span style=""> </span>I’ve actually been filming you, if that’s okay.<span style=""> </span>You are the epitome of what this conference is about.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">What irony.<span style=""> </span>The conference, which hires the man, who breaks my heart, which causes me to write my sorrow, which prompts a person to be inspired, and include my moment in said conference’s video.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I opened that drawer in my head and took the story back out again, and I placed his words inside that drawer instead.<span style=""> </span>And now I keep going; grateful for the experience, hungry to prove myself.<span style=""> </span>And in my liberal use of the movie Pretty Woman:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><o:p> </o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Big Shot Editor</b>: Yes, can I help you mere peasant person?
<br /><b>Rachel</b>: I was here a few years back, you wouldn't read my story.
<br /><b>Big Shot Editor</b>: Well, I never...
<br /><b>Rachel</b>: Your literary journal prides itself on finding the best stories?
<br /><b>Big Shot Editor</b>: Of course.
<br /><b>Rachel</b>: Big mistake. Big. Huge. I have to go write now.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-41815728838875374212009-06-02T12:53:00.000-07:002009-06-02T13:35:25.305-07:00In Which I Ramble...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/160/434639566_b5d33e9511_m.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 240px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/160/434639566_b5d33e9511_m.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>
<br />
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CTonyB%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">A sad fact:<span style=""> </span>Since I’ve stopped eating sugar, I’ve been less funny…Apparently, my humor had everything to do with high fructose corn syrup.<span style=""> </span>The whole grain lifestyle has crimped my ability to come up with a good one liner.<span style=""> </span>Oh, I still try, but my delivery falls flatter than a plain cardboard rice cake.<span style=""> </span>I coped with my life through food…I then transferred over to the internet…things were getting crazy, I could zone out and let it all go in front of the little glowing box of other people’s wonderful lives.<span style=""> </span>I could discuss reading books, without reading all that many.<span style=""> </span>I could read about writing and write about writing and not really write.<span style=""> </span>In fact, I could talk about living, without really living.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I realized today, that I didn’t have anything to say.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t have anything to add to the conversation.<span style=""> </span>Now I’m not depressed and the fact that I have been without a car for the last few weeks could be narrowing my perception of the world, but the truth is I need a change.<span style=""> </span>My short story is finally finished.<span style=""> </span>I am preparing to spend a week away with my fabulous writing buds to bask in the writers’ life.<span style=""> </span>The hubby informed me when we were just throwing the idea of me getting away for awhile, that I HAD to take this opportunity.<span style=""> </span>I know it won’t be easy for him, but he hasn’t blinked.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">You see, his eyes have been wide open before.<span style=""> </span>I watched our wedding video the other day with Ceci.<span style=""> </span>I even wore my veil for her if you want to know the truth.<span style=""> </span>She loved the whole thing (except for the part where it was time to feed each other cake and I didn’t even aim for his mouth…who knew that frosting affected contact lenses…seriously?)<span style=""> </span>Well, the violence of it frightened her and then his rebuttal right into my eyes and the licking of the frosting off the faces (yes, an elderly woman left our reception in disgust.) <span style=""> </span>And you know what???<span style=""> </span>We loved every minute of that moment, because that is so US.<span style="">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>If I could have glimpsed into the future and seen the nights spent in agony, the hospital visits, the surgeries, the deafening silence of fear, the job losses, the food appearing at our doorways, the collapsing upon the ground in seeming defeat, the miracles, the angels, the babies that we were overwhelmed to be the parents of, the glimpses of eternity in the mundane moments, the whisperings of so much more, the beauty that comes from suffering, the chipping away of that couple who had the world by the hands and was dancing with it and each other and who the world tries to crush, but we are still dancing…together.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" >
