tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37328395798920065902024-03-05T00:28:15.702-08:00This Gracious WorldLindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-28784978016877332512022-12-04T13:33:00.000-08:002022-12-04T13:33:24.972-08:00Another Witness One of my favorite ideas to discuss with people is how God shows up unexpectedly in their lives. Whether its new thought while being still, the words of a child, the testimony of a part of nature that tells us something about the Creator, or a shift in perspective in response to experience, I hunger for these conversations. In his book 'A Grief Observed', C.S. Lewis wrote that "My idea of God is not a divine idea. It has to be shattered time after time. He shatters it himself. He is the great iconoclast. Could we not almost say that this shattering is one of the marks of his presence? The Incarnation is the supreme example; it leaves all previous ideas of the Messiah in ruins." An iconoclast is someone who attacks settled beliefs, and while initially I found the idea of Christ as iconoclastic distasteful, I now see it as rather fitting. I think of the response of people when Christ was on the earth as He taught with power and authority. Some were converted, some were resistant, some wanted to silence him, but I believe ALL were astonished. All were surprised. Christ and His teachings were not what anyone expected, despite years of prophecy. He changed perspectives with the depth of His love, the breadth of His vision, and the precision of His miracles. <div><br /></div><div>While I have had some shattering experiences that have led me to a greater understanding of God's character, this week was more of an unexpected and gentle nudge, a discovery that came quietly and powerfully all at once. I settled into thinking as the sacrament was blessed and passed with the repetition in the prayers persistently pulling my attention. What we witness--or profess or see taking place--is that we do always remember God's Only Begotten Son. I recognized today that what God wants the most from me is to remember Him, to cultivate a relationship with Him, to keep Him in my soul always. This thought made a difference for me today and it refueled my stores of faith that a difficult week had all but depleted. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am grateful that a testimony is continually created and recreated. It is reshaped, reformed, refined as we take time to tend to it. Sometimes that reshaping is a gradual and gentle nudge. Sometimes it is a shattering. Sometimes it is somewhere in between, but any and all ways it comes, a testimony from the Holy Ghost to our spirits is true and can be trusted. And if there is a delay in understanding or the coming of a blessing, I trust and I hope and I believe that it will be worth the wait. I love what Adam S. Miller says about learning who God is. He wrote "When God knocks, don't creep to the door and look through the peephole to see if he looks like you thought he would. Rush to the door and throw it open." I hope that I prepare room in my heart for the unimaginable glory of Christ so that I can welcome Him immediately with joy. </div><div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfIMbUQUwqJvGavt7ZbKwoTa6RueSHpLcqNC4Pfxuv2OTomYPLpDS_HwwWftEsLpvjj9pXzNgrN_wpCboFOf-E01l2NIcpemAuSjU4xA3BcGmO-_JTjHV-oSsQxEX1CLzOFIf7pu4zeGuJb9MKB0KaUZXNm6gNGVF56a01z0wwsHNdPTxThUIWRRV3/s1334/IMG_0406.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfIMbUQUwqJvGavt7ZbKwoTa6RueSHpLcqNC4Pfxuv2OTomYPLpDS_HwwWftEsLpvjj9pXzNgrN_wpCboFOf-E01l2NIcpemAuSjU4xA3BcGmO-_JTjHV-oSsQxEX1CLzOFIf7pu4zeGuJb9MKB0KaUZXNm6gNGVF56a01z0wwsHNdPTxThUIWRRV3/s320/IMG_0406.PNG" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div> </div></div>Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-48555476365967035752019-01-01T00:21:00.000-08:002019-01-01T00:21:20.455-08:00Adversity<div class="dDoNo gsrt" style="background-color: white; font-weight: lighter !important; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span data-dobid="hdw"><span style="font-family: inherit;">ad·ver·si·ty</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-variant-ligatures: no-common-ligatures; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">a state of grave or persistent misfortune. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-variant-ligatures: no-common-ligatures; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've been thinking about this word a lot lately, dear reader. It's origin means "turn toward," which I feel is significant. Turn toward what? Toward whom? Toward where? Is adversity confrontational? If so, what or who do we confront in these moments of continued difficulty or misfortune? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In my experience with adversity, I often turn away first. I resist and push against and pull against and refuse to budge or try to turn a blind eye to it all. Resistance in weight lifting can be beneficial, but resisting adversity in life generally leads to frustration. Ignoring adversity by seeking distraction or other occupation works temporarily, but it consistently fails me. The persistence of adversity outlasts our resistance to it. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Adversity is meant to be borne, not avoided. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I turn toward my adversity, paying attention to it--not so I can pull out some weapon from behind me and vanquish it--but approaching it and sitting in whatever discomforting space that challenge holds for me, I learn. I experience. I feel. I come to the beginning of understanding. I confront myself, with all my idealizations and falsehoods I hold like flimsy water noodles in a stormy ocean, grasping them for support they cannot give. Adversity requires me to let go of these and instead press toward the life preservers of truth that can and do and will help me get through. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Adversity facilitates development, and the choice or accepting our adversity is a catalyst of that process. In choosing this reaction to challenges, I feel to bless and appreciate rather than resist God. I trust that He understands perfectly our </span>adversity<span style="font-family: inherit;">, for "i</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">n all their affliction he was afflicted, and the angel of his presence saved them: in his love and in his pity he redeemed them; and he bare them, and carried them all the days of old" (Isaiah 63:9). The Lord has not only borne our griefs and carried our sorrows, he has borne and carried <u>us</u>. Prophets foretold that His name should be called Emmanuel, for God is with us in all our circumstances. And why? He loves us. He loves us enough to not take away adversity, but to sustain us and teach us in it, that we may grow. "</span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And <span class="clarity-word" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px 0px; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">though</span> the Lord give you the bread of adversity, and the water of affliction, yet shall not thy teachers be removed into a corner any more, but thine eyes shall see thy teachers" (Isaiah 30:20). Adversity and affliction become invitations to see the Lord at work in us, to see Him no longer in the corner--supervising and giving the occasional smile of encouragement--but to see Him close, yoked with us. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We can turn all sorts of ways when adversity comes to call. Sometimes we anticipate a challenge, and sometimes it blindsides us, but there is always grace sufficient for us. Because of God's grace, adversity deepens joy. Its like sea salt in caramel or balsamic vinegar with strawberries, these unlikely parings that balance sweet with sharp and bitter and thus create a more complex, satisfying, sensational taste. Charles H. Spurgeon said well, </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I bear my witness that the worst days I have ever had have turned out to be my best days. And when God has seemed most cruel to me he has then been most kind. If there is anything in this world for which I would bless him more than for anything else it is for pain and affliction. I am sure that in these things the richest tenderest love has been manifested to me. Our Father's wagons rumble most heavily when they are bringing us the richest freight of the bullion of his grace. Love letters from heaven are often sent in black-edged envelopes. The cloud that is black with horror is big with mercy. Fear not the storm. It brings healing in its wings and when Jesus is with you in the vessel the tempest only hastens the ship to its desired haven.” Worst days are the worst and feel the worst, sometimes for a long time. Keep at it. God is at work with us in them. In our adversity, we choose what we turn toward and as such, we choose whether we see Him or not. </span></span>Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-65982899207788638142018-04-10T15:25:00.001-07:002018-04-10T16:06:33.946-07:00LettersAmong the many classes I enjoyed in college, the one called "American Love Letters" ranks in the top three. Here, our class examined early American history through epistles, both actual letters to individual people and other letters to an imagined audience. We studied epistolary novels such as<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="background-color: white;">J. Hector St. John de Crèvecœur's </span><i>L</i></span><i>etters from an American Farmer</i>, searched letters to the editor and letters from notable American revolutionaries, and poured over the tender and insightful letters between Abigail and John Adams. Our professor hoped to instill in us a love for the handwritten letter--indeed, he listed it as one of the objectives and assigned us to write letters as part of the course assignments! These assignments strengthened my connections with others in ways unique to letters; delivering them and having them read in front of me deepened my insight on what it means to be bashful and how deeply I could blush, while the simple act of writing to others turned my attention outward.<br />
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Ever since then I have been particularly fond of letters. While this form of communication may be antiquated in today's helter-skelter paced exchange (with notifications of when your text message was read and phone settings that include having notifications pushed into your awareness), I believe it is timeless. There is something so magical and exciting about receiving a letter. You don't really know when it was sent or what it may be about, and how you receive it is entirely up to you. You can tear open the envelope at the mailbox, devouring its contents in haste; you can take it in with you, set it aside with curiosity and wait until you can process it. You can read it all, immediately, without interruption; you can take it piece by piece, walking away from it or setting it down. You can read it once or several times. You can throw it away or tear it to pieces or burn it or frame it or cherish it. It is a physical object usually just from one person and usually just meant for one person--YOU.<br />
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Naturally, when I happened upon this book on the library shelves, I took it with me. And, finding this one as I sat in the parked car on the driveway, door opened to enjoy the fresh spring breeze, my spirits could not been better cheered. And I wanted to share it with you, dear reader. I am thinking of writing such a letter of encouragement to myself. I could use it.<br />
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Here is E.B. White (the thoughtful writer who gave us <i>Stuart Little</i> and <i>Charlotte's Web</i> and host of other good reads) in response to a man's despair at the state of humanity in 1973. May it lift you as it lifted me.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Mr. Nadeau:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say, the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society — things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man’s curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sincerely,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">E. B. White</span></div>
