tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89558211217073980062024-03-05T20:22:27.503-08:00Crumpled Bell(e)Loving. Learning. Worshipping. Wondering. Railing. Hoping. Holding on. Letting go.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.comBlogger266125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-88038547737651221302015-12-21T08:11:00.004-08:002016-04-20T23:23:51.222-07:00Favorites<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"></pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"></pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"></pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"> I decided I wanted to be an actor when I fell in love with Ricky Schroeder in Silver Spoons because I figured that was the only way I would ever get to meet him. Before then, as an only child and as a way to escape some childhood trauma, I often disappeared into my imagination where I created intricate, fanatastical worlds. This inner life lent itself to acting and writing later on. </pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"></pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;">I've always said my first art form was pretending. Acting is what the professionals like to call it, but I never really thought too much about being famous. Many people assume that, as an actor, that's what success means to me.</pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"></pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;">After attending Arts Magnet, I was sure I would go to DePaul and end up at the Steppenwolf Theatre and since I really had very little knowledge of stage actors, I assumed that fame would not come with those desires either. </pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"></pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"></pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;">As life has it's way, I never made it to Chicago or the Steppenwolf. In my adult life, I have probably managed to be in about ten productions, usually in small roles, and I have loved every minute of it. </pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"></pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;">So, when Chaz said he had to do a project about a famous person, I asked him who he had chosen.</pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"> "You." </pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;">"I'm not famous, though." </pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;">He shook his head and thought for a second. </pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;">"Did I say famous? I meant favorite." </pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"></pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"></pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;">I didn't know what to say. I know I am the person who iritates him the most because I am the person who "helps" him the most. Most twenty-three year-olds don't need as much assistance as he does, and he is often frustrated when he needs my help with daily living skills and sometimes, I am frustrated back. </pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;"></pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;">Anyway, here is his final project for his Career Development Class. A visual resume of his favorite person. He chose the colors, pictures, washi tapes, where things should go and glued them down and even tried his hand at the paper cutter with me looking on nervously.</pre>
<pre style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px; white-space: normal;">I'm not sure what world famous or even Dallas famous feels like, but I can tell you that being this guys favorite, being "family famous" is an awesome feeling!</pre>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-33235969991553144002014-09-26T08:57:00.000-07:002015-04-01T10:04:40.765-07:00Spoiled Milk and College Babies<br />
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I woke up, made some coffee, and grabbed the milk. No wonder the fridge was so full, we never had two gallons in the fridge at the same time, EVER!<br />
I grabbed the open gallon and started to pour it in my cup when the smell hit me. Blegh.<br />
I looked at the date, looked at the date on the other milk, then up at the cereal that was piling up on top of the fridge.<br />
While I have not forgotten for one second that my son has gone away to college, even though my brain is awesome/weird with denial games, I had forgotten to adjust my shopping habits.<br />
I was alone in the kitchen, so I figured it was okay to tear up. I mean to cry. I mean to sit down on the floor and sob silently. <br />
But if I did that, I would notice that it needs to be mopped, which I'd do, right before I made French toast for French Toast Friday, which would cause me to be late for work.<br />
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<i>Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. </i><br />
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There should be some kind of manual for this, I thought.<br />
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<i>Okay, cry, but no sobbing, just cry as you go--Move move, move. </i><br />
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So, that's rule #1: Cry as you go.<br />
<i><br /></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-14171023564723264712014-08-25T19:53:00.000-07:002015-02-26T09:52:55.301-08:00Hand Hearts<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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Two Fridays before Caleb moved into his dorm, I found myself alone in the car on the way to a doctor's appointment and decided to allow myself an all-out ballfest. Apparently, the daily shower cries and occasional craughing moments had not been enough, because a torrential downpour from the ole' eye sockets and a somewhat controlled howling from the gut ensued-- until I pulled up to the stoplight at Peak and Bryan. </div>
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From the left peripheral, I could tell someone was watching me. I casually wiped my face and glanced to the side. A Hispanic teenager smiled and waved from a Jeep Grand Cherokee. </div>
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I smiled. I waved back. I was having a hard time stopping the flow of tears, though.</div>
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I let Jeep go ahead. </div>
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I made it through a few more lights with a lot of inner cheerleading and less howling, but still quite a bit of tear flow. </div>
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The next time we stopped, the young man, in his Four Squate t-shirt, off to do good early on a Friday morning at the end of summer, turned around, made a heart with his hands over his own heart and threw it to me, music video style. </div>
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I smiled and gave him two thumbs up as he drove away. </div>
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I'll admit I was kind of overwhelmed for a minute and then I said out loud, "Fine, God. I get it. I'm not alone. Me and Mimi, and Rob Lowe and all the other parents in the world. I get it. I'm not alone. I'm not alone." </div>
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And I finally stopped crying, just as I pulled into the parking lot for my appointment. </div>