<br /></span><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CTonyB%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Still not funny, I know…but it’s in there, even if the frosting has long left my tear ducts.<span style=""> </span></p>
<br />rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-77478127425823990522009-05-24T15:23:00.001-07:002009-05-24T15:27:14.238-07:00A Letter To My Children<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/ShnJZohYYvI/AAAAAAAAAak/KyLsnbnqEog/s1600-h/IMG_4153+2.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/ShnJZohYYvI/AAAAAAAAAak/KyLsnbnqEog/s320/IMG_4153+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339520275435774706" border="0" /></a><br /> <p class="MsoNormal">Cup cakes are in the oven and Conner and CC are playing.<span style=""> </span>Conner took the blanket from his sister; my feisty, headstrong, fiery daughter is shouting, “I don’t want it!<span style=""> </span>I don’t want it!”<span style=""> </span>Oh CC, you will cry that all throughout your life.<span style=""> </span>There is much we don’t want.<span style=""> </span>Much that hurts, much that we wish could be gone, much that causes us to want to stop and weep and not take that step forward…that step into the dark…off the precipice…into the unknown.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I promise you my sweet son and daughter, that you will never be left comfortless, that you are never alone in this life.<span style=""> </span>Your Savior, your Lord, your King will take you by the hand and guide you through every.single.day.<span style=""> </span>You must ask, you must seek, you must be strong, for the winds will howl and pain and sorrow come to all.<span style=""> </span>In this life however, you will also experience profound joy and there is only ONE source…only HE.</p>rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-75494250526074903652009-05-16T13:15:00.000-07:002009-05-16T14:03:53.130-07:00SpeakIf will alone was a super power, I'd be a comic book hero.<br /><br />I visualized myself winning a writing competition; the first one I've ever entered. I was notified that I was a finalist and didn't exhale it seemed for a good five minutes. I could feel my character breathing out her history. I thought my story had legs and could run marathons. It must have sauntered casually to that finish line however, and others crossed it first, and second, and third...<br /><br />My left hand is the conduit through with communication must steadily flow and somehow the space between my brain and said hand loses something in the translation, because I can very rarely SPEAK effectively. I'm married to a National debate champion and the mother to two offspring who talk circles around me, straight from the womb.<br /><br />And yet, with paper and pen I'm alive and I can pretend...I can pretend I won. That I won the contest and that I walked up on a stage. That there was a microphone so imposing that it made me cross my bleary eyes which blocked the courteous clip clapping of the crowd that came to hear me read my words, my soul. That my children could see their mother achieve something, anything so that they too may know that they can hurdle their Everest.<br /><br />I picture myself reading, nervous, tremulous diction and damp underarms, but lit up like Christmas morning. My best clothes, straightened hair, unshed tears, a hidden heart resurrected; crazy glued together and soaring into another time...another place...another life.<br /><br />I WILL do what I dream to do because there is no choice. I was born to speak, though one has to read in order to hear what I'm really needing, yearning, crying to tell them. Someday I will succeed...and until then my left hand will not stop dog paddling through this ocean of words I need to flood my empty pages with.<br /><br />Because I have a story to tell.rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-37141743386787731942009-04-27T07:45:00.000-07:002009-04-27T08:27:12.096-07:00Let Her Eat CakeA daily conversation:<br /><br /><br />7:30 AM "What's for dinner?"<br /><br /><br />"It's breakfast time now CC."<br /><br /><br />8 AM "I want cake!"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SfXMChUyH1I/AAAAAAAAAZ0/4--PZnDhR2I/s1600-h/087.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SfXMChUyH1I/AAAAAAAAAZ0/4--PZnDhR2I/s320/087.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329390077740195666" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />"No CC, we can't have cake right now. How about cereal?"<br /><br /><br />"NO! I want ketchup and a 'poon."<br /><br /><br />9 AM (after a full breakfast of banana, strawberries, blueberries and Kix)<br /><br />"What's for dinner?"<br /><br /><br />"We just ate CC!"<br /><br /><br />10AM "I want a nack!" (usually crackers)<br /><br /><br />11AM more crackers...<br /><br /><br />noon "What's for dinner?" (include a pb&j, apple pieces, string cheese and anything else she can think of)<br /><br />RIGHT AFTER THIS..."I want a nack!"<br /><br />"AHHH no it's naptime now"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SfXMCKq0itI/AAAAAAAAAZs/xWX1YkTtr6o/s1600-h/005.