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-40425410971838422702017-11-14T12:19:00.000-08:002018-04-10T15:49:32.155-07:00Witness<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Fasting brings a sense of clarity to life and I am grateful for the opportunity to do it each month or as often as I feel it would be good. Usually, I fast with other members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on the first of the month, but this November there have been several conferences and such that made this past Sunday our designated time to fast. As part of our weekly worship service, rather than have prepared speakers share their thoughts, the pulpit is open to anyone and everyone who would like to share their testimony of Jesus Christ. I generally go kind of pale and shaky and quiver voiced when I share my thoughts, but despite all those reservations, I felt that I wanted to declare publicly my experiences and gratitude for my Savior, Jesus Christ. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I used to think that if you kept God's commandments and tried to be like Jesus that life would be a piece of cake, a series of blissful stages with everything going the way that you liked. Ha. That is NOT what happens. And its not even what God promises us as we do keep His commandments, so I don't know where my conclusion came from. Life is hard and trying, no matter who you are. Yet, rather than balk at that and refuse to accept it, I am learning that hard is good. It really is. And because it is hard and because Jesus has personally experienced how hard it is for each individual one of us, God promises His Spirit to be with us to grant us peace, hope, and blessings as we strive to follow Him, remember Him, and keep His commandments. These following thoughts are what I know and feel to be true. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">God is good. We can trust Him. <span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This is truth I have really wrestled with the past several months, but something of which I am sure. </span>He is real. He knows us perfectly and loves us perfectly. He gets it. He sees the big picture and I am so grateful for that. Because I don’t and get impatient and frustrated and irritated, etc., as He tries and proves my heart. He is willing to listen to anything and everything, no matter how many times we say it. He has high expectations, and helps us rise and become what He sees in us, especially when we don’t see it ourselves. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I know that Jesus Christ loves. He lives and loves as His Father does and shares His expectation of us, to become perfect. He has perfect empathy and leads us to every good thing. He is incredible. <span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I can hardly imagine what He was feeling before He went to the Garden of Gethsemane as he shared these words (John 16:33)</span>: “<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world</span>.”<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> His encouragement, confidence, and trust in His Father and His own role in His Father’s plan for the salvation and exaltation of His children awes me. He invited His disciples then to have peace in Him and be of good cheer. He invites us as His disciples now to do the same. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I know that because of Jesus Christ, we can change. With him, we can have light, hope, patience, faith, love, and every good thing, no matter what our circumstance might be. I am so grateful that what He requires is a willing heart, because sometimes even that sometimes deceptively simple state is a battle for me to get to. I am grateful for His unwavering love, His grace, and His goodness. His grace is real and I have experienced it in my life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This is His true and living church, I love and am grateful for how Joseph Smith worked with our Heavenly Father to restore it to the earth. I am so grateful for prophets. I love them and know that they are holy men. I am so grateful for God’s sometimes overwhelming call to be like Him—to be holy and whole—and His support and comfort and strength and goodness as we strive to accept His call. He is unfailingly good, endlessly kind, and unfathomably beautiful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Reflecting on some experiences in my life and the lives of others, I cried out silently in prayer, “I don’t see how will this EVER turn into something beautiful and for my good.” God’s gentle response was: “Linds, you don’t need to see it. Trust me, it will be for your experience, and, yes, your good.” That simple answer has helped me immensely, and gives me strength to try to be like Him, my Savior, my Redeemer, my most compassionate and understanding and wise friend, one whom I am trying to accept as my master. He has been here and He is coming again. That is so exciting. He is always here, and we can find Him as we turn toward Him. I love this quote by Charles Spurgeon: <span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“Do not despair, dear heart, but come to the Lord with all your jagged wounds, black bruises, and running sores. He alone can heal, and He delights to do it. It is our Lord’s office to bind up the brokenhearted, and He is gloriously at home at it.”</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That is true. No matter who deep, incurable, severe, painful, or unending our hurt or challenges or tribulation are, Christ can and will heal us. And we become the better for it. He can do the impossible, I know it. I know this is true and I am grateful for it. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As I was writing this, a lot of what I feel can be summed up in the words of a hymn that I love called ‘Come Ye Disconsolate’. Here are the words: </span></div>
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Come, ye disconsolate, where'er ye languish;</div>
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Come to the mercy seat, fervently kneel.</div>
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Here bring your wounded hearts; here tell your anguish.</div>
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Earth has no sorrow that heav'n cannot heal.</div>
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Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,</div>
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Hope of the penitent, fadeless and pure!</div>
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Here speaks the Comforter, tenderly saying,</div>
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"Earth has no sorrow that heav'n cannot cure."</div>
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Here see the Bread of Life; see waters flowing </div>
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Forth from the throne of God, pure from above.</div>
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Come to the feast of love; come, ever knowing</div>
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Earth has no sorrow but heav'n can remove.<br />
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-73676414003170581152017-10-20T15:33:00.001-07:002017-10-20T15:36:36.476-07:00Unseen vs InvisibleDear reader, how are you? We are in the midst of fall, a glorious season with crisp apples, crisp autumn air, crisply pressed sweaters, and crisp colors. I hope this finds you well.<br />
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This season finds me well enough. About a month ago though, a parasite decided to make my intestinal tract its new home and I now have a new appreciation for the power of invisible forces. I felt like my wish for washboard abs got confused and instead I was granted the sensation of having my intestines wrung on a washboard by a burly washerwoman. Let me tell you, that washboard can do a number on your gut. The experience got me thinking about the words unseen and invisible. Invisible means "unable to be seen; not visible to the eye" while unseen means "not seen or noticed." These words are remarkably similar--one could even argue they are synonyms--but I feel that they have important enough differences to be careful with how we use them.<br />
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I attach invisible to words that we experience but cannot really see: love, pain, fear, peace, faith, grief, joy, doubt, basically any feelings. While the invisible is not in itself visible to the eye, we do manifest these feelings, and generally choose how to do so. Smiles indicate happiness or pleasure, grimaces reveal pain, and so on. This is where unseen comes in. Unseen refers to that which is there, but not revealed or shared or noticed. It is more linked to choice than invisible. The invisible cannot really help being invisible, but the unseen hinges on a individual's willingness to reveal or observe what is really there. This interaction between Batman and Alfred illustrates this reticence to share and thus remain unseen wonderfully.<br />
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Sometimes I feel that if I decide to let something I feel go unseen, that feeling doesn't exist. Unfortunately, this usually backfires. BAD. Really, awfully, terribly, cringeworthy bad. Bringing the unseen to light is excruciatingly uncomfortable for me, but each time I have done it, others met it with compassion, appreciation, and concern. Why? Because people generally get it. They have their own battles and tendencies to let the invisible go unseen as well. H. Jackson Brown Jr. urges us to "remember that everyone you meet is afraid of something, loves something, and has lost something." I think he is on to something. When we do remember these, our interactions change. Listening and sincerity and kindness take the place of jabbering and comparison and selfishness. We may not change overnight, and misunderstandings still happen, but the world shifts from lonely and irritated isolation to healing and invigorating community.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-SKM9xWvpxHRmYoasIntph1UP9ozCv-YkuATM7wBB66esofsu6jXRcUtaUdfhn6WO3H61Ffy04Qrj0d5Hv50BDgtz5TxUZ-Ng85jcPcmwGz5g5DX97YZTUn1wEjA5DLpDwCuPLKoWb5U/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-01-03+at+12.12.13+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="348" data-original-width="730" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-SKM9xWvpxHRmYoasIntph1UP9ozCv-YkuATM7wBB66esofsu6jXRcUtaUdfhn6WO3H61Ffy04Qrj0d5Hv50BDgtz5TxUZ-Ng85jcPcmwGz5g5DX97YZTUn1wEjA5DLpDwCuPLKoWb5U/s400/Screen+Shot+2017-01-03+at+12.12.13+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My siblings, some of my favorite people...and the photographer's logo </td></tr>
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One of my favorite thinkers, Wendell Berry, writes that <span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">"healing is impossible in loneliness; it is the opposite of loneliness. Conviviality is healing. To be healed we must come with all the other creatures to the feast of Creation." I'm inclined to agree. While I don't think that healing requires us to be with others all day, every day (my introverted self would crumble at such a requirement...or just be content with being unhealed), I do think God in his mercy and wisdom, generously provides family and friendships and community to help us be whole. It takes a lot of work and an unfathomable amount of patience, but it is beautiful. </span><br />
<br />Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-40306752213096896402017-10-20T15:03:00.000-07:002017-10-20T15:03:26.224-07:00A Favorite<div class="poem-part poem-title bottomss" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-family: "Palatino Linotype", "Book Antiqua", Palatino, serif; font-size: 22px; line-height: 28.6px; margin: 0px auto; max-width: 100%; padding-bottom: 10px; padding-left: 105.656px; padding-right: 21.1312px;">
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<a class="nocolor" href="https://hellopoetry.com/poem/473906/lines-written-in-the-days-of-growing-darkness-by-mary-oliver/" style="background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: rgb(34, 34, 34) !important; outline: 0px; text-decoration-line: none;">Lines written in the days of growing darkness, by Mary Oliver</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px;">Every year we have been</span></div>