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<a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/life/family/2014/05/rob_lowe_on_sending_his_son_off_to_college_an_excerpt_from_love_life.html">Rob Lowe on sending his kid off to college.</a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-55934913386623962812014-08-03T08:38:00.001-07:002014-08-03T08:38:26.215-07:00Morning Light<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Morning light<br />
is kind to lovers,<br />
casting shadows to<br />
cover flaws,<br />
filtering gently<br />
through sheets.<br />
A warm witness to<br />
ancient rhythm.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-66481430796908325672014-03-26T20:16:00.000-07:002014-10-14T20:03:47.844-07:00I Cry DailyMy childhood was not ideal. I moved so many times, and lived in a variety of family concoctions, I am not sure I ever knew that stability existed.<br />
"Mom," my grandmother on my Barbosa side of the family, was one constant in my early years. Whether my parents were together or apart, she was the the day-time caretaker for me while my mom worked various jobs. While most of my memories of her are before I was six, they are vivid and intense.<br />
The sunlight entering her dining room through the side windows, the sound from the small black and white TV in her room, the smell of eggs and beans and tortillas, her housecoat, with something in her pocket, for me, not for me.<br />
I hear the sharp sound of consonants in her accent. The floor creaking as she went to make eggs, warm up a tortilla.<br />
For various and complicated reasons that had little to do with either of us and which I don't care to write about now, I did not see her for long stretches of time.<br />
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Last year, I had the opportunity to hang out with her more than usual. Some were sad occasions and some were to celebrate. She always talked about my Franco legs, flirted shamelessly with my husband and looked amazing. "When I go out, I like to dress," she said. </div>
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Here she is teaching me her version of the "Dirty Dog." (This video is edited to preserve our dignity:)</div>
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Soon after this video was taken, I was told she was not long for this world due to a blackened lung. I had spent the last year in and out of hospitals, nursing homes and doctors' offices with my mother who was near death a few times and it was also my middle son's senior year. I was an emotional wreck.<br />
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But on a brief visit to Mom's one day, she leaned in like she was telling me a secret and said without an ounce of fear in her eyes, "You wanna know something? I am ready. I am not afraid to die. I'm tired of this place. I wanna go see my husband. I am ready."<br />
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And for all the things I believe to be true and all the scriptures I could quote, there is no way I could say the same.<br />
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Maybe because I am young, I thought. How on earth would my husband know how to usher my kids into their college years without me?<br />
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Then very soon after my grandmother, "Mom", passed away, my son came home with his first tattoo and there on his right shoulder, written in Latin was the verse, "To die is gain." The craughing (see previous post on cry/laughing) began again as I whined about the fact he had not included the "to live is Christ" part of the scripture and that it seemed so ominous and that's not how I wanted to identify his body at the morgue. Not that I want to do that at all mind you. The craughing escalated.<br />
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I am not sure why God chose the very old and the robustly young to try to teach me about holding on too hard to this world. I guess He knows I need to be given my lessons in powerful, tiny moments, so that I am not stricken dumb, just stricken sad enough to turn back to Jesus, to hold on hard to Him and pray myself through the whole business of letting go. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He loves me. Really. </td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-21663523523647466602014-03-14T22:35:00.001-07:002014-03-14T22:38:40.821-07:00Poetry Club on the Road to SouthBy<div>Some girls I know talked me and another mom into heading to Austin for South by Southwest. On the drive down we read some poetry by Jack Myers and Fatima Hirsi. </div><div><br></div><div>The girls chose a line from one of Fatima's poems to use as as a spring board to write their own.</div><div><br></div><div>Here are their offerings:</div><div><br></div><div>Skin like the moon melted into the sun</div><div>Touched the roughness of my fingertips and my body fell</div><div>Folding itself nearly on the floor</div><div>I wanted to organize my</div><div> mind sets but the frenzy of the idea of living of breathing of being of holding myself together broke me into pieces</div><div>Skin (like the moon melted into the</div><div> sun) reached into me and strung them together: my anxieties my deep sleeps my sharp pains you</div><div><br></div><div>-Rosie Ninesling</div><div><br></div><div><div>Skin like the moon melted into the sun,</div><div>smooth and supple,</div><div>as yet unstained and scarred </div><div>from life's rough embrace.</div><div><br></div><div>She descended from the clouds like an ethereal mistress of light.</div><div><br></div><div>"I like it here." she said,</div><div>despite the furious shaking of heads from the miserable fellows who fled like roaches from her glow.</div><div><br></div><div>Warmth spread from her toes and the flowers that it awakened said hello.</div><div><br></div><div>She carved a hole in the Earth. And stayed there.</div><div><br></div><div>-Audrey Clark</div></div><div><br></div><div><div>Skin like the moon melted into the sun </div><div>Encompassing breaths that sooth the hearth</div><div>Treat me like you treat your evening fire </div><div>Tend to me while you sip your scotch</div><div>Gently, urge me in growth </div><div>Look at me as if an undying light shoots from my timid flames</div><div>Let my hypnosis fall over the planets your shoulders bear</div><div>Fire</div><div>Spewing out, you sit too close as to deceive me </div><div>I think I can touch you every time</div><div>You are naturally afraid of me </div><div>Fire</div><div>You will move my origins and let out a sigh in order to keep the embers orange but</div><div>faces are unseen when they are blinding</div><div>Fire</div><div>Let me burn you so you won't forget</div><div>Fumes bring tears</div><div>And light</div><div>Let us be gods and goddesses of crimson breath</div><div>And the fire</div><div>the fire beneath our feet will keep us angelic</div><div><br></div><div>-Chloe Curiel</div></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Pl7pLjRX5Ybn-NNZiiURdF7w-rpHfaJcTnG57sCWbi2Ljc66X_fjaOS9gVuhiKL7YqIV7ZC3smoWU64OC2OVUai-9lT4QemiQP6YEz0W_v4l6ZD3MpxvO_Hpq3yTq-a1gtjdkGdSQHY/s640/blogger-image--290924699.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Pl7pLjRX5Ybn-NNZiiURdF7w-rpHfaJcTnG57sCWbi2Ljc66X_fjaOS9gVuhiKL7YqIV7ZC3smoWU64OC2OVUai-9lT4QemiQP6YEz0W_v4l6ZD3MpxvO_Hpq3yTq-a1gtjdkGdSQHY/s640/blogger-image--290924699.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-13564731861077343052014-02-12T17:00:00.000-08:002014-04-09T17:01:24.390-07:00Craughing: Dats de Way Love Go.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