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SfXMCKq0itI/AAAAAAAAAZs/xWX1YkTtr6o/s320/005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329390071658613458" border="0" /></a><br /><br />3,4,5pm more of the same (in which she snacks on raisins, yogurt, fruit snacks, raviolis, anything I can think of and yes, even candy if I'm desperate...which I usually am)<br /><br />5pm dinner time<br /><br />6&7PM "I want dinner!!" followed by a glass of milk and a final snack and bedtime...<br /><br /><br /><br />So I ask you? Is it boredom, is it an emotional attachment to food at age 2? Is it a toddler's cries for her mother's attention through food, is it a tapeworm, or does she simply like to see the nervous twitch I've developed whenever I hear the words "dinner" or "nack" in which I close my eyes while holding my head and weeping followed by a gnashing of teeth??????<br /><br /><br /><br />But, I digress from the real reason for this post:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SfXMDBAXUDI/AAAAAAAAAaM/TUFUC5LHM7Q/s1600-h/079.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SfXMDBAXUDI/AAAAAAAAAaM/TUFUC5LHM7Q/s320/079.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329390086244487218" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SfXMC-VPisI/AAAAAAAAAaE/RAaTUHTyzs4/s1600-h/052.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SfXMC-VPisI/AAAAAAAAAaE/RAaTUHTyzs4/s320/052.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329390085526751938" border="0" /></a>Friday was my baby's birthday. The girl with the flash and sparkle, the Himalayan personality. Who gets the joke, who will say "now that's funny!" after SHE says something. Who loves adventure, who sings herself to sleep and awake, and sings herself into the spotlight. Who has a lioness temper with a dollop of grizzly bear, and who will cry at the very sight of human suffering of any kind. Whose eyes illuminate the canvas of her soul...and she's a masterpiece.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SfXMCyAE_wI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/-3DBUtal6HA/s1600-h/011.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SfXMCyAE_wI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/-3DBUtal6HA/s320/011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329390082216754946" border="0" /></a><br />I adore you, Cecilia.rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-70830487423835967242009-04-17T07:52:00.000-07:002009-04-17T07:57:19.947-07:00Peter Pan Am I<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2185/2202649260_b6b013957c_m.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 180px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2185/2202649260_b6b013957c_m.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><br /></span> <p class="MsoNormal">I never wanted to grow up.</p> <br />I was not the child who yearned to be a teenager or the teenager who dreamed of adulthood.<span style=""> </span>I was the child who thought I would always be a child.<span style=""> </span>The teenager who didn’t know WHAT had happened to me and missed childhood.<span style=""> </span>The adult who didn’t understand how 21 turned into 22 so quickly.<span style=""> </span>I will be the 80 year old who calls my friends and says “Hey girls.” <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now just for the record, I LOVE being a wife and mother.<span style=""> </span>I just still find it hard to believe that I am THE wife and mother.<span style=""> </span>I still look in the mirror and can’t fathom who this grown up is staring back at me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I relate extremely well to children and yes, even teenagers too (though sometimes I am terrified :) <span style=""></span>I guess it makes sense if I still think I’m one of them.<span style=""> </span>No, it’s not like I’m trying to relive the “glory days” of high school.<span style=""> </span>Far from it.<span style=""> </span>I moved around so much growing up, I wonder if I just scattered the ashes of my childhood onto too many places.<span style=""> </span>Every new move forced me to grow up just a little faster.<span style=""> </span>New girl better fit in quickly if she wants to survive.<span style=""> </span>Be one of us, be who we want you to be or you’ll be all alone.<span style=""> </span>Part of me had to perish with every step into every new school.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t have the sense of self to save my drowning soul.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The funny thing is, all the reinventing helped me to get along with almost anyone wherever I am.<span style=""> </span>It has served me well and I’m grateful for how my experiences stretched me.<span style=""> </span>I tell you this, because Monday is my birthday…And I feel 21.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I’m okay with that.