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witness to it: how the<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />world descends<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />into a rich mash, in order that<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />it may resume.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />And therefore<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />who would cry out<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />to the petals on the ground<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />to stay,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />knowing as we must,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />how the vivacity of what was is married<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />to the vitality of what will be?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I don't say<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />it's easy, but<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />what else will do<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />if the love one claims to have for the world<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />be true?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />So let us go on, cheerfully enough,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />this and every crisping day,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />though the sun be swinging east,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />and the ponds be cold and black,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />and the sweets of the year be doomed.</div>
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-3033834846073787082017-09-05T14:20:00.000-07:002017-10-20T15:52:09.994-07:00Norway<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">May I share with you some thoughts about my visit to this country? It is MAGNIFICENT. It awed me and then effortlessly outdid itself and awed me again at least a dozen times. I loved being there and especially being there with ones that were dear to me. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSm_SbpLjsDoN0YGk-Fl4_dfoOisfJTNbGb6SODZOzM3ckavr7eKNVVKHbmcxY-dCtPsGBqdQMpS9pP-5ddWO_ZKxz69tYYIPGR7Oc_oDK78nU4j7OOsgCXA7KJ54az6TnLcruq5ENbTs/s1600/IMG_9739.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSm_SbpLjsDoN0YGk-Fl4_dfoOisfJTNbGb6SODZOzM3ckavr7eKNVVKHbmcxY-dCtPsGBqdQMpS9pP-5ddWO_ZKxz69tYYIPGR7Oc_oDK78nU4j7OOsgCXA7KJ54az6TnLcruq5ENbTs/s320/IMG_9739.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fam + flag= fabulous</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-YigXvPdra3YrwCALUDu25g4NNb29-8Xlkel1IgWmIGli0PvkF4ouvdT7TSGBAP5qZTFUR3OEp1VMdjnXKiKArRL_mP6q_JjnOEFTxsIHufeAFomQeF02fTYi2qvHB3b0mn8SMOfqu_E/s1600/IMG_9740.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-YigXvPdra3YrwCALUDu25g4NNb29-8Xlkel1IgWmIGli0PvkF4ouvdT7TSGBAP5qZTFUR3OEp1VMdjnXKiKArRL_mP6q_JjnOEFTxsIHufeAFomQeF02fTYi2qvHB3b0mn8SMOfqu_E/s320/IMG_9740.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">VIKINGS, or as the natives sometimes said WIKINGS</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGlo9SlyJ2TvZW3omlQJ0p3vo0iWRNmxKNdICz-YfUjHnc0KeMA57DdE-XiPsOIPygZqO4QC18JOaUVksoHKYkXNg7yOu_9EISyzQmmulxaLq9YP2YnvbknY-DIVE3SRz14AtJVAkAPBk/s1600/IMG_9741.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGlo9SlyJ2TvZW3omlQJ0p3vo0iWRNmxKNdICz-YfUjHnc0KeMA57DdE-XiPsOIPygZqO4QC18JOaUVksoHKYkXNg7yOu_9EISyzQmmulxaLq9YP2YnvbknY-DIVE3SRz14AtJVAkAPBk/s320/IMG_9741.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love is light</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4eIhcRMxTmMb_4l-vQ89_qu6QcLlIU-bOr8U7EFiMBnaFL7fNkuHlmzNb7u-GNV4oQC5V-Wy2oi6OcV2sqMCd8r4jFmr_cWnwB8Uic6UdfgAH1dbBQqIEwgenr_cic-phRBxO_cswgw/s1600/IMG_9758.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4eIhcRMxTmMb_4l-vQ89_qu6QcLlIU-bOr8U7EFiMBnaFL7fNkuHlmzNb7u-GNV4oQC5V-Wy2oi6OcV2sqMCd8r4jFmr_cWnwB8Uic6UdfgAH1dbBQqIEwgenr_cic-phRBxO_cswgw/s320/IMG_9758.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcFYzGLE3aCVNGVzdRax3YL9vH99rGp2K9tPsCVWkHy15nNIjAgb0IxRmJUQWL7O3cYcQBsy-Xh-8wtTx7Cp29fnhoyZawuhVaj0E_cPbIu-Bv4G5wENoMvxdFcU72lnOQ7rsmradsrQ/s1600/IMG_9766.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcFYzGLE3aCVNGVzdRax3YL9vH99rGp2K9tPsCVWkHy15nNIjAgb0IxRmJUQWL7O3cYcQBsy-Xh-8wtTx7Cp29fnhoyZawuhVaj0E_cPbIu-Bv4G5wENoMvxdFcU72lnOQ7rsmradsrQ/s320/IMG_9766.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hahaha, we kind of continue the red and blue pattern. Folk life then and now. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig3-Tvka7y05AWQfO6LV1hAiitwYuaBflyvzUGUGtqV9bga6zjbX3xo2asH14J9PfYuJmH_p6eKldtuTbKoA6YjHv6SKuUr2MmTGaUNVw70FyWBP0WU7hafz-YTA-zNSK0GfrIVHjU90Q/s1600/IMG_9776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig3-Tvka7y05AWQfO6LV1hAiitwYuaBflyvzUGUGtqV9bga6zjbX3xo2asH14J9PfYuJmH_p6eKldtuTbKoA6YjHv6SKuUr2MmTGaUNVw70FyWBP0WU7hafz-YTA-zNSK0GfrIVHjU90Q/s320/IMG_9776.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mum. What an incredible woman. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">The first week I spent with my mom and sister in Oslo, a bustling but friendly metropolitan area with plenty to do, and Kristiansand, a delightful smaller town happily established with mountains on one side and the sea on the other. The sites were lovely and the company even more so, and the generosity of those who hosted us surprised me again and again. After much laughter, exploration, and rejoicing, my mom headed up north to meet her parents who are serving as missionaries in Trondheim while my sister and I met up with a close friend of mine to hike Priekestolen. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iconic Norwegian Waffles</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">This hike included </span><span style="color: #222222;">traipsing</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #222222;"> along stone-slab built staircases, a meadow of spiderweb strewn grass shimmering with dew, lake pocketed expanses of rock to get to the destination: a 604 meter (1,982 foot) cliff overlooking the Lysefjorden. I loved the hike, though I must admit, as one who is extremely wary of heights due to an inexplicably deep fear of falling from them, the idea of coming to the edge generously gave me some apprehension. When we arrived, mist and clouds swirled over the fjord and just beyond the cliff and this obscurity somehow provided me the gumption to approach the edge. </span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;">a<a href="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21192874_1511865225502564_9133775228886014155_n.jpg?oh=1580ed4390810cc97308e72b508bead7&oe=5A552E36" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21192874_1511865225502564_9133775228886014155_n.jpg?oh=1580ed4390810cc97308e72b508bead7&oe=5A552E36" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Surreal Meadows</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #222222;">And you know what, dear reader? I did it. I came to the edge. And I kind of loved it. I sat there, feeling fear and yet not being overwhelmed with it like I had before. Swinging my legs over the edge and experiencing the view from that edge was remarkable. </span>Exhilarating<span style="color: #222222;">. Serene. I became audacious enough to go back when the skies had cleared spend some more time at the edge, this time seeing exactly what was there. Still the same incredible feeling, yet perhaps with a greater dose of the precariousness of my perch. I love the clarity and courage I felt there. I felt deeply grateful such a place existed and that I experienced being there. </span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21192998_1511864888835931_1337348652786649066_n.jpg?oh=00f862e2a47c7a98be03c111be620f18&oe=5A255B6F" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21192998_1511864888835931_1337348652786649066_n.jpg?oh=00f862e2a47c7a98be03c111be620f18&oe=5A255B6F" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We Three</td></tr>
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<br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Feeling renewed, we headed back down the trail and took time to admire tiny frogs and tadpoles surrounding the lakes we'd passed earlier...and then diving into the lake to join them. Wonderfully cold. So wonderfully cold. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21271187_1511864048836015_4574386383107048104_n.jpg?oh=2c671d66fd9834d20710a6482a27af8e&oe=5A50F524" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21271187_1511864048836015_4574386383107048104_n.jpg?oh=2c671d66fd9834d20710a6482a27af8e&oe=5A50F524" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delight </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #222222;">That appreciation continued as my sister headed to Bergen and my friend and I ventured through ferries, tunnels, mountain roads, switchbacks, and some of the narrowest roads ever to the the Valley of Waterfalls, Odda, and Trolltunga. The beauty of the roads, green deep woods surrounding lakes and waterfalls, some sheep and few houses stunned me. And then we arrived to </span></span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Låtefossen. The power of water as it surged over two wide twin falls was majestic. A smaller waterfall mimicked the greater waterfall with its white plunging flow at the base of our camp that night, though thankfully it growled rather than roared. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGv5UxwFcdXsC5SoZhhNzIkG8210tjwzY_dMK2zdLvj_JQ_KjYOMK_sApNSPrMZx-gQweOy2j3-oBA9ADxm_efc9LMtH34B3Av7ewMynz9alQPe4DnRmSTwdHfwm4pzTN6lEnpLjInQRQ/s1600/IMG_2388.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGv5UxwFcdXsC5SoZhhNzIkG8210tjwzY_dMK2zdLvj_JQ_KjYOMK_sApNSPrMZx-gQweOy2j3-oBA9ADxm_efc9LMtH34B3Av7ewMynz9alQPe4DnRmSTwdHfwm4pzTN6lEnpLjInQRQ/s320/IMG_2388.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One side of Låtefossen</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We arose early to start our ascent to Trolltunga and the day greeted us with us mist, which stayed with us until we reached the summit. My friend captured it perfectly in saying that it muffled the trail and I couldn't agree more. While several hikers joined us on the trail, the mist blurred them into vague outlines and kept the surroundings well hidden. Droplets of water clung to our hair and skin, not quite drenching us the way a sudden dousing in a stream or lake did, but deliberately settling on us for a while. It was ethereal and as we came to a meadow, we could see that here too the mist here had gifted drops of water, though this time to the foliage. The light on them created something storybook like, and it seemed that we were bound to encounter a troll or fairy or some sort of fantasy creature on our way. And while we did not see one, we did a little harmless trolling of our own by wading in a stream under a bridge after finishing the hike. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21272458_1511864052169348_6103018708421397392_n.jpg?oh=46cdf8b7bace2cbe917245f2d33c53c7&oe=5A2588FC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21272458_1511864052169348_6103018708421397392_n.jpg?oh=46cdf8b7bace2cbe917245f2d33c53c7&oe=5A2588FC" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21232146_1511865032169250_1190683820496963200_n.jpg?oh=a5aa9beb28ffd0187bdec7be4f362426&oe=5A59D21C" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21232146_1511865032169250_1190683820496963200_n.jpg?oh=a5aa9beb28ffd0187bdec7be4f362426&oe=5A59D21C" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Once we had come to the impressive (yet a slightly overrated) protrusion that is Trolltunga's boast, the sun shooed the mist away and we could see all that we had passed through--huge fields of boulders and vast expanses of stone. My friend and I marveled at the difference between the two hikes and that we had crossed all of this without even knowing it because of the mist. Mist, man. It is wispy, but by no means wimpy. It is a powerful force that shapes your perception. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21192771_1511863248836095_6179615958508672665_n.jpg?oh=8fb38125164d4a6980d046e61575687c&oe=5A5D5C7E" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21192771_1511863248836095_6179615958508672665_n.jpg?oh=8fb38125164d4a6980d046e61575687c&oe=5A5D5C7E" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21272144_1511864758835944_3177065263470061509_n.jpg?oh=4e8c7d86d50adc47b1b216f2843ee7b3&oe=5A1EC07B" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21272144_1511864758835944_3177065263470061509_n.jpg?oh=4e8c7d86d50adc47b1b216f2843ee7b3&oe=5A1EC07B" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trolltunga</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21192672_1511864602169293_7791484588954461604_n.jpg?oh=2425b4a3200013d062faa88b29276c8d&oe=5A58C06C" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21192672_1511864602169293_7791484588954461604_n.jpg?oh=2425b4a3200013d062faa88b29276c8d&oe=5A58C06C" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The intrepid, generous, remarkable Kassia</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We then made our way to Bergen, a completely different feel than quiet and quaint Odda. Bergen is a little more ostentatious than the other sites we visited, and it has every reason to be with Grieg's home and composition in its vicinity, a bustling seaside market with buildings several hundreds of years old, vantage points with sweeping views of the harbor, and an impressive collection of trolls kept within a forest. It is also home to a nocturnal bird with one of the eeriest calls I have ever heard. It added to the mystery of the place, upping the suspense by several points. (I feel that I must add at least one piece by Grieg to complete this post. He deeply appreciated music, and composed some incredible pieces, and they may deserve their own post soon. Until then, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0OCiyVzBvVk" target="_blank">this</a> piano piece will suffice.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21231735_1511864055502681_9192912006789135646_n.jpg?oh=5b81fa7fd754fe5ed82f7ac4282270e8&oe=5A5B8BF3" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21231735_1511864055502681_9192912006789135646_n.jpg?oh=5b81fa7fd754fe5ed82f7ac4282270e8&oe=5A5B8BF3" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grieg's Workspace</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-w31a04Rc0zjgIJWVQO2S0EdwFj4xf1tRILlMegMFV-JU_blPK6FI-cnBQeSLSe609YCMieYhLjz3GBF3HGYxdpVKNOhl4NdzCDzgb_YgI55_8t9rPg03T6YY6J9b8yTA3o-ezrSINw/s1600/IMG_2433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-w31a04Rc0zjgIJWVQO2S0EdwFj4xf1tRILlMegMFV-JU_blPK6FI-cnBQeSLSe609YCMieYhLjz3GBF3HGYxdpVKNOhl4NdzCDzgb_YgI55_8t9rPg03T6YY6J9b8yTA3o-ezrSINw/s320/IMG_2433.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grieg's Backyard</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21317939_1511864988835921_6968041948951489264_n.jpg?oh=e41e43cf5362466286fb8fd2fce8292c&oe=5A1C1976" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21317939_1511864988835921_6968041948951489264_n.jpg?oh=e41e43cf5362466286fb8fd2fce8292c&oe=5A1C1976" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bergen Harbors Stellar Nightlights</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTaHNSrnOX_NOfBOy3vIN47ROh81BUf6f_sD-6FC7zqbCBZsQ_7y7-zvISVGPx8EOVccp9xWfoNSj_0vfeEr72n-Hy9RjEdTrNC3QXaowegmQMhG15chlJ8EuQfmB80ATMs4kxI4S1__E/s1600/IMG_2453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTaHNSrnOX_NOfBOy3vIN47ROh81BUf6f_sD-6FC7zqbCBZsQ_7y7-zvISVGPx8EOVccp9xWfoNSj_0vfeEr72n-Hy9RjEdTrNC3QXaowegmQMhG15chlJ8EuQfmB80ATMs4kxI4S1__E/s320/IMG_2453.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fjord Morning</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXVFJD0gQ6QAwCcqj0tfodxOjPXlKrdUqP3NHJxFykGUHjzvSl_q5Gaic7KeSn0Cfxkzj_lggh7qiTrIrrQLc_6LzmT-FRjhNsL5TS6XZ4AsOsK690hNV3L7GaBTgRUplY1KSanefTgQ/s1600/IMG_2442.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXVFJD0gQ6QAwCcqj0tfodxOjPXlKrdUqP3NHJxFykGUHjzvSl_q5Gaic7KeSn0Cfxkzj_lggh7qiTrIrrQLc_6LzmT-FRjhNsL5TS6XZ4AsOsK690hNV3L7GaBTgRUplY1KSanefTgQ/s320/IMG_2442.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Land of Hobbits, Trolls, Fairies, and possibly Robin Hood</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As our time in Norway tapered off, we spent a day on the water in a guided kayaking tour. That perspective and the rhythm of paddling in the water and feeling so small shouldered by huge cliffs on either side and a broad stretch of water between them brought back more exhilaration and serenity. The water was so cold and clear, the green of the trees so bright and vivacious, and the sky wonderfully blue. It was glorious. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6YV39mopIBDBoYFx84LhWoYbD-ygEigmZQhr8MHf75T6IuhuRWVI_nsfweF0k4zO9YeLTLqDIchL9WxmVmTzKJS5qrYzsNo1xoTojzpNFB7we_5aHRJykr3fkzckJyTkyi39sj1ytWSY/s1600/IMG_2450.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6YV39mopIBDBoYFx84LhWoYbD-ygEigmZQhr8MHf75T6IuhuRWVI_nsfweF0k4zO9YeLTLqDIchL9WxmVmTzKJS5qrYzsNo1xoTojzpNFB7we_5aHRJykr3fkzckJyTkyi39sj1ytWSY/s320/IMG_2450.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kayaking Stop</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ZtUtBRoPUE9TS5xSoOa6ljNfGJQ3g9c9c7v1V3l7Vgm-BGxATK5a4ycXrYHy8Nhs8OqrYXxqk77FjCl_4R_1nORjRzSTxMjNsZVkpY6Z05XkhJvCRhA-UWVzREaSsPCJ0nzTTpgNkBo/s1600/IMG_2439.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ZtUtBRoPUE9TS5xSoOa6ljNfGJQ3g9c9c7v1V3l7Vgm-BGxATK5a4ycXrYHy8Nhs8OqrYXxqk77FjCl_4R_1nORjRzSTxMjNsZVkpY6Z05XkhJvCRhA-UWVzREaSsPCJ0nzTTpgNkBo/s320/IMG_2439.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another Waterfall; Just Norway Being Cool Again</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="il">Dear reader, the landscape in Norway</span> is <span class="il">venerable</span>, severe but not unkind. It is fierce and unpretentious in its beauty. Water spills from massive heights, seeps through rocks and soil, whisperingly gathers in mist, surges in beautiful rivers, lies in repose in lakes and fjords while glistening meekly with light. Water feels so abundant here, and perhaps that is one reason it felt so clarifying. Cliffs are quietly vibrant with moss and boulders and trees and lichen and flowers and brambles and grass. The pristine and powerful wilderness proudly waits there to be faced and admired by venturers. There is a sort of weariness to it, as moss covered rocks and forests imply several years of growth and experience. Yet with that weariness, there is also an incredibly deep peace there; acceptance of what has happened and an ability to yield. Norway is rich, and an abundantly willing giver of good gifts if you are brave enough to ask for them with some effort. Bracingly cold swims in some of the clearest water, sweet berries for spotting and picking and savoring, cheery trolls to discover, beautiful climbs that result in stunning vistas. It is something else. Being there was invigorating. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21192793_1511864848835935_4466690412328280981_n.jpg?oh=f9c21a9356deaec9d3389a050fe60d04&oe=5A4FE55C" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="533" height="320" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/21192793_1511864848835935_4466690412328280981_n.jpg?oh=f9c21a9356deaec9d3389a050fe60d04&oe=5A4FE55C" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sverd i fjell</td></tr>
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<span class="il" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Sometimes I saw Norway</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> as a weathered soldier, elegant stately trees decorating the shoulders of battle torn valleys, fjords left by relentless, powerful, irrepressible, inescapable glaciers. Are they retreating? Or simply moving on to carve and leave scars on other lands? It is painful, but beautiful, yielding deep, gently salty fjords in its wake, or boulders of all sizes scattered in fields. My brother brought up a good point that the landscape and the people there mirror one another. The Vikings who lived there were a fierce people, undaunted in the face of anything and experience plenty of setbacks. Yet their artifacts demonstrate such artistry, such craftsmanship, that words such as brutish or boorish that people often label Vikings with don't seem to stick anymore. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Go North, young man. Norway harbors adventure, clarity, beauty, and much more for you. </span><br />
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-55458627834942797062017-08-31T05:22:00.001-07:002017-08-31T05:22:46.443-07:00In the MeantimeI promise I will write all about Norway soon. There is so much I am excited to share with you, dear reader! Norway is truly a wonder. Until I gather my thoughts together, here is a video my close friend shared with me while I was there to tide you over. <br />
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-705279666783485752017-08-13T21:28:00.002-07:002017-08-14T18:55:21.140-07:00A Word Defined, and Lived | Stumble<div class="vmod">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-weight: lighter;">Usually to stumble is not that pleasant. It can be embarrassing, painful, surprising. Yet I am convinced that there can be a certain sort of delight in stumbling, almost a magic in it. As a departure from the ordinary, it reminds us of the grace that encompasses this world. </span><span data-dobid="hdw" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-weight: lighter;">I do a fair amount of moving clumsily</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-weight: lighter;"> in my life (as anyone listening to me play the organ can attest). </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-weight: lighter;">I love the way words shift their meaning </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-weight: lighter;">depending on the context in which you use it, blending with other words to create an idea. </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-weight: lighter;">With that in mind, I would like to share with you the various definitions of "stumble" as well as some ways I stumble and what they teach me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-weight: lighter;">Stumble.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">1. trip or momentarily lose one's balance; almost fall.<br />"her foot caught a shoe and she stumbled"<br />synonyms: trip (over/up), lose one's balance, lose/miss one's footing, slip<br />"she stumbled and fell heavily"<br /><br />2. trip repeatedly as one walks.<br />"his legs still weak, he stumbled after them"<br />synonyms: stagger, totter, teeter, dodder, blunder, hobble, move clumsily<br />"he stumbled back home"<br /><br />3. make a mistake or repeated mistakes in speaking.<br />"she stumbled over the words"<br />synonyms: stammer, stutter, hesitate, falter, speak haltingly; <br /><br />4. find or encounter by chance.<br />"they stumbled across a farmer selling 25 acres"<br />synonyms: come across/upon, chance on, happen on, bump into, light on</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Sometimes our stumbling leaves us scraped, as my recent impulse to climb up a down escalator generously confirmed to me. Dear reader, I don't know exactly why, but the opportunity to go up the down escalator after exiting the subway at a Metro stop without the usual hordes of people pressing in from all sides was just too good to pass up. Starting was a titch difficult and the ascent easy enough, but the dismount from that escalator was quite clumsy. I lunged, lurched, stumbled, and biffed it, though thankfully off the the ever-moving track. It was painful and I for the next week or so the band-aid on my knee seemed like such a childish accessory, bringing with it a wave of self-consciousness every time someone mentioned it. But the experience also very much helped me laugh. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Allow me to share with you another stumble, this one in the realm of speech. As I was talking with a friend about her recent trip to the Big Apple, "Yew Nork" slipped out of my mouth. That slick spoonerism caught me off guard and gave me such delight. Dear reader, as though to compensate for the embarrassment they could cause, stumbles are often accompanied by laughter. Or tears. Or both. Which I think is just right. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Here is my favorite kind of stumbling, the kind I feel is magical, when we can be surprised by how circumstances align and present themselves for us. Months ago, as I was driving late at night one weekend, I stumbled upon this song by Chris Thile and Edgar Myer after feeling like I ought to turn on the radio. The beauty of this impressed me deeply. It was such a gift, unexpectedly given and joyfully received, and that experience reminds me of the healing power of music.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This is one last stumbled upon. Its a poem by one of my favorite poets, which I feel speaks eloquently about the art of stumbling while adjusting to a load. Here's to practicing, and embracing the stumbles as we carry our weight. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">"Heavy" | Mary Oliver</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">That time</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I thought I could not</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">go any closer to grief</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">without dying</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I went closer,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">and I did not die.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Surely God</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">had His hands in this,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">as well as friends.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Still, I was bent</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">and my laughter,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">as the poet said, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Then said my friend Daniel</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(brave even among lions),</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">“It’s not the weight you carry</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">but how you carry it -</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">books, bricks, grief -</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">it’s all in the way</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">you embrace it, balance it, carry it</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">when you cannot and would not,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">put it down.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">So I went practicing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Have you noticed?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Have you heard</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">the laughter</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">a love</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">to which there is no reply? </span></div>
Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-57748029504916568982017-08-04T05:34:00.002-07:002017-08-04T05:34:38.542-07:00Another OneThis music. Its astounding, expressing gentleness, sensitivity, and at the same time such resolute strength. The whole trio is something to rejoice in, but this particular movement moves me every time. I love it. <br />
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<br />Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-1923515430133689892017-07-28T20:56:00.000-07:002017-08-15T18:45:46.606-07:00XXVII turned 26 years old today. The skies poured out an abundance of gentle and constant rain, and watching it from the large windows of my office building brought a settled sense of acceptance. I love how life giving rain is, the way it draws out the vibrancy of foliage, clears and cools the air, and refuses to be impeded by any sort of barrier, especially those that are manmade. Today it fell softly, yet without any sort of hesitancy, falling from the sky with a marked sense of purpose to join into small rivers throughout the city. Lightning burst a few times, brilliantly flashing, and reinforcing its boldness without reserve in resounding thunder. <br />
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And I feel this first day of a new age fits me right now. Gray, dim, subdued, all over the place, wet, constant, with instances of astoundingly powerful intensity, potential, somewhat uncomfortable if you are ill prepared, unavoidable. Its a good start. This birthday has been extremely minimal--no candles, no confections, no wrapping paper, no balloons--and the starkness of it has given me a lot of clarity and helped me think. My life is so different from what I envisioned. Ever. Who I am is so different than who I thought I would become. It is beautiful, the depth of it all, and I'm not sure what will happen next, but rain is restorative. And this stage of my life is too. Somehow.<br />
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I'm with Gerard Manley Hopkins. SEND MY ROOTS RAIN. Let these roots, these delicate yet resilient united fibers thirsting for nourishment, receive rain. Let them find what they need and send those sustaining elements up through the rest of me to reorganize themselves into branches, shoots, leaves, buds, blossoms. But before all of that can happen, send my roots rain. <br />
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<b><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">'</span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend'</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-weight: inherit;">Justus quidem tu es, Domine, si disputem tecum; verumtamen</span><span style="background-color: white; font-weight: inherit;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-style: normal; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">justa loquar ad te: Quare via impiorum prosperatur? &c. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Disappointment all I endeavour end? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Now, leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Them; birds build – but not I build; no, but strain, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Time’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; text-indent: -1em;">Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.</span><span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span></span></div>
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-59403800290018968742017-07-25T05:53:00.001-07:002017-07-25T05:53:45.510-07:00Nailed ItToday I heard a colleague mention the following letter from John Steinbeck to his son, Thom, about love and hungrily searched for it on Google. He nailed it. I haven't read too much of this man, but the more I read him, the more I am apt to agree with him, so there very well may be more from Steinbeck coming up. Until then, please, rejoice in this letter with me. You can find a helpful background description with more context <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2012/01/john-steinbeck-on-falling-in-love-a-1958-letter/251375/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Lyon Text", Georgia, Times, serif;">New York</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Lyon Text", Georgia, Times, serif;">November 10, 1958</span><br />
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Dear Thom:</div>
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We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers.</div>
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First -- if you are in love -- that's a good thing -- that's about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don't let anyone make it small or light to you.</div>
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Second -- There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you -- of kindness and consideration and respect -- not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn't know you had.</div>
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You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply -- of course it isn't puppy love.</div>
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But I don't think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it -- and that I can tell you.</div>
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Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.</div>
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The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.</div>
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If you love someone -- there is no possible harm in saying so -- only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.</div>
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Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.</div>
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It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another -- but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.</div>
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Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I'm glad you have it.</div>
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We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.</div>
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And don't worry about losing. If it is right, it happens -- The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.</div>
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-59550617627938201452017-07-23T13:16:00.001-07:002017-08-10T08:01:58.590-07:00Unexpected<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My mind is a little all over the place these days, overwhelmed with decisions, doubts, and influences that I use to process those decisions and doubts including God's word; classical music, often of the melancholy variety; lyrics from Bruno Mars, Jack Johnson, the Punch Brothers, Nickel Creek, Guster, Ben Folds, Sondre Lerche, and others; poetry; Dietrich Bonhoeffer's Letters and Papers from Prison; <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1As2dcvJp6U" target="_blank">this</a> video; and some films. You know the phrase "My head is swimming with thoughts"? I feel kind of like that, except swimming implies that you are headed somewhere, that there is some direction and movement. And I am NOT getting anywhere. Maybe my head is treading water, that wonderfully exhausting exercise that leaves you spluttering and gasping...and in the exact same place the whole time. Yeah, maybe that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dear reader, I recently saw Wonder Woman and I'd like to tell you what I think about it, and share with you what reflections it spurred in me. Its good, though it took me a while to come to that conclusion. After hearing so many people that I respected sing its praises, my great uncle Craig and I decided on a whim to go and see the movie. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">To be honest, for about 3/4 of the film, I really disliked it. Surprisingly and deeply disliked it. It could be that I expected too much but when confronted with a somewhat slow moving beginning, characters who I didn't particularly connect with, and people treating one another poorly, I found myself upset, almost to the point of being livid. Rage seems like a pretty strong description, but sitting in a cushy seat watching people make enemies of one another and act on that through war, I wrestled with some considerable indignation at the least. Fist clenching, jaw tightening, brow furrowing, uncomfortable stomach knotting--you get the idea. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That being said, the last few scenes unexpectedly reconciled it for me. As Wonder Woman battles with her long-sought nemesis, Ares, she encounters some intense personal struggle, which he uses to try and dissuade her from her quest of ridding the world of him and delivering mankind from war. His words could daunt anyone from believing in the goodness of humans, and he has specific examples of how they act in self-interest, with malicious intent, and cause pain as a result. I loved Diana's response "They're everything you say, but so much more." She does not discount the darkness and weakness in humanity; she acknowledges it, but also firmly holds to her belief that there is more to people than the bad in them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I appreciated that. So often I feel that we look for people to be black and white, wholly depraved and beyond all hope of doing anything virtuous OR infallible and supremely good. This expectation is unrealistic. It limits our ability to connect with others because it denies the complexity of each individual. We each are a blend of bad and good, weakness and strength, villain and hero. I like how Lemony Snicket puts it "People aren't either wicked or noble. They're like chef's salads, with good things and bad things chopped and mixed together in a vinaigrette of confusion and conflict." I think that vinaigrette has a lot more than confusion and conflict to it, and I don't believe that we are salads to be compared with one another or consumed by anyone, but I do think that we are all a little mixed up with good and bad. Sorting through that is a challenge, and we all struggle with it in ourselves and in those with whom we interact. <span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">So what? What do we do? You know, I'm still working on that one. I think that acknowledging the good and bad in us is a start, and then being patient with that matters. I also feel that Wonder Woman and her spy friend Steve have a good idea in stating </span>"Its not about what you deserve. Its about what you believe." What you believe dictates how you act, and believing that people are more than the bad inside them can help us to be patient, generous, kind, forgiving, and a host of other qualities that facilitate connection between people and true beauty in this mortal world. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I recently saw another film where characters were not so black and white and accepted themselves and one another as they were. I'm not going to launch into another movie review, but allow me to share with you one scene from Howl's Moving Castle where accepting another person for who they are and believing in them with all their flaws made all the difference. Here, the heroine Sophie defends Howl--the namesake of the castle--to a character bent on seeing one side of him, the heartless, dangerous side. In response, Sophie radiates with courage, strength, and love, saying "He may be selfish and cowardly and sometimes he's hard to understand, but his intentions are good! He just wants to be free!<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I think one reason this stuck out to me so beautifully is that I believe that we all want to be free. There is good and bad inside each one of us, light and darkness, strength and weakness, all woven together in our being. We wrestle with our lowest and worst parts, feeling that they need to be gone in order rise to the highest and best that is in us. However, I am learning that it is not strictly the removal of bad that makes the difference, because that which we lack is made sufficient through Jesus Christ. We can trust that. I feel that God sees us, with all of our mixed pieces, and accepts it. He knows what is in us and what is in our hearts; He even gives us or has us remain with weakness! Paul and Moroni give us excellent descriptions of their struggles with weakness in <a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/nt/2-cor/12.4" target="_blank">2 Corinthians 12:7-10</a> and <a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/ether/12.27" target="_blank">Ether 12:23-28</a>, respectively. God accepts that we are without qualification, inviting us to come as we are, rather than depart from him (see <a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/2-ne/26?lang=eng" target="_blank">2 Nephi 26:23-33</a>). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Acceptance, both from ourselves and from others, facilitates freedom and is a huge part of love. It is uncomfortable, in part because we assume that people will draw back, recoil, and leave us when they see us as we are. We wonder whether or not we will really be enough <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6LOGzfAtfN8" target="_blank">as we truly are</a> and not as we wish we were. It is a HUGE risk to be seen this way, a risk that we hesitate to take because we expect it will lead to abandonment. We often think that is what we deserve, and grimace whenever we let that part of us be known. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RKP9UdIcXFk" target="_blank">'Words Fail'</a> from the the recent musical Dear Evan Hansen movingly demonstrates this fairly universal fear of rejection if we let ourselves be seen. "I'd rather pretend I'm something better than these broken parts, Pretend I'm something other than this mess I am, 'Cause then I don't have to look at it, And no one gets to look at it, No, no on can really see...'cause what if everyone saw? What if everyone knew? Would they like what they saw? Or would they hate it too?" We so often hate the worst part of ourselves, wanting to run away from it, reject it, and have it be gone from us. We feel such is the best course, denying the badness that is there by ignoring it or running away from it will allow us to escape the rejection that will surely come is we were to allow others to see and to know. Surely, the rejection is what we deserve. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Yet love enables us to move beyond what is deserved. Wendell Berry shares that "love changes, and in change is true...the Christian gospel is a summons to peace, calling for justice beyond anger, mercy beyond justice, forgiveness beyond mercy, love beyond forgiveness." I'm inclined to agree with him. Christ calls us to go beyond what is expected or deserved or even beyond what is good to what is better and eventually best. I often do not get this process; my brain balks at it, seizing up with an error message because the logic doesn't match up. Robert Frost writes "Christ came to introduce a break with logic...'twas lovely and its origin was love." With this logic-defying love Christ offers in mind, <a href="https://www.lds.org/general-conference/1996/10/the-atonement?lang=eng" target="_blank">President Nelson's observations</a> on the word for atonement in Hebrew and related words in Aramaic and Arabic that point us to the idea of an embrace make so much sense. He is ready to embrace us, at every and any point, no matter how awkward or hesitant we may be. Through who He is and the atonement He accomplished, He embraces us, unites with us, to always be with us, to give us peace that can be ours in every circumstance--because He loves us. He just does. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Such love changes us. Accepting such love changes us and then seeking to reflect it deepens that change. It goes beyond what we know and what makes sense. I think that is one reason why the prophets emphasize love so much, stating that without it we are nothing (see </span><a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/nt/1-cor/13.1-13" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;" target="_blank">1 Corinthians 13</a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">, </span><a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/moro/7.46-48" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;" target="_blank">Moroni 7</a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">, or Thomas S. Monson's </span><a href="https://www.lds.org/general-conference/2017/04/kindness-charity-and-love?lang=eng" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;" target="_blank">words</a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">). </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I love what Marilynne Robinson has to say about love in her novel, Gilead. She writes that "Love is holy because it is like grace--the worthiness of its object is never really what matters...there is no justice in love, no proportion in it, and there need not be because in any specific instance it is only a glimpse of a parable of an embracing, incomprehensible reality. It makes no sense at all because it is the eternal breaking in on the temporal. So how could it subordinate itself to cause or consequence?" Love, this "embracing, incomprehensible reality" often does not make sense to us, at least it doesn't to me. It is generously given, even if it goes unreceived. It is constant. It is unwavering. It is not deserved, earned, added to or taken away from us. As President Monson says of God's love (which I believe is the truest love) "It is simply always there." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I think such honest and true love is the love Sophie expressed in the aforementioned scene, the love that Diana chooses in her moment of testing, the love that Jesus Christ offers each of us, the love that we yearn for, and the love that I am trying to develop in myself. Love, my friend. It is powerful. It is perfect. As an imperfect being, I stumble and clumsily trip and fall as I practice this divine characteristic, but miraculously, even my being a klutz does not take away from the wholeness or completeness of love. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Mkay, I think that is more than enough time spent treading water in my brain. You have been patient, dear reader, and I thank you. Maybe the exertion will produce something good, even if it is not movement in the water. I hope it will, somehow. </span><br />
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-40977334898598258782017-07-14T07:58:00.000-07:002017-07-14T13:20:58.097-07:00Restorative<br />
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“The soul is healed by being with children.”<br />
― <a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3137322.Fyodor_Dostoyevsky" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Fyodor Dostoyevsky</a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I spent a few hours with two children last night, and I couldn't agree more with my friend Dostoyevsky. I don't think I've laughed that hard or been that silly for a long time; kids without adults around tend to bring out the most rambunctious in me, a side seldom seen by anyone really. Yet it just sort of comes out when I am with little ones, particularly the two to five aged ones. Between chasings, mock sword fighting with pool noodles and ridiculous accents, bedtime stories, facial lotion application by a toddler, and holdings, we had quite the time. There is something so freeing about being with children, these fairly uninhibited little people learning to express what they feel in a way that others can understand. Being with them reminds me to be genuine, resilient, expressive, and to not be so uptight about it all. I appreciate them more than I can say. </span></div>
Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-7037393748336500752017-07-11T20:53:00.001-07:002017-07-14T09:21:30.179-07:00Overheard<div style="text-align: center;">
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Sometimes, especially when I'm alone in the office, I sing or hum. </div>
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Sometimes people hear. </div>
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Sometimes they tell me about it. </div>
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Sometimes, especially when they tell me, my face blushes bright red. </div>
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Sometimes they tell me it sounds beautiful. </div>
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Sometimes they ask me to do it more often.</div>
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Sometimes its nice to be overheard. </div>
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And sometimes its nice to be told it. </div>
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-8768769045043448392017-07-08T11:31:00.003-07:002017-07-08T11:35:22.182-07:00YesterdayThis work astounded me. The pianist, the conductor, the symphony, the composer, the piece, the feelings; A-STOUND-ING. Such beauty for 48 minutes and 22 seconds. Especially at marker 27:52, but all of it is glorious. <br />
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I love how music--particularly classical music--brings people together, uniting them across time, distance, varied histories and ideologies in a glorious shared experience. Johannes Brahms, who wrote this piece, says that "without craftsmanship, inspiration is a mere reed shaken in the wind." Well, Johannes, you had both. My hat goes off to you and you have my deep thanks for what you created with both inspiration and craftsmanship. <br />
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-39354035302689152092017-05-21T13:54:00.000-07:002019-08-08T21:37:53.398-07:00Love<div style="background-color: white;">