I can't exactly explain the phenomena that has become a common reaction to anything having to do with my son leaving for college.<br />
<br />
One night, he sat on the end of my bed, describing a few roommate requests and I got jittery.<br />
<br />
"These guys all seem like uptight, neat freaks," he said.<br />
<br />
"Can't you just room with somebody we know, or with somebody who knows somebody we know?" I asked trying to mask my concern with a cartoonish, worried voice.<br />
<br />
"Mom, I think I should just leave it up to chance. Have the true college experience, ya know? Why try to force it?" he asks, sounding like Anthony Michael Hall in Sixteen Candles.<br />
<br />
"Yes, but, yes but," and then I couldn't help it, I just started laughing and crying at the same time and who knows what I said next but it resembled, "But what if you get a roommate who watches porn and masturbates all the time or who tries to kill you and dumps your body in the river because he's jealous?"<br />
<br />
Craughing all the way. Hahahahaugh.<br />
<br />
"Mom."<br />
<br />
"I mean, how long would it be before I knew you were missing?" More craughing as I brought the covers closer to my chin, my chest shook and tears formed.<br />
<br />
"Mom."<br />
<br />
"I think I need to be weaned you know? I mean can you text me every night before you go to bed? Can you? At least for the first six weeks?"<br />
<br />
"Mom."<br />
<br />
"Okay, wait, the first sixty days. I mean the first semester. the whole first semester?" Craughing the whole time.<br />
<br />
"Mom. you're doing it wrong. You're supposed to start on the high end."<br />
<br />
"I can't. This is pay back isn't it?"<br />
<br />
Then <i>he</i> started to laugh as he backed cautiously out of the room. "For what?"<br />
<br />
"For when I cut the tip of your pacifier off and told you it was broken. You made little food cuds with your lunch, and sucked on them before you fell asleep at nap time. I get it. I deserve this."<br />
<br />
"Mom. It's going to be okay."<br />
<br />
He shut the door. I covered my head and stopped laughing, but the tears kept flowing.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-21027539600668891462014-01-21T20:31:00.002-08:002014-01-22T13:29:46.360-08:00Captain Christmas Resigns her Cape.My cape is made up powerful skills gleaned from a traumatic childhood. So, technically, it needed to be given up a LONG time ago.<br />
<br />
You know the cape. The one that comes from figuring when, how many times and how high to jump and then if you should do it with swagger or aplomb. Subtle difference, but rest assured, in the hand of the unstable, it is noticed and often punished should you choose incorrectly. And in adulthood, mostly punished by myself, because I have taken on the all too UNREAL expectations of my loved ones instead of laying them at the foot of the cross where all expectations belong.<br />
<br />
I thought I had learned most of this, oh, I don't know, in 2007. See blog: The Dropping of the Basket.<br />
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(http://crumpledbelle.loveliftstheload.com/2008/03/dropping-of-basket.html).</div>
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<br /></div>
How many times do I "give up" control when I never had it in the first place-duh? And, how much time have I wasted trying to meet the expectations that no one will even admit they have, so I can protect someone from disappointment they weren't even willing to try to avoid?<br />
<br />
And how many times more?<br />
<br />
I'd like to say the cape has been destroyed, but it's a haunting, wasteful thing calling my name too often. But there is too much joy here for me to be weighed down with a man-made cape. Too much freedom offered by the real Rescuer, who knows the how and the when and the why.<br />
<br />
I vow not to put it on again, until it's mended right.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-53181282385180120022013-12-18T21:33:00.000-08:002014-01-09T08:53:11.064-08:00Super Powers are Overrated (But I Still Want Them)December is proving to be exactly what it usually is-- terribly over scheduled. The ice storm here didn't help matters and a few of my sweet pickles' events were stacked on top of each other so the choosing had to begin.<br />
This used to torture me. "Which child do I let down? Which child will feel unloved? Which child will I be MISSING out on?"<br />
Have I mentioned my kids are 16, 17 and 21?<br />
Nevertheless, I have HIGH expectations for myself that fall just short of being able to beam myself to all events seconds before they begin and actually BE the hero everyone (and by everyone I mean me and my Grandmother) believes me to be.<br />
<br />
It never occurs to me, however, that no one else happens to share in my torture.<br />
<br />
For example:<br />
<br />
After hearing the sweet pickle girl sing at Heritage Village, the little sweet pickles decide not to attend the annual Ginger Fest with me. I am hopeful they will show up later, so I lick my hero wounds, buy the hugest bag of kettle corn known to man and head toward the parking lot. I don't even FEEL like crying, so I know my superpowers are working. And just to amp up the power, I stop to share my popcorn with a stranger, because sharing with strangers makes me feel less alone in the world.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Whew, I can do this, 'holidays will never be the same' thing. I got this." </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
But as I near my car I spy the little sweet pickles and their friends waiting around the girl pickles' car.<br />
"What's up?" I ask all cool, trying not to choke on kettle corn.<br />
"Her keys are in choirboy's pocket and he's still inside. She just wants to change," says a choirgirl.<br />
<br />
Then, I hear, in the snarkiest tone, "Oh, here comes <i>MOM</i> to save the day, as usual." With an eye roll, scowl combo that would make Judge Judy proud. I will not say which of my sweet baby pickles uttered this, but all I can think is: <i>My own people, resenting my superpowers. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I shove more popcorn in mouth, open the door and remind them that Ginger Fest will be going on for awhile, and I hope to see them there.<br />
Still no tears. Superpowers in tact.<br />
I kill a little time driving around South Dallas, trying to find another building to fall in love with, so I can dream about my own future and not be so uh . . . tied up, I mean . . . tied to, oh . . . alright, strangled holding onto theirs.<br />
<br />
Then I make my way to Deep Ellum and Ginger Land. BY MYSELF.<br />
I am greeted by friends, adorable children, the smell of apple cider and mountains of candy.<br />
I'm gonna be fine, I reassure myself. And I would have been fine, if it hadn't been for that dagblame Mariah Carey and her "Baby, Please Come Home" song to send me right over the EDGE. Tears in my icing and on my red vine fence. One thing, I mean, one thing will go my way today!!!!<br />
<br />