</p>rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-73999932908082434752009-03-31T10:43:00.001-07:002009-03-31T11:24:58.029-07:00A Little of This, A Little of ThatMy brother,<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SdJdi5m2o1I/AAAAAAAAAY0/jMR0rIqwBV8/s1600-h/DSC_0402.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SdJdi5m2o1I/AAAAAAAAAY0/jMR0rIqwBV8/s320/DSC_0402.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319416964038697810" border="0" /></a>who takes any picture that looks fantastic on this blog, and his wife are moving to Missouri for school. We will sure miss them, but are excited for them too. :) It reminds me of living in Virginia 15 min. outside of D.C. right after Tony and I were married. We LOVED it! Even though I had to work two jobs to keep us afloat, and the people whose basement we rented were going through a bitter and LOUD divorce at the time. Oh, and the guys who parked their van behind mine in two different parking lots and tried to sell me some cool stereo equipment. I loved all the trees, and the rolling hills, and the people, and the history. I loved visiting D.C. when ever we could and soaking it all in. I was truly out of my comfort zone, and it was an adventure. I will never forget it. So Dave and Beth, even though my pictures on this blog will suffer greatly, I have a feeling that this will be an experience you guys will never forget :)<br /><br />My daughter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SdJdh6ARSkI/AAAAAAAAAYc/naP0IXEIrHI/s1600-h/ceci1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SdJdh6ARSkI/AAAAAAAAAYc/naP0IXEIrHI/s320/ceci1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319416946965432898" border="0" /></a> has had a cold since 2009 started. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SdJdiUjuaXI/AAAAAAAAAYk/xFdTKUG9IFM/s1600-h/ceci.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SdJdiUjuaXI/AAAAAAAAAYk/xFdTKUG9IFM/s320/ceci.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319416954093463922" border="0" /></a>RSV, two double ear infections, and now just an EVERLASTING runny nose. What can I do? I give her 2 multivitamins a day, vitamin C, acidopholus...any ideas? We've taken her to the Dr. multiple times and she's been on antibiotics for the infections and Dimetapp for the cold, but I don't want her on that forever. Could it be her two year molars coming in? Poor girl, I feel so bad for her... It couldn't be because she does this...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SdJdixpaCQI/AAAAAAAAAY8/hgGY5KD-0PY/s1600-h/DSC_0517.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SdJdixpaCQI/AAAAAAAAAY8/hgGY5KD-0PY/s320/DSC_0517.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319416961901922562" border="0" /></a>or this<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SdJdiqZEklI/AAAAAAAAAYs/SKbHFubeM08/s1600-h/DSC_0526.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/SdJdiqZEklI/AAAAAAAAAYs/SKbHFubeM08/s320/DSC_0526.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319416959954358866" border="0" /></a>...right? :)<br /><br />My dad turns 65 on Monday. He got called to jury duty and has to report...on Monday. Happy Birthday DAD :)<br /><br />I'm an all or nothing type of gal. I will either eat my weight in cheese or shun it altogether. The amount of time I was spending on the computer was bothering me. I would get 'sucked in' every time I walked into the kitchen (where our computer is) so to combat the problem, I would just turn it off. When I would turn it back on however, I would have emails piled up and blogs to read and I would still end up online for too long. Then there's the Good Reads factor. I could spend half my life on that site. So, after a lot of thought and some significant soul searching, I have come to a conclusion: M-F I will set the timer. 60 min. online a day. Weekends off. Yesterday, was my first official 'hour.' Never has an hour flew by so fast!! I end up having to write out a list I need to do for today. Luckily, I write out my posts longhand, so that cuts out on time, but I couldn't believe how fast it went. I may not get to your blogs everyday, but I will do my best to reach everyone's blogs every week.<br /><br />PS- I'm shouting out my cute bloggy buddy <a href="http://thenaulutribe.blogspot.com/">Devri</a>. I totally missed her contest, but she is so talented and makes the most adorable tutus and headbands. She's sick right now, so feel better soon Devri!!rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-724495292773565522009-03-17T17:51:00.001-07:002009-03-17T18:20:05.161-07:00In The Leafy Treetops...As we teeter here on the very edge of a long awaited season, I am reminded of an annual phenomenon. Every beautiful spring morning, I am gently awakened by a sound that's so natural and pure that I truly feel as if I am one with nature. That sound my friends, is the birds outside my bedroom window.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/113/311353597_e91c216955_m.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 161px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/113/311353597_e91c216955_m.