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I have been thinking, dear reader. Grief is still extremely present in my life and deeply painful. I am broken, and have felt what it means to sorrow because of love. Yet, grief is becoming less overwhelming and I have been thinking about love. To me, t</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">hese two are companions; you do not have one without the</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> other.</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> "For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things. If not so...</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0.00784314); font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">righteousness could not be brought to pass, neither wickedness, neither holiness nor misery, neither good nor bad. Wherefore, all things must needs be a compound in one" (2 Nephi 2:11).</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I love how holiness and misery are paired, and they struck me as sort of an odd match. To think that holiness and misery could be the opposites of each other encouraged me to adopt the idea that love could have an opposite that was not hatred. I feel that the opposite to love, sometimes, is grief. And with that in mind, I wanted to write a companion piece to my thoughts on grief. Both of these experiences are powerful and transformative, and together they make one. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Love is white. Pure, endless, ubiquitous but often unassuming and unnoticed. Ordinary and yet transcendent. As one writer puts it, "it makes no sense because it is the eternal breaking in on the temporal". It is earthy and holy at the same time. It blends with any color, because love is not exclusive; it is the most inclusive gift, infinitely, graciously giving and endless in supply. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Love is just as ubiquitous as grief. But while grief is slippery and amorphous, love is steady and constant. Its effects are just as varied as grief's, and just as intense. They match each other. Love sometimes brings such lightness that I feel I have lost touch with the world. Other times it is grounding, giving such security and hope that I feel anything is possible. Carrying love is difficult because it often carries me. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Sometimes love impels me to run, but not to escape. It impels me to run for joy, for thrill, and for others. To be close to others, to be there for others. Sometimes love still brings my heart to where it pleads to burst, only to be able to carry and share and hold and express and enact more love for others. Oh, how it is achingly beautiful. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I am not sure if I have ever been rendered immovable by love. Surely it is a fixating point, but it enlivens and ennobles and emboldens to such a degree that standing still hardly seems like a possibility. Yet, I imagine there are times where love requires us to stand still, to be witness more than participant and to rejoice in what we see and experience. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">Love can be all encompassing, all consuming. Yet rather than empty me in its consumption, it motivates me to give, to withhold nothing, and to do the impossible. It keeps me present, though perhaps sometimes distracts me with its force. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">Love is not without tears. Tears given from love are often quiet ones that make our eyes glisten and communicate our hearts when words cannot. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">Love is tingly, fizzy like soda, bubbling through my body with excitement. Love engenders smiles and laughter, glances and gazes, blushes and gasps. It requires honesty to grow and thrives with vulnerable exposure. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">Love is sweet, though gently so. Like grief, it is not overpowering. Love graces all that I smell and taste and see and hear and touch, clarifying and lending beauty to it all. Love is radiant and clear. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">Love sounds glorious. At times it is silent, at times boisterous in words and laughter, and all the time present. One poet says that "Attention is the beginning of devotion". Love pays attention, dear one, and is always in the present moment. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">So though choosing love means choosing grief, I choose love. It is such a gift, dear reader. To choose to carry love with you is to be unafraid, to rejoice, to hope. That choice is also one to grieve, to weep, and to mourn. It is wonderfully simple and gloriously complex all at once. Experiencing both gives substance to our existence and while I would not choose both, I am glad that we cannot have one without the other. </span></div>
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-5845943223223714132017-04-19T16:42:00.001-07:002017-04-19T16:42:11.028-07:00Different One The multitude awed, fed, and dispersed,<br />
A collection of friends took leave of each other.<br />
One to the mountains and the rest to a ship,<br />
trusting to meet each other soon.<br />
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Distress, unrest, uneasy turbulence<br />
felt by both the water and those on its surface.<br />
Most let it permeate them, stirring up fears and anxieties.<br />
Prolonged exposure to contrary winds swelling doubt.<br />
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Except in one, almost two.<br />
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This One felt the same unsettledness,<br />
Yet carried Himself with gentle confidence and assured peace.<br />
A time before, he had invited the elements to do the same<br />
and they hearkened, choosing stillness.<br />
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Yearning, his companion queried and with the word "Come" ventured,<br />
Heart lurching as his feet met the lake where he stood, stepped, stopped, surveyed and<br />
sunk until saved by an immediately stretched forth hand, filled with resolution and strength,<br />
There without hesitation but with an observant question graced with tenderness.<br />
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"O ye of little faith, wherefore dist thou doubt?"Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-22322784841477377522017-04-09T16:24:00.001-07:002018-07-08T19:00:03.703-07:00Grief<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Grief is definitely grey. A sometimes beautiful, silvery, grey; clouds when the sun is gone or ashes when the fire has died. It is what remains when light and heat, life and love, are gone. It is somewhat transparent too, a veil that exposes me to the world whilst tinging all I see. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It is amorphous, slippery, ubiquitous. Sometimes a deadening heaviness in my heart, sometimes a pulsating force that makes it race without hope of relief, sometimes a weight on my shoulders, sometimes a wrenching in my gut, sometimes a constricting wrap around my legs, sometimes a prickling in every hair follicle on the back of my head, sometimes a feverish energy in every cell. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Sometimes it impels me to run, desperately, in an attempt to escape, with arms and hands grasping at the empty air, legs and feet tearing at the concrete, lungs gasping for breath, and heart pleading to burst.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Sometimes it renders such movement impossible. It is almost as though I have forgotten how to walk, taking halting steps, shuffling rather than striding. Newton's laws of physics have intensified and I resist changing my direction or state. Both going to sleep and getting out of bed are herculean endeavors. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Oftentimes, laugher and smiles are foreign; sometimes talking with anyone at all feels like torture. Processing thoughts in my brain, formulating a response, trying to connect the appropriate response to the situation exhausts me. Sometimes I am disengaged, disembodied, a ghost. But alas! Not a ghost, for I am still here and feeling and facing what is before me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Tears are welcome and ever present. Grief mimics the slick streams that fall from my eyes. Yet, unlike tears, it does not dry to a crust nor can it be wiped away. It settles like a film on my skin and my heart and my senses, and I take it with me everywhere I go. Smooth and heavy, it is difficult to carry. I am constantly, clumsily adjusting to accommodate this burden, ever breaking, but never dropping. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A subtle bitterness or blandness accompanies all that I smell and taste. It is not overpowering, but ever present. Grief tends to like that way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The sound of grief transforms, just as its placement and influence on my body do. It wanders from silence and whimpers to wails and outcries and back again. Mostly it is sighing, the relinquishing of life giving breath. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And so, g</span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">rief is now my companion. With grief, I break bread, though with no appetite. By grief, I am tucked in bed, though I become sleepless. Grief listens to my every thought, touches my every surface, and witnesses all my tears. She does not wipe them away, but encourages them to flow, and how I need that acceptance. The impression grief leaves on my heart is deeper than the ocean, endless as space, and wider than the sky. It is so heavy and yet permeates all of me, an emptiness and a weight all at once. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.katsandogz.com/onpain.html" target="_blank">One friend</a> says this pain is the breaking the shell of my understanding. <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/309385-love-sorrow-love-sorrow-she-is-yours-now-and-you" target="_blank">Another</a> advises me to take care of grief, and if that means pay attention to her, I will certainly agree. Ignoring does no good and neglect only intensifies my dislike of her. Yet acceptance of her helps her to become beautiful to me, to teach me in ways that I did not understand before. Difficult as she may be, I am grateful for my grief.</span><br />
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-2935361658703226552017-03-20T19:32:00.005-07:002017-03-20T19:32:59.157-07:00Sacred ExchangeI came with distress, ensnared in thoughts<br />
I left with peace, gently freed from the web.<br />
I came with trepidation, encased by much fear,<br />
I left with hope, light filtering gently.<br />
I came with frustration, enclosed by resistance<br />
I left with a soft heart, one open to counsel.<br />
I came with remorse, engulfed by sorrow,<br />
I left with forgiveness, my heart singing praise.<br />
I came with joy, enveloped with gratitude,<br />
I left with it doubled, connection reinforced.<br />
I came on my knees, arms folded, head bowed,<br />
I left with courage from God's unrelenting love.Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-86145723924152133332016-07-27T12:43:00.002-07:002016-07-27T12:43:47.492-07:00Joy"A feeling of great pleasure or happiness" Its roots include "rejoice" "hope" and "bliss" in different languages. <br />
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Dear reader, I don't know if it is because the sun is shining, birds are singing, green is springing up to embrace both the freely falling raindrops and gentle warmth of the sun, an abundance of truly good and dear friends in my life, or a combination of all of these, but I have felt this particular emotion a whole lot lately. I think that I've let myself feel it a lot more often and that has made so much difference. As I was thinking this one day, I came across this message chalked on the sidewalk and loved it. <br />
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Joy has come to me as I've felt the sun on my back, watched a bird or a bug make its way in the world, laughed with friends, tasted something wonderful, moved my body into a tough balancing pose or pushed it harder than I thought I could or simply let it relax, listened to the voice of dear ones, and smelled the freshness of air outside. Sometimes it sneaks up on me, surprising me with its intensity and suddenness. Other times it settles on me, growing gradually until I realize its there. Emotions are like that--sometimes unpredictable, usually powerful, and gradually understandable. <br />