Luckily, I was surrounded by Hershey's Kisses and M&M's, so I just shoved some in my mouth, licked the icing off my hand, identified with Jesus about how often I don't do what he wants and soldiered on.<br />
<br />
Here's my casa de ginger to prove it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<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/AVvXsEhC1y5qtgKzrVo55Et2IzH0qSjTkiPgItIlC5iQ3QgumWD59EaYR_QZW-U7wQKbYoBsYbQX2ZhzOMLHu5q3O2FS6hC4HROdgBI6uTsp7nAHRigUNoowDVcU9KFEUa2v5fp9Kb06AW17bak/s1600/IMG_4886.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC1y5qtgKzrVo55Et2IzH0qSjTkiPgItIlC5iQ3QgumWD59EaYR_QZW-U7wQKbYoBsYbQX2ZhzOMLHu5q3O2FS6hC4HROdgBI6uTsp7nAHRigUNoowDVcU9KFEUa2v5fp9Kb06AW17bak/s1600/IMG_4886.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before Rich made me some bonfire smoke.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTL-2oz9OtQ7S6Jy8ZzG7VaUqB0SUOJJD7Sf0OtUNeXWLmxtRZCOKPgBuOW_UVm-XlK7iKYo0aIC-ZCjz1lqW0BJA-dpQxfThkJohphlMGuJ2PLX8qsOx4GQYH7IXxvXTd54c-3QVp22s/s1600/IMG_4890.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTL-2oz9OtQ7S6Jy8ZzG7VaUqB0SUOJJD7Sf0OtUNeXWLmxtRZCOKPgBuOW_UVm-XlK7iKYo0aIC-ZCjz1lqW0BJA-dpQxfThkJohphlMGuJ2PLX8qsOx4GQYH7IXxvXTd54c-3QVp22s/s1600/IMG_4890.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After Rich made me some bonfire smoke:)</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-42259121996078337292013-12-03T22:10:00.001-08:002013-12-03T22:10:19.924-08:00Monday's Much Needed Song of the Day: Is MISSING along with my TREE.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikMHjrwfNCuC6RabzO8NAcCAbHe1H32kkPgcfH9hglVHS7xmpMfQ0Bx7jaZ6vaXWmU2Vg_qyZXpnSaFUWhXR7yf-gVZbe4rDvodcYuFA8GD9xBk2WbJRf5UjsU-GqOjh_G0veZglkZ2r8/s1600/IMG_0316.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikMHjrwfNCuC6RabzO8NAcCAbHe1H32kkPgcfH9hglVHS7xmpMfQ0Bx7jaZ6vaXWmU2Vg_qyZXpnSaFUWhXR7yf-gVZbe4rDvodcYuFA8GD9xBk2WbJRf5UjsU-GqOjh_G0veZglkZ2r8/s320/IMG_0316.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Has anyone seen this tree?</td></tr>
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<br />
Saturday, I pulled out Christmas decorations in an attempt to get into the holiday spirit. Last year we decided that since we are in such a confined space and one of my little pickles is semi-allergic, to buy an artificial one.<br />
This year, it is nowhere to be found. How do you lose a Christmas tree?<br />
I soldiered on. Reminisced with some of the kids hand-made decorations,<br />
I thought putting some Christmas tunes on, might help lift the mood, but when I opened my Brenda Lee CD case, it was empty. And then to make matters worse, my Sufjan Steven's Christmas Box Set-- also empty.<br />
What should have been an afternoon of decorating turned into and afternoon of me pouring through cabinets and all our CD's and empty cases.<br />
I know, most of you are thinking I should have these on my computer or in my iTunes, but I have had computer woes this last year and not everything was backed up.<br />
I finally found Brenda and two of Sufjan's, but by that time, the afternoon was GONE!<br />
Just like my CD's and tree.<br />
But there will be no blue Christmas for me.<br />
I am now on the search for a perfect and inexpensive tree! Adventure!<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-90328666163855813952013-11-18T18:21:00.001-08:002013-11-18T18:21:41.405-08:00Good Wants <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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I don't know if you have ever fallen in love with a building, but I have. More than once. My most recent structure being the vacant church next door to our apartments.<br />
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<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I actually noticed it years before we moved here. I thought it would be a great venue for weddings and events and Chris and I have been talking about a "place" for our "stuff" forever. But you, know, we didn't have a million dollars laying around which, by the way, was an exceptionally good deal!<br />
<br /></div>
I thought it was odd that I ended up moving right next door to the building that I have been WANTING for so long. I mean, I walk out my door, turn right and BAM, there it is, or was, or is beginning not to be.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">God is always teaching me about wanting. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">My response to Him is usually a whiny, "Goooood, this is a GOOD want." But He knows I can be voracious--l</span>ike a mini-Godzilla in my pursuit of what I want, over what He wants for me.</div>
And so I wait.<br />
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And watch the church I daydreamed about for so long get leveled and the land prepared for the new YMCA.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-249856202672714712013-11-08T23:15:00.002-08:002013-11-09T10:33:09.515-08:00Common is RightWhat I thought was going to make the college application process a zillion times easier has only proven to be exasperating.<br />
Maybe it's because Caleb's transcript is pieced together from home-school, private school and community college, or because I have a negative hum when it comes to technology and I keep getting responses that say a certain action is <i>off-line. </i><br />
So has my middle finger.<br />
BUT for those of you who are thinking that using the Common Application to apply for college will make this process a hundred times easier because of the opportunity to apply online, you can meet me at Kinko's bright and early tomorrow morning, where I will be making copies of paperwork to SNAIL MAIL.<br />
I'd offer to buy you coffee, but since I have missed a few windows of opportunity to SUBMIT because of the COMMON Application , I will now be using my grocery money to apply to a couple of private schools that don't even need the money.<br />
It's bad enough I have to turn my kid over to you. Do you have to take my money and sanity, too?<br />
Apparently. Apparently.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-79664821943986284942013-10-19T14:52:00.001-07:002013-10-19T15:06:26.056-07:00Senior-itus! I <i>had</i> planned to write weekly about being the mom of a senior.<br />
<br />
(While I do have a twenty-one year old, Chaz's senior year was different, wrought with glory and pain of a different sort because he has cognitive disabilities and we were not planning on launching him out into the world right away.)<br />
<br />
I had no idea how gut wrenching Caleb's senior year was going to be. How often I was going to cry and pull it together, all in under a minute, and manage to exit my car to interact with co-workers or friends on a non-hysterical level.<br />
<br />
I had no idea how much time my son and I would spend together, planning, thinking, commiserating laughing, praying and REVISING:)<br />
<br />
I had no idea how much pain would be brought up from my own lonely and dismal entry into college and struggle to finish.<br />
<br />
I had no idea how an old battle with death anxiety would rear its ugly head. How when I listen to any heinous incident on the news, my son's image appears in the place of the true victim and then, it replays on loop mode until I rebuke it!<br />
<br />
I had no idea how funny, resourceful and confident my son was without me standing behind him, urging him on.<br />
<br />