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />I suppose at some point, it must begin with one sustained note, but by the time I drift into consciousness there's a tweetanacle choir. You see, I do love birds. Yes, I am a bird enthusiast. These birds however, have an agenda. There's a birdie brawl in my tree, a "rumble" if you will.<br />There are no winners in this sad tale. The two opposing gangs of ferocious fowl shout out threatenings that would shock and dismay you. Now bear in mind, these are authentic calls:<br /><br />"Aackaackaackaackaackaackaackaack"<br /><br />"Oh yah! AACKAACKAACKAACKAACKAACKAACKAACKAACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"<br /><br />"TWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/ScBKEpm6sGI/AAAAAAAAAYQ/abdBDb1gaUM/s1600-h/007.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_w6R7G45fCJ0/ScBKEpm6sGI/AAAAAAAAAYQ/abdBDb1gaUM/s200/007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314329004046200930" border="0" /></a><br /><br />So as we approach my favorite season of the year, my darling son brings home his bird feeder he<br /><br />made from cub scouts and desires to place in the tree of tiny tweeting terrorists.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1368/532609814_bd2d48d66d_m.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 162px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1368/532609814_bd2d48d66d_m.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Did you hear that my flighty feathered fugitives? Free breakfast served at 6AM!<br /><br /><br /><br />And don't tweet with your mouth full...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />PS-haven't posted forever, but shouting out my super talented friend <a href="http://messesandmudpies.blogspot.com/">Kerri</a>. Check out her beautiful delicious looking handmade soaps @ www.messesandmudpies.comrachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5886303072658015966.post-24174109194273102542009-02-27T09:14:00.000-08:002009-02-27T09:19:12.344-08:00Why I Write<p class="MsoNormal">This post is inspired by something my wonderful and quite perceptive new friend <a href="http://christiegardiner.blogspot.com/">Christie</a> shared with me and I recognized the truth of it right away.<span style=""> </span>Thanks Christie!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"I wrote stories from the time I was a little girl...but I didn't want to be a writer I wanted to be an actress. I didn't realize then that it's the same impulse. It's make-believe. It's performance."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Joan Didion quoted by Betsy Lerner in </span><em><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The Forest for the Trees</span><o:p></o:p></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><o:p> </o:p></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><o:p> </o:p></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></em></p><p class="MsoNormal"><em><span style="font-style: normal;">My earliest memories occurred on stage.<span style=""> </span>I danced atop the ledge of our fireplace, the xylophone mallet as my microphone.<span style=""> </span>I always had the lead in the elementary school productions and had my own performance troupe on hand to promote our plays to unsuspecting, and only occasionally, willing neighbors.<span style=""> </span>In the sixth grade, I began a series of acting classes.<span style=""> </span>Living in <st1:place st="on">Southern California</st1:place>, there was an ever present undercurrent of budding talent and I happily obliged.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><span style="font-style: normal;">Then, horror of horrors, puberty struck.<span style=""> </span>My acting partner inquired as to what the red things all over my face were and my modeling instructor informed me that I had the right height, but I was too painstakingly thin.<span style=""> </span>I began to laugh through my auditions and my confidence was kidnapped by a cruel self doubt…and I stopped.<span style=""> </span>No high school musicals, no college dramas, but I did participate in Road Shows.<span style=""> </span>Remember those?<span style=""> </span>I miss them.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps there was some safety in a church sponsored production for me.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><span style="font-style: normal;">And all the while, I wrote.<span style=""> </span>More precisely, I released.<span style=""> </span>The shine I had dreamed of making on stage was unleashed in the twinkle of my soul I left on the page.<span style=""> </span>I found there was beauty there.<span style=""> </span>It is the reason I write.<span style=""> </span>I am a performer at heart, albeit an imperfect one.<span style=""> </span>That is my life and my truth.<span style=""> </span>I write as a means to perform and I perform to have something to write about after all.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><o:p> </o:p></em></p>rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840483267061941388noreply@blogger.com32