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Truly, "men are that they might have joy" (2 Nephi 2:25). I know that all of life is not joy, and trust me, there are moments when I struggle with the emotions and thoughts. Often times I try to flee them rather than struggle with them actually. I've learned that I am not very swift when it comes to outpacing these thoughts and feelings. They catch up to me eventually and then I have less strength to wrestle them, with their sneers and persistence. Still, the opportunities to feel and receive joy abound. They really do. <br />
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I love this poem. Mary Oliver has captured my admiration as of late, and I felt to share something that she penned about joy. <br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 28.7969px;">"If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happened better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb."</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 28.7969px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I hope you find a feast of joy wherever you are, dear reader. I know its there for you. Perhaps not spread out on a table, but deliberately placed in your path by someone who loves you dearly and is excited for you to find it and relish it when you do. </span>Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-27001478750794948632016-05-04T14:45:00.000-07:002016-05-04T14:45:07.800-07:00Childhood<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Dear reader, do you have iconic parts of your childhood? Things that stir poignant and deep memories and feelings with the slightest contact? I certainly do. One of those is Winnie the Pooh. I remember watching episodes of the TV show with my siblings, making a paper machae "hunny pot" for a Winnie the Pooh costume, being teased that I had a crush on Christopher Robin. Much as I sometimes feel embarrassed about it now, Winnie the Pooh is very much a part of me. </div>
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The other day, I remembered this clip from a silly ol' bear film from the 90s. It still touched me deeply, though it has new meaning. I love to look for types of Christ in media and to me, Christopher Robin teaches us much about the unconditional love, kindness, and help that the Savior offers each of us. I feel like this clip captures Christopher Robin's relationship with Winnie the Pooh, and by extension, our relationship with Jesus Christ, so wonderfully well. I know that Christ's promise that He will always be with us is real. How good it is! </div>
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<br />Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-12239759607160251182016-02-29T21:49:00.002-08:002016-02-29T21:49:47.053-08:00Replenish<div align="center" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: 700;">"Life is always unfinished business"</span> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Richard Gilbert</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the midst of the whirling day, In the hectic rush to be doing, In the frantic pace of life, Pause here for a moment.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Catch your breath; Relax your body;</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> Loosen your grip on life.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Consider that our lives are always unfinished business;</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> Imagine that the picture of our being is never complete;</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Allow your life to be a work in progress.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Do not hurry to mold the masterpiece;</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Do not rush to finish the picture;</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Do not be impatient to complete the drawing.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From beckoning birth to dawning death we are in process,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And always there is more to be done.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Do not let the incompleteness weigh on your spirit-</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Do not despair that imperfection marks your every day;</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Do not fear that we are still in the making.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Let us instead be grateful that the world is still to be created;</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Let us give thanks that we can be more than we are;</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Let us celebrate the power of the incomplete;</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For life is always unfinished business.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ah, this touched me. It replenished me. I've been thinking about that word, dear reader. Replenish. I'm kind of a word nerd and love looking up etymology of words and pondering the origin so that my understanding of the meaning changes. Its really beautiful and fun to me. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Replenish, according to the New Oxford American Dictionary, means to "fill something up again," or "to restore." Its origins include "supply abundantly" and "expressing intensive force" with nods to "fill" and "full". </span></div>
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<span style="color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've been replenished lately. I had some gunk in me for a while; untruth that I had held on to, unrealistic and unkind attitudes, mistakes and missed opportunities that I clung to and refused to surrender. In this bitter and withdrawing attitude, dear ones reached out in love and concern. And I yielded to their outreach, though there was a strong pull to isolate myself. As that gunk was pulled out, let out, gushed out, I found myself empty and able to be still rather than upset. And then started the replenishing. I'm not sure I'm quite empty of gunk yet, but I know that replenishment is real and that it happens and that it is healing. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #003399; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Love. Love replenishes. How I need to be reminded of that and to let it in to my life. </span></div>
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-91679371902106464052016-02-11T21:41:00.000-08:002016-02-11T21:41:03.006-08:00This Morning's Gift<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Wintertime walking is a real treat, dear reader. If you're like me, opening the door to the outside brings a bracing drop in temperature, one that causes you to gulp cold air into your lungs and wake up. Following that beginning, there is so much to enjoy. Visible breath; brisk and invigorating freshness; water stopped in its normal downward path in splendid icicles; snow, sometimes with snowflakes that you can see the shape of; muffled sounds when snow is newly falling and crunchy steps once the snow has melted and refrozen; sometimes foggy low hanging clouds that leave the next 40 feet a mystery; delicate frost that graces every surface in sight. (Just so we're clear, I took the following picture in hopes of capturing it, but didn't really succeed. The other photos are from those who are more skilled than I.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The picture really doesn't do it justice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Today as I walked, I thought about the frost that I saw. It was thicker than normal, but not in an overbearing way. I tried to think of the right word to describe how the frost had settled on the grass and tree branches, giving them a beautiful white, almost shining, outline. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Glazed? Nope. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Frosted. Mmmm, close, but not quite. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dusted? Naw. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Um...encased? No. That sounds almost morbid. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Encrusted, then. Nope, not quite. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Engraced. Yes, that is it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I marveled as I passed so many ordinary trees, engraced with frost to make a truly beautiful sight. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Engraced is a made up word, dear reader. Its what my brain suggested when I was running out of descriptions for the winter phenomenon. Graced would probably suffice, and in looking it up, the dictionary shares that grace has connections with pleasing and grateful. The word, in its noun and verb form, contains beautiful meaning, such as "simple elegance or refinement," "to do honor or credit to," and "adorn". </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And maybe its because Valentine's Day is coming up, but I thought about how love makes the most ordinary things splendid. That may sound tacky, but I believe that it is true. A life graced with love is a really beautiful one. </span></div>
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3732839579892006590.post-15633067151470394482016-01-20T15:16:00.000-08:002016-01-20T15:16:05.036-08:00ColdCold is an enchanting hostess,<br />
but a miserable houseguest. <br />
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When you visit Cold, she welcomes you briskly,<br />
without hesitation ushering you into her world of white. <br />
She may make your cheeks redden and nose redden,<br />
your fingers and toes lose feeling,<br />
your eyes water and nose sting,<br />
such is the way of Cold. <br />
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But people say such nice things,<br />
"Cold hands, warm heart," they say,<br />
"What a healthy glow!" they say,<br />
"Would you like some hot cocoa?" they say<br />
that the side effects of visiting Cold seem negligible,<br />
almost desirable. <br />
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Her decorations are always exquisite, captivating,<br />
detailed, a delight to the senses. <br />
Geometric, lacy snowflakes, delicate frost,<br />
in timeless shades of white and gray, and sometimes hints of blue.<br />
Rippled icicles, chilly yet a tactile joy,<br />
frozen waves you cannot disrupt.<br />
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Cold creates most wonderful sights,<br />
peace settles on the world with her<br />
blankets of falling snow, which gently grace<br />
every surface they land on. <br />
She emphasizes every detail, while obscuring them at the same time.<br />
A masterful designer, Cold is. <br />
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When you leave Cold, exhilarated and enlivened,<br />
you appreciate the warmth of the inside. <br />
You remember the crisp blueness of the sky,<br />
even if content to view it from a window,<br />
and recall the marvel of seeing your breath as it leaves you. <br />
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Yet when Cold comes to call on you,<br />
she is a much less gracious personality. <br />
Her briskness remains, and she sweeps in your door without<br />
the brief pause and welcome that cordiality recommends. <br />
The snow that comes with her quickly melts,<br />
leaving puddles for you to slip in or dirty the floor.<br />
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Once inside, Cold lingers near windows and doors,<br />
sulking, avoiding, or looking for the nearest escape route.<br />
If others join your party, she flees even further and faster,<br />
refusing persuasion to join the conversation and company<br />
of your other houseguests. <br />
<br />
Anyhow, just keep in mind that cold can be a marvelous hostess,<br />
but a reluctant houseguest. <br />
<br />
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Lindsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02807650144612920900noreply@blogger.com0