I had no idea how much I was gonna hate that stupid "Cup Song" and all those insipid country songs about kids growing up that are plotting against me and my sanity.<br />
<br />
So, here it is, my new mantra:<br />
<br />
Hello, My name is Tamitha Barbosa Curiel and I am the mother of senior.<br />
I have 45 days of senior year under my belt. And roughly, 238 days to go.<br />
This is hard. This is an adventure. This is incredibly sad. This is oddly wonderful.<br />
This is an amazing honor. Thank you, Lord.<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-76743858246758744772013-09-23T18:03:00.001-07:002013-09-23T18:15:36.768-07:00Monday's/Momma's Much Needed Song of the Day: Wait for Me by the Kings of Leon<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/MC8QcaMMVQE" width="390"></iframe><div>
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This one is for my momma, who is not all better, but working on it!</div>
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This summer I returned home from helping friends move to Mexico to find a very sick momma. </div>
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She was suffering from hyponatremia and hyperkalemia and was beginning to act like she was (barely) living under water, moving so slow, her body shutting down.</div>
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In the ER, after her labs returned in record speed, we understood how lucky we were. </div>
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"Most people with potassium this low are in a coma."</div>
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My mom was confused, shaky, and didn't always remember who I was. She couldn't walk, could barely talk, and had to be fed most of her nutrients through an IV. </div>
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Eventually, when it looked like she would recover, I was given the task of finding a nursing home for her to rehab.</div>
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One day, I was going from nursing home to nursing home in Athens, TX; the next day I was going from university to university for my senior. </div>
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One day I was encouraging my mom to eat and cooperate with her physical therapists; the next day I was encouraging my son to finish his essay and work on practice tests for his SAT. </div>
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Everything I encouraged my mom to do would bring her back to me and everything I encouraged my son to do would help him move away from me. </div>
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I had to put my already messy heart on auto-pilot. </div>
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"You have not given me the spirit of fear, not the spirit of fear, not the spirit of fear." </div>
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But I couldn't remember what it was I had been given. Peace, love, a sound mind?</div>
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That scripture was a mantra during my twenties, but now it felt hollow. </div>
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One night I put my hand on my mom's head. She was still having trouble finding the words she wanted to say.</div>
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"What are you doing?" she finally asked.</div>
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"Praying."</div>
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"Me, too."she sobbed. "It's all I can do."</div>
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"Yeah. I know. "</div>
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Anger, confusion, exhaustion, numbness: hope. Resentment, disgust, sadness, fear: hope. Like beauty for ashes, I put my mess at His feet and He gave me what I needed. </div>
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At some point my sister asked me, "Why are you so hopeful?"</div>
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"I don't know how else to be."</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-23845233825773508402013-09-10T23:03:00.001-07:002013-09-10T23:03:58.255-07:00If I were teaching, this would be my text for this day. . .<p style="text-align: left; "></p><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Flinn, On the Bus</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">By Naomi Shihab Nye</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><br></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Three hours after the buildings fell,</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">he took a seat beside me.</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Fresh out of prison, after 24 months,</span></div><i><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">You're my first hello!</i></div></i><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Going home to Mom,</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">a life he would make better this time,</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">how many times</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">he'd been swept along before,</span></div><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>to things he should never have ...</i></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>drink and dope,</i></div></i><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">but now he'd take responsibility.</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Lawyers had done him wrong</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">and women too. He thought</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">about revenge, now he was out.</span></div><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>But I'm in charge. I'll think</i></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>before I act. I don't ever</i></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>want to go there again.</i></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>Two wrongs don't make a right.</i></div></i><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Somehow, in his mouth, that day,</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">it sounded new.</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The light came through the window</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">on a gentle-eyed man in a</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Focus on the Game" T-shirt,</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">who had given up</span></div><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>assault with deadly weapons,</i></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>no more, no good!</i></div></i><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">A man who had not seen TV in weeks,</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">secluding in his cell so colleagues</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">wouldn't trip him up,</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">extend his stay.</span></div><i><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Who had not heard the news.</i></div></i><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We rolled through green Oklahoma,</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">the bus windows made all the trees look bent.</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">A trick of refraction—</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Flinn looked at his free hands</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">more than the fields,</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">turned them over in his lap,</span></div><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>no snap judgments, no quick angers,</i></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>I'll stand back, look at what happens,</i></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>think calmly what my next step should be.</i></div></i><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It was not hard to nod,</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">to wish him well. But could I tell</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">what had happened in the world</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">on his long-awaited day,</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">what twists of rage greater</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">than we could ever guess</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">had savaged skylines, thousands of lives?</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I could not. He'd find out</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">soon enough. Flinn, take it easy.</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Peace is rough.</span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">— September 11, 2001</i></p><div><i><br></i></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-18447498852347216852013-09-02T22:13:00.002-07:002013-09-02T22:33:27.470-07:00Monday's Much Needed Song of the Day: Via Con Me-Paolo ConteMy middle son starts his senior year tomorrow. My daughter started her first "real" job today. My oldest will complete vocational school this year. My kids, my Godson, and their friends are all getting closer to life on their "own" and I thought I'd post a little song along with a list of words I am praying for them this year.<br />
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1. Patience. You will be in control of your life, sooner than you think. (Actually, you will just realize that you are in charge of letting God guide you without as much help from your parents.)<br />
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2. Wisdom. Many decisions are to be made in the near future, and using what you've learned plus what God is whispering in your ear, plus what your parents are screaming through the bedroom door, will give you clarity.<br />
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3. Courage. If God is leading you to do something out of your comfort zone, I pray you find a scripture, a mentor, a prayer warrior and the strength of the Lord to make it happen.<br />
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4. Tenacity. Be a fierce advocate for yourself and the desires of your heart. Be honest with yourself and your parents when discussing the future.<br />
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5. Joy. That amidst the deadlines, the essays, the tests, the applications, the interviews and the maternal emotional wrecks trying to guide you through the process, you will have FUN!<br />
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6. Peace. That it will flow like a river through your veins, into your heart so the rhythm will match the beat God created for you.
I am sure I will add more as we go, but this is a start.<br />
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I love you.<br />
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Mom/Mimi/Sweee-T<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/emq3n4KKPdk?list=FLYQWdfcgf5Mry4myiED4lMA" width="560"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-25203938619228421582013-08-02T14:33:00.001-07:002013-08-05T08:25:25.925-07:00It's Kidd's Kids Day-Don't Forget by Atmosphere-"The Original Download"Middle school is usually a time of dread and doom, but thanks to a solid group of friends and fierce cousins, I look back on my time in junior high like Smalls looks back at his summer of wonder in the Sandlot.
A big part of our experience was music. In 1984, I switched back and forth between MTV on our only television and 97.1 the Eagle in the solitude of my bedroom.
Kidd Kraddick's all request show was not to be missed, and if you were heard on the air, you were a celebrity for at least a few weeks.
My friends and I would divvy up songs to request, so we could get a good-mix tape in one sitting, if we were lucky enough to get through.
Sitting alone in my un-air-conditioned room in a tiny house in Pleasant Grove, I'd wait with two fingers patiently poised on the buttons for THE SONG I had requested and anticipate the seconds before I pushed play and record-
Don't Stop Believing, Hungry Like the Wolf, 1999, Take On Me, 99 Luft Ballons, Billy Jean-Yes!
Here is a little song to honor these times by Atmosphere-
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The promise of Kidd coming to DJ at our skating rink or our teen dance club was anticipated for weeks in advance- clothes chosen meticulously and hairstyle practiced beforehand in case there was a photo op.
Besides Mr. Silverman, our beloved science teacher, Kidd was the only adult who understood us.
In my adult years, I have listened to the morning show on and off. My music tastes are varied, and I prefer music to the talk format, but I found myself listening last Friday on the way to Athens to see my sick momma. I was feeling nostalgic and hearing the morning crew felt familiar, comforting.
And oddly enough, that same day in my mom's hospital room, I saw the show Dish Nation for the first time and reveled in how good Kidd, Kelly and Al looked.
And the next day Kidd passed away.
Today is the day to donate to his charity, Kidd's Kids. For all those who look back at that time in the 80's and remember your life a bit richer because of OUR local DJ, consider giving. And even if you haven't listened to Kidd in a long time or maybe never, it's still a good cause.
Just text KIDD to 52000.
Or go here!
://www.kiddskids.com/donate/text-to-donateAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-28241184552349168902013-07-23T13:56:00.000-07:002013-07-29T14:25:08.729-07:00"I Am Leaving!"On the way down to Mexico with the Clark family, in our delirium, we began to quote King Curtisof youtube/wifeswap fame. In case you've missed out on the hilarity, here is a highlight reel:<a href="<iframe width="640" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/2T_obaO46Bo?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>"></a>
Everyone who knows me knows that I have a problem leaving. Somewhere in my psyche there are 8 things I'm supposed to do before I hit the door and 12 things I should be taking with me, and I don't know, leaving is just hard.
Leaving Mexico, was not just hard because I was leaving behind some great friends, but because I had not planned for how to get home. We had a few issues. I had a tooth ache, but had enough pain meds that I thought I could make it home. I also thought buses left for the states every two hours, and they do, with a stop and switcharoo in Monterey which Rachel was unwilling to let me do. For those of you who know Rachel, you know she is fairly fearless. So when she said there was no way she was letting me stop in Monterrey, I listened.
So we started asking friends for frequent flyer donations to defray the cost, and they had plenty to offer, but do you you know how many hoops American Airlines makes you jump through just to donate/receive miles from a few friends? And that it would end up almost costing the same amount as a regular fair? Grrrh.
Eventually, a dear friend of mine, came to my rescue with enough miles for a complete ticket and I was on my way.
I returned home to my hilarious husband who made me promise to never leave him again and a new to me car, and some super-cute, hungry kids who missed me. And a much-needed dentist with a tooth file in hand:)
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-87816190354592922862013-07-06T16:36:00.001-07:002013-07-06T16:36:16.043-07:00Morning Work-UP<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37BSYl1L_xv_XkTGyRW6VpwjpGfhh9iWCdQFe7blzzmIYG5_AdeQjBADtMPjuomeegTxwA1exqp_i7k6gWVlzU4Vtv70IukNFxD2KKlCq69_b1YY-9uA-Smd5P8HSbtQLMsErjLo6Prg/s640/blogger-image-1946337969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37BSYl1L_xv_XkTGyRW6VpwjpGfhh9iWCdQFe7blzzmIYG5_AdeQjBADtMPjuomeegTxwA1exqp_i7k6gWVlzU4Vtv70IukNFxD2KKlCq69_b1YY-9uA-Smd5P8HSbtQLMsErjLo6Prg/s640/blogger-image-1946337969.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>After sitting in a car, on the bus, and on the curb for four days, I decided to get a little ejercisio with the Wee Clarks. <div><br><div>.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlEk1oFVMVUCD3UmmoLwxrfnIB9aEw-VN-rVxfNEqc5epusyKmshtDYyaVMtImWaVwnY006PakDpBhIHVZdNwL5OQmasMZQI0E81fHecclCL2Ka0mHsV40BJvfBJqNeKmc8D8pkQft8o/s640/blogger-image-1820053587.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlEk1oFVMVUCD3UmmoLwxrfnIB9aEw-VN-rVxfNEqc5epusyKmshtDYyaVMtImWaVwnY006PakDpBhIHVZdNwL5OQmasMZQI0E81fHecclCL2Ka0mHsV40BJvfBJqNeKmc8D8pkQft8o/s640/blogger-image-1820053587.jpg"></a></div><br></div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Stair masters have nothing on the Hills of Atotonilco. Rachel wss worried the kids would slow me down. As you can see, this was not the case. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">My calves have still </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">not forgiven me. </span></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-8189427651180649802013-07-05T17:18:00.001-07:002013-07-06T16:46:05.711-07:00Trippin'<div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf72p-GHsdSNYWNEzWGRSQAYcSudtKVkeukaRTIVIYe4lXccjlSPW5fh0dwye9JhGeZcH5yCypwHzOYtA7RasR_YGX_b30f3YvR31U9jY3U3ma96PWBceA8bJg34JKKyPGU_RG6Qzazw/s640/blogger-image-355017997.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf72p-GHsdSNYWNEzWGRSQAYcSudtKVkeukaRTIVIYe4lXccjlSPW5fh0dwye9JhGeZcH5yCypwHzOYtA7RasR_YGX_b30f3YvR31U9jY3U3ma96PWBceA8bJg34JKKyPGU_RG6Qzazw/s640/blogger-image-355017997.jpg"></a></div><br></div>It took us four days, some hoop jumping at the Border, major prayers laced with the truth of God's love and provision. <div>But. </div><div>The Clark family, Jubilee and I arrived safely in Atotonilco on the 4th of July. </div><div>There were no fireworks or parades, but I imagine the host of our travel Angels celebrating our arrival with tacos and horchata, then sleepily tag-teaming their Angel partner for duty so they could wash up and go to sleep for a very long while. </div><div>Because that's what we did;)<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXDrPOu46HSGjGQKiK9TnQovIkDDZ2nlJXH7caAKqT4zndFAQb4t5_-VVJIv40IgfG7l1bzFaG3hB-ROogtzEi0NLIaydAmBtuJ_wi9vRwrWctsUagWupNFLF2TZ7UPXBWD5p-STJw-xg/s640/blogger-image--1326110425.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXDrPOu46HSGjGQKiK9TnQovIkDDZ2nlJXH7caAKqT4zndFAQb4t5_-VVJIv40IgfG7l1bzFaG3hB-ROogtzEi0NLIaydAmBtuJ_wi9vRwrWctsUagWupNFLF2TZ7UPXBWD5p-STJw-xg/s640/blogger-image--1326110425.jpg"></a></div></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-84927083949986328612013-07-04T09:19:00.001-07:002013-07-04T09:19:13.204-07:00Setting Jubilee Free<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWTzAj3gPGdDbgZFyRlmw91kTXTDgj7ER6kSKGFOoMkBMRN_uyn6ie7MSqNzKLUVi-BbeVbfKhmDt5k8P9hinhEJAYUtO1w2VBy9jfl5OjmaydIGvLQ3ZNeFfFD5t4Ibg6TNS79_ccNZY/s640/blogger-image-374304287.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWTzAj3gPGdDbgZFyRlmw91kTXTDgj7ER6kSKGFOoMkBMRN_uyn6ie7MSqNzKLUVi-BbeVbfKhmDt5k8P9hinhEJAYUtO1w2VBy9jfl5OjmaydIGvLQ3ZNeFfFD5t4Ibg6TNS79_ccNZY/s640/blogger-image-374304287.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><br></div>The school bus my family and I lived in for three years has been parked behind our church since we moved into an apartment in the Lakewood area, close to the kids' schools. <div>In February Chris started talking about selling it, and I immediately felt ill. </div><div>Jubilee had a major impact on our lives (which you can read in earlier blogs) and selling her felt like selling my kid on the black market. </div><div>I asked Chris if we could give her away instead and he said yes. Without even blinking. </div><div>We chose to bestow her on a super- awesome family we have known for a decade who have been a major blessing in our lives!</div><div>This week, I am accompanying themas they take their family and Jubi to Atotonilco, Mexico to turn her into a Cafe Movil. </div><div>Please pray for us on our journey! And to keep up with the Clark's or Jubi check here!</div><div><br></div><div><a href="http://notanotherblah-g.blogspot.mx/2013/06/la-casa-movil.html?m=1">http://notanotherblah-g.blogspot.mx/2013/06/la-casa-movil.html?m=1</a></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCaR6rtoCFRG5hxDT3po-KE5Gsgeub_fGJ-gkQnd-4whJc9Edq2phn0fOkqq7LK_Rn0C_zXy7SG8PROIqe1BZPzyxFaDx_68ZYlqGFPBaB31kMD4PQAN8RynDmWnk1vVjWrymrFCyDmDs/s640/blogger-image-1969788792.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCaR6rtoCFRG5hxDT3po-KE5Gsgeub_fGJ-gkQnd-4whJc9Edq2phn0fOkqq7LK_Rn0C_zXy7SG8PROIqe1BZPzyxFaDx_68ZYlqGFPBaB31kMD4PQAN8RynDmWnk1vVjWrymrFCyDmDs/s640/blogger-image-1969788792.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-27544312543026257622013-06-21T09:32:00.000-07:002013-06-21T09:42:09.953-07:00SchooledAfter a year of bleary eyed panic, I packed up my teacher belongings and now find myself wandering the "career" road once again.
What am I going to do now, you ask. (I assume you will ask this because that's what everyone asks, except for one cool lady who just said, "Good for you!")
Oh, I don't know.
Sub for Thriving Minds maybe? Sub for DISD? Teach the Spoken Word portion of the after school program next year? Keep Hug Life going at my former school? Volunteer at the Writer's Garrett? Go back to school? Clean? Cook? Exercise? Read? Laundry? See my friends? Help my son fill out college applications? Help my daughter start the dual credit program at Richland? Take my grandmother to her doctor visits? Write a book? Convince my mother to let me taker her to her doctor visits? Finish editing a short film? Go to my own doctor visits? (Says the girl with five cavities:)Oh, yeah and stop speed flossing?
You, know. Stuff.
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-25077884288571666842013-05-31T07:43:00.001-07:002013-05-31T07:43:14.644-07:00DutyHalf-calf, wasabi almonds, Perrier, 2 New Yorkers, papers to grade, and my dia de los muertos shirt. <div>That last item will probably not get me chosen for the jury, I'm guessing. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-21054069124622397302013-05-04T13:25:00.007-07:002013-08-31T15:46:47.648-07:00SAT-urdayMy junior took his SAT this morning. The one who secretly waffles between signing up for the military and going to college because he knows I will sit shiva for him if he enlists right out of high school.<br />
<br />
The conversation goes something like this:<br />
Me: It's 6:00.<br />
Son: It is?<br />
Me: It's 6:15.<br />
Son: It is?<br />
Me: It's time to get up.<br />
Son: Okay.<br />
<br />
(Later, at the breakfast bar/dining table.)<br />
<br />
Me: Breakfast is ready. Nothing like a weenie and egg taco to remind you that your poor and Mexican and in need of scholarship money. No pressure.<br />
<br />
(Son laughs with mouth full, and we discuss how my grandma thinks I can read her stomach x-ray because I have a college degree.)<br />
<br />
Me: We shouldn't be talking about this. We are supposed to be talking about smart, successful Latin Americans. Or genious half-hillbillies or something like that. All I can think of is Cesar Chavez.<br />
<br />
(Son frowns.)<br />
<br />
Son: Oh, oh, when you said that, Che Guevara popped into my head.<br />
<i>Me: (In my head) Dear God. </i><br />
Me: (<i>Out loud)</i> I should have made a slide show, like Malcolm Gladwell says, you know with Marquez, Baca, Lorca. Only two of those are from the US, but still.<br />
Son: (<i>With mouth full.</i>) Naruedia.<br />
Me: Who?<br />
Son: Nureda. Poet.<br />
Me: (<i>In my head) Dear God.</i><br />
Me: (<i>Out loud</i>.) Chilean. Are you ready?<br />
Son: Yep. I have my playlist for the ride there loaded.<br />
Me: (<i>In my head.) Dear God.</i><br />
Me: (<i>Out loud.</i>) Is it classical music.<br />
Son: No, pump up music. You know, Eye of the Tiger and Bon Jovi, stuff like that.<br />
Me: (<i>In my head.) Dear God. </i>(<i>Out loud.)</i> You mean like, Living on a Prayer? Speaking of prayer.(<i>Out loud.</i>) Dear God . . . .<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8955821121707398006.post-73065915348336659782013-02-17T14:03:00.001-08:002013-02-17T14:03:27.212-08:00CommunionLight is a strange friend to shadow. <br />
Both fill needs: <br />
Seeing/Sleep<br />
Warmth//Respite from heat.<br />
Oh, what effects though<br />
from wretched extremes.<br />
When dark pours in<br />
And light bears down<br />
How the skin bursts open-<br />
BREATHE<br />
Truth spills out like tiny red seeds.<br />
Under the shade tree<br />
Sun filters through leaves. <br />
EAT. EAT. EAT.<br />
Careful not to stain the teeth. <br />
Crimson, Crimson,<br />
A cool cup of water.<br />
Drink. DRINK. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07111623610725767645noreply@blogger.com0Arts District Dallas32.793919 